The Jodi Picoult Collection #3 Read online

  “I took Delia, and left.”

  “I meant before that. Did you bother to see whether your ex-wife was all right? Did you call anyone to take care of her?”

  “She wasn’t my responsibility anymore.”

  “Why not? Because you had a piece of paper saying you’d gotten divorced?”

  “Because I’d done it a thousand times before,” Andrew says. “Are you defending me, or Elise? For God’s sake, Delia was in the very same situation when she got pregnant, except you were the one lying drunk on the floor.”

  “But she didn’t run away from me,” I point out. “She waited for me to get my head straight. So don’t even begin to compare your situation to hers, Andrew, because Delia’s a better person than you ever were.”

  A muscle tics in Andrew’s jaw. “Yeah. I guess whoever raised her must have really known what he was doing.” He stands up and walks out of the conference room, beckoning to an officer to take him back to the safety of his cell.

  * * *

  Delia calls me on my cell phone while I am driving back to Hamilton, Hamilton. “Guess what,” she says. “I got a phone call from that prosecutor, Ellen . . .”

  “Emma.”

  “Whatever.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “She asked to meet with me, and I told her I had a spot in my calendar between Hell Freezing Over and Not in This Lifetime. Where are you, anyway?”

  “I’m on my way back from the jail.”

  There is a silence. “So how is he?”

  “Great,” I say, adding a lift to my voice. “We’ve totally got this under control.” My cell phone beeps, another incoming call. “Hang on, Dee,” I tell her, and I switch over. “Talcott.”

  “It’s Chris. Where are you?”

  I look over my shoulder at the merging traffic. “Headed onto Route Ten.”

  “Well, get off it,” he says. “You need to go back.”

  The hair stands up on the back of my neck. “What happened to Andrew?”

  “Nothing that I know of. But you just got some mail from Emma Wasserstein. She’s filed a motion to remove you as counsel.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Witness tampering,” Chris says. “She thinks you’re feeding information to Delia.”

  I slam down the phone, cursing, and it rings immediately; I’ve forgotten that Delia was on the other line. “What else did you say to the prosecutor?” I ask.

  “Nothing. She was trying to do the buddy thing, you know, but I wasn’t falling for it. She said she wanted to meet with me, and I refused. She pumped me for information about my father.”

  I swallow. “What did you say?”

  “That it wasn’t any of her business, and that if she was fishing for information about him she’d have to talk to you, just like I do.”

  Oh, shit.

  “Who called?” Delia asks. “Who was on the other line?”

  “A courtesy call from Verizon,” I lie.

  “You were on for a long time.”

  “Well, they were being very courteous.”

  “Eric,” Delia asks, “did my father say anything else about me?”

  Her question is clear as a bell; the cell phone reception is crystalline. But I hold the phone away from my ear. I make static noises. “Dee, can you hear me? I’m going under some power lines . . . .”

  “Eric?”

  “I’m losing you,” I say, and I hang up while she is still talking.

  * * *

  In the motion filed by Emma Wasserstein, Delia is referred to as the victim. Every time I read the word, I think how much she would hate that. Chris, Emma, and I sit in Judge Noble’s chambers, waiting for His Honor to speak. Massive and formidable, he is busy spreading peanut butter on a cheese sandwich. “Do I look fat to you, Counselor?” the judge asks, although the question is directed at none of us in particular.

  “Robust,” Emma answers.

  “Healthy,” Chris adds.

  Judge Noble pauses his knife and looks up at me. “Generous,” I suggest.

  “You wish, Mr. Talcott,” the judge says. “I don’t understand this whole good cholesterol, bad cholesterol thing. And I sure as hell don’t understand why, if I’m going to eat a sandwich, I have to have a quarter of a teaspoon of peanut butter to go with it.” He takes a bite and grimaces. “You know why I’m going to lose weight on the Zone diet? Because no one in their right mind would eat any of this crap.” He takes a deep, rumbling breath and shifts in his chair. “I don’t normally hold hearings during my lunch hour, but I’m going to suggest to my wife that perhaps I should. Because frankly, I find the subject of this motion so unpalatable that it has nearly ruined my appetite entirely. Why, if I got a dozen motions like this a day, my abs would look like Brad Pitt’s.”

  “Your Honor,” Chris says quickly, intercepting.

  “Sit down, Mr. Hamilton. This isn’t about you, and much to my chagrin, Mr. Talcott apparently has a mind of his own.” The judge levels his gaze at me. “Counselor, as I’m sure you’re aware, witness tampering is one of the biggest ethical violations you can make as a defense attorney, one that will get your pro hac vice revoked and your ass kicked out of Arizona and most likely every other Bar association in this country.”

  “Absolutely, Judge Noble,” I agree. “But Ms. Wasserstein’s allegations are false.”

  The judge frowns. “Are you or are you not engaged to your client’s daughter?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Well, maybe in New Hampshire you’ve all intermarried so much that everyone’s a cousin, and there aren’t enough nonrelated attorneys to go around for your clients, but here in Arizona, we do things a little differently.”

  “Your Honor, it’s true that I have a personal relationship with Delia Hopkins. But it will not affect this case in any capacity, in spite of Ms. Wasserstein’s specious allegations. Yes, Delia asks me about her father—but it’s how he looks, and if he’s being treated all right—questions that would be important on a personal level, and not a professional one.”

  “We could ask Delia to corroborate that,” Emma says tartly, “but she’s probably already been coached in what to say.”

  I turn to the judge. “Your Honor, I’ll give you my word, and if that’s not good enough, I’ll swear under oath that I’m not violating any ethical measures here. If anything, I have even more responsibility to my client, because I’m trying to keep his daughter’s best interests a priority as well.”

  Emma folds her arms above the shelf of her belly. “You’re too close to this case to do a decent job.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I argue. “That’s like saying that you can’t try a child kidnapping case because you’re about to drop your own baby any second, and your emotions might keep you from being objective. But if I said that out loud, I’d be skating on pretty thin ice, wouldn’t I? You’d accuse me of being prejudicial and sexist and outright anachronistic, wouldn’t you?”

  “All right, Mr. Talcott, shut your mouth before I wire your jaw closed for you,” Judge Noble orders. “I’m making a finding on this right now. Your first obligation is to your client, not your fiancée. However, the State has to show me that you’re actively engaging in witness tampering for me to actually remove you from this case, and Ms. Wasserstein has not proven that . . . yet. So you may remain Andrew Hopkins’s attorney, Mr. Talcott, but make no mistake—every time you come into my courtroom, I’m going to be watching you. Every time you open your mouth, I’m going to be caressing my Rules of Professional Conduct. And if you make one wrong move, I’m going to refer you to the State Conduct Committee so fast you won’t know what hit you.” He picks up his jar of peanut butter. “Oh, hell,” Judge Noble says, and he sticks two fingers into the Jif and scoops out a dollop to eat. “Adjourned.”

  When Emma Wasserstein gets up and drops her papers all over the floor, I lean down to grab them for her. “Watch your back, you hick,” she murmurs.

  I straighten. “Excuse me?”

  The