The Pact by Jodi Picoult

  GUS MADE IT THROUGH SIGNING OUT at the control booth, past the officer who unlocked the jail door, and all the way to her car before she fell to her knees in the parking lot and threw up. I'm your mother, she had said. I know you. But apparently, she hadn't. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket and slid behind the wheel of the car, blindly fumbling the keys into the ignition before realizing she was in no condition to drive. Chris had said it, clear as day. He shot Emily. And while Gus had defended him from gossip and slander and even his father's indifference, she had been playing the fool.

  Small darts stabbed at her mind: Chris's shirt at the hospital, covered with blood; Chris's reluctance to talk to Dr. Feinstein; Chris admitting with relief that he'd never been suicidal. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and moaned softly. Chris, oh, God, Chris had killed Emily.

  How could she not have seen through him?

  She put the car into gear and drove slowly out of the parking lot of the jail. She would go home and tell James and he'd know what to do ... no, she couldn't tell James, because then he would tell Jordan McAfee, and even Gus's rudimentary knowledge of criminal defense told her that would be a bad idea. She would go home and pretend that she had never come to visit her son that night. In the morning, everything would look different.

  And then she'd be put on the witness stand.

  IT STRUCK GUS AS STRANGE that in the legal system, there was an immunity that could protect you from testifying against your husband, but there was nothing that you could hold up as a shield to keep you from testifying against your child. Odd, since a child was the one who had your smile, or your eyes, or at the very least, your blood running through its veins. Gus would have been ten times more likely to give evidence against James than Chris. And it was not a matter of perjury, in her battered mind, but motherhood.

  She was wearing a garnet-colored dress whose gathered sleeves only set off the fact that she was trembling uncontrollably. Gus had fixed a smile on her face, certain that if she even let her lips relax from their rictus the slightest bit, she would blurt out what she knew. She stood outside the double doors of the courtroom, having been told by Jordan that she'd be the first--and only--witness called that day. The bailiff stood across from her, impassive.

  Suddenly the door opened, and she was led down the courtroom aisle. She kept her eyes on her feet the whole way. As she sat down in the small box, she thought, How much bigger is the one they'll lock Chris in for life?

  She knew that Jordan had wanted her to look at Chris as soon as she was seated, but she kept her gaze trained on her lap. She could feel her son, a magnetic pull toward her left, his nerves jangling nearly as loudly as hers. But if she lifted her eyes to his, she knew that she'd start to cry.

  Suddenly a thick, worn Bible was thrust before her. The clerk of the court instructed her to place her left hand on it and raise her right. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

  So help you God. For the first time since entering the courtroom, Gus locked her gaze with her son's. "Yes," she said, in a voice that carried. "I do."

  JORDAN DIDN'T KNOW what the hell had happened to Gus Harte. Every time he'd seen her--Christ, even the night her son was carted off by the local police with an arrest warrant--she'd seemed self-possessed and beautiful. Slightly wild and natural, with that tumble of strawberry curls, but lovely all the same. Today, however, on the one day he'd needed her to be perfect, she was a total mess. Her hair was straggling from a hasty braid; her face was pale and pinched without makeup; her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  Being a witness affected everyone differently. Some people grandstanded. Some seemed in awe of the system. Most settled down to the task with a suitable amount of reverence. Gus Harte only looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but there.

  Squaring his shoulders, Jordan walked toward her. "Could you state your name and address for the record?"

  Gus leaned toward the microphone. "Augusta Harte," she said. "Thirty-four Wood Hollow Road, Bainbridge."

  "And could you tell us how you know Chris?"

  "I'm his mother."

  Jordan turned his back to the jury and Barrie Delaney and smiled at Gus, hoping to loosen her up. Relax, he mouthed silently. "Mrs. Harte, tell us about your son."

  Gus's eyes darted nervously around the courtroom. On one side she saw Melanie, with her stone face, and Michael, his hands clenched on his knees. On the other side was James, who was nodding at her slightly. Her mouth opened and closed silently. "Chris is--he's a very good swimmer," she finally said, and Jordan wheeled about.

  "A good swimmer?"

