House Rules: A Novel Read online

  “He’s trying,” Emma insists. “That’s why he asked for a sensory break.”

  “A what?”

  “A place he can go to away from all the noise and confusion, so that he can calm himself down. At school, that’s one of the special accommodations he gets … Look, can we talk about this later and just go see him?”

  Jacob was getting his sensory break … in a holding cell. “You aren’t allowed down there.”

  She flinches, as if I’ve struck her. “Well,” Emma says, “are you?”

  To be honest, I am not sure. I poke my head inside the courtroom. The bailiff stands just inside the door, arms folded. “Can I go talk to my client?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Go ahead.”

  I wait for him to take me to Jacob, but he doesn’t budge. “Thanks,” I say, and I duck out the door again and head past Emma, down the stairs.

  I hope that’s where the holding cells are.

  After five minutes of detours through the custodial closet and the boiler room, I find what I’m looking for. Jacob is sitting in the corner of this cell, one hand flapping like a bird, his shoulders hunched, his voice thready and singing Bob Marley.

  “How come you sing that song?” I ask, coming to stand in front of the bars.

  He pauses in the middle of the chorus. “It makes me feel better.”

  I consider this. “You know any Dylan?” When he doesn’t answer, I step forward. “Look, Jacob. I know you don’t know what’s going on. And to be honest, neither do I. I’ve never done this before. But we’re going to figure it out together. All you have to do is promise me one thing: Let me do the talking.” I wait for Jacob to nod, to acknowledge me, but it doesn’t happen. “Do you trust me?”

  “No,” he says. “I don’t.” Then he gets to his feet. “Will you give a message to my mom?”

  “Sure.”

  He curls his hands around the bars. His fingers are long, elegant. “Life is like a box of chocolates,” he whispers. “You never know what you’re gonna get.”

  I laugh, thinking the boy can’t be all that bad off if he’s able to joke around. But then I realize that he’s not kidding. “I’ll tell her,” I say.

  When I return, Emma is pacing. “Is he okay?” she asks, the minute I turn the corner. “Was he responsive?”

  “Yes and yes,” I assure her. “Maybe Jacob’s stronger than you think he is.”

  “You’re basing this insight on the five minutes you’ve spent with him?” She rolls her eyes. “He has to eat by six. If he doesn’t—”

  “I’ll get him a snack from the vending machines.”

  “It can’t have caseins or glutens—”

  I have no freaking idea what that means. “Emma, you have to relax.”

  She rounds on me. “My older son, who’s autistic, has just been arrested for murder. He’s stuck in a jail cell somewhere in the basement, for God’s sake. Don’t you dare tell me to relax.”

  “Well, it won’t do Jacob any good if you lose it in the courtroom again.” When she doesn’t respond, I sit down on a bench across the hall. “He wanted me to tell you something.”

  The hope on her face is so naked that I have to look away.

  “Life is like a box of chocolates,” I quote.

  With a sigh, Emma sinks down beside me. “Forrest Gump. That’s one of his favorites.”

  “Movie buff?”

  “An intense one. It’s almost like he’s studying for a test he’ll have to take later.” She glances at me. “When he feels something overwhelming, he doesn’t always have the words for it, so he quotes someone else’s.”

  I think about Jacob spouting Charlton Heston when the bailiff grabbed him and smile broadly.

  “He sets up crime scenes for me,” Emma says softly. “So that I can look at the forensic evidence and work backward. But I should have been working forward. We never really talked about what happens after. What happens now.”

  “I know you’re upset, but we have a lot of time to figure it out. Today’s arraignment is just a rubber stamp.”

  She stares at me. When I was in college, the girls that I always found myself drooling over were the ones who had dabs of toothpaste on their chins, or who stuck pencils through their messy hair to keep it away from their faces. The ones who slayed me were so far removed from caring how they looked that they circled back to a natural, artless beauty. Emma Hunt might be a decade older than me, but she’s still a knockout. “How old are you?” she asks after a moment.

  “I don’t really think that chronological age is a decent measure of—”

  “Twenty-four,” she guesses.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I was twenty-eight a thousand years ago.”

  “Then you look great for your age,” I say.

  Blinking, she focuses fiercely on me. “Promise,” she demands. “Promise me that you’re going to get my son out of here.”

  I nod at her, and for a moment I want to be a white knight; I want to be able to tell her I know law as well as I know how to shoe a skittish mare, and I don’t want it to be a lie. Just then the bailiff peers around the corner. “We’re ready,” he says.

  I only wish I could say the same.

  The courtroom is different when it’s empty. Dust motes hang in the air, and my footsteps sound like gunshots on the parquet flooring. Emma and I walk to the front of the gallery, where I leave her sitting just behind the bar as I cross through to sit at the defense table.

  It’s déjà vu.

  Jacob is led out by the bailiffs. He’s handcuffed, and I hear Emma suck in her breath behind me when she notices. But then again, he left the courtroom violent; there’s no reason to assume he wouldn’t pull the same trick twice. When he sits down beside me, the handcuffs jingle in his lap. He presses his lips together in a flat line, as if he’s trying to show me he remembers my instructions.

  “All rise,” the bailiff says, and when I stand up, I grab Jacob’s sleeve so he will, too.

  Judge Cuttings enters and sits down heavily in his chair, his robes billowing around him like a storm. “I trust you’ve talked to your client about his behavior in the courtroom, Counselor?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I answer. “I’m sorry about the outburst. Jacob’s autistic.”

  The judge frowns. “Are you concerned about competency?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “All right. Mr. Bond, your client is here to be arraigned on a charge of first-degree murder pursuant to 13 VSA, section 2301. Do you waive the reading of the rights on his behalf at this time?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He nods. “I’m going to enter a not guilty plea on his behalf, because of the competency issue.”

  For a moment, I hesitate. If the judge enters the plea, does that mean I don’t have to?

  “Are there any other issues with the charge as it stands today, Counselor?”

  “I don’t think so, Your Honor …”

  “Excellent. This is bound over for a competency hearing fourteen days from today at nine A.M. I’ll see you then, Mr. Bond.”

  The larger bailiff approaches the defense table and hauls Jacob to his feet. He lets loose a squeak, and then, remembering the rules of the courtroom, squelches it. “Hang on a minute,” I interrupt. “Judge, didn’t you just say we could go?”

  “I said you could go, Counselor. Your client, on the other hand, is charged with murder and being held pending his competency hearing at your own request.”

  As he leaves the bench to return to chambers, as Jacob is pulled out of the courtroom again—silent, this time—headed to a two-week stay in jail, I gather the courage to turn around and confess to Emma Hunt that I’ve just done everything I told her I wouldn’t.

  Theo

  My mother doesn’t cry very often. The first time, like I said, was at the library when I had a tantrum instead of Jacob. The second time was when I was ten years old and Jacob was thirteen and he had hom