Perfect Match (38 page)

Irony: I will be acquitted, and my son will be gone.

Out of a crowd of cries, I have always been able to hear Nathaniel's. As an infant; on a playground full of children; even with my eyes closed, playin g Marco Polo in the shallow end of a pool. Maybe if I cry loud enough, now, Nathaniel will be able to hear me.

Two bright circles of color have appeared on Monica's cheeks. “What can I do?” she whispers.

“Bring him back.” Then I walk away, because guilt is not only contagious bu t also deadly.

Caleb watches the police speed away in their cruisers, the lights flashing. M aybe they'll attract Nathaniel; maybe not. He knows one thing-these officers have forgotten what it is like to be five. To this end, he puts his back up a gainst the window that leads into the basement bathroom. He kneels, until he is Nathaniel's height. Then he squints, taking into account everything that m ight capture his attention.

A clump of matted bushes, bare and shaking. An umbrella, turned inside ou t by the wind and discarded. A handicapped ramp painted with yellow zigza gged lines.

“Mr. Frost.” The deep voice startles Caleb. He gets to his feet and turns to find the prosecutor standing there, shoulders hunched against the cold. When Monica ran into the courtroom to deliver the bad news, Fisher Carringt on took one look at Nina's face and requested a recess. Brown, on the other hand, stood up and asked the judge if this might not be a ploy for sympath y. “For all we know,” he said, “the boy is safe and sound in a conference r oom upstairs.”

It didn't take him long to realize his tactical error, as the jury watched Nina become hysterical. But all the same, he is the last person Caleb expects to se e out here.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Brown says now, “if there's anything I can do ...” He lets his sentence trail off. “You can do something, all right,” Caleb repl ies. Both men know what it is; know it has nothing to do with Nathaniel. The prosecutor nods and walks inside. Caleb gets down on his knees again. He begins to move in a spiral around the court building, like the way he lays stone in a round patio-widening his circles so that he leaves out no space a nd maintains the arc of the ring. He does this as he does everything-slowly and tenaciously-until he is certain that he's seeing the world through the e yes of his son.

On the other side of the highway is a steep hill that Nathaniel slides down on his bottom. His pants snag on a branch and rip and it doesn't matter, bec ause no one will punish him. He steps in melting puddles of icy water and th rough the ragged seam of the treeline, where he walks until he stumbles over a piece of the forest that has been left out by mistake.

It is the size of his bed at home and has been flattened by the tracks of anim als. Nathaniel sits down on a log at the edge and pulls his pillowcase out fro m inside his coat. He takes out his granola bar and eats halfway, then decides to save the rest. He turns on his flashlight and holds it up to his palm so t hat the back of his hand glows red.

When the deer come, Nathaniel holds his breath. He remembers what his fathe r told him-they are more afraid of us than we are afraid of them. The big o ne, a doe, has a coat the color of caramels and tiny high-heeled hoofs. Her baby looks the same, with white spots on her back, as if she has not been colored in the whole way. They bend their long throats to the ground, pushi ng through the snow with their noses.

It is the mother deer who finds the grass. Just a tuft, hardly a bite. But ins tead of eating it she shoves the fawn closer. She watches the baby eat, althou gh it means she herself will get nothing.

It makes Nathaniel want to give her the other half of his granola bar. But the minute he reaches into his pillowcase the heads of the deer jerk up, a nd they leap from all four feet, their tails white sails as they disappear far ther into the woods.

Nathaniel examines the rip on the back of his pants; the muddy tops of his b oots. He places the half of the granola bar on the log, in case the deer com e back. Then he gets up and slowly heads back toward the road. Patrick has canvassed a one-mile square around the courthouse, certain that Nathaniel left of his own free will, and even more certain that the kid coul dn't have gotten much farther. He picks up his radio to place a call to the Alfred dispatch, asking if anyone's found anything yet, when a movement at t he side of the road strikes his eye. As he watches, a quarter mile up the ro ad, Nathaniel crawls over the iron horse of the guardrail and starts walking along the shoulder of the highway.

“I'll be damned,” Patrick breathes, pulling his truck forward slightly. It l ooks like Nathaniel knows exactly where he is going; from this spot, even so meone as small as Weed would be able to see the high roof of the courthouse. But the boy can't see what Patrick can, from the high cab of his truck-Cale b, coming closer on the opposite side of the road.