  "He holds the school record for the two-hundred-meter butterfly," she rambled. "We're very proud of him. His father and I."

  Jordan advanced on her before she could stray farther from their planned testimony. "In your opinion, would you say he's responsible? Trustworthy?"

  He could sense Barrie behind him, her confusion palpable as she considered whether or not to object to Jordan leading his star witness. "Oh, yes," Gus said nervously, looking into her lap. "Chris always acted well beyond his years. I would trust him with my--" She stopped abruptly. "With my life," she finished.

  "You knew Emily Gold," Jordan said, baffled by now, but knowing he had to stop Gus from saying things the jury did not need to hear. "For how long?"

  "Oh," Gus said softly. Her eyes sought Melanie's, in the gallery. "I was Melanie Gold's labor coach. I saw Emily before her own mother did."

  Thank God, Jordan thought. "How long did the Golds live next door?"

  "For eighteen years," Gus said. "Chris and Emily spent most of those years joined at the hip."

  "By that, you mean they were never apart?"

  "Yes," Gus said evenly. "They might as well have been twins." Then what happened? she thought, the question reverberating in her mind. "They used to have their own language, and sneak out of the house to see each other, and--"

  Then what happened?

  "--stick up for each other--"

  Jordan nodded. "You were close to Emily's parents, too?"

  "We were very good friends," Gus said thickly. "Like an extended family. Chris and Em grew up like brother and sister."

  "When did Chris and Emily become boyfriend and girlfriend?"

  "Chris was fourteen," Gus said.

  "Did you and the Golds encourage this relationship?"

  "We asked for it," she murmured.

  "Do you think Chris loved Emily?"

  "I know he did," Gus said firmly. "I know." But she was thinking of what she had felt with Michael, even as she was drawn to him--that need to pull away flaring just as strong. And she was wondering if maybe you could not go from brother and sister to boyfriend and girlfriend, add that much more love and commitment, without feeling too close for comfort. Is that what happened?

  Jordan narrowed his eyes as he suddenly pinpointed what was the matter with this very odd testimony: Gus wasn't looking at Chris--in fact, she seemed reluctant to do so, which was something the jury would certainly notice. "Mrs. Harte," Jordan said. "Can you look at your son for me?"

  Gus slowly turned her head. She took a deep breath and resolutely stared at Chris, quickly pinching away the tears at the corners of her eyes. "This boy," Jordan continued. "This son you've known for eighteen years. Would he ever have hurt Emily Gold?"

  "No," Gus whispered, her gaze sliding away from her son. She swiped the tears away quickly with the back of her hand. "No," she repeated shakily.

  She felt Chris's eyes on her, begging her to look at him. So she lifted her face to his, and saw what the jury could not: his eyes tortured and his mouth tight with pain, as he watched his mother lie for him.

  "I know how hard this is for you, Mrs. Harte." Jordan walked over to the witness stand, his hand on her arm, tender and solicitous. "I only have one more question. In your opinion--"

  Gus knew what was coming. She'd rehearsed it with Jordan McAfee; she'd lived i
t a thousand times the night before. She closed her eyes, anticipating the actual words that would make her forsworn.

  "No."

  At the rough, broken voice, Gus's eyes snapped open. Jordan turned, as did the judge and the prosecutor, to stare at Chris Harte. "Stop. Just stop it."

  Judge Puckett's brows beetled together. "Mr. McAfee," he said, "would you control your client?"

  Jordan crossed the courtroom and firmly grasped Chris's arm, his back to the jury. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Jordan," Chris said urgently, "I need to talk to you."

  "I have one question left. Then I'll call a recess. All right?"

  "No. I have to talk to you now."

  Jordan took a deep breath and raised his head, seemingly smooth, years of training giving him the ability to mask how absolutely furious he was. "Your Honor, may I approach the bench?"

  Barrie, completely in the dark, walked up to the judge beside him. "Look," Jordan said. "My client is telling me he has to talk to me immediately. Could we take a short recess?"

  Puckett frowned. "This damn well better be crucial," he said. "You've got five minutes."

