Jodi Picoult - House Rules

“But there must be times that it’s hard for you, as a parent.”

“All the things I listed that make Jacob a perfect kid-well, that’s what makes him different from the average kid. All his life, Jacob’s wanted to fit in with his peers, and all his life, I’ve watched him be teased or turned down. You can’t imagine what it’s like to force a smile when your son wins a medal at his Pee Wee T-ball team banquet for getting hit by the most pitches. You have to close your eyes when you drop him off at school and he gets out of the car, wearing a big pair of headphones to help block out the noise of the busy hallways, and then as he walks away, you see other kids teasing him behind his back.”

“If I were to come to your house on a Tuesday,” I say, “what would I notice?”

“The food. If it’s Tuesday, all the food has to be red. Raspberries and strawberries and tomato soup. Sushi-grade tuna. Shaved rare roast beef. Beets. If it’s not red, Jacob will get very agitated, and sometimes he’ll go to his room and stop speaking to us. There’s a color for each day of the week, for food and for clothing. In his closet, his clothes hang in rainbow order, and the different colors aren’t allowed to touch.”

She turns to the jury, as we’ve practiced. “Jacob craves routine. He gets up at six-twenty every morning-whether it’s a school day or a weekend-and he knows exactly what time he has to leave for school and when he’ll get back home. He never misses an episode of CrimeBusters, which is on the USA Network at four-thirty every day of the week. He writes notes in his journals while he’s watching, even though in some cases he’s seen the episode a dozen times. He always puts his toothbrush on the left side of the sink when he’s done using it, and he sits behind the driver in the backseat of the car, even when he’s the only other passenger.”

“What happens when Jacob’s routine is disrupted?”

“It’s very upsetting for him,” Emma says.

“Can you explain?”

“When he was little, he’d scream or throw a tantrum. Now he’s more likely to withdraw. The best way I can explain it is that you’ll be looking right at Jacob, and he’s not with you.”

“You have another son, don’t you?”

“Yes. Theo is fifteen.”

“Does Theo have Asperger’s?”

“No.”

“Are Theo’s clothes arranged in rainbow order?”

She shakes her head. “Most of the time they’re in a heap on his floor.”

“Does he eat only red food on Tuesdays?”

“He eats anything that’s not nailed down,” Emma says, and some of the women on the jury laugh.

“Are there times that Theo doesn’t feel like talking to you?”

“Absolutely. He’s a very ordinary teenager.”

“Is there a difference between Theo withdrawing and Jacob withdrawing?”

“Yes,” Emma says. “When Theo doesn’t communicate with me, it’s because he doesn’t want to. When Jacob doesn’t communicate with me, it’s because he can’t. ”

“Did you take steps to help Jacob adapt better to social situations?”

“Yes,” Emma says. She pauses, clears her throat. “I hired a private tutor to help him practice those skills-Jess Ogilvy.”

“Did Jacob like Jess?”

Emma’s eyes fill with tears. “Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“He was comfortable with her, and there aren’t many people he’s comfortable with. She got him to do- She got him to do things that he wouldn’t normally…” Emma breaks off and buries her face in her hands.

What the fuck?

“Ms. Hunt,” I say, “thank you. Nothing fur-”

“Wait,” she interrupts. “I just… I’m not finished.”

This is news to me. I shake my head just the tiniest bit, but Emma is staring at Jacob. “I just… I wanted to say…” She turns to the jury. “Jacob told me he didn’t want her to die; that it wasn’t his fault-”

My eyes widen. This is unscripted territory, dangerous ground. “Objection,” I blurt out. “Hearsay!”

“You can’t object to your own witness,” Helen says, delighted.

But I don’t have to give my own witness enough rope to hang herself, either, and the rest of us as well. “Then I’m finished,” I say, sitting down beside Jacob, suddenly afraid that I’m not the only one.

She told them.

My mother told them the truth.

I look at the jury, at each of their expectant faces, because now they must know I am not the monster that all these other witnesses have made me out to be. Oliver cut my mother off before she could say the rest, but surely they understand.

“Before we begin the cross-examination, counselors,” the judge says, “I’d like to make up some of the ground we lost yesterday with an early dismissal. Do either of you object to finishing out this witness’s testimony before we adjourn for the day?”

That’s when I look at the clock and see that it is four o’clock.

We are supposed to leave now, so I can be home in time for CrimeBusters at 4:30.

“Oliver,” I whisper. “Say no.”

“There is no way I’m leaving your mother’s last words in the jury’s minds all weekend long,” Oliver hisses back at me. “I don’t care how you deal with it, Jacob, but you’re going to deal with it.”

“Mr. Bond,” the judge says, “would you care to let us in on your conversation?”

“My client was just letting me know the delay in adjournment is agreeable to him.”

“I’m tickled pink,” Judge Cuttings says, although he doesn’t look tickled or pink. “Ms. Sharp, your witness.”

The prosecutor stands up. “Ms. Hunt, where was your son on the afternoon of January twelfth?”

“He went to Jess’s house for his lesson.”

“What was he like when he came home?”

She hesitates. “Agitated.”

“How did you know?”

“He ran up to his room and hid in the closet.”

“Did he exhibit any self-destructive behaviors?”

“Yes,” Emma says. “He hit his head against the wall repeatedly.”

(It is interesting for me to hear this. When I have a meltdown, I don’t remember the meltdown very well.)

“But you were able to calm him down, weren’t you?”

“Eventually.”

“What techniques did you use?” the prosecutor asks.

“I turned off the lights and put on a song that he likes.”

“Was it Bob Marley’s ‘I Shot the Sheriff’?”

“Yes.”

(It’s 4:07, and I’m sweating. A lot.)

“He uses a song called ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ as a calming technique?” Helen Sharp asks.

“It has nothing to do with the actual song. It happened to be a melody he liked, and it would soothe him when he was having a tantrum when he was little. It just stuck.”

“It certainly ties in to his obsession with violent crime, doesn’t it?”

(I’m not obsessed with violent crime. I’m obsessed with solving it.)

“Jacob’s not violent,” my mother says.

“No? He is on trial for murder,” Helen Sharp replies, “and last year he assaulted a girl, didn’t he?”

“He was provoked.”

“Ms. Hunt, I have here the report of the school resource officer who was called in after that incident.” She gets it stamped as evidence (now it is 4:09) and gives it to my mother. “Can you read the highlighted passage?”

My mother lifts the paper. “A seventeen-year-old juvenile female stated that Jacob Hunt walked up to her, slammed her against the lockers, and pinned her by the throat until he was forcibly removed by a staff member.”

“Are you suggesting that’s not violent behavior?” Helen Sharp asks.

Even if we leave now, we will be eleven minutes late for CrimeBusters.