The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  As defense attorneys go, Fisher Carrington is quite respectful. He doesn’t reduce children to jelly on their high stools in the witness box; he doesn’t try to disorient them. He acts like a grandfather who will give them lollipops if they tell the truth. In all but one case we both tried, he managed to have the child declared incompetent to stand trial, and the perp walked out free. In the other case, I convicted his client.

  The defendant spent three years in jail.

  The victim spent seven years in therapy.

  I look up at Peter. “Best-case scenario,” I challenge.

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say softly. “That’s my point.”

  • • •

  When Rachel was five, her parents got a divorce—the kind that involved bitter mudslinging, hidden bank accounts, and cans of paint splashed on the driveway at midnight. A week later, Rachel told her mother that her daddy used to stick his finger inside her vagina.

  She has told me that one time, she was wearing a Little Mermaid nightgown and eating Froot Loops at the kitchen table. The second time, she was wearing a pink Cinderella nightgown and watching a Franklin video in her parents’ bedroom. Rachel’s mother, Miriam, has verified that her daughter had a Little Mermaid nightgown, and a Cinderella nightgown, the summer she was three years old. She remembers borrowing the Franklin video from her sister-in-law. Back then, she and her husband were still living together. Back then, there were times she left her husband alone with their little girl.

  There are a lot of people who’d wonder how on earth a five-year-old can remember what happened to her when she was three. God, Nathaniel can’t even tell me what he did yesterday. But then, they have not heard Rachel tell the same story over and over. They have not talked to psychiatrists, who say that a traumatic event might stick like a thorn in the throat of a child. They do not see, as I do, that since her father has moved out, Rachel has blossomed. And even without all that—how can I overlook the word of any child? What if the one I choose to discount is one who has been truly hurt?

  Today, Rachel sits on my swivel chair in my office, twirling in circles. Her braids reach the tops of her shoulders, and her legs are as skinny as matchsticks. This is not the optimal place to hold a quiet interview, but then again, my office never is. There are cops running in and out, and the secretary I share with the other district attorneys chooses this moment, of course, to put a file on my desk. “Is it going to take long?” Miriam asks, her eyes never veering from her daughter.

  “I hope not,” I tell her, and then greet Rachel’s grandmother, who will be in the gallery for emotional support during the hearing. Because she is a witness herself, Miriam isn’t allowed to be there. Yet another catch-22: The child on the stand, in most cases, doesn’t even have the security of a mother close by.

  “Is this really necessary?” Miriam asks for the hundredth time.

  “Yes.” I say it flatly, staring her in the eye. “Your ex-husband has rejected our offer of a plea. That means Rachel’s testimony is the only thing I’ve got to prove it even happened.” Kneeling in front of Rachel, I stop the motion of the swivel chair. “You know what?” I confess. “Sometimes, when my door’s closed, I spin around too.”

  Rachel folds her arms around a stuffed animal. “Do you get dizzy?”

  “No. I pretend I’m flying.”

  The door opens. Patrick, my oldest friend, sticks his head inside. He’s wearing full dress blues, instead of his usual detective’s street clothes. “Hey, Nina—did you hear that the post office had to recall its series of Famous Defense Attorney stamps? People didn’t know which side to spit on.”

  “Detective Ducharme,” I say pointedly. “I’m a little busy now.”

  He blushes; it sets off his eyes. As kids, I used to tease him about those. I convinced him once, when we were about Rachel’s age, that his were blue because there was no brain in his skull, just empty space and clouds. “Sorry—I didn’t realize.” He has captivated all the women in the room just like that; if he wanted to, he could suggest they do jumping jacks and they’d probably begin calisthenics right away. What makes Patrick Patrick is that he doesn’t want to; he never has.

  “Ms. Frost,” he says formally, “are we still on for our meeting this afternoon?”

  Our meeting is a long-standing weekly luncheon date at a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill in Sanford.

  “We are.” I’m dying to know why Patrick’s dressed to the nines; what’s brought him to the superior court—as a detective in Biddeford, his stomping grounds are more often the district courthouse. But all this will have to wait. I hear the door close behind Patrick as I turn back to Rachel. “I see you brought a friend with you today. You know, I think you’re the first kid who’s ever brought in a hippo to show to Judge McAvoy.”

  “Her name is Louisa.”

  “I like that. I like your hairdo, too.”

  “I got to have pancakes this morning,” Rachel says.

  That earns a nod of approval for Miriam; it’s crucial that Rachel’s eaten a good breakfast. “It’s ten o’clock. We’d better go.”

  There are tears in Miriam’s eyes as she bends down to Rachel’s height. “This is the part where Mommy has to wait outside,” she says, and she’s trying hard not to cry, but it’s there in her voice, in the way the sounds are too round, overstuffed with pain.

  When Nathaniel was two and broke his arm, I stood in the ER as the bones were set and put in their cast. He was brave—so brave, not crying out, not once—but his free hand held onto mine so tightly that his fingernails left little half-moons in my palm. The whole time I was thinking that I would gladly break my arm, my heart, myself, if it meant my son wouldn’t have to hurt like this.

  Rachel is one of the easier ones; she is nervous but not a wreck. Miriam is doing the right thing. I will make this as painless as possible for both of them.

  “Mommy,” Rachel says, the reality hitting like a tropical storm. Her hippo falls to the floor and there is no other way to describe it: She tries to crawl inside her mother’s skin.

  I walk out of my office and close my door, because I have a job to do.

  • • •

  “Mr. Carrington,” the judge asks, “why are we putting a five-year-old on the stand here? Isn’t there any way to resolve this case?”

  Fisher crosses his legs and frowns a little. He has this down to an art. “Your Honor, the last thing I want is for this case to proceed.”

  I’ll bet, I think.

  “But my client cannot accept the state’s offer. From the first day he set foot in my office, he’s denied these events. Moreover, the state has no physical evidence and no witnesses . . . . All Ms. Frost has, in fact, is a child with a mother who’s hell-bent on destroying her estranged husband.”

  “We don’t care if he goes to jail at this point, Your Honor,” I interrupt. “We just want him to give up custody and visitation.”

  “My client is Rachel’s biological father. He understands that the child may have been poisoned against him, but he isn’t willing to give up his parental rights to a daughter he loves and cherishes.”

  Yadda yadda yadda. I’m not even listening. I don’t have to; Fisher grandstanded to me on the phone when he called to reject my last plea bargain. “All right,” Judge McAvoy sighs. “Let’s get her up there.”

  The court is empty, except for me, Rachel, her grandmother, the judge, Fisher, and the defendant. Rachel sits by her grandmother, twirling her stuffed hippopotamus’s tail. I lead her to the witness box, but when she sits down, she cannot see over the railing.

  Judge McAvoy turns to his clerk. “Roger, why don’t you run into my chambers and see if there’s a stool for Miss Rachel.”

  It takes a few more minutes of adjustments. “Hi, Rachel. How are you?” I begin.

  “I’m okay,” she says, in the smallest voice.

  “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?” Closer up, I won’t be as intimidating. I keep smiling so hard my jaw begins to hurt