  JORDAN FOUND THEM A SMALL ROOM in the courthouse not much bigger than Chris's cell. "Okay," he said, clearly angry. "What's this all about?"

  "I don't want my mother on the stand anymore," Chris said.

  "Too damn bad," Jordan spat. "She's the best defense you've got."

  "Take her off."

  "There's only one question left, Chris. The jury has to hear your mother say that she can't possibly imagine her son killing Emily Gold."

  Chris glared at Jordan, as if the attorney had never spoken. "I want you to take her off the stand," he said, "and put me on."

  For a moment, Jordan was speechless. "You get on that stand, and you'll lose this case," he said.

  Defense attorneys did not, as a rule, put their clients on the stand. It was too easy for a prosecutor to trip up a defendant, or twist words around. Just one anxious misstep--one nervous glance--and even the most innocent defendant would look like a liar to a jury.

  Putting Chris on the stand, though, was absolutely out of the question for a different reason. By his own admission, Chris hadn't wanted to kill himself. Any half-decent prosecutor would be able to get that out of him. And Jordan's entire defense strategy had been predicated on an interrupted double suicide. Yet Jordan had a sick, sinking feeling that telling his own story was exactly what Chris wanted to do.

  "You get up there," Jordan said, a vein throbbing in his temple, "you go to prison. It's that simple. You're a witness, you have to tell the truth. I've spent four days telling everyone you wanted to blow your brains out, and you're going to go up there and start telling everyone you weren't going to kill yourself and then what the hell happens to my defense?"

  For a moment Chris did not say anything. Then he turned, speaking so quietly Jordan had to strain to hear him. "Seven months ago, you told me the decision to testify was mine, and mine alone. You told me that if I wanted to go on the stand, you had to put me up there by law."

  They stared at each other, a stalemate. Then Jordan broke away, holding his hands up. "Fine," he said. "Fuck it." And he walked out of the room.

  HE ALMOST COLLIDED WITH Selena. "What the hell," she asked, "is going on?"

  Jordan took Selena's arm and drew her a distance from some of the onlookers whose heads were turned their way. "He wants to take the stand."

  Selena sucked in her breath. "What did you tell him?"

  "That I'd be the first to wish him well at the state prison." He threw back his head. "Jesus Christ, Selena. We had a fighting chance."

  "You had better than a fighting chance," she said softly.

  "I might as well just bring him in to Delaney and tell her it's an early Christmas present."

  Selena shook her head sympathetically. "Why does he want to do this?" she asked. "And why now?"

  "He's discovered his conscience. He's seen God. Shit, I don't know." Jordan buried his hands in his hair. "He wants to tell the jury that he wasn't going to kill himself. He doesn't want his mother to do it for him. The fact that it makes me and the whole defense look ludicrous is beside the point."

  "You really think that's what he's going to say?" Selena asked.

  Jordan snorted. "For God's sake," he muttered. "What could be worse than that?"

  HE WALKED BACK INTO THE ROOM, where Chris was calmly sitting, and slapped a piece of paper onto the table. "Sign this," he snapped.

  "What is it?"

  "It's a waiver. It says that you're willingly about to screw yourself even though I told you not to, so that I don't get sued when you appeal to the Supreme Court for ineffective assistance of counsel. You may be willing to put your ass on the line, Chris, but I'm not."

  Chris picked up the pen that Jordan handed him and scrawled his name.

  THE COURT WAS A LIVING THING, vibrating with rumors and questions as Jordan stood up to face Gus Harte on the stand for the second time. "Thank you," he said abruptly. "No further questions."

  It was almost worth it, he thought, to see Barrie's face when he did that. The prosecutor knew--as did Jordan--it did no good to put the defendant's mother on the stand without trying to get her to state that Chris would never have killed Emily.

  Stupefied, Barrie got to her feet. She'd been willing to bet her salary, however meager, that the reason Chris had leaped to his feet was because he had one terrific question for Jordan to put to his mother, or why else would he have stopped the direct examination right in the middle? She walked gingerly toward the witness stand, fully aware that she was treading through a minefield, and wondered what the hell she was supposed to get out of a cross.

