The Pact Read online

  The prosecutor's motions, seeking to exclude two of his expert witnesses and the pro-choice English essay Selena had found, had been denied.

  His own motion of suppression to bar the interview Detective Marrone had done at the hospital had been granted, on the grounds that Chris Harte had not felt he was free to leave the interview, and thus had been formally questioned without being Mirandized.

  It was a small victory, but it made him smile. Jordan shuffled the letter to the back of the pile, walked back into his office, and closed the door.

  WHEN CHRIS SAW HIS FATHER standing stiffly behind the metal bridge chair down in the visitor's area, he froze. He had told his mother that he wanted James to come, but he hadn't really expected his wish to be granted. After all, when Chris had banned him from visiting months before, they all knew he was just taking the blame for something James would have done, anyway.

  "Chris," his father said, holding out a hand.

  "Dad." They shook, and Chris was momentarily shocked by the heat of his father's skin. He remembered, in a quick flash, that his father's palms had always seemed reassuringly warm, on his shoulders in a duck blind, or bracing his arms as he taught him to shoot. "Thank you for coming."

  James nodded. "Thank you for having me," he said formally.

  "Did Mom come with you?"

  "No," James said. "I understood that you wanted to see me by myself."

  Chris had never said that, but that was how his mother had interpreted it. And probably, it wasn't a bad idea. "Was there something in particular you wanted to ask me?" James said.

  Chris nodded. He thought of many things at once: If I go to prison, will you help Mom get on with her life? If I ask you, will you tell me to my face that I've hurt you more than you ever thought possible? But instead his mouth opened, rolling over a sentence that surprised Chris as much as it did James. "Dad," he said, "in your whole life, haven't you ever done anything wrong?"

  James covered his startled laughter with a cough. "Well, sure," he said. "I failed biology the first term of college. I shoplifted a pack of gum when I was little. And I crashed my father's car up after a fraternity party." He chuckled, crossing his legs. "I just never came close to murder."

  Chris stared at him. "Neither did I," he said softly.

  James's face went pale. "I didn't mean ... that is ... " Finally, he shook his head. "I don't blame you for what happened."

  "But do you believe me?"

  James met his son's gaze. "It is very hard to believe you," he said, "when I'm trying so hard to pretend it never happened."

  "It did happen," Chris said, his voice choked. "Emily's dead. And I'm stuck in this stinking jail, and I can't change what's already been done."

  "Neither can I." James clasped his hands between his knees. "You have to understand--I grew up being told by my parents that the best way to get out of a sticky situation was to assume it didn't exist," he said. "Let the rumors fly ... if the family isn't bothered, why should anyone else be?"

  Chris smiled slightly. "Making believe I'm in a swanky hotel doesn't make the food taste any better here, or the cells any bigger."

  "Well," James said, his voice softer. "There's nothing that says you can't learn from your own children, too." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "As a matter of fact, now that you've got me thinking, there was one thing I've done in my life that was really awful."

  Chris leaned forward, intrigued. "What was it?"

  James smiled with so much of his heart that Chris had to look away. "I stayed away from here," he said, "until now."

  STEVE'S MURDER TRIAL HAD LASTED four days. His lawyer was a public defender, since neither he nor his parents could afford someone more glitzy. And although he didn't talk to Chris about his case, Chris knew that he grew more and more nervous as the close of the trial drew near.

  The night before the jury was supposed to return a verdict, Chris woke to the sound of a slight scratching. He rolled over in his bunk to find Steve rubbing a razor blade over the edge of the toilet.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Chris whispered.

  Steve looked up. "I'm going to prison," he said, his voice heavy.

  "You're already in prison," Chris said.

  Steve shook his head. "This is a country club compared to the State Pen. Do you know what they do there to guys serving time for killing kids? Do you?"

  Chris smiled a little. "Make you the company whore?"

  "You think it's so frigging funny? Because you could be in the same goddamned boat three months from now." Steve was breathing harshly, trying not to cry. "Sometimes they just beat you up, and the guards look away 'cause they think you've got it coming. Sometimes they go so far as to kill you." He picked up the silver sliver of razor, a gleam in the half light of the cell. "I thought I'd save them the trouble," Steve said.

  Still muzzy with sleep, it took Chris a moment to understand what Steve was saying. "You can't do that," he said.

  "Chris," Steve murmured, "it's about the only thing I can do."

  Chris suddenly remembered Emily, trying to explain to him how she felt. I can see myself now, she said. And I can see what I want to be, ten years from now. But I don't understand how I'm going to get from here to there. Chris watched Steve lift a shaking hand, the blade of the razor trembling like a flame. And he jumped off his bunk and started pounding at the bars of the cell, screaming to attract the attention of an officer and do for this friend what he had not done for Emily.

  RUMORS FLEW THROUGH A JAIL, pervasive as gnats and just as difficult to ignore. By breakfast the next day everyone knew that Steve had been taken to the suicide cell down in maximum, where he was monitored by camera in the control room. By lunch, he was being led away by the sheriff, to the courthouse to hear the jury's decision.

  At a little after three-thirty, one of the officers came into Chris's cell and started packing up Steve's things. Chris set down the book he was reading. "Is the trial over?" he asked.

  "Yup. Guilty. Sentenced to life in prison."

  Chris watched the officer pick up the broken shards of the plastic razor, the one Steve had pried apart for its blade. He pulled his pillow over his head, sobbing as he had not since the day he'd arrived at the jail. And he did not allow himself to ask whether he was crying for Steve or for himself; for what he had done, or for what was certain to happen.

  AT FIRST, BARRIE DELANEY had called Melanie often, giving her updates on evidence that had dribbled in from the ME's office, or the forensics lab. Then the telephone calls had been made from Melanie's end, periodically, just to keep Emily on Ms. Delaney's mind. Now, Melanie called maybe once a month, not wanting to take from the prosecutor any amount of precious time that would be better served preparing for the trial.

  So Melanie was rather surprised when Barrie Delaney tracked her all the way to the library to talk to her.

  She picked up the phone, certain that the other librarian had gotten the caller's name wrong, only to hear the prosecutor's clear, clipped voice.

  "Hi," Melanie said. "How is everything?"

  "I should be asking you that," Barrie said. "Actually, everything is fine."

  "Have they changed the date of the trial?"

  "Oh, no. Still set for May." She sighed into the phone. "You see, Mrs. Gold, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with a bit of research."

  "Anything," Melanie assured her. "What do you need?"

  "It's your husband. He's agreed to testify for the defense."

  Melanie was silent so long that the prosecutor began calling her name. "I'm still here," she said faintly, remembering Gus at the cemetery, certain she'd put Michael up to this. She felt her head start to pound. "What can I do?"

  "Ideally, you can get him to back down," Barrie said. "And if he refuses, maybe you can find out what he's going to say that's so useful to the defense."

  By now, Melanie's head was bowed, her forehead grazing the reference desk. "I see," she said, although she did not. "And how do I do this?"