House Rules: A Novel Read online

  “I’ve listened to all the evidence,” Judge Cuttings says. “I’ve observed the defendant, and I do not believe that he voluntarily waived his Miranda rights. I also believe that Detective Matson was on notice that this defendant has a developmental disorder and yet did nothing to address that disability. I’m going to grant the motion to suppress the defendant’s statement at the police station.”

  Once the judge leaves, Oliver turns around and gives me a high five as Helen Sharp begins to pack up her briefcase. “I’m sure you’ll be in touch,” Helen says to Oliver.

  “So what does it mean?” I ask.

  “She’s going to have to make her case without Jacob’s confession. Which means that the prosecutor’s job just got a lot harder.”

  “So it’s good.”

  “It’s very good,” Oliver says. “Jacob, you were perfect up there.”

  “Can we go?” Jacob asks. “I’m starving.”

  “Sure.” Jacob stands up and starts walking down the aisle. “Thanks,” I say to Oliver, and I fall into place beside my son. I am halfway up the aisle when I turn around. Oliver is whistling to himself, pulling on his overcoat. “If you want to join us for lunch tomorrow … Fridays are blue,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me. “Blue? That’s a tough one. Once you get past the blueberries and yogurt and blue Jell-O, what’s left?”

  “Blue corn chips. Blue potatoes. Blue Popsicles. Bluefish.”

  “That’s not technically blue,” Oliver points out.

  “True,” I reply, “but it’s still allowed.”

  “Blue Gatorade’s always been my favorite,” he says.

  On the way home, Jacob reads the newspaper out loud from his spot in the backseat. “They’re building a new bank downtown, but it’s going to eliminate forty parking spaces,” he tells me. “A guy was taken to Fletcher Allen after he crashed his motorcycle into a snow fence.” He flips the page. “What’s today?”

  “Thursday.”

  His voice races with excitement. “Tomorrow at three o’clock Dr. Henry Lee is going to be speaking at the University of New Hampshire, and the public is welcome!”

  “Why is that name familiar?”

  “Mom,” Jacob says, “he’s only the most famous forensic scientist ever. He’s worked on thousands of cases, like the suicide of Vince Foster and JonBenét Ramsey’s murder and the O. J. Simpson trial. There’s a phone number here for information.” He starts rummaging in my purse for my cell phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling for tickets.”

  I glance at him in the rearview mirror. “Jacob. We cannot go see Dr. Lee. You aren’t allowed to leave your house, much less the state.”

  “I left the house today.”

  “That’s different. You went to court.”

  “You don’t understand. This is Henry Lee. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’m not asking to go out to a movie. There’s got to be something Oliver can do to get a furlough or something for the day.”

  “I don’t think so, babe.”

  “So you’re not even going to try? You’re just going to assume that the answer’s no?”

  “That’s right,” I tell him, “since the alternative to having you under house arrest is being thrown back in jail. And I am a hundred percent sure that the warden would not have given you a day pass to see Henry Lee speak, either.”

  “I bet he would, if you told him who Henry Lee was.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion, Jacob,” I say.

  “You left the house yesterday …”

  “That’s completely different.”

  “Why? The judge said you had to watch over me at all times.”

  “Me, or another adult—”

  “See, he already made exceptions for you—”

  “Because I wasn’t the one who—” Realizing what I am about to say, I snap my mouth shut.

  “Who what?” Jacob’s voice is tight. “Who killed someone?”

  I turn in to our driveway. “I didn’t say that, Jacob.”

  He stares out the window. “You didn’t have to.”

  Before I can stop him, he jumps out of the car while I’m still pulling to a stop. He runs past Theo, who stands at the front door with his arms crossed. A strange car is parked in the driveway, with a man behind the wheel.

  “I tried to get him to leave,” Theo says, “but he said he would wait for you.” With that information, he goes back into the house and leaves me face-to-face with a small, balding man with a goatee shaved in the shape of a W. “Ms. Hunt?” he says. “I’m Farley McDuff, the founder of Neurodiversity Nation. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t …”

  “It’s a blog for people who believe that atypical neurological development is a matter of simple human difference and, as such, should be celebrated instead of cured.”

  “Look, this isn’t a very good time right now—”

  “There’s no time like the present, Ms. Hunt, for those in the autism community to stand up for the respect they deserve. Instead of having neurotypicals try to destroy diversity, we believe in a new world where neurological plurality is accepted.”

  “Neurotypical,” I repeat.

  “Another word for what’s colloquially called ‘normal,’” he says. “Like you.” He smiles at me, but he cannot hold my gaze for more than a heartbeat. He thrusts a pamphlet into my hand.

  MAJORITISM—An unrecognized condition.

  Majoritism is an incapacitating developmental condition which affects 99% of the population in areas of mental function, including self-awareness, attention, emotional capacity, and sensory development. The effects begin at birth and cannot be cured. Luckily, the number of those afflicted by majoritism is decreasing, as a better understanding of autism emerges.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say. I step around him, intent on getting inside my house.

  “Why is it so delusional to think that a person who feels someone else’s grief or pain isn’t hampered by that excess of emotion? Or that imitating others in order to fit in to the crowd is more acceptable than doing what interests you at any given moment? Why isn’t it considered rude to look a total stranger in the eye when you first meet him, or to invade his personal space by shaking hands? Couldn’t it be considered a flaw to veer off topic based on a comment someone else makes instead of sticking to your original subject? Or to be oblivious when something in your environment changes—like a piece of clothing that gets moved from a drawer to a closet?”

  That makes me think of Jacob. “I really have to go—”

  “Ms. Hunt, we think that we can help your son.”

  I hesitate. “Really?”

  “Do you know who Darius McCollum is?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a man from Queens, New York, who has a passion for anything transit-related. He wasn’t much older than Jacob the first time he took over the E train headed from the World Trade Center to Herald Square. He’s taken city buses out for a spin. He tripped the emergency brakes on an N train and impersonated a transit worker in uniform in order to fix it himself. He’s posed as a railroad safety consultant. He’s been convicted more than nineteen times. He also has Asperger’s.”

  A shiver goes down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Do you know of John Odgren? At age sixteen he stabbed a student to death at a suburban high school in Sudbury, Massachusetts. He’d previously had knives and a fake handgun confiscated at school but didn’t have a history of violent behavior. He has Asperger’s, and a special interest in weapons. But as a result of the stabbing, the link between Asperger’s and violence was raised—when in fact medical experts say there’s no known link between Asperger’s and violence, and in fact kids diagnosed with the disorder are far more likely to be teased as victims than to be perpetrators themselves.” He takes a step forward. “We can help you. We can rally the autistic community to spread