The Jodi Picoult Collection #2 Read online

  Quentin sends him a quelling glance. Commentary on the stand is not necessary, or desired. “Who was your first suspect in the molestation case?”

  “We didn’t have a suspect until Glen Szyszynski.”

  By now, Quentin looks ready to throttle him. “Did you bring in another man for questioning?”

  “Yes. Caleb Frost.”

  “Why did you bring him in?”

  Patrick shakes his head. “The child was using sign language to communicate, and he ID’d his abuser with the sign for father. At the time, we didn’t understand he meant priest, rather than daddy.” He looks directly at Caleb, in the front row behind Nina. “That was my mistake,” Patrick says.

  “What was the defendant’s reaction to her son signing father?”

  Fisher rises from his seat, poised to object, but Patrick speaks quickly. “She took it very seriously. Her primary concern was always, always, protecting her child.” Confused, the attorney sits back down beside Nina.

  “Detective Ducharme—” the prosecutor interrupts.

  “I’m not quite done yet, Mr. Brown. I was going to say that I’m sure it tore her up inside, but she got a restraining order against her husband, because she thought it was the best way to keep Nathaniel safe.”

  Quentin walks closer to Patrick, hisses through his teeth so that only his witness will hear. “What the hell are you doing?” Then he faces the jury. “Detective, at what point did you make the decision to arrest Father Szyszynski?”

  “After Nathaniel gave a verbal disclosure, I went down to talk to him.”

  “Did you arrest him at that moment?”

  “No. I was hoping he’d confess first. We always hope for that in molestation cases.”

  “Did Father Szyszynski ever admit to sexually abusing Nathaniel Frost?”

  Patrick has been a witness at enough trials to know that the question is blatantly unacceptable, because it calls for hearsay. The judge and the prosecutor both stare at Fisher Carrington, waiting for him to object. But by now, Nina’s lawyer has caught on. He sits at the defense table with his hands steepled, watching this unfold. “Child molesters almost never admit they’ve hurt a child,” Patrick says, filling the silence. “They know jail’s not going to be a pleasant place for them. And frankly, without a confession, a molestation trial is a roll of the dice. Nearly half the time, these guys get off because of insufficient evidence or because the child is too terrified to testify, or because they do testify and the jury doesn’t believe the word of a kid . . .”

  Quentin breaks in before Patrick can do any further damage. “Your Honor, may we have a recess?”

  The judge looks over his bifocals at him. “We are in the middle of the direct.”

  “Yes, Judge, I’m aware of that.”

  Shrugging, Neal turns to Fisher. “Does the defense object to stopping at this point?”

  “I don’t believe so, Your Honor. But I would ask the Court to remind all counsel that the witnesses have been sequestered and can’t be approached during the break.”

  “Fine,” Quentin grits out. He storms from the courtroom so quickly he doesn’t see Patrick finally make eye contact with Nina, smile gently at her, and wink.

  • • •

  “Why is this cop working for us?” Fisher demands, as soon as he’s bustled me into a private conference room upstairs.

  “Because he’s my friend. He’s always been there for me.” At least, that is the only explanation I can give. I knew, of course, that Patrick would have to testify against me, and I didn’t take it to heart. Part of what makes Patrick Patrick is his absolute devotion to the clear line dividing right and wrong. It is why he would not let me talk to him about the murder; it is why he has wrestled so hard to stand by my side while I was awaiting trial. It is why his offer to find Father Gwynne on my behalf meant so very much to me, and was so difficult for him.

  It is why, when I think back to Christmas Eve, I cannot believe it ever happened.

  Fisher seems to be considering this odd gift that has dropped into his lap. “Is there anything I should watch out for? Anything he won’t do to protect you?”

  The reason we slept together isn’t because Patrick tossed morality to the wind that night. It’s because he was too damn honest to convince himself the feelings weren’t there.

  “He won’t lie,” I answer.

  • • •

  Quentin returns on the attack. Whatever game this detective’s playing, it’s going to stop right now. “Why were you in court the morning of October thirtieth?”

  “It was my case,” Ducharme answers coolly.

  “Did you speak to the defendant that morning?”

  “Yes. I spoke with both Mr. and Mrs. Frost. They were both very nervous. We discussed who they could leave Nathaniel with during the proceedings, because naturally, they were very wary of putting him into anyone’s care at that point.”

  “What did you do when the defendant shot Father Szyszynski?”

  Ducharme meets the prosecutor’s gaze head on. “I saw a gun, and I went for it.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Frost had a gun before that point?”

  “No.”

  “How many officers did it take to wrestle her to the ground?”

  “She dropped to the ground,” the detective corrects. “Four bailiffs dropped on top of her.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I asked for cuffs. Deputy Ianucci gave me a pair. I secured Mrs. Frost’s hands behind her back and took her into the holding cell.”

  “How long were you in there with her?”

  “Four hours.”

  “Did she say anything to you?”

  In the practice session, Ducharme had told Quentin that the defendant confessed to him that she’d committed a crime. But now, he puts on a choirboy’s expression and looks at the jury. “She kept repeating over and over, ‘I did everything I could; I can’t do any more.’ She sounded crazy.”

  Crazy? “Objection,” Quentin roars.

  “Your Honor, it’s his own witness!” Fisher says.

  “Overruled, Mr. Brown.”

  “Approach!” Quentin storms up to the bench. “Judge, I’m going to ask to have this witness declared hostile, so that I can ask leading questions.”

  Judge Neal looks at Ducharme, then back at the prosecutor. “Counselor, he is answering your questions.”

  “Not the way he’s supposed to be!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. But that’s your problem.”

  Quentin takes a deep breath, turning away. The real issue here isn’t that Patrick Ducharme is single-handedly destroying this case. The issue is why.

  Either Ducharme is holding a grudge against Quentin, whom he does not even really know . . . or he’s trying to help Nina Frost for some reason. He glances up, and notices the detective and the defendant staring at each other, a bond so charged that Quentin imagines walking through it might give him a shock.

  Well.

  “How long have you known the defendant?” he asks evenly.

  “Thirty years.”

  “That long?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe your relationship with her?”

  “We work together.”

  My ass, Quentin thinks. I’d bet my retirement pension you play together, too. “Do you ever see her outside the office in a nonprofessional capacity?”

  It might not be noticeable to someone watching less closely than Quentin . . . but Patrick Ducharme’s jaw tightens. “I know her family. We have lunch together every now and then.”

  “How did you feel when you heard this had happened to Nathaniel?”

  “Objection,” Carrington calls out.

  The judge rubs a finger over his upper lip. “I’ll allow it.”

  “I was concerned for the boy,” the detective answers.

  “How about Nina Frost? Were you concerned for her?”

  “Of course. She’s a colleague.”

  “Is that all?” Quenti