Perfect Match (42 page)

At first I fight, trying to ration the air I have in my lungs. Then they start t o burn, a circle of fire beneath my ribs. My wide eyes burst black, and my feet start to thrash, but I am getting nowhere. This is it, I think. Finally. With that realization I let my arms go still, and my legs go limp. I feel my b ody sinking and the water filling me, until I am curled on the sand at the bas e of the sea.

The sun is a quivering yellow eye. I get to my feet, and to my great surprise , begin to walk with ease on the bottom of the ocean floor.

Nathaniel doesn't move the hour I sit on his bed, watching him sleep. But whe n I touch his hair, unable to hold back any longer, he rolls over and blinks at me. “It's still dark,” he whispers.

“I know. It's not morning.”

I watch him trying to puzzle this out: What could have brought me, then, to wake him in the middle of the night? How am I supposed to explain to him tha t the next time I have the opportunity to do this, his body might reach the whole length of the bed? That by the time I come back, the boy I left behind will no longer exist?

“Nathaniel,” I say, with a shuddering breath, “I might be going away.” He sits up. “You can't, Mommy.” Smiling, he even finds a reason. “We just got back.”

“I know . . . but this isn't my choice.”

Nathaniel pulls the covers up to his chest, suddenly looking very small. “Wha t did I do this time?”

With a sob I pull him onto my lap and bury my face against his hair. He rubs his nose against my neck, and it reminds me so much of him as an infant tha t I cannot breathe. I would trade everything, now, to have those minutes bac k, tucked into a miser's lockbox. Even the ordinary moments-driving in the c ar, cleaning up the playroom, cooking dinner with Nathaniel. They are no les s miraculous simply because they are something we did as a matter of routine . It is not what you do with a child that brings you together ... it is the fact that you are lucky enough to do it at all.

I draw away to look at his face. That bow of a mouth, the slope of his nose . His eyes, preserving memories like the amber they resemble. Keep them, I think. Watch over them for me.

By now, I am crying hard. “I promise, it won't be forever. I promise that y ou can come see me. And I want you to know every minute of every day that I 'm away from you . . . I'm thinking of how long it'll be before I come back .”

Nathaniel wraps his arms around my neck and holds on for dear life. "I don'

t want you to go."

“I know.” I draw back, holding his wrists loosely.

“I'll come with you.”

“I wish you could. But I need someone here to take care of your father.” Nathaniel shakes his head. “But I'll miss you.”

“And I'll miss you,” I say softly. “Hey, how about if we make a pact?”

“What's that?”

“A decision two people make together.” I try for a smile. “Let's agree not to miss each other. Is that a deal?”

Nathaniel looks at me for a long moment. “I don't think I can do it,” he conf esses.

I pull him close again. “Oh, Nathaniel,” I whisper. “Me neither.” Nathaniel is glued to my side the next morning when we walk into the courth ouse. The reporters that I have almost become accustomed to seem like a cru el torture, their questions and their blinding video cameras a modern gaunt let I have to survive. These will be my Before and After pictures; DA-cum-c onvict. Print your headlines now, I think, since I am going to jail. As soon as I reach the barrier of the double doors, I hand Nathaniel to Caleb and make a dead run for the restroom, where I dry heave into a toilet and sp lash water on my face and wrists. “You can get through this,” I say to the mi rror. “You can at least end it with dignity.”

Taking a deep breath I push my way out the swinging door to where my family is waiting, and see Adrienne, the transsexual, wearing a red dress two siz es too small and a grin as large as Texas. “Nina!” she cries, and comes run ning to hug me. “Last place I ever thought I'd want to be is in a courtroom again, but honey, I'm here for you.”

“You're out?”

“Since yesterday. Didn't know if I'd make it in time, but that jury deliberat ion's taking longer than my sex change operation.”

Suddenly Nathaniel has wormed his way between us, and is doing his best to climb me like a tree. I heft him into my arms. “Nathaniel, this is Adrienne .”

Her eyes light up. “I have heard so much about you.” It is a toss-up as to who is more stunned by Adrienne's presence-Nathaniel or Caleb. But before I can offer any explanations, Fisher hurries toward us. I meet his gaze. “Do it,” I say.

Quentin finds Fisher waiting for him in the courtroom. “We have to speak to Judge Neal,” he says quietly.

