The Jodi Picoult Collection #4 Read online

  He grinned. “Go ahead, make my day.”

  “You can’t play Dirty Harry with these guys,” I said, panicking. “They’ve seen it before, and they’ll trap you with your own bravado. Just remember to keep calm, and to count to ten before you answer anything. And—”

  The elevator doors opened before I could finish my sentence. We stepped into the luxurious offices, where a paralegal in a fitted blue suit was already waiting. “Marin Gates?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Mr. Booker’s expecting you.” She led us down the hall to the conference room, a panorama of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out toward the golden dome of the Statehouse. Tucked into one corner was the stenographer. Guy Booker was deep in conversation, his silver head bent. He stood up as we approached, revealing his client.

  Piper Reece was prettier than I expected. She was blond, lanky, with dark circles underneath her eyes. She wasn’t smiling; she stared at Charlotte as if she’d just been run through with a sword.

  Charlotte, on the other hand, was doing everything possible not to look at her.

  “How could you?” Piper accused. “How could you do this?”

  Sean narrowed his eyes. “You’d better stop right there, Piper—”

  I stepped between them. “Let’s just get this over with, all right?”

  “You have nothing to say?” Piper continued, as Charlotte settled herself at the table. “You don’t even have the decency to look me in the eye and tell me off to my face?”

  “Piper,” Guy Booker said, putting a hand on her arm.

  “If your client is going to be verbally abusive to mine,” I announced, “we’ll walk out of here right now.”

  “She wants abusive?” Sean muttered. “I’ll show her abusive . . .”

  I grabbed his arm and pulled him down into a chair. “Shut up,” I whispered.

  It was perhaps the first and only time in my life that I would ever have anything in common with Guy Booker—neither one of us relished being present at this deposition. “I’m quite sure my client can restrain herself,” he said, facing Piper as he stressed the last two words. He turned to the stenographer. “Claudia, you ready to get started?”

  I looked at Sean and mouthed the word calm. He nodded and cracked his neck on each side, like a prizefighter readying to head into the ring.

  That snap, that audible pop: it made me think of you, breaking a bone.

  Guy Booker opened a leather folder. It was buttery, most likely Italian. Part of the reason Booker, Hood & Coates won so many cases was the intimidation factor—they looked like winners, from their opulent offices to their Armani suits and their Waterman pens. They probably even had their legal pads hand-made and watermarked with their corporate seal. Was it any wonder that half the opponents threw in the towel after a single glance?

  “Lieutenant O’Keefe,” he said. His voice was smooth, no friction between the words. I’m your pal, I’m your buddy, his tone suggested. “You believe in justice, don’t you?”

  “It’s why I’m a police officer,” Sean answered proudly.

  “Do you think lawsuits can bring about justice?”

  “Sure,” Sean said. “It’s the way this country works.”

  “Would you consider yourself particularly litigious?”

  “No.”

  “I guess you must have had good reason, then, to sue Ford Motor Company in 2003?”

  Shocked, I turned toward Sean. “You sued Ford?”

  He was scowling. “What does that have to do with my daughter?”

  “You received a settlement, didn’t you? Of twenty thousand dollars?” He leafed through his leather folder. “Can you explain the nature of the complaint?”

  “I slipped a disk in my back, sitting in the cruiser seat the whole day. Those things are designed for crash test dummies, not real humans doing their jobs.”

  I closed my eyes. It would have been really nice, I thought, if either of my clients had been honest with me.

  “About Willow,” Guy said. “How many hours per day would you say you spend with her?”

  “Maybe twelve,” he said.

  “Of those twelve hours, how many is she asleep?”

  “I don’t know, eight, if it’s a good night.”

  “If it’s not a good night, how many times would you say you have to get up with her?”

  “It depends,” Sean said. “Once or twice.”

  “So the amount of time you’re with her, and not trying to get her back to sleep—that’s probably about four or five hours a day?”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “During those hours, what do you and Willow do?”

  “We play Nintendo. She beats the pants off me at Super Mario. And we play cards . . .” He blushed a little. “She’s a natural at Five-Card Stud.”

  “What’s her favorite TV show?” Guy asked.

  “Lizzie McGuire, this week.”

  “Favorite color?”

  “Magenta.”

  “What kind of music does she listen to?”

  “Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers,” Sean said.

  I could remember sitting on the couch with my mother and watching The Cosby Show. We’d make a bowl of microwave popcorn and eat the entire thing. It had never been the same after Keshia Knight Pulliam had gotten too old and had been supplanted by Raven-Symone. If I had been raised by my birth mother, would my childhood have been colored differently? Would we have been hooked on soap operas, PBS documentaries, Dynasty?

  “I hear Willow goes to kindergarten now.”

  “Yeah, she just started two months ago,” Sean said.

  “Does Willow have a good time in school?”

  “It’s hard for her sometimes, but I’d say she enjoys it.”

  “No one’s denying that Willow is a child with disabilities,” Guy said, “but those disabilities don’t prevent her from having a positive educational experience, do they?”

  “No.”

  “And they don’t prevent her from sharing good times with your family, do they?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “In fact, would you say as Willow’s father that you’ve done a good job making sure she has a good, rich life?”

  Oh, no, I thought.

  Sean sat up a little straighter, proud. “Damn right I have.”

  “Then why,” Guy asked, going in for the kill, “are you saying that she should never have been born?”

  The words went through Sean like a bullet. He jerked forward, flattening his hands on the table. “Don’t you put words in my mouth. I never said that.”

  “Actually, you did.” Guy took a copy of the complaint from his folder and slid it across the table toward Sean. “Right here.”

  “No.” Sean set his jaw.

  “Your signature on this document represents the truth, Lieutenant.”

  “Hey, listen, I love my daughter.”

  “You love her,” Guy repeated. “So much that you think she’d be better off dead.”

  Sean reached for the complaint and crumpled it in his hand. “I’m not doing this,” he said. “I don’t want this; I never wanted this.”

  “Sean . . .” Charlotte stood up and grabbed his arm, and he rounded on her.

  “How can you say this won’t hurt Willow?” he said, the words torn from his throat.

  “She knows these are only words, Sean, words that don’t mean anything. She knows we love her. She knows that’s why we’re here.”

  “Guess what, Charlotte,” he said. “Those are only words, too.” And with that, he strode out of the conference room.

  Charlotte stared after him, and then at me. “I-I have to go,” she said. I stood up, not sure if I was supposed to follow her out or stay and try to patch up the damage with Guy Booker. Piper Reece was red-faced, staring into her lap. Charlotte’s low heels sounded like gunshots as she hurried down the hallway.

  “Marin,” Guy said, leaning back in his chair. “You can’t possibly think you’ve got a viab