The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  “Yes.”

  “And that he sometimes withdraws from you?”

  “Yes,” my mother says.

  “That he has a hard time expressing his feelings to you verbally?”

  “Yes.”

  It’s the one where a child falls into a well and when Rhianna is lowered in to save the little boy, she shines a flashlight and there is a complete human skeleton there are pearls there are diamonds but the bones belong to a man it’s an heiress who disappeared in the sixties and at the end you learn that she was actually a he—

  “Wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Hunt, that your other son, Theo, exhibits every single one of these behaviors from time to time? In fact, that every teenager on the planet exhibits them?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly—”

  “Does that make Theo insane, too?”

  It’s 4:32 it’s 4:32 it’s 4:32.

  “Can we please leave now?” I say, but the words are as loose as molasses and they don’t sound right; and everyone is moving slowly and slurring their words, too, when I stand up to get their attention.

  “Mr. Bond, control your client,” I hear, and Oliver grabs my arm and yanks me off my feet.

  The prosecutor’s lips pull back from her teeth like a smile, but it’s not a smile. “Ms. Hunt, you were the one who contacted the police when you saw Jacob’s quilt on the news broadcast, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes,” my mother whispers.

  “You did it because you believed your son had killed Jess Ogilvy, didn’t you?”

  She shakes her head (4:34) and doesn’t answer.

  “Ms. Hunt, you thought your own son had committed murder, isn’t that true?” the lawyer says with a voice that’s a hammer.

  Ms. Hunt

  (4:35)

  Answer the

  (no)

  question.

  Suddenly the room goes still, like the air between the beats of a bird’s wings, and I can hear everything rewinding in my head.

  Control your client.

  You look crazy.

  The hardest thing to hear is the truth.

  I stare at my mother, right into her eyes, and feel the fingernails on the chalkboard of my brain and belly. I can see the chambers of her heart, and the ruby cells of her blood, and the twisting winds of her thoughts.

  Oh, Jacob, I hear, instant replay. What did you do?

  I know what she is going to say a minute before she says it, and I can’t let her do that.

  Then I remember the prosecutor’s words: The only person who knows how Jacob felt is Jacob.

  “Stop,” I yell as loud as I can.

  “Judge,” Oliver says, “I think we need to adjourn for the day—”

  I get to my feet again. “Stop!”

  My mother comes out of her seat on the witness stand. “Jacob, it’s okay—”

  “Your Honor, the witness has not answered the question—”

  I cover my ears with my hands because they are all so loud and the words are bouncing off the walls and the floor and I stand on my chair and then on the table and finally I jump right into the middle of the space in front of the judge, where my mother is already reaching for me.

  But before I can touch her I am on the floor and the bailiff has his knee in my back and the judge and jury are scrambling and suddenly there is quiet and calm and no more weight and a voice I know.

  “You’re okay, buddy,” Detective Matson says. He reaches out a hand, and he helps me to my feet.

  Once at a fair, Theo and I went into a hall of mirrors. We got separated, or maybe Theo just left me behind, but I found myself walking into walls and looking around corners that didn’t really exist, and finally, I sat down on the floor and closed my eyes. That’s what I want to do now, with everyone staring at me. Just like then, there’s no way out that I can foresee.

  “You’re okay,” Detective Matson repeats, and he leads the way.

  Rich

  Most of the time if a town cop comes into the sheriff’s domain, a pissing contest ensues: they don’t want me telling them how to run their outfit any more than I want them screwing up one of my crime scenes. But with Jacob on the loose in the courtroom, they probably would have welcomed the National Guard’s help if it had been available, and when I hop over the bar and grab Jacob, everyone else steps away and lets me, as if I actually know what I am doing.

  His head is bobbing up and down as if he is having a conversation with himself, and one of his hands makes a weird stretching motion against his leg, but at least he isn’t yelling anymore.

  I walk Jacob into a holding cell. He turns away from me, shoulders pressed to the bars.

  “You okay?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.

  I lean against the bars from the outside of the cell, so that we are practically back-to-back. “There was a guy once who killed himself in a holding cell in Swanton,” I say, as if this is ordinary conversation. “The officers booked him and left him there to sleep off a good drunk. He was standing like you, but with his arms crossed. Wearing a flannel shirt, button-down. Security camera on him the whole time. You probably can’t guess how he did it.”

  At first, Jacob doesn’t answer. Then he turns his head slightly. “He made a noose by tying the arms of the shirt around his neck,” he answers. “So it looked like he was standing up against the bars on the security camera, but actually, he’d already hanged himself.”

  A laugh barks out of me. “Goddammit, kid. You’re really good.”

  Jacob pivots so that he is facing me. “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “Probably not.”

  I stare at him. “Why did you leave the quilt? You know better than that.”

  He hesitates. “Of course I left the quilt. How else would anyone know that I was the one who set this all up? You still missed the tea bag.”

  Immediately I know he is talking about the evidence at Jess Ogilvy’s house. “It was in the sink. We didn’t get any prints off the mug.”

  “Jess was allergic to mango,” Jacob says. “And me, I hate the taste.”

  He had been too thorough. Rather than forgetting to erase this evidence, he’d left it on purpose, as a test. I stare at Jacob, wondering what he is trying to tell me.

  “But other than that,” he says, smiling, “you got it right.”

  Oliver

  Helen and I stand in front of Judge Cuttings like recalcitrant schoolchildren. “I don’t ever want to see that happen again, Mr. Bond,” he says. “I don’t care if you have to medicate him. Either you keep your client under control for the remainder of this trial or I’m going to have him handcuffed.”

  “Your Honor,” Helen says. “How is the State supposed to have a fair trial when we have a circus sideshow going on every fifteen minutes?”

  “You know she’s right, Counselor,” the judge replies.

  “I’m going to ask for a mistrial, Your Honor,” I say.

  “You can’t when it’s your client causing the problems, Mr. Bond. Surely you know that.”

  “Right,” I mutter.

  “If there are any motions you two want to make, think hard before you make them. Mr. Bond, I will hear you with warning before we start.”

  I hurry out of chambers before Helen can say anything that infuriates me even more. And then, just when I think things can’t get any worse, I find Rich Matson chatting up my client. “I was just keeping him company until you got here,” Matson explains.

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  He ignores me, turning to Jacob instead. “Hey,” the detective says. “Good luck.”

  I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Nothing. We were talking about cases.”

  “Oh great. Because that was such a good idea the last time you two sat down for a chat.” I fold my arms. “Listen, Jacob, you need to straighten out. If you don’t behave, you’re going to jail. Period.”

  “If I don’t behave?” he says. “Schwing!”

&n