House Rules Read online

  I glance surreptitiously at the judge and make the snap decision to tone it down a little. --So how do we explain Jacob's mother's position to the jury? Easy. We say that the judge has given her a right to sit at counsel table. We say that this isn't usual practice, but in this case she has a right to sit there. As for her role in the trial, Your Honor, I will have her agree not to speak to Jacob but instead to communicate with him via writing, and those notes can be turned in to the court at the close of the day or during each recess, so that Ms.

  Sharp gets to see exactly what dialogue is going on between them.||

  The judge removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. --This is an unusual case, with unusual circumstances. I've certainly had a good number of defendants come in front of me who had a hard time communicating ... But in this case, we have a young man facing very serious charges and possible incarceration for the rest of his life, and we know he has a diagnosed inability to communicate the way the rest of us do ... so it would be an oversight to expect him to behave in a courtroom the way the rest of us would.|| He looks at Jacob, who--I imagine--is still not meeting his gaze. --What a fair trial looks like for this defendant may well be different from what it looks like for others, but that's the nature of America--we make room for everyone, and that's what we're going to do for Mr. Hunt.||

  He looks down at the motion before him. --All right. I'm going to allow for the sensory breaks. We will ask the bailiff to set up a special room at the back of the courtroom, and anytime the defendant feels the need to leave, he is to pass a note to you, Mr. Bond. Is that satisfactory?||

  --Yes,|| I say.

  --Then, Counselor, you may approach and ask me to call for a recess. You will explain to your client that he may not leave the courtroom until the recess has been called and he's been excused by the court.||

  --Got it, Your Honor,|| I reply.

  --As for your third request, I will not use my gavel for the duration of this trial.

  However, I'm not going to turn down the lights. It's a security hazard for the bailiffs.

  Hopefully, having sensory breaks will help compensate, and I have no objection to the defendant turning out the lights in the break room in the rear of the court.||

  Jacob tugs on my coat. --Can I wear sunglasses?||

  --No,|| I say curtly.

  --Third, I'll shorten the court sessions. We will break the trial into three forty-five-minute sessions in the morning, two in the afternoon, with fifteen-minute breaks in between. We will adjourn at four P.M. every day. I assume that will be satisfactory, Mr.

  Bond?||

  --Yes, Your Honor.||

  --I agree to allow the defendant's mother to sit at counsel table; however, they can only communicate in writing, and those notes must be turned in to the court at every break.

  Finally, in regard to your request for the prosecution's questioning to be direct and simple,||

  the judge says, --that I will deny. You can ask whatever short, literal questions you like, Mr.

  Bond, but the defendant has no constitutional right to direct how the State chooses to present its case.|| He sticks my motion back inside a folder. --I trust that's all satisfactory, Mr. Bond?||

  --Of course,|| I say, but inside, I'm doing handsprings. Because all of these little quirks and concessions are greater than the sum of their parts: the jury cannot help but see that Jacob's different from your average defendant, from the rest of us.

  And should be judged accordingly.

  Theo

  I wake up sneezing.

  When I open my eyes, I'm in a pink room and there are feathers tickling my nose. I jackknife upright in the narrow little bed and remember where I am--one of the girls'

  rooms. There are mobiles with glittery stars and piles of stuffed animals and a pink camouflage rug.

  I sneeze again, and that's when I realize I'm wearing a pink feather boa.

  --What the fuck,|| I say, unspooling it from my neck, and then I hear giggling. I lean over the side of the bed and find my father's younger kid--I think her name is Grace--hiding under the bed.

  --You said a bad word,|| she tells me.

  --What are you doing here?||

  --What are you doing here?|| she asks. --This is my room.||

  I flop back down on the mattress. Between the time my flight arrived and the Talk, I probably got all of four hours of sleep. No wonder I feel like shit.

  She slips out from underneath the bed and sits down beside me. She's really little--I'm not good with kid ages, though. She has purple nail polish on her toes, and she's wearing a plastic tiara.

  --How come you're not in school?||

  --Because it's Friday, silly,|| Grace says, although this doesn't make any sense to me. --You have really big feet. They're bigger than Leon.||

  I'm wondering who Leon is, but then she takes a stuffed pig and holds it up against the bare sole of my foot.

  My watch is on the nightstand, next to a book about a mouse too shy to tell anyone her name. I read it last night before I went to bed. It's only 6:42 A.M., but we are leaving early. We've got a plane to catch.

  --Are you my brother?|| Grace asks.

  I look at her. I try really hard, but I can't see a single feature we have in common.

  And that's really weird, because my mom has always told me I remind her of my dad. (For the record, now that I've seen for myself, it's not true. I'm just blond, that's all, and everyone else in my household has dark hair.) --I guess you could say that,|| I tell her.

  --Then how come you don't live here?||

  I look around at the princess poster on the wall, the china tea set on a table in the corner. --I don't know,|| I say, when the real answer is Because you have another brother, too.

  This is what happened last night:

  I got off the plane and found my parents--both of them--waiting for me outside airport security. --What the hell?|| I blurted out.

  --My thoughts exactly, Theo,|| my mother said curtly. And then, before she could tear me a new one, my father said we were going to his house to discuss this.

  He made stupid conversation for the twenty-minute drive, while I felt my mother's eyes boring holes into the back of my skull. When we reached his home, I got a glimpse of a really pretty woman who had to be his wife before he led me into the library.

  It was very modern, and totally unlike our house. There were windows that made up one entire wall, and the couch was black leather and full of right angles. It looked like the kind of room you see in magazines at doctors' offices, and not anywhere you'd want to live. Our couch was made of some red, stain-proof fabric, and yet there was a stain on the arm from where I spilled grape juice once. The zippers on two of the pillows were broken.

  But when you wanted to flop down and watch TV, it fit you perfectly.

  --So,|| my father said, gesturing to a seat. --This is a little awkward.||

  --Yeah.||

  --I mean, I don't really have much of a right to tell you that running away was a stupid thing to do. And that you scared your mother to death. And I'm not going to tell you that she's out for blood--||

  --You don't have to tell me that.||

  He clasps his hands between his knees. --Anyway, I've been thinking about it, and I'm not going to tell you any of those things.|| He looks at me. --I figured you came all the way out here so that I would listen. ||

  I hesitate. He seems so familiar to me, but that's crazy--given that I talk to him twice a year, on Christmas and my birthday. And yet, maybe that's what being related to someone does for you. Maybe it lets you pick up where you left off, even if that was fifteen years ago.

  I want to tell him why I'm there--the story of Jacob's arrest, the truth behind my own breaking and entering, the phone message I never gave my mother from the bank, denying her the second mortgage loan--but all the words jam in my throat. I choke on the sentences until I cannot breathe, until tears spring to my eyes, and what comes out finally is none of these things.

&nb