Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

“Yes, I did,” Jack murmured.

The prosecutor turned and pinned him with his gaze. “Then why should the jury believe you now?”

“He’s good,” Selena mused. “He’s really, really good.”

Jordan slammed the car door and stalked up the walk toward his house. “If you’re such a huge fan, then why don’t you go sleep with Matt Houlihan tonight?”

The defense had rested and court had been dismissed. Closing arguments would begin the next morning, which meant Jordan had approximately seventeen hours to conjure sheer brilliance. Burning against his heart was the little packet Starshine had given him for Jack’s defense. He was going to sleep with it under his goddamn pillow; at this point, he’d take any help he could get.

He knew and the prosecutor knew-and even the jury knew-that Jordan had not conducted a defense of his client-he’d simply tried to make Gillian out to be something other than the little princess she made herself out to be. But a witch could be raped. A drug user could be raped. And if Jordan had been sitting on that jury, he would not have been inclined to believe anything Jack St. Bride had to say.

At the door, he tried to jam his key into the lock and couldn’t manage to get it to fit. “Goddamn,” he said, wedging it in again. “Goddammit!”

A second attempt, and the key stuck fast. With a mighty wrench, Jordan managed to pull it free of the hole, then swore and hurled his entire key chain into the bushes off the porch. He stared after it, his whole body shaking.

“Jordan,” Selena said, touching his arm.

He burrowed into her embrace, pressed his face against her neck, and silently apologized to Jack St. Bride.

Addie volunteered to close up the diner. “Come upstairs,” Roy urged through the door of the ladies’ room, as she changed. “We’ll have iced tea, watch a little TV.”

Zipping up her uniform, Addie came out of the restroom. “Dad, I need to do this. I want to do this.” What she really wanted, actually, was to hit something until her bones broke. Scouring floors, scrubbing counters, wiping the grill-these were better uses of her time.

She pushed past her father into the kitchen. It always seemed like a ghost town after hours, bathed in shades of gray and haunted by the scents of the foods it had harbored. Addie picked up the wire brush that hung on the side of the stove and began to scrape down the grill with brusque, mechanical movements.

“I’ll help you, then,” her father said, rolling up his sleeves.

“Dad.” She met his eyes. “Right now, I just want to be alone.”

“Ah, Addie.” Roy moved forward, hugging her tightly, until the wire brush dropped from her hand and her sob curled into his chest like a kitten’s mewing.

“I’m not going to be able to say good-bye,” Addie whispered. “Visiting hours aren’t until next Wednesday. And by then . . . by then, he could be in the prison in Concord.”

“Then you’ll go visit in Concord. I’ll drive you every day after work, if I have to.”

Addie offered him a weak smile. “On what, Dad? The lawn mower?” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe I will come up for iced tea, all right? Just give me a while to sort things out in my head.”

She felt her father’s eyes on her as she took a jug of bleach from a shelf and began to wash down the dishwashing table and stainless sinks. Her mother used to say that a little bleach could go a long way toward making the shabbiest circumstances shine.

Her mother had not been in love with Jack St. Bride.

Once Roy went upstairs, Addie attacked the kitchen. She rubbed down the sneeze guard of the cold table and wiped clean its cool innards. She scraped burned patches from the base of the oven. She scrubbed and washed until her knuckles bled within her rubber gloves, and she had to wrap her hands in a damp dishcloth, just to ease the pain.

She was working with such a frenzy, she never heard the front door of the diner open. “I hope you’re paying yourself well,” Charlie said.

Addie jumped a foot, slamming her head against the base of the warming table. “Oh!”

“Jeez, Addie, are you all right?” Charlie rushed forward to help her, but the moment he was within the range of being able to touch, they both froze. Addie backed off, her hand to her forehead.

“Fine. That was just stupid of me.” She hugged her arms to her chest. “Is this about Jack?”

Charlie shook his head. “Is there . . . could we sit down for a second?”

Nodding slowly, Addie followed him into the front room of the diner. They slid across from each other in a booth. The barrier of a table between them helped, and being away from the bleach fumes cleared her head. But Charlie showed no signs of speaking. “How is Meg?” Addie asked after a moment.

“All right. Thanks for asking.” Charlie tapped his fingertips on the table. “After all that’s been said in that courtroom, I don’t know what’s going to come of her, really.”

“Take it one day at a time.” Addie looked at the clock. Swallowed.

“Addie,” Charlie said, “I owe you an apology.”

Her eyes reluctantly met his. “Why?”

“I’ve been listening to the testimony. And I’ve been helping the prosecution for weeks. And it’s made me . . . it’s made it all come back clearer than ever. God, I’m doing a shitty job of this . . .” Charlie rubbed his hand over his face. “I thought I’d live in Miami, get a job on the force, and just forget Salem Falls. Then Chief Rudlow invited me back north, and I told myself enough time had passed to just wipe away the memory. After nearly a decade, I assumed that if I didn’t think about it, no one else would, either.” He hunched over the table, as if drawing strength from within. “But you’ve thought about, every day, haven’t you?”

Addie closed her eyes, then nodded.

“I knew what was coming that afternoon under the bleachers, when Amos called you over. I was drunk, sure, but I knew what I was doing. And for reasons I can’t even stand to think of, I went along with it . . . and then followed the others, when they acted like it hadn’t happened at all.” Charlie lowered his gaze. “Damn, Addie, how do you tell someone you’re sorry you ruined their life?”

It took Addie a long time to speak. “You didn’t ruin my life, Charlie. You raped me. There’s a difference: One, I couldn’t keep from happening . . . but the other, I could. I did.” She thought of Chloe, of Jack. “The more you get past pain, the more it goes from coal to diamond.”

Charlie’s eyes were red-rimmed, stricken. “I’m not going to ask you to forgive me, and I know I can’t ask you to forget. But I want you to know, for whatever it’s worth, that I don’t forgive myself . . . and I’ll never forget, either.”

“Thank you,” Addie whispered, “for that.”

She heard the door jingle closed behind him and she sat at the booth with her legs completely limp, waiting for her heart to stop beating triple-time. After all these years, who would have expected validation? After all these years, who would have expected that simply hearing the words made her feel like starting over?

She was jolted out of her reverie by the sound of the door opening again. Charlie must have forgotten something. But before she could turn around, Addie heard the voice of a young woman, the thud of a suitcase being dropped on the floor. “They said I’d find you here.”

And suddenly Addie was face to face with Catherine Marsh.

July 5, 2000

Carroll County Courthouse

The air in the courtroom was thick the next morning, so heavy with anticipation it beaded on the foreheads of the reporters and misted the lenses of the camera crews. Judge Justice strode to the bench with the air of a magistrate whose mind is already turned toward her next case. “I believe we’re starting the day with closing arguments,” she said. “Mr. McAfee, are you ready to begin?”