The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  She glances down at my hamburger, untouched. “Maybe you can get a side of manners with that,” she says, and twitches back to the stage.

  When she’s gone, the weight of Patrick’s eyes rests heavy on me. “What?” I demand.

  “Nothing.”

  “Clearly, there’s something.”

  He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “You may not ever forgive Szyszynski, Nina, but you won’t be able to move past this . . . to help Nathaniel move past this . . . until you stop cursing him.”

  I drain the rest of my liquor. “I will curse him, Patrick, until the day he dies.”

  A new singer fills in the space that has fallen between the two of us. A heavyweight woman with hair that touches her ass, she sways her considerable hips as the riff begins playing on the karaoke machine.

  It only takes a minute . . .

  For your life to move on past . . .

  “What is she doing up there?” I murmur.

  “Yeah . . . she’s actually good.”

  We both look away from the stage, and our eyes meet. “Nina,” Patrick says, “you’re not the only one hurting. When I see you like this . . . well, it kills me.” He looks down at his drink, stirs it once. “I wish—”

  “I wish too. But I could wish till the world stops turning, and it wouldn’t change a thing, Patrick.”

  History was once today . . .

  Before the moment got away . . . .

  Nice guys, baby, always finish last.

  Patrick laces his fingers with mine on the table. He looks at me, hard, as if he is going to be quizzed on the details of my face. Then, with what seems to be a great effort, he turns away. “The truth is there shouldn’t be any justice for motherfuckers like him. People like that, they ought to be shot.”

  Clasped together, our hands look like a heart. Patrick squeezes, I squeeze back. It is all the communication we need, this pulse between us, my reply.

  • • •

  The most pressing issue the next morning involves what we are supposed to do with Nathaniel. It hasn’t occurred to either Caleb or myself before this; only when the courthouse looms into view do I realize that Nathaniel cannot be at this arraignment . . . and cannot be left alone. In the hallway, he stands between us, holding both of our hands—a living bridge.

  “I could sit with him in the lobby,” Caleb volunteers, but I immediately reject that solution. Caleb looks down at Nathaniel. “Don’t you have a secretary who could watch him for a while?”

  “This isn’t my district,” I point out. “And I’m not leaving him with someone I don’t know.”

  Of course not, never again. Although, as it turns out, it is not the strangers we have to be wary of.

  We are leaning hard against this impasse when a guardian angel arrives. Nathaniel sees her first, and tears down the hallway. “Monica!” he shrieks, and she lifts him into the air, swinging him around.

  “That is the most fabulous word I’ve ever heard,” Monica laughs.

  Nathaniel beams. “I can talk now.”

  “That’s what Dr. Robichaud told me. She said she can’t get a word in edgewise anymore when you come to her office.” She switches Nathaniel onto her other hip and turns to us. “How are you holding up?”

  As if there is an answer to that question, today.

  “Well,” Monica says, as if we’ve responded. “We’re just going to head down to the playroom near the family court. Sound good, Nathaniel?” She raises her brows. “Or do you have alternate plans for him?”

  “No . . . not at all,” I murmur.

  “That’s what I figured. Child care this morning . . . it probably wasn’t your top priority.”

  Caleb touches Nathaniel’s golden hair. “Be good,” he says, and kisses his cheek.

  “He’s always good.” Monica sets him on his feet, and begins to lead him away. “Nina, you know where to find us when you’re done.”

  I watch them walk for a moment. Two weeks ago I could not stand Monica LaFlamme; now I am indebted to her. “Monica,” I call out, and she turns. “Why don’t you have children?”

  Shrugging, she smiles faintly. “To date, no one’s asked me.”

  Our eyes meet, and that is all it takes to erase the history between us. “Their loss,” I say, and I smile.

  • • •

  Thomas LaCroix is two inches shorter than I am, and going bald. It makes no difference whatsoever, of course, but I find myself shooting glances at Wally during this meeting, wondering why he could not find the most perfect specimen of a prosecutor, one polished on the outside as well as the inside, so that no jury could possibly find fault.

  “We’re turning this entirely over to Tom,” my boss says. “You know we support you and Caleb, we’re a hundred percent behind you . . . but we don’t want there to be any problems on appeal. And if we’re in the courtroom, it might look like we’re stacking the decks against this guy.”

  “I understand, Wally,” I say. “No offense taken.”

  “Well!” Wally stands, having done his job here for the day. “We’ll all be waiting to hear what transpires.”

  He pats my shoulder as he exits. When he leaves, it is just the three of us left—Caleb, myself, and Thomas LaCroix. Like a good prosecutor—like me—he jumps right into business. “They’re not going to arraign him until after lunch because of all the publicity,” Tom says. “Did you see the media when you came in?”

  See it? We had to run the gauntlet. If I hadn’t known a service entrance into the court, I never would have gotten Nathaniel inside.

  “Anyway, I’ve already talked to the bailiffs. They’re going to clear the other prisoners off the docket before they bring in Szyszynski.” He checks his watch. “We’re scheduled for one o’clock right now, so you’ve got some time.”

  I flatten my hands on the table. “You will not be putting my son on the stand,” I announce.

  “Nina, you know this is just an arraignment. A rubber stamp process. Let’s just—”

  “I want you to know this, and to know it now. Nathaniel isn’t going to be testifying.”

  He sighs. “I’ve done this for fifteen years. And we’re just going to have to see what comes to pass. Right now, you know better than I do what the evidence is. You certainly know better than I do how Nathaniel is faring. But you also know there are some pieces of the puzzle we’re waiting on—like the lab reports, and your son’s recovery. Six months from now, a year from now . . . Nathaniel might be doing a whole lot better, and taking the stand might not be as much of a hardship.”

  “He is five years old. In those fifteen years, Tom, how many cases with a five-year-old witness ended up with a perp in jail for life?”

  Not a single one, and he knows it. “Then we’ll wait,” Tom says. “We have some time, and the defendant is going to want time too, you know that.”

  “You can’t hold him in jail forever.”

  “I’m going to ask for $150,000 bail. And I doubt the Catholic Church will post it for him.” He smiles at me. “He’s not going anywhere, Nina.”

  I feel Caleb’s hand steal into my lap, and I grab onto it. I think he is supporting me, at first, but then he squeezes my fingers nearly to the point of pain. “Nina,” he says pleasantly, “maybe we should just let Mr. LaCroix do his job right now.”

  “It’s my job too,” I point out. “I put children on the stand every day, and I watch them fall apart, and then I watch the abusers walk. How can you ask me to forget that, when we’re talking about Nathaniel?”

  “Exactly—we’re talking about Nathaniel. And today he needs a mother more than he needs a mother who is a prosecutor. We need to look at this in steps, and today that step is keeping Szyszynski locked up,” Tom says. “Let’s just focus, and once we clear this hurdle, we can decide what to do next.”

  I stare into my lap, where I’ve nervously pleated my skirt into a thousand wrinkles. “I know what you’re saying.”

  “Good, then.”

  Lifting my gaze, I