The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  The judge had thinning gray hair and a distance-runner’s body. I peered at the collar of his shirt, but he was wearing a tie: for all I knew, he might be wearing a crucifix, a star of David, or even a rope of garlic to ward off vampires. “All right, boys and girls,” he said, “who can tell us why we’re here today?”

  “Your Honor,” I answered, “I’m suing the commissioner of corrections of the State of New Hampshire on behalf of my client, Shay Bourne.”

  “Yes, thank you, Ms. Bloom, I already breathlessly read your complaint from cover to cover. What I meant was that Mr. Bourne’s impending execution is already a zoo. Why is the ACLU turning it into a bigger one?”

  Gordon Greenleaf cleared his throat. He had always reminded me of Bozo the Clown, with his tufted red hair and allergies that left his nose red more often than not. “He’s a death row inmate trying to delay the inevitable, Your Honor.”

  “He’s not trying to delay anything,” I argued. “He’s just trying to make amends for his sins, and he believes this is the way he needs to die in order to reach salvation. He’d be the first to tell you you can execute him tomorrow, as long as it’s by hanging.”

  “This is 2008, Ms. Bloom. We execute people by lethal injection. We’re not going back to a more archaic form of execution,” Judge Haig said.

  I nodded. “But, Judge, with all due respect, if the Department of Corrections finds lethal injection impractical, the sentence may be carried out by hanging.”

  “The Department of Corrections doesn’t have a problem with lethal injection!” Greenleaf said.

  “It does when Mr. Bourne’s First Amendment rights are being violated. He has the right to practice his religious beliefs, even in a prison setting—up to and including during the moment of his execution.”

  “What are you talking about?” Greenleaf exploded. “No religion insists on organ donation. Just because one individual gets some crazy set of rules into his head to live—or die—by, that doesn’t qualify it as a religious belief.”

  “Gee, Gordon,” I said. “Who died and left you God?”

  “Counselors, back to your corners,” Judge Haig said. He pursed his lips, deep in thought. “There are some factual issues here that need to be fleshed out,” he began, “but the first of these is, Mr. Greenleaf, whether the state will agree to hang Mr. Bourne in lieu of giving him a lethal injection.”

  “Absolutely not, Judge. Preparations are already in place for the method of execution that was specified at his sentencing.”

  Judge Haig nodded. “Then we’ll set this down for trial. Given the very real deadline we’re working under, it will be an expedited hearing. We’re going to pretend that there’s no such thing as federal discovery; we’re going to pretend that there’s no such thing as summary judgment motions—we don’t have time for them. Instead, I want witness lists on my desk in a week, and I want you prepared to go straight to trial in two weeks.”

  Gordon and I gathered our belongings and stepped outside chambers. “Do you have any idea how much money the taxpayers of New Hampshire have spent on that death chamber?”

  “Take it up with the governor, Gordon,” I said. “If the rich towns in New Hampshire have to pay for public education, maybe the poor towns can cough up the funds for future death row inmates.”

  He folded his arms. “What’s the ACLU’s game here, Maggie? You can’t get the death penalty declared unconstitutional, so you use religion as a fallback position?”

  I smiled at him. “You do if it helps you get the death penalty declared unconstitutional. See you in two weeks, Gordon,” I said, and I walked off, leaving him staring after me.

  * * *

  Three times, I picked up the phone and dialed. Three times, I hung up just as the line connected.

  I couldn’t do this.

  But I had to. I had two weeks to get the facts; and if I was going to fight on Shay’s behalf to donate his heart, I needed to understand exactly how this was going to work—and be able to explain that in court.

  When the hospital switchboard connected, I asked to speak to Dr. Gallagher’s office. I left my name and number with a secretary, fully anticipating the fact that it would take some time before he returned my call, during which I might actually develop the courage to speak to him. So when the phone rang almost as soon as I put down the receiver, I was shocked to hear his voice. “Ms. Bloom,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You weren’t supposed to call back this fast,” I blurted out.

  “Ah, I’m sorry. I really should be less punctual with my patients.”

  “I’m not your patient.”

  “Right. You were only masquerading as one.” He was silent, and then said, “I believe you called me?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. I was wondering if you might be willing to meet with me—professionally, of course—”

  “Of course.”

  “—to talk about hanging and organ donation.”

  “If only I had a dime for every time I’ve been asked to do that,” Dr. Gallagher said. “I’d be delighted to meet with you. Professionally, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, deflated. “The catch is, I have to meet you fairly soon. My client’s trial starts in two weeks.”

  “Well, then, Ms. Bloom, I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Oh—you don’t have to do that. I can meet you at the hospital.”

  “Yes, but I really prefer to not eat the cafeteria Jell-O on my days off.”

  “It’s your day off?” He called me back on his day off? “Well, we can do it some other time . . .”

  “Didn’t you just tell me this was something that needed to be done quickly?”

  “Well,” I said. “Yeah.”

  “Then seven o’clock it is.”

  “Excellent,” I said in my finest courtroom voice. “I look forward to it.”

  “Ms. Bloom.”

  “Yes?”

  I held my breath, waiting for him to lay down the parameters of this meeting. Do not expect this to be any more than it is on the surface: two professionals doing business. Do not forget that you could have asked any number of doctors, even ones who don’t have eyes the color of a moonless night and an accent that tugs like a fishing hook. Do not delude yourself into pretending this is a real date.

  “I don’t know where you live.”

  * * *

  Whoever said that black makes you look thinner obviously did not have the same clothes that were hanging in my closet. First I tried on my favorite black pants, which were no longer my favorite because they only buttoned if I stopped breathing and didn’t intend to sit at all during the meal. The black turtleneck that still had tags on it made me look like I had a double chin, and the black crochet shrug that had looked so cute in the catalog showed every inch of bra roll. Red, I thought. I’ll be bold and make a statement. I tried on a crimson silk camisole, but the only statement I seemed to be sending was Frederick’s of Hollywood. I sifted through wraps and cardigans and shells and blazers, A-line skirts and pleated ones and cocktail dresses, tossing them off one by one onto the floor as Oliver hopped away in vain, trying not to get trapped underneath. I tried on every single pair of trousers in my possession and decided that my ass was well on its way to being declared one of Saturn’s moons. Then I marched myself to the bathroom mirror. “Here’s the thing,” I said to myself. “You don’t have to look like Jennifer Aniston to discuss the best way to execute someone.”

  Although, I imagined, it probably helped.

  Finally I decided on my favorite pair of jeans, and a flowing pale green tunic that I’d found for five dollars at an Asian boutique, so I always felt good about wearing it, even when I didn’t look perfect. I twisted my hair up and stabbed it with a hair stick, hoping it looked artful and Grecian instead of just messy and out of time.

  At exactly seven, the doorbell rang. I took one last look at myself in the mirror—the outfit clearly said casual, together, not trying too hard—and opened the door to find Dr