Jodi Picoult - House Rules

There is underwear on the floor and a bra and sweatpants and a shirt. I put the bra on first and I know how because I watch HBO and have seen them being taken off; all I have to do is reverse it. The underwear I don’t understand because there is writing on one side and I don’t know if it’s the front or the back, so I just put it on her any which way. Then the shirt and the sweatpants and finally socks and Ugg boots, which are the hardest because she cannot press down with her feet.

I pick her up over my shoulder-she is heavier than I thought she would be-and try to get her down the stairs. There is a turn on the landing and I trip over my feet and we both fall. I land on top of her and when I roll her over her tooth is knocked out. I know it didn’t hurt her but it still makes me feel like I am going to be sick. The bruises and the broken nose for some reason weren’t nearly as bad as seeing her with that missing front tooth.

I sit her up in an armchair. Wait here, I say, and then I laugh out loud because she can’t hear me. Upstairs I mop up the blood with more toilet paper, the whole roll. It is still smeary and wet. In the laundry closet I find bleach and I pour it on the floor and use another roll of toilet paper to dry it all off.

It does cross my mind that I might get caught, and that is when I decide not just to clean up but to make a crime scene that leads in a different direction. I pack a bag of extra clothes and take her toothbrush. I type a note and stick it in the mailbox. I put on a pair of boots too big to be hers and walk around outside, cut the screen, put the kitchen knife in the dishwasher, and turn on the quick cycle. I want to be obvious, because Mark is not too smart.

I make sure to wipe away the footprints on the porch and the driveway.

Inside, I put the backpack on my shoulders and make sure I am not forgetting anything. I know I should leave the stools knocked over and the CDs scattered on the living room floor but I just can’t. So I pick up the stools and the mail and then I organize the CDs the way I think she would have liked them.

I try to carry her into the woods but she gets heavier with every step so instead after a while I have to drag her. I want her to be somewhere where I know she won’t have to sit in wind or rain or snow. I like the culvert because I can get to it from the highway, instead of going past her house.

I think about her even when I’m not here; even when I know the police are all looking and I could so easily be distracted by tracking their progress or lack thereof. That’s why when I come back to visit I bring my quilt. It was something I always liked and I think if she could talk she would have been really proud of me for wrapping her in it. Good job, Jacob, she would have said. You’re thinking of someone else for a change.

Little did she know, that was all I was thinking about.

When I’m done the courtroom is so quiet I can hear the pop and hiss of the radiator and the building stretching its beams. I look at Oliver, and at my mother. I expect them to be pretty pleased, because everything should make sense now. I can’t read their faces, though, or the faces of the jury. One woman is crying; and I don’t know if she’s sad because I was talking about Jess or because she’s happy to finally know what really happened.

I’m not nervous now. If you want to know, I’ve got so much adrenaline in my bloodstream I could probably run to Bennington and back. I mean, holy cow, I have just outlined how I set up a crime scene with a dead body after successfully fooling the police into believing it was a kidnapping attempt. I have connected all the dots that the State raised as evidence in this trial. It is like the best episode of CrimeBusters ever, and I am the star.

“Mr. Bond?” the judge prompts.

Oliver clears his throat. He rests one hand on the railing of the witness stand, looking away from me. “All right, Jacob. You told us a lot about what you did after Jess’s death. But you haven’t told us about how she died.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” I say.

Suddenly, I realize where I’ve seen that expression on everyone’s face in this courtroom. It’s the one on Mimi Scheck’s face, and Mark Maguire’s face, and everyone else who thinks that they have absolutely nothing in common with me.

I start to get that burning sensation in my stomach, the one that comes when I realize too late I might have done something that actually wasn’t such a great idea.

And then, Oliver throws me a lifeline. “Jacob, are you sorry for killing Jess?”

I smile widely. “No,” I say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”

Here’s the bittersweet thing: Jacob has made himself look more insane than I ever could with a witness’s testimony. Then again, he’s also made himself look like a ruthless murderer.

Jacob is once again sitting at the defense table, holding his mother’s hand. Emma is white as a sheet, and I can’t blame her. After listening to Jacob’s testimony-a detailed description in his own words of how to clean up after a mess of your own making-I find myself in the same position.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, “there’s been a lot of evidence produced here about how Jess Ogilvy died. We’re not disputing that evidence. But if you’ve been paying attention at this trial, you also know that you can’t judge this book by its cover. Jacob is a young man with Asperger’s syndrome, a neurological disorder that precludes him from having empathy for others in the same way you or I might. When he talks about what he did with Jess’s body, and at Jess’s residence, he doesn’t see his involvement in a horrific murder. Instead, as you’ve heard, he takes pride in the fact that he set up a complete crime scene, a crime scene worthy of inclusion in a journal, just like an episode of CrimeBusters. I’m not going to ask you to excuse him for Jess Ogilvy’s death-we grieve with her parents for that loss, and do not seek to diminish the tragedy in any way. However, I am going to ask you to take the information you’ve been given about Jacob and his disorder, so that when you question whether he was criminally responsible at the time of Jess’s death-whether he understood right from wrong in that moment the way you understand right from wrong-you will have no choice but to answer no. ”

I walk toward the jury. “Asperger’s is a tough nut to crack. You’ve heard a lot about it these past few days… and I bet you’ve thought, So what? Not being comfortable in new situations, wanting to do things the same way every day, finding it hard to make new friends-these are struggles we’ve all faced from time to time. Yet none of these traits impair our ability to make judgments, and none of us are on trial for murder. You might be thinking that Jacob doesn’t fit your impression of a person with a diagnosable neurological disorder. He’s smart, he doesn’t look crazy in the colloquial sense of the word. So how can you be certain that Asperger’s syndrome is a valid neurological disorder, and not just the latest label du jour for a kid with problems? How can you be sure Asperger’s provides an explanation of his behavior at the moment a crime was committed-instead of just a fancy legal excuse?”

I smile. “Well, I offer an example from Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart. In the fifties and sixties the Court was involved in deciding a number of obscenity cases. Since obscenity isn’t protected under the First Amendment, they had to determine whether a series of pornographic films met the legal definition of obscenity, and so they’d screen them. Every week, on what was known as Obscenity Tuesday, the justices watched these films and rendered decisions. It was in Jacobellis v. Ohio that Justice Stewart became legendary in the legal field for saying that hard-core pornography was hard to define but that-and I quote-‘I know it when I see it.’”