The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  “Ms. Hathaway, Mr. Callahan, why don’t we get started?” The judge opened the file on the desk in front of her. “Is discovery complete?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said George.

  “Do either of you have any motions to file? Ah, here’s one from you, Ms. Hathaway, about barring the press from the courtroom. Why don’t we deal with this one right now?”

  Ellie cleared her throat. “It’s contrary to my client’s religion to be in court at all, Your Honor. But even out of the sphere of the courtroom, the Amish are averse to photography. It’s their way of taking the Bible to the letter,” she explained. “‘You shall not make for yourself a graven image or a likeness of anything.’ Exodus 20:4.”

  George interrupted. “Your Honor, didn’t we separate church and state about two centuries ago?”

  “It’s more than that,” Ellie continued. “The Amish think that if a photograph is taken of you, you might take yourself too seriously or try to make a name for yourself, which goes against their spirit of humility.” She looked hard at the judge. “My client is already compromising her religious principles to come to trial, Your Honor. If we have to go through this farce at all, we can at least make it comfortable for her.”

  The judge turned. “Mr. Callahan?”

  George shrugged. “Heck, yes. Let’s make it comfortable for the defendant. And while we’re at it, why not give the prisoners in the State Pen featherbeds and a gourmet chef? With all due respect to Ms. Hathaway, and to her client’s religion, this is a public trial, a public murder. The press has first-amendment rights to report it. And Katie Fisher gave up certain constitutional rights when she violated some of the major ones.” He turned to Ellie. “Forget graven images—what about ‘Thou shalt not kill’? If she didn’t want notoriety, she shouldn’t have committed murder.”

  “No one’s proved that she has,” Ellie shot back. “Frankly, Your Honor, this is a religious matter, and Mr. Callahan is walking a fine line between derision and defamation. I think—”

  “I know what you think, counsel; you’ve made yourself painfully clear. The press will be allowed into the courtroom, but cameras and video equipment will be barred.” The judge turned a page in the file. “Something else leaps out at me, Ms. Hathaway. There’s obvious speculation, due to the nature of the alleged crime, that you might be considering a plea of insanity. As I’m sure you know, the deadline’s passed for noticing up a defense.”

  “Your Honor, those deadlines can be extended for good cause, and I need a forensic psychiatrist to look at my client before I consider any theories of defense at all. However, you haven’t yet ruled on my motion for services other than counsel.”

  “Oh, yes.” The judge lifted a piece of paper edged with rosebuds down the margins—bubble-jet printer stationery that Leda apparently used to print the file from Ellie’s disk. “I must say, this is the prettiest motion I’ve ever had filed.”

  Ellie groaned silently. “I apologize for that, Your Honor. My current working conditions are . . . less than ideal.” At George’s snicker, she turned resolutely toward the judge. “I need the State to pay for an evaluation before I notice up anything.”

  “Hey,” George said, “if you get a forensic shrink, then I get a forensic shrink. I want the girl evaluated for the State.”

  “Why? I’m just asking for the money to pay a psychiatrist, so that I can come to a conclusion about how to defend my client. I’m not saying I’m running an insanity defense yet. All I’m admitting to is that I’m an attorney, not a psychiatrist. If I decide to go with insanity, I’ll turn over the reports and you can have your own shrink look at my client, but as it stands, I won’t let her be seen by any State psychiatrist until I notice up that defense.”

  “You can have your psychiatrist,” the judge said. “How much do you need?”

  Ellie scrambled to recall a typical fee. “Twelve hundred to two thousand.”

  “All right. Consider yourself funded with a two-thousand-dollar cap, unless I hear cause for more than that. If there are any other motions due, I want them within thirty days. We’ll have our final pretrial in six weeks. Does that give you two enough time?”

  Ellie and George murmured their assent, and the judge rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m due in court.” She breezed past, leaving them alone in chambers.

  Ellie shuffled her papers together while George clicked his pen and hooked it back inside his suit jacket pocket. “So,” he said, smirking. “How’s the milking going?”

  “You oughtta know, farm boy.”

  “I may be a country lawyer, Ellie, but I got my degree in Philly, just like you.”

  Ellie stood. “George, do me a favor and find someplace to go. I’ve seen enough horse’s asses in the past few weeks.”

  George laughed and picked up his portfolio, then held the door open for Ellie. “If I had as shitty a case as you do, I guess I’d be in a foul mood, too.”

  Ellie walked past him. “Don’t guess,” she said. “You’re bound to be wrong.”

  * * *

  Coop had asked Katie to walk him through the days leading up to the birth, hoping to jar a memory, although in an hour’s time there had been no major breakthroughs. He leaned forward. “So you were doing the wash. Tell me what it felt like when you bent down to reach into that basket of wet clothes.”

  Katie closed her eyes. “Good. Cool. I took one of my Dat’s shirts and rubbed it on my face, because I was so hot.”

  “Was it hard to bend down?”

  She frowned. “It hurt my back. I felt a crick in it, like I sometimes do before it’s my time of the month.”

  “How long had it been since your time of the month?”

  “A long time,” Katie admitted. “I thought about that when I hung my drawers up to dry.”

  “You knew that skipping menses was a sign of pregnancy,” Coop said gently.

  “Ja, but I’d been late before.” Katie picked at the hem of her apron. “I kept telling myself that.”

  Coop’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because . . . because I . . .” Katie’s face contorted, reddened.

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  “When I first missed my time,” Katie said, tears streaming down her cheeks, “I told myself not to worry about it. And then I stopped worrying, for a little while. But I was so tired, I could barely stay awake after dinner. And when I put on my apron, I had to work hard to make the straight pins go through the same holes as always.” She took a shuddering breath. “I thought—I thought I might be—but I wasn’t big like my Mam with Hannah.” Her hands moved to her belly. “This was nothing.”

  “Did you ever feel something moving inside you? Kicking?”

  Katie was silent for so long Coop was about to ask another question. Then, suddenly, her voice came, quiet and sad. “Sometimes,” she confessed, “it would wake me up at night.”

  Coop lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Katie, on that day you hung the laundry, on that day your back hurt so much, what did you know?”

  She looked into her lap. “That I was pregnant,” she breathed.

  Coop stilled at the admission. “Did you tell your mother?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  She shook her head. “The Lord. I asked Him to help me.”

  “What time that night did you wake up with cramps?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “All right,” Coop said. “Then when did you go out to the barn?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Katie, you knew you were pregnant when you went to sleep that night.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you think you were pregnant the next morning?”

  “No,” Katie answered. “It was gone. I just knew all of a sudden.”

  “Then something must have happened between that night and the next morning. What happened?”

  Katie blinked back fresh tears. “God answered my pray