“I'm not offering her a plea,” Quentin answers.

“And I'm not asking for one.” He turns, heading for the judge's chambers wit hout waiting to see if the prosecutor will follow.

Ten minutes later, they are standing in front of Judge Neal, the angry heads of safari animals bearing witness. “Your Honor,” Fisher begins, “we've been h ere so long; it's clear that the jury is going to hang. I've talked to my cli ent . . . and if Mr. Brown is willing, we'd like to submit this case to Your Honor and have you decide the facts and the verdict.”

Well, if Quentin was expecting anything it wasn't this. He looks at the defens e attorney as if the man has lost his mind. Granted, nobody likes a mistrial, but to let the judge rule is to adhere, strictly, to the letter of the law-som ething far more beneficial to the prosecution, in this case, than the defense. Fisher Carrington has just handed Quentin a conviction on a silver platter. The judge stares at him. “Mr. Brown? What would the state like to do?” He clears his throat. "The state finds this perfectly acceptable, Your Honor.''

“Fine. I'm going to let the jury go then. I need an hour to review the eviden ce, and then I'll make my ruling.” With a nod, the judge dismisses the two la wyers, and begins the process of deciding Nina Frost's future. Adrienne, it turns out, is a godsend. She gets Nathaniel out of my arms by m aking herself into a jungle gym when Caleb and I are wrung too dry to play. Nathaniel crawls over her back and then down the long slide of her shins. “I f he's tiring you out,” Caleb says, “just tell him to stop.”

“Oh, honey, I've been waiting my whole life for this.” She flips Nathaniel u pside down, so that he giggles.

I am torn between watching them and joining in. My biggest fear is that if I let myself touch my son again, nothing they will do will be able to drag me away.

When there is a knock at the playroom door, we all turn. Patrick stands unco mfortably at the threshold. I know what he wants, and I also know that he wi ll not ask for it with my family here.

To my surprise, Caleb takes the decision out of everyone's hands. He nods t oward Patrick, and then to me. “Go on,” he says.

So Patrick and I find ourselves walking down twisted basement corridors, a f oot of space separating us. We travel so far in silence that I realize I hav e no idea where we now are. “How could you?” he finally bursts out.

“If you'd gone with another jury trial, at least, you'd have a shot at an acquitt al.”

“And I would have dragged Nathaniel and Caleb and you and everyone else alo ng through it again. Patrick, this has to stop. It has to be over. No matte r what.”

He stops walking, leans against a heating duct. “I never really thought you'd go to jail.”

“There are a lot of places,” I reply, “that I thought I'd never go.” I smile faintly. “Will you bring me Chinese food every now and then?”

“No.” Patrick looks down at the floor between his shoes. “I won't be here, N ina.”

“You . . . what?”

“I'm moving. There are some job openings out in the Pacific Northwest I might take a look at.” He takes a deep breath. “I always wanted to see what it was like out there. I just didn't want to do it without you.”

“Patrick-”

With great tenderness, he kisses my forehead. “You will be fine,” he murmu rs. “You've done it before.” He offers me a crooked smile to slip into my breast pocket. And then he walks down the hall, leaving me to find my own way back.

The bathroom door at the base of the staircase flies open, and suddenly Que ntin Brown is no more than four feet away from me. “Mrs. Frost,” he sputter s.

“After all this, I would think you could call me Nina.” It is an ethical viol ation for him to speak to me without Fisher present, and we both know it. Yet somehow, bending that rule doesn't seem quite so horrific, after all this. W hen he doesn't respond, I realize he doesn't feel the same way and I try to s tep around him. “If you'll excuse me, my family's waiting in the playroom.”

“I have to admit,” Quentin says as I am walking away, “I was surprised by y our decision.”

I turn. “To let the judge rule?”

“Yes. I don't know if I'd do the same thing, if I were a defendant.” I shake my head. “Somehow, Quentin, I can't picture you as a defendant.”

“Could you picture me as a parent?”

It surprises me. “No. I never heard that you had a family.”

“A boy. Sixteen.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I know, I know. You'v e done such a good job imagining me as a ruthless villain that it's hard to give me a vein of compassion.”

“Well.” I shrug. “Maybe not a ruthless villain.”

“An asshole then?”

“Your words, counselor,” I reply, and we both grin.

