Jodi Picoult - House Rules

I turn to Jacob. “I know it when I see it,” I repeat. “You haven’t just listened to experts and seen medical files and seen forensic evidence-you’ve also watched and heard Jacob. And based on that alone, it must be clear to you that he’s not just a kid with a few personality quirks. He’s a kid who doesn’t communicate particularly well and whose thoughts are often jumbled. He talks in a monotone and doesn’t show a great deal of emotion, even when it seems warranted. Yet he was brave enough to stand up in front of you and try to defend himself against one of the most serious charges a young man like him could ever face. What he said-and how he said it-might have been upsetting to you. Shocking, even. But that’s because a person with Asperger’s-a person like Jacob-is not your typical witness.

“I didn’t want my client to testify. I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t think that he could do it. When you’re a witness in a trial, you have to practice saying things in a way that works to make your case. You have to present yourself in a manner that is sympathetic to the jury. And I knew Jacob could not-and would not-do that. Hell, I could barely get him to wear a tie here… I certainly couldn’t make him express remorse, or even sadness. I couldn’t tell him what he should and shouldn’t say in front of you. To Jacob, that would have been lying. And to Jacob, telling the truth is a rule that has to be followed.”

I look at the jurors. “What you have here is a kid who isn’t working the system, because he’s physically and psychologically incapable of working the system. He doesn’t know how to play to your sympathies. He doesn’t know what will help or hurt his chances of acquittal. He simply wanted to tell you his side of the story-so he did. And that’s how you know that Jacob’s not a criminal trying to squeak through a loophole. That’s how you know that his Asperger’s can and did and still does impair his judgment at any given moment. Because any other defendant-any ordinary defendant-would have known better than to tell you what Jacob did.

“You and I know, ladies and gentlemen, that the legal system in America works very well if you happen to communicate a certain way, a way Jacob doesn’t. And yet everyone in this country is entitled to a fair trial-even people who communicate differently from the way that works best in court.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe for justice to be done, then, in Jacob’s case, we simply need people who are willing to listen a little more closely.”

As I take my seat again, Helen stands up. “When I was a little girl I remember asking my mother why, instead of saying toilet paper on the wrapper, it said bath tissue. And you know what my mom told me? You can call it whatever you want, but all the words in the world can’t dress up what it is. This isn’t a case about a young man who has a hard time holding a conversation, or making friends, or eating something other than blue Jell-O on Wednesday-”

Friday, I mentally correct. Jacob reaches for his pencil and starts to write a note, but before he can, I pluck the pencil out of his hand and slip it into my coat pocket.

“It’s a case about a boy who committed a cold-blooded murder and then, using his brains and his fascination with crime scenes, tried to cover his tracks. I don’t contest that Jacob has Asperger’s syndrome. I don’t expect any of you to contest it, either. But that doesn’t absolve him of responsibility for this brutal, vicious killing. You’ve heard from the crime scene investigators who went to the house and found traces of Jess’s blood all over the bathroom floor. You’ve heard Jacob himself say that he washed it away with bleach and then flushed the toilet paper away. Why? Not because there’s a rule about where toilet paper goes when you’re done with it… but instead, because he didn’t want anyone to know he had cleaned up that mess. He told you, ladies and gentlemen, about how he set up that entire crime scene, and how much thought he put into it. He deliberately tried to lead police down the wrong trail, to make them think Jess had been kidnapped. He slit the screen and used Mark Maguire’s boots to leave footprints, to purposefully suggest that someone else was responsible for the crime. He dragged Jess’s body the length of three football fields and left it outside, so that it would be harder for people to find. And when he grew tired of playing his own little game of CrimeBusters, he took Jess’s cell phone and dialed 911. Why? Not because it was easier for him to interface with a dead body than a live one but because it was all part of Jacob Hunt’s perverse plan to selfishly discard Jess Ogilvy’s life in order to allow him to play forensic detective.”

She faces the jury. “Mr. Bond can call this whatever he wants, but that doesn’t change what it is: a young man who committed a brutal murder and who actively, over a period of days, covered it up with careful clues to mislead the police. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the MO of a calculating killer-not a kid with Asperger’s syndrome.”

From the archives of Auntie Em:

Dear Auntie Em,

What do you do if all signs point to the fact that the world as you know it is going to come to a crashing halt?

Sincerely,

HumptyDumptyWasPushed

Dear Humpty,

HELP!

Love,

Auntie Em

Three days later, the jury is still deliberating.

We have settled into a routine: in the morning, Oliver brings Thor over for breakfast. Jacob takes him into the yard to throw a ball while Henry and Theo slowly animate themselves with coffee. Henry’s been teaching Theo C# programming to create his own computer game, which has fascinated Theo to no end. In the afternoons, Oliver and I play Scrabble, and every now and then Jacob will call out obscure, legitimate words from the couch where he’s watching CrimeBusters : Qua! Za! We don’t turn on the news or read the paper, because all they talk about is Jacob.

We are not allowed to leave the house for two reasons: technically, Jacob is still under arrest, and we must be in a spot where we can get to the courthouse in twenty minutes when the jury returns. It is still strange to me to turn a corner in my own house and find Henry there-I expected him to leave by now, to come up with the excuse that one of his daughters has strep or his wife has to visit a dying aunt-but Henry insists he’s here until the verdict comes back. Our conversation is full of clichés, but at least it is a conversation. I’m making up for lost time, he says. Better late than never.

We’ve become a family. An unorthodox one, and one cobbled together by someone else’s tragedy, but after years of being the only parent in this house, I will take what I can get.

Later, while the boys are getting ready for bed, Oliver and I take Thor for a walk around the block before he goes back to his apartment over the pizza place. We talk about the horse that stepped on his ankle and broke it. We talk about how I used to want to be a writer. We talk about the trial.

We don’t talk about us.

“Is it good or bad if the jury can’t reach a verdict?”

“Good, I think. It probably means someone’s holding out on a conviction.”

“What happens next?”

“If Jacob’s convicted,” Oliver says, as Thor runs back and forth in front of us, lacing up the path, “he’ll go to prison. I don’t know if it will be the same one he was in. If he’s found not guilty by reason of insanity, the judge will probably want another psychiatric evaluation.”

“But then he’ll come home?”