He watches Nathaniel look right and then left, and Patrick realizes what he i s planning to do. Sticking his flashing magnetic light on the roof of the tru ck, Patrick hurriedly swerves to block traffic. He gets out and clears the wa y, so that by the time Nathaniel sees his father waiting, he can run across t he highway and into Caleb's arms safely.

“Don't do that again,” I say into Nathaniel's soft neck, holding him close t o me. “Ever. Do you hear me?”

He pulls back, puts his palms on my cheeks. “Are you mad at me?”

“No. Yes. I will be, anyway, when I'm done being so happy.” I hug him tig hter. “What were you thinking?”

“That I'm bad,” he says flatly.

Over Nathaniel's head, I meet Caleb's eyes. “No you're not, sweetheart. Ru nning away, that wasn't good. You could have been hurt; and you worried me and Daddy like you can't believe.” I hesitate, picking my words. “But you can do a bad thing and not be a bad person.”

“Like Father Gwynne?”

I freeze. “Actually, no. He did a bad thing, and he was a bad person.” Nathaniel looks up at me. “What about you?”

Shortly after Dr. Robichaud, Nathaniel's psychiatrist, takes the stand, Quen tin Brown is on his feet to object. “Your Honor, what does this witness have to offer?”

“Judge, this goes to my client's state of mind,” Fisher argues. “The informa tion she received from Dr. Robichaud regarding her son's declining condition was highly relevant to her mental status on October thirtieth.”

“I'll allow it,” Judge Neal rules.

“Doctor, have you treated other children who were rendered mute after sexua l abuse?” Fisher asks.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“In some of these cases, do children never regain their voices?”

“It can take years.”

“Did you have any way of knowing whether this would be a long-term condit ion for Nathaniel Frost?”

“No,” Dr. Robichaud says. “In fact, that was why I began to teach him rudi mentary sign language. He was becoming frustrated with his inability to co mmunicate.”

“Did it help?”

“For a while,” the psychiatrist admits. “Then he began talking again.”

“Was the progress steady?”

"No. It broke down when Nathaniel lost contact with Mrs. Frost for a week.

"

“Do you know why?”

“I understood she was charged with violating her bail conditions and was im prisoned.”

“Did you see Nathaniel during the week that his mother was in jail?”

“Yes, I did. Mr. Frost brought him in, quite upset that the child was no lon ger speaking. He'd regressed to the point where all he would sign for was hi s mother.”

“In your opinion, what caused that regression?”

“Clearly, it was the sudden and prolonged separation from Mrs. Frost,” Dr. Robichaud says.

“How did Nathaniel's condition change when his mother was released again ?”

“He cried out for her.” The psychiatrist smiles. “A joyful noise.”

“And, Doctor, were he to undergo a sudden and prolonged separation JOD1 PlCOULT from his mother again . . . what do you think the likely outcome would be f or Nathaniel?”

“Objection!” Quentin calls.

“Withdrawn.”

Moments later, the prosecutor stands up to cross-examine. “In dealing with five-year-olds, Doctor, don't you find that they often become confused abou t events?”

“Absolutely. That's why courts have competency hearings, Mr. Brown.” At the very mention, Judge Neal gives him a warning glance. “Dr. Robichaud, in your experience, court cases of this type take several months to several years to come to trial, don't they?”

“Yes.”

“And the developmental difference between a five-year-old and a seven-year-ol d is significant, isn't it?”

“Definitely.”

“In fact, haven't you treated children who seemed like they might have troubl e testifying when they first came to you . . . yet a year or two later-after therapy and time had healed them a bit-they were able to take the stand witho ut a setback?”

“Yes.”

“Isn't it true that you have no way of predicting whether Nathaniel would h ave been able to testify a few years from now without it causing significan t psychological harm?”

“No, there's no way to say what might have happened in the future.” Quentin turns toward me. “As a prosecutor, Mrs. Frost would certainly be aw are of this time lag for court appearances, don't you think?”

“Yes.”

“And as the mother of a child this age, she would be aware of the developm ent changes possible over the next few years?”

