Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

“Go on ahead. I took the whole afternoon off for you.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “Mr. Peabody, were you inside when you saw Gillian leave?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And Gillian went around the back of the diner?”

“Yes.”

“Was your window open?”

“No, Addie says it’s a waste of the air-conditioning.”

“So you didn’t hear who called whom over, then?”

“No. But I sure noticed she was pissed off when she left.”

Matt looked at the judge. “I’d like to move to strike that statement.”

“I wouldn’t,” Judge Justice said. “Mr. Peabody, what led you to believe she was angry?”

“Her nose was so high in the air I thought she’d trip on the sidewalk. She was walking a mile a minute. Huffing, like she was fit to tie Jack.”

Jordan grinned from ear to ear. If he won this trial, he’d eat lunch at the Do-Or-Diner every day of his life from now on. And he’d tip Roy, as well as his waitress.

“Do you know, Mr. Peabody, why she was angry?”

“Can’t say.”

“Well, for example, what if he’d made an improper advance toward her? Wouldn’t that have upset her?”

Roy slanted a look at Jack. “I suppose.”

“Or if he touched her inappropriately? Might that account for a rapid retreat?”

The old man hesitated, then said, “Maybe.”

Matt walked back to the county attorney’s table and picked up his sandwich. He took a huge bite, chewed and swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Peabody,” he said, smiling. “It’s not every day a defense witness caters to the prosecution, too.”

Meg knew better than to cast a spell that tried to control another person. If a spell was going to work, it meant that energy and power poured through you into someone else-so a connection had been made between the two of you. Which meant if you sent harm out, eventually you’d be the recipient of it, too.

Hexing, though, wasn’t the same as using magick to destroy. After all, when they’d cast a spell for old Stuart Hollings, they were trying to get rid of his tumor. A growing cancer had to be dissipated. And a person who repeatedly threatened the safety of others had to be stopped. That was why Meg had to do a binding spell.

It was the first time she’d ever cast a circle by herself. Meg knelt between the shrubs in her backyard, praying her mother wouldn’t come home early from work. A black candle burned in front of her, and an ashtray she’d dug up from the attic held a stick of incense.

She was supposed to have a poppet, a wax or cloth doll made to represent the person she wanted to stop from doing harm. But Meg had never been crafty and so had no idea how to go about making a representation of someone. In the end, she’d rummaged through her closet, into the bin of old Barbie and Ken dolls she’d had as a kid. Naked, the doll was obscene, the hair matted. Meg sprinkled it with salt water and whispered the words she’d copied from a grimoire at the Wiccan Read. “Blessed be, you creature made . . . uh, in China . . . and changed by life. You are not plastic, but flesh and blood. You are between the worlds, in all the worlds, so mote it be.”

She held the doll in her hands and imagined a silver net falling out of the sky. Then she took a length of red ribbon from the pocket of her shorts and wrapped it tight around the doll’s hands, mouth, and groin. Finally, Meg took all the energy that trembled through her nerves, feeding her fear, and she directed it into the doll, until the thin figure jumped out of her palms and fell onto the ground before her. “By Air and Earth, by Water and Fire, so be you bound, as I desire.”

Meg would not be hurt again. She would not let anyone else be hurt again, either. Lies were only as strong as the suckers who believed them; and figuring that out late, Meg knew, was better than never figuring it out at all. Opening the circle, she took a spade from her mother’s gardening set and buried the doll beneath the roots of a hydrangea bush. On top of this, she set the heaviest rock she had been able to drag over. And when the poppet meant to represent Gillian Duncan was safely underground, Meg patted the mound with satisfaction.

In the middle of Matt’s cross of Roy Peabody, the bailiff walked up to Jordan and handed him a note. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he muttered, balling it up in his hand. He waited until the prosecutor had finished and then asked to approach the bench.

“Your Honor, could we take a ten-minute recess?” he asked.

“You’ve had plenty of time to confer with your client,” Matt began.

“I’m not going to talk to my client. If it makes you happy, you sit here and baby-sit him.” Jordan turned to the judge. “This is a personal matter, ma’am.”

She nodded and granted Jordan the time. He hurried back to the defense table, motioned to Selena, and strode out of the courtroom.

Thomas was waiting for him there. “This’d better be good,” Jordan said.

“I think it is.” He held out his hand, presenting a notebook. “This came in the mail for you.”

Jordan stared daggers at his son. “And you felt the profound need to bring it to me in the middle of a trial?”

“Book of Shadows,” Selena read, taking it from Thomas. “I saw these at the Wiccan Read, when I was there.”

“If Starshine felt the need to send a gift, I could have used a goodluck charm.”

“I don’t think Starshine sent it, Jordan,” Selena said quietly, pulling the silver ribbon that Thomas had used as a bookmark out in a long spool.

Jordan fingered the ribbon. Then he took the book from Thomas’s hand and flipped through it, skimming. The last page with writing on it held his attention for a long time.

It was little-known fact, but witnesses were allowed to use anything-anything at all-to refresh their recollection.

Engrossed, Jordan did not take his eyes from the final entry. He touched the page with reverence. “Where did it come from?”

Thomas thought for a moment before he answered. “A good witch,” he said.

Sitting on the witness stand, Jack looked warily at the enemy.

His lawyer.

At first, Jordan had not wanted Jack to testify, believing that he usually did a better job of speaking for his clients. But his defense so far consisted of a witch, a pair of toxicologists, a shrink, and Roy-it sounded more like the punch line to a joke than a legal rebuttal. Jack was well spoken, clean-cut, educated-even if he had nothing to counter Gillian Duncan’s story, he would look good sitting on the stand.

It was no small measure of irony that the last person in the world Jack would ever trust was the only one who could help him now. As he sat on the stand and watched Jordan’s antics-his hand motions, his calculated frowns at the jury-Jack thought, They are all alike. Liars, the lot of them. And just as he’d been screwed once before by a lawyer, Jack believed he’d be screwed again.

Don’t act defensive or angry or they’ll think you capable of violence, Jordan had said moments ago. Just follow my lead. This is what I do for a living. But that was impossible for Jack to do. It was as if Jordan stood at the bottom of a cliff urging Jack to jump, trusting the promise he’d catch him . . . yet Jack was still beaten and bruised from his last fall.

Jordan leaned close, so that only Jack could see his anger. “Pay attention, dammit,” he hissed. “I can’t do this without you.” Then a pleasant expression whitewashed his features, and he said, “What happened next?”

He was back there for a moment, their laughter sparkling over his head like stars, close enough to catch. “I was on the edge of a clearing in the woods,” Jack said slowly, “and when I looked up, there were a group of girls standing there. Naked.”