“Then again, people can surprise you all the time,” he muses. “For example, a district attorney who commits murder. Or an assistant attorney general tha t drives past a defendant's home at night just to make sure she's okay.” I snort. “If you drove by at all, it was to make sure I was still there.”

“Nina, didn't you ever wonder who in your office left you the lab report fr om the underwear?”

My jaw drops open. “My son's name,” Quentin says. “It's Gideon.” Whistling, he nods to me, and jogs up the staircase.

The courtroom is so quiet that I can hear Caleb breathing behind me. What h e said the moment before we walked in to hear the judge's verdict echoes to o, in the silence: I am proud of you.

Judge Neal clears his throat and begins to speak. “The evidence in this cas e clearly shows that on October thirtieth, 2001, the defendant Nina Frost w ent out, purchased a handgun, concealed it, and brought it into a Biddeford district courtroom. The evidence also shows that she positioned herself ne ar Father Szyszynski, and intentionally and knowingly shot him four times i n the head, thereby causing his death. The evidence is also clear that at t he time she did these things, Nina Frost was under the mistaken impression that Father Szyszynski had sexually molested her five-year-old son.” I bow my head, each word a blow. “So what does the evidence not support?” th e judge asks rhetorically. “Specifically, the defendant's contention that sh e was legally insane at the time of the shooting. Witnesses testified that s he acted deliberately and methodically to exterminate the man who she though t had harmed her child. And at the time, the defendant was a trained, practi cing assistant district attorney who knew very well that every person charged with a crime-Father Szyszynski includedwas innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Basically, this court be lieves Nina Frost to be a prosecutor through and through ... so much so, tha t to break a law, she would have had to give the act careful consideration.“ He raises his head and pushes his glasses up on his nose. ”And so I reject th e defendant's insanity defense.”

A shuffling to my left, from Quentin Brown.

“However-”

Quentin stills.

“-in this state there is another reason to justify the act of murder-namely, if a defendant was under the influence of a reasonable fear or anger brought about by reasonable provocation. As a prosecutor, Nina Frost didn't have rea son to be fearful or angry the morning of October thirtieth . . . yet as Nath aniel's mother, she did. Her son's attempt to identify the victim, the wild c ard of the DNA evidence, and the defendant's intimate knowledge of the treatm ent of a witness in the criminal justice system all add up, in this court's o pinion, to reasonable provocation under the law.”

I have stopped breathing. This cannot be true.

“Will the defendant please rise?”

It is not until Fisher grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet that I remembe r the judge means me. “Nina Frost, I find you Not Guilty of Murder. I do f ind you Guilty of Manslaughter pursuant to 17-A M.R.S.A. Section 203 (1)(B ). Does the defendant wish to waive a presentence report and be sentenced today?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Fisher murmurs.

The judge looks at me for the first time this morning. “I sentence you to tw enty years in the Maine State Prison, with credit for the time you have alre ady served.” He pauses. “The remainder of the twenty years will be suspended , and you'll be on probation for that time. You need to check in with your p robation officer before you leave court today, and then, Mrs. Frost, you are free to go.”

The courtroom erupts in a frenzy of flashbulbs and confusion. Fisher embrac es me as I burst into tears, and Caleb leaps over the bar. “Nina?” he deman ds. “In English?”

“It's . . . good.” I laugh up at him. “It's great, Caleb.” The judge, in ess ence, has absolved me. I will never have to serve out my prison term, as lon g as I manage not to kill anyone again. Caleb grabs me and swings me around; over his shoulder I see Adrienne pump her fist in the air. Behind her is Pa trick. He sits with his eyes closed, smiling. Even as I watch, they blink op en to focus on me. Only you, Patrick mouths silently; words I will wonder ab out for years.

When the reporters run off to call their affiliates with the verdict and the crowd in the gallery thins, I notice one other man. Quentin Brown has gathere d his files and his briefcase. He walks to the gate between our tables, stops , and turns to me. He inclines his head, and I nod back. Suddenly my arm is w renched behind me, and I instinctively pull away, certain that someone who ha s not understood the judge's verdict is about to put handcuffs on me again. “ No,” I say, turning. “You don't understand . . .” But then the bailiff unlock s the electronic bracelet on my wrist. It falls to the floor, ringing out my release.