“Yes. In fact, I tried to tell Mrs. Frost that in a year or so, Nathaniel migh t be doing far better than she expected. That he might even be capable of test ifying on his own behalf.”

The prosecutor nods. “Unfortunately, though, the defendant killed Father Sz yszynski before we could find out.”

Quentin withdraws the statement before Fisher can even object. I tug on the edge of his jacket. “I have to talk to you.” He stares at me as if I ha ve lost my mind. “Yes,” I say. “Now.”

I know what Quentin Brown is thinking, because I have seen a case through his eyes. I proved she murdered him. I did my job. And maybe I have learned not to interfere in the lives of others, but surely it's my responsibility to sav e myself. “It's up to me,” I tell Fisher in the conference room. “I need to g ive them a reason to say it doesn't matter.”

Fisher shakes his head. “You know what happens when defense attorneys overtr y a case. The prosecution has the burden of proof, and all I can do is pick holes in it. But if I pick too hard, the whole thing deflates. Put on one to o many witnesses, and the defense loses.”

“I understand what you're saying. But Fisher, the prosecution did prove tha t I murdered Szyszynski. And I'm not your average witness.” I take a deep b reath. “Sure, there are cases where the defense loses because they put on o ne witness too many. But there are other cases where the prosecution loses because the jury hears from the defendant. They know horrible things have b een done-and they want to hear why, right from the horse's mouth.”

“Nina, you can barely sit still when I'm doing cross-exams, you want to obje ct so badly. I can't put you on the stand as a witness when you're such a go ddamned prosecutor.” Fisher sits down across from me, splaying his hands on the table. “You think in facts. But just because you're telling the jury som ething doesn't mean they're going to accept it as reality. After all the gro undwork I've laid, they like me; they believe me. If I tell them you were so overcome with emotion you were beyond rational thought, they'll buy it. On the other hand, no matter what you say to them, they're predisposed to think you're a liar.”

“Not if I tell them the truth.”

“That you really meant to shoot the other guy?”

“That I wasn't crazy.”

“Nina,” Fisher says softly, “that'll undo your whole defense. You can't tell t hem that.”

"Why not, Fisher? Why can't I make twelve lousy people understand that so mewhere between a good deed and a bad deed are a thousand shades of gray?

Right now, Quentin's got me convicted, because he's told them what I was thinking that day. If I take the stand, I can give them an al ternative version. I can explain what I did, why it was wrong, and why I coul dn't see that, then. Either they'll send me to jail ... or they'll send me ho me with my son. How can I not take that chance?"

Fisher stares down at the table. “You keep this up,” he says after a moment , “and I may have to hire you when we're through.” He holds out a hand, cou nting off on his fingers. "You answer only the questions I ask. The minute you start trying to educate the jury I'm yanking you off. If I mention temp orary insanity, you damn well find a way to support it without perjuring yo urself. And if you show any temper whatsoever, get ready for a nice long st ay in prison.'

“Okay.” I leap to my feet, ready to go.

But Fisher doesn't move. “Nina. Just so you know . . . even if you can't con vince that jury, you've convinced me.”

Three months ago, if I'd heard that from a defense attorney, I'd have laugh ed. But now I smile at Fisher, wait for him to come up beside me at the doo r. We walk into that courtroom as a team.

My office, for the past seven years, has been a courtroom. It's a space that is intimidating for many people, but not for me. I know what the rules are th ere: when to approach the clerk, when to talk to the jury, how to lean back a nd whisper to someone in the gallery without calling attention to myself. But now I am sitting in a part of that office I've never been in before. I am no t allowed to move. I am not allowed to do the work I usually do. I'm starting to see why so many people fear this.

The witness box is so small my knees bump up against the front. The stares of a couple hundred people poke at me, tiny needles. I think of what I have told thousands of witnesses during my career: Your job is to do three thin gs: Listen to the question, answer the question, and stop talking. I rememb er something my boss used to say all the time-that the best witnesses were truck drivers and assembly line workers because they were far less likely t o run off at the mouth than, for example, overeducated lawyers. Fisher hands me the restraining order I took out against Caleb. “Why did yo u procure this, Nina?”

“I thought at the time that Nathaniel had identified my husband as the pers on who'd sexually abused him.”