The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  Josie had frozen. What are you doing?

  What do you care?

  Her mind had started racing. She had her driver’s permit, but couldn’t take the car out herself, and not after dark. She lived too far away from Matt to run there. Don’t move, she said. Just . . . don’t do anything.

  Downstairs in the garage, she’d found a bicycle she hadn’t ridden since she was in middle school, and she pedaled the four miles to Matt’s house. By the time she got there, it had been raining; her hair and her clothes were glued to her skin. The light was still on in Matt’s bedroom, which was on the first floor. Josie knocked on the window, and he opened it so that she could crawl inside.

  On his desk was a bottle of Tylenol and another one, open, of Jim Beam. Josie faced him. Did you—

  But Matt wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of liquor. You told me not to. I’d do anything for you. Then he had pulled back from her. Would you do anything for me?

  Anything, she vowed.

  Matt had gathered her into his arms. Tell me you didn’t mean it.

  She felt a cage coming down around her; too late she realized that Matt had her trapped by the heart. And like any unwitting animal that was well and truly caught, Josie could escape only by leaving a piece of herself behind.

  I’m so sorry, Josie had said at least a thousand times that night, because it was all her fault.

  * * *

  “Dr. Wah,” Diana said, “how much were you paid for your work on this case?”

  “My fee is two thousand dollars per day.”

  “Would it be fair to say that one of the most important components of diagnosing the defendant was the time you spent interviewing him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “During the course of those ten hours, you were relying on him to be truthful with you in his recollection of events, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d have no way of knowing if he wasn’t being truthful, would you?”

  “I’ve been doing this for some time, Ms. Leven,” the psychiatrist said. “I’ve interviewed enough people to know when someone’s trying to put one over on me.”

  “Part of what you use in determining whether or not a teen is putting one over on you is taking a look at the circumstances they’re in, correct?”

  “Sure.”

  “And the circumstances in which you found Peter included being locked up in jail for multiple first-degree murders?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, basically,” Diana said, “Peter had a huge incentive to find a way out.”

  “Or, Ms. Leven,” Dr. Wah countered, “you could also say he had nothing left to lose by telling the truth.”

  Diana pressed her lips together; a yes or no answer would have done just fine. “You said that part of your diagnosis of PTSD came from the fact that the defendant was attempting to get help, and couldn’t. Was this based on information he gave you during your interviews?”

  “Yes, corroborated by his parents, and some of the teachers who testified for you, Ms. Leven.”

  “You also said that part of your diagnosis of PTSD was illustrated by Peter’s retreat into a fantasy world, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you based that on the computer games that Peter told you about during your interviews?”

  “Correct.”

  “Isn’t it true that when you sent Peter to Dr. Ghertz, you told him he was going to have some brain scans done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Couldn’t Peter have told Dr. Ghertz that a smiling face looked angry, if he thought it would help you out with a diagnosis?”

  “I suppose it would be possible . . .”

  “You also said, Doctor, that reading an email the morning of March sixth is what put Peter into a dissociative state, one strong enough to last through Peter’s entire killing spree at Sterling High—”

  “Objection—”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “Did you base that conclusion on anything other than what Peter Houghton told you—Peter, who was sitting in a jail cell, charged with ten murders and nineteen attempted murders?”

  King Wah shook his head. “No, but any other psychiatrist would have done the same.”

  Diana just raised a brow. “Any psychiatrist who stood to make two thousand bucks a day,” she said, and even before Jordan objected she withdrew her remark. “You said that Peter was suffering from suicide ideation.”

  “Yes.”

  “So he wanted to kill himself?”

  “Yes. That’s very common for patients with PTSD.”

  “Detective Ducharme has testified that there were one hundred sixteen bullet casings found in the high school that morning. Another thirty unspent rounds were found on Peter’s person, and another fifty-two unspent rounds were found in the backpack he was carrying, along with two guns he didn’t use. So, do the math for me, Doctor. How many bullets are we talking about?”

  “One hundred and ninety-eight.”

  Diana faced him. “In a span of nineteen minutes, Peter had two hundred chances to kill himself, instead of every other student he encountered at Sterling High. Is that right, Doctor?”

  “Yes. But there is an extremely fine line between a suicide and a homicide. Many depressed people who have made the decision to shoot themselves choose, at the last moment, to shoot someone else instead.”

  Diana frowned. “I thought Peter was in a dissociated state,” she said. “I thought he was incapable of making choices.”

  “He was. He was pulling the trigger without any thought of consequence or knowledge of what he was doing.”

  “Either that, or it was a tissue-paper line he felt like crossing, right?”

  Jordan stood up. “Objection. She’s bullying my witness.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Jordan,” Diana snapped, “you can’t use your defense on me.”

  “Counselors,” the judge warned.

  “You also testified, Doctor, that this dissociative state of Peter’s ended when Detective Ducharme began to ask him questions at the police station, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be fair to say that you based this assumption on the fact that at that moment, Peter started to respond in an appropriate manner, given the situation he was in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do you explain how, hours earlier, when three officers pointed a gun at Peter and told him to drop his weapon, he was able to do what they asked?”

  Dr. Wah hesitated. “Well.”

  “Isn’t that an appropriate response, when three policemen have their weapons drawn and pointed at you?”

  “He put the gun down,” the psychiatrist said, “because even on a subliminal level, he understood that otherwise, he was going to be shot.”

  “But Doctor,” Diana said. “I thought you told us that Peter wanted to die.”

  She sat back down, satisfied that Jordan could do nothing on redirect that would damage the headway she’d made. “Dr. Wah,” he said, “you spent a lot of time with Peter, didn’t you?”

  “Unlike some doctors in my field,” he said pointedly, “I actually believe in meeting the client you’re going to be talking about in court.”

  “Why is this important?”

  “To build a rapport,” the psychiatrist said. “To foster a relationship between doctor and patient.”

  “Would you take everything a patient told you at face value?”

  “Certainly not, especially under these circumstances.”

  “In fact, there are many ways to corroborate a client’s story, aren’t there?”

  “Of course. In Peter’s case, I spoke with his parents. There were instances in the school records where bullying was mentioned—although there was no response from the administration. The police package I received supported Peter’s statement about his email being sent out to several hundred members of the school community.”

  “Did you find any corroborative point