The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  But there is no bullet, no sudden death. There are only the eyes of everyone in that courtroom, burning like acid. For their viewing pleasure, I start to bite my nails, twitch in my seat. Nervousness can pass for crazy.

  “Where is Caleb?” I whisper to Fisher.

  “I have no idea, but he came to my office this morning with the retainer. Keep your head straight.” Before I can answer, the judge raps his gavel.

  I do not know this judge. Presumably, they’ve brought him in from Lewiston. I do not know the AG either, sitting in my usual spot at the prosecution desk. He is enormous, bald, fearsome. He glances at me only once, and then his eyes move on—he has already dismissed me for crossing over to the dark side.

  What I want to do at that moment is walk over to this prosecutor and tug on his sleeve. Don’t judge me, I’d say, until you’ve seen the view from here. You are only as invincible as your smallest weakness, and those are tiny indeed—the length of a sleeping baby’s eyelash, the span of a child’s hand. Life turns on a dime, and—it turns out—so does one’s conscience.

  “Is the state ready to proceed?” the judge asks.

  The assistant attorney general nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Is the defense attorney ready to proceed?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Fisher says.

  “Will the defendant please come forward?”

  I don’t stand, at first. It is not a conscious rebuff; I’m just not used to being the one who rises at this point in the arraignment. The bailiff hauls me out of my seat, wrenching my arm in the process.

  Fisher Carrington remains in his chair, and my whole body grows cold. This is his chance to insult me. When a defendant stands and the attorney stays seated, it is a clear sign to insiders that he doesn’t give a damn about the client. As I lift my chin and turn away, resolved, Fisher slowly unfolds from his chair. He is a solid presence along my right side, a fortifying wall. He turns to me and raises an eyebrow, questioning my faith.

  “Please state your name?”

  I take a deep breath. “Nina Maurier Frost.”

  “Will the clerk please read the charge?” the judge asks.

  “The state of Maine hereby charges that on or about the thirtieth day of October, 2001, the defendant, Nina Maurier Frost, did slay and murder Glen Szyszynski in Biddeford, in the County of York, Maine. How do you plead?”

  Fisher smooths a hand down his tie. “We’re going to enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honor. And I’m putting the court and state on notice that we may be entering a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity at a later date.”

  None of this surprises the judge. It does not surprise me either, although Fisher and I have not discussed an insanity defense. “Mr. Brown,” the judge says, “when would you like to schedule a Harnish hearing?”

  This is expected, too. In the past I have seen State v. Harnish as a godsend, keeping felons temporarily off the street while I’m working to permanently lock them up. After all, do you really want someone who’s committed a capital crime walking free?

  Then again, in the past, I have not been the criminal in question.

  Quentin Brown looks at me, then turns to the judge. His eyes, obsidian, do not give anything away. “Your Honor, at this time, due to the severity of the crime and the open nature in which it was committed in this very courtroom, the state is asking for bail in the amount of $500,000 with surety.”

  The judge blinks at him. Stunned, Fisher turns to Brown. I want to stare at him, too, but I can’t, because then he will know that I’m sane enough to understand this unexpected gift. “Am I understanding, Mr. Brown, that the state is waiving its right for a Harnish hearing?” the judge clarifies. “That you wish to set bail in this case, as opposed to denying it?”

  Brown nods tightly. “May we approach, please?”

  He takes a step forward, and so does Fisher. Out of long habit, I take a step forward too, but the bailiffs standing behind me grab my arms.

  The judge puts his hand over the microphone so that the cameras cannot hear the conversation, but I can, even from a few feet away. “Mr. Brown, I understood that your evidence in this case was rather good.”

  “Judge, to tell you the truth, I don’t know whether she has a successful insanity plea or not . . . but I can’t in good faith ask this court to hold her without bail. She’s been a prosecutor for ten years. I don’t think she’s going to flee, and I don’t think she’s a risk to society. With all due respect, Your Honor, I’ve run that past my boss and her boss, and I’m asking the court to please do this without making it an issue for the press to devour.”

  Fisher immediately turns with a gracious smile. “Your Honor, I’d like to let Mr. Brown know that my client and I appreciate his sensitivity. This is a difficult case for everyone involved.”

  Me, I feel like dancing. To have the Harnish hearing waived is a tiny miracle. “The state is asking for bail in the amount of $500,000. What are the defendant’s ties to this state, Mr. Carrington?” the judge asks.

  “Your Honor, she’s a lifelong resident of Maine. She has a small child here. The defendant would be happy to turn in her passport and agree to not leave the state.”

  The judge nods. “Given the fact that she’s worked as a prosecutor for so long, as a condition of the defendant’s bail I am also going to bar her from speaking with any employees currently working at the York County District Attorney’s office until the completion of this case, to ensure that she doesn’t have any access to information.”

  “That’s fine, Your Honor,” Fisher says on my behalf.

  Quentin Brown jumps in. “In addition to bail, Judge, we’re asking for a special condition of a psychiatric evaluation.”

  “We have no problem with that,” Fisher answers. “We’d like one of our own, with a private psychiatrist.”

  “Does it matter to the state whether a private or a state psychiatrist is used, Mr. Brown?” the judge asks.

  “We want a state psychiatrist.”

  “Fine. I’ll make that a condition of bail, as well.” The judge writes something down in his file. “But I don’t believe $500,000 is necessary to keep this woman in the state. I’m setting bail at $100,000 with surety.”

  What happens next is a whirlwind: hands on my arms, pushing me back in the direction of the holding cell; Fisher’s face telling me he’ll call Caleb about the bail; reporters stampeding up the aisles and into the hall to phone their affiliates. I am left in the company of a deputy sheriff so thin his belt is notched like a pegboard. He locks me into the cell and then buries his face in Sports Illustrated.

  I’m going to get out. I’m going to be back home, having lunch with Nathaniel, just like I told Fisher Carrington yesterday.

  Hugging my knees to my chest, I start to cry. And let myself believe I just might get away with this.

  • • •

  The day it first happened, they had been learning about the Ark. It was this huge boat, Mrs. Fiore told Nathaniel and the others. Big enough to fit all of them, their parents, and their pets. She gave everyone a crayon and a piece of paper to draw their favorite animal. “Let’s see what we come up with,” she had said, “and we’ll show them all to Father Glen before his story.”

  Nathaniel sat next to Amelia Underwood that day, a girl who always smelled of spaghetti sauce and the stuff that gets caught in bathtub drains. “Did elephants go on the boat?” she asked, and Mrs. Fiore nodded. “Everything.”

  “Raccoons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Narwhals?” That from Oren Whitford, who was already reading chapter books when Nathaniel wasn’t even sure which way the loop went on a b and a d.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Cockroaches?”

  “Unfortunately,” Mrs. Fiore said.

  Phil Filbert raised his hand. “How about the holy goats?”

  Mrs. Fiore frowned. “That’s the Holy Ghost, Philip, which is something totally different.” But then she reconsidered. “I suppose it was there too,