Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

“The psychiatric records of Gillian Duncan, from the year she was nine years old.”

“In your expert opinion, what do they reveal?”

She turned to the gallery and chirped, “The girl showed tendencies of being a pathological liar.”

Somehow, in that voice, it didn’t pack quite the same punch. “Can you give some specific examples that led you to this diagnosis?”

“Yes. Collateral sources contradicted her accounts on a number of occasions, and sometimes her statements were completely implausible. For example, she flatly denied shoplifting although she was found holding the items in her hand. She was mutilating herself, cutting up her arms, and refuting this even when the evidence was presented to a doctor. On another occasion, she ostracized a neighborhood girl by spreading rumors, then denied it, although numerous fingers were pointed at her as the originator.”

“Why would a child do these things, Doctor?” Jordan asked.

“In Ms. Duncan’s case, it probably had to do with getting noticed. Her mother’s death was an event that generated pity and attention for Gillian, and in her mind, the best way to continue that focus on herself was to keep creating fiascoes of some sort.”

“In your opinion, Doctor, when a child is diagnosed as a pathological liar, what happens by the time he or she grows up?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Matt said. “This expert’s projection on children in general has absolutely no bearing on what did happen with Gillian Duncan.”

“Overruled,” the judge murmured.

“The rule of thumb in psychiatry,” Dr. Dubonnet replied, “is that boys who lie have conduct disorders and become sociopaths . . . whereas girls who lie have personality disorders and become manipulative in interpersonal ways.”

“Thank you,” Jordan said. “Nothing further.”

Matt stood immediately. “Doctor, you’ve never talked to Gillian Duncan, have you?”

“No.”

“All you’ve done is read records that took place almost half her lifetime ago?”

“Yes.”

“Your rule of thumb. . . you can’t really say that every boy or girl follows this path, can you? You’re just making a broad assumption about what often happens?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you have no way of knowing if that’s what happened to Gillian, do you?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it true that Gillian had just lost her mother at age nine?”

“So I understand.”

“And that was the reason she began therapy, correct? Not because she had been lying compulsively.”

“Yes.”

“You said that the reason you believed Gillian was a pathological liar was because as a kid, she started some rumors about a younger woman and then denied them?”

“Among other things.”

Matt smiled. “Forgive me, Doctor, but when I was a kid, we just called that being a girl.”

“Objection!”

“Withdrawn,” Matt said. “Isn’t it true, though, that this is what girls do all the time? Boys punch each other; girls start rumors?”

“Objection,” Jordan called again. “I want to know when Mr. Houlihan got his clinical psychology degree.”

“Withdrawn. Doctor, you also mentioned a shoplifting incident that Ms. Duncan denied?”

“That’s right.”

Matt turned and stared directly into Jack’s eyes. “Well, isn’t it fairly common for a person who commits a crime to deny that he’s done it?”

“Ah . . . oftentimes . . .”

“Isn’t it fairly common for a person who commits a crime to deny that he’s done it, even when there’s physical evidence linking him to the crime?”

“I-I suppose so.”

“So it isn’t all that unusual, is it, Doctor, to lie to get out of trouble?”

“No.”

“Does that make someone a pathological liar?”

Dr. Dubonnet sighed. “Not necessarily.”

Matt glanced at the witness. “Nothing further.”

He smelled like sweat and blood. His smile was sweet, too, and Meg would have bet he had no idea what he’d just gotten into. Dutifully, she pressed her lips to his cheek and almost immediately lost her balance. She fell into his lap, heard his grunt as her full body hit. “You okay?” he asked, only trying to help her up, his hands sliding awkwardly over her chest and wide bottom before he got the leverage to do it.

What you want and what you get are two very different countries; sometimes imagination builds a bridge before you have the chance to realize it won’t hold weight. He hadn’t been fondling her; he’d been breaking her fall. But oh, had Meg wished otherwise.

And in that moment she realized that she hadn’t been the only one.

This time, Roy brought sandwiches. Roast beef piled high on a crusty roll, tuna salad on wheat, even veggie pitas for the meatless crowd. The judge and the jury and even Jack gratefully dug into this treat, but Matt sat with his back stiff, his untouched turkey sub resting on the corner of the prosecution’s table.

“It’s the chives,” Roy confessed to the clerk, who’d asked a question about the ingredients in the chicken salad. “You don’t expect them, which is why they come right back and bite you.”

Head leaning against his hand, Matt drawled, “Your Honor, does this witness have anything to contribute to the defense’s case besides a large dose of cholesterol?”

“Getting around to it,” Roy muttered, taking his seat. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and scowled at Matt. “Skinny folk always have an attitude.”

With his roast beef sub in one hand and his notes in the other, Jordan stood. “Can you state your name and address for the record?”

“Roy J. Peabody. I live above the Do-Or-Diner, in Salem Falls.”

“Where were you the afternoon of April thirtieth, Mr. Peabody?”

“Working,” Roy said.

“Do you know who Gillian Duncan is?”

“Ayuh.”

“Did you see her that day?”

“Ayuh.”

Jordan took another bite of his sandwich. “Where?” he asked, then swallowed.

“She came into the diner ’bout three-thirty.”

“Was Jack working at that time?”

“Sure was.”

“Did you ever see the two of them together?” Jordan asked.

“Ayuh.”

“Can you tell me about that?”

Roy shrugged. “She came in and ordered a milk shake. Then she changed her mind, said she wasn’t hungry, and walked out. I saw her go ’round back, to where Jack was putting the trash into the Dumpster.”

“You saw this?”

“My cash register sits next to a window,” Roy said.

“What exactly did you see?”

“She must have said something to him, because he looked up after a minute and they started talking.”

For taciturn Roy, that pretty much said it all, too. Jordan hid a smile. “How long did they talk?”

“Had to have been ten minutes, because I changed the cash drawer then. Takes some time to count up all those bills and coins.”

“Thank you, Roy.” Jordan lifted the sandwich. “For everything.”

As soon as Matt stood up for his cross-examination, Roy turned to the judge. “Can I ask him a question?”

She seemed surprised, but nodded. “All right, Mr. Peabody.”

“What the heck was wrong with my muffin?” Roy barked.

“Excuse me?”

“You didn’t eat it, did you? Just like you didn’t eat my sandwich today.”

“It wasn’t a personal affront, Mr. Peabody. I was making a statement,” Matt said.

“’Bout what? That my food isn’t good enough for you?”

“If you take muffins from a witness, you’re more likely to believe him.”

Roy blinked, confounded.

“Let’s just say I’m on a gluten-free diet,” Matt said with a sigh. “Do you mind if I ask you a few things now?”