Jodi Picoult - House Rules

After they are gone, I lie on the floor, and with my finger, I write the equation of the Fibonacci sequence in the air. I do this until it gets blurry, until my finger is as heavy as a brick.

The last thing I remember thinking before I disappear is that numbers make sense. You cannot say the same about people.

The Vermont public defender’s office is not called the public defender’s office but rather something that sounds like it was ripped from the pages of a Dickens novel: the Office of the Defender General. However, like in all public defender’s offices, the staff is overworked and underpaid. Which is why, after I send Emma Hunt off with her own homework, I head to my apartment-office to complete my own.

Thor greets me by jumping up and nailing me right in the groin. “Thanks, buddy,” I wheeze, and I brush him off. He’s hungry, though, so I feed him leftover pasta mixed with kibble while I look up the information I need on the Internet and make a phone call.

Although it’s 7:00 P.M.-long past office hours-a woman picks up. “Hi there,” I say. “My name’s Oliver Bond. I’m a new attorney in Townsend.”

“We’re closed now-”

“I know… but I’m a friend of Janice Roth, and I’m trying to track her down?”

“She doesn’t work here anymore.”

I know this. In fact, I also know that Janice Roth recently got married to a guy named Howard Wurtz and that they moved to Texas, where he had a job waiting with NASA. Public record searches are the best friend of the defense attorney.

“Oh, shoot-really? That’s a bummer. I’m a friend of hers from law school.”

“She got married,” the woman says.

“Yeah, to Howard, right?”

“Did you know him?”

“No, but I know she was crazy about him,” I say. “By any chance, are you a defender general, too?”

“Sadly, yes,” she sighs. “You’re in private practice? Believe me, you’re not missing out.”

“Nah, you’ll get into heaven long before me.” I laugh. “Look, I have a really quick question. I’m new to practicing criminal law in Vermont, and I’m still learning the ropes.”

I’m new to practicing criminal law, period, but I don’t tell her that.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“My client’s a kid-eighteen-and he’s autistic. He sort of flipped out in court during the arraignment and now he’s locked up until his competency hearing. But he can’t adapt to jail. He keeps trying to hurt himself. Is there any way to speed up the wheels of justice here?”

“Vermont’s decidedly crappy when it comes to psychiatric care for inmates. They used to use the state hospital as a lockup for competency exams, but it lost its funding, so now Springfield gets most of the cases, since they’ve got the best medical care,” she says. “I once had a client being held pending competency who liked to slick himself head to toe-he did it the first night with a one-pound block of butter at dinner, and with deodorant before a visit with me.”

“A contact visit?”

“Yeah, the officers didn’t care. I guess they thought the worst he could do was rub me down with something. Anyway, with that guy, I filed a motion to set bail,” the attorney says. “That gets you back in front of the judge. Put his shrink or counselor on the stand to back up your story. But waive your client’s appearance, because you don’t want a repeat performance in the courtroom that will piss off the judge. Your main job is to convince the judge he’s not a danger if he’s not locked up, and if he’s running around like a lunatic in court, that sort of messes up your case.”

Motion to set bail, I write down on a pad in front of me. “Thanks,” I say. “That’s awesome.”

“No problem. Hey, you want Janice’s email?”

“Absolutely,” I lie. She reads it to me, and I pretend to write it down.

When I hang up, I go to the fridge and pull out a bottle of Poland Spring. I pour half into Thor’s bowl and then raise the bottle in a toast. “To Janice and Howard,” I say.

“Mr. Bond,” Judge Cuttings says the next day, “aren’t we waiting for our competency evaluation in this case?”

“Your Honor,” I reply, “I don’t think we can.”

The courtroom is empty, with the exception of Emma, Dr. Murano, and the prosecutor-a woman named Helen Sharp, who has very short red hair and pointed canine teeth that make me think of a vampire, or a pit bull. The judge looks at her. “Ms. Sharp? What are your feelings?”

“I don’t know anything about this case, Judge,” she says. “I literally got notice of this hearing this morning. The defendant is charged with murder, you ordered a competency hearing, it’s the State’s position that he remain locked up until then.”

“With all due respect, Your Honor,” I reply, “I think the court should listen to my client’s mother and psychiatrist.”

The judge waves me on, and with a gesture, I motion Emma to come forward to the witness stand. She has dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her hands are shaking. I watch her move them from the railing to her lap, so that the judge cannot see. “Please state your name and address,” I say.

“Emma Hunt… 132 Birdseye Lane in Townsend.”

“Is Jacob Hunt, the defendant in this case, your son?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Can you tell us how old Jacob is?”

Emma clears her throat. “He turned eighteen in December.”

“Where does he live?”

“With me, in Townsend.”

“Is he in school?” I ask.

“He goes to Townsend Regional High School; he’s a senior.”

I look directly at her. “Ms. Hunt, does Jacob have any particular medical condition that makes you concerned for his safety while he’s in jail?”

“Yes. Jacob’s been diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome. It’s high-functioning autism.”

“How does Asperger’s affect Jacob’s behavior?”

She pauses for a moment, glancing down. “When he decides to do something, he needs to do it immediately,” Emma says. “If he can’t, he gets very agitated. He hardly ever shows emotion-either happy or sad-and he can’t relate to the conversations of kids his own age. He takes words very, very literally-if you asked him to eat with his mouth closed, for example, he’d tell you that’s impossible. He has hypersensitivity issues: bright lights, loud noises, and light touches set him off. He doesn’t like being the center of attention. He needs to know exactly when something is going to happen, and if his routine gets disrupted, he becomes extremely anxious and acts in a way that makes him stand out even more: flapping his hands at his sides, or talking to himself, or repeating movie lines over and over. When things are really overwhelming, he’ll go somewhere to hide-his closet, or under his bed-and he’ll stop speaking.”

“Okay,” says Judge Cuttings. “So your son is moody, literal, and wants to do things his way and on his own timetable. That sounds very much like a teenager.”

Emma shakes her head. “I’m not explaining this well. It’s more than just being literal, or wanting a routine. An ordinary teenager decides not to interact… for Jacob, it’s not a choice.”

“What sorts of changes have you seen since your son’s incarceration?” I ask.

Emma’s eyes fill with tears. “He’s not Jacob,” she says. “He’s hurting himself, on purpose. He’s regressing in his speech. He’s started stimming again-flapping his hands, bouncing on his toes, walking in circles. I’ve spent fifteen years trying to make Jacob a part of this world instead of allowing him to isolate himself… and a single day in that jail reversed everything.” She looks at the judge. “I just want my son to come back, before it’s too late to reach him.”