  Well, she thought, I might as well do it for McAfee. "Mrs. Harte," she said, "you're the defendant's mother?"

  "Yes."

  "You don't want to see him go to jail, do you?"

  "Of course not."

  "It would be pretty hard for any mother to imagine her son would kill anyone, don't you think?"

  Gus nodded, and sniffed loudly. Barrie glanced up sharply, aware that one more question might send the witness off the deep end again, and make Barrie look like a dragon. She opened her mouth, and then closed it. "No further questions," she said, and quickly walked back to her seat.

  Gus Harte was escorted from the witness stand, and Barrie busied herself with her notes. Jordan would say that the defense rested, and then it was up to her to drive home her verdict with a closing argument. Which, she had to admit, would be gravy after that last witness. She could hear her own voice, ringing with conviction. And his own mother ... Chris Harte's own mother ... could not even look at him during her testimony.

  "Your Honor," Jordan said, "we have one more witness."

  "You what?" Barrie exclaimed, but Jordan was already calling Christopher Harte to the stand.

  "Objection!" Barrie sputtered.

  Judge Puckett sighed. "Counsel, meet in chambers. Bring the defendant."

  They followed the judge into his offices, Chris hanging back. Barrie began speaking before the door had even fully shut. "This is a total surprise, Your Honor. I was given no notice that this was going to happen today."

  "Yeah, well, you're not the only one," Jordan said sourly.

  "Would you like a recess, Barrie?" Puckett asked.

  "No," she muttered. "But a little more courtesy would have been nice."

  As if she hadn't spoken, Jordan slapped the waiver down in front of the judge. "I told him I don't want him to take the stand, and that it could ruin his defense."

  Judge Puckett glanced at Chris. "Mr. Harte, has your lawyer explained the full ramifications of what taking the stand means for you in your case?"

  "He has, Your Honor."

  "And you signed this form here saying that your lawyer did indeed explain this to you?"

  "I have."

  "All right," the judge shrugged. He led the small entourage back into the courtroom.

  "The
defense," said Jordan, "calls Christopher Harte to the stand."

  Jordan moved in front of the defense table, advancing on his client. He could see the jury, sitting on the edge of their seats. And Barrie, who looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary, and why shouldn't she? She could cross-examine Chris in Swahili and still win this case.

  "Chris," Jordan said, "are you aware you are on trial for the murder of Emily Gold?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you tell us how you felt about Emily Gold?"

  "I loved her more than anything in the whole world."

  Chris's voice was clear and steady; Jordan had to admire the kid. It wasn't easy to get up in front of a courtroom that had probably already sentenced you in their minds and offer up your own version of the story. "How long had you known her?"

  Everything about Chris softened: the lines of his body, the edges of his words. "I knew Emily her whole life."

  Jordan wildly wondered where to go from there. His objective, for what it was worth, was to forestall the blow. "What were your earliest memories?"

  "Objection," Barrie called. "Do we really have to sit through eighteen years of this?"

  Judge Puckett nodded. "Let's get on with it, counselor."

  "Can you tell me about your relationship with Emily?"

  "Do you know," Chris said softly, "what it's like to love someone so much, that you can't see yourself without picturing her? Or what it's like to touch someone, and feel like you've come home?" He made a fist, and rested it in the palm of his other hand. "What we had wasn't about sex, or about being with someone just to show off what you've got, the way it was for other kids our age. We were, well, meant to be together. Some people spend their whole lives looking for that one person," he said. "I was lucky enough to have her all along."

  Jordan stared at Chris, stunned into silence by his speech, like everyone else in the courtroom. This was not the tone of an eighteen-year-old. This was someone older, wiser, sadder.

  "Was Emily suicidal?" he asked suddenly.

  "Yes," Chris answered.

  "Can you tell us, Chris, what happened on the night of November seventh?"

  Chris lowered his eyes. "It was the night Emily wanted to kill herself. I got the gun, like she asked me to. I drove her to the carousel. We talked for a while, and ... whatever." His voice drifted off, and Jordan watched him carefully, aware that he was back at the carousel again, back with Emily. "And then," Chris said quietly, lifting his gaze to his attorney's, "I shot her."