Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

Jordan walked to the evidence table and held up the picture of Jack’s scraped cheek. “You heard evidence that Mr. St. Bride’s DNA was found beneath Gillian’s fingernails. We don’t contest that . . . but he told you she was grabbing his arm in an effort to keep him there. He said the lone scratch on his cheek came from a branch . . . consistent with a single twig raking the skin, rather than five long red fingernails.

“You also heard that these girls were taking drugs that night. What kind of drugs? The kind that don’t show up in a tox screen at the hospital. The kind that Gillian didn’t mention to the police when she made her statement. The kind that obliterate your short-term memory of an event and cause hallucinations.”

Jordan shook his head. “It doesn’t add up. And the reason it doesn’t is either because Gillian doesn’t remember it clearly or because she doesn’t want us to. Afraid of her father’s reaction to discovering her drug use and her commitment to witchcraft, Gillian Duncan pointed a finger in blame at the man who stumbled unexpectedly on her secrets. She told a lie about Jack St. Bride before he had a chance to tell the truth about her.

“The only crime Jack St. Bride committed was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happened once before with a girl this age-a gross miscarriage of justice. Jack came to Salem Falls, expecting to turn over a new leaf . . . but was seen as a stain on the community. People waited for him to make a mistake that might lead to his exile . . . and Gillian’s accusation became just the match to start a conflagration.

“There’s been a witch hunt here in Salem Falls,” Jordan said, turning toward his client. “But the victim, all along, has been Jack St. Bride.”

Matt smiled at the jury. “We’ve heard about witches,” he said. “We’ve heard about Beltane. The only element that’s been missing in this court is the Devil . . . unless, of course, you happen to include Jack St. Bride.

“What matters at this trial isn’t whether Gillian is a witch, or whether she crawled to her friends on her belly, or even whether she was experimenting with an illegal substance. What this comes down to is evidence-hard facts that prove Jack St. Bride committed rape. Evidence like the defendant’s DNA; found beneath Gillian Duncan’s fingernails. Evidence like his blood, found on her shirt. Let Mr. McAfee explain that away, if he’d like. But he can’t account for that drop of semen on Gillian’s thigh. It’s not something you tend to leave behind without having intimate contact. According to the expert who testified, the chance of randomly selecting an unrelated individual other than the defendant whose DNA matches the crime scene DNA at the locations tested is one in seven hundred forty thousand. That’s a big number, ladies and gentlemen. Realistically, where did this semen come from, if not Mr. St. Bride?”

Matt turned toward the jury. “Evidence,” he repeated. “You heard Gillian Duncan speak of the most brutal and intimate event of her life, although it clearly pained her to do so in front of strangers, with cameras in her face and a judge hanging on her words. You heard her describe the gathering of evidence for a sexual assault kit-one of the most invasive exams a young girl can undergo. And you heard the testimonies of two girls, a police detective, and an ER doctor, who all agree that Gillian was hysterical when she was found.”

Matt raised his brows. “On the other hand, nothing in Mr. St. Bride’s testimony matches anything else you’ve heard from eyewitnesses that night. He’s got a convenient explanation for the bruises and the scratch on his face. He’s got a convenient explanation for why he was at the bar drinking. He’s got a convenient explanation for why he was in the woods. But he doesn’t have any proof, ladies and gentlemen. All he has is his story . . . which, to use Mr. McAfee’s terms, doesn’t add up.” Matt stared hard at the jury. “Jack St. Bride has more incentive than anybody in this entire courtroom to lie to you, because he has more at stake. Having been in jail before, he knows he doesn’t want to go back.”

The prosecutor started back. “The defendant chose to go out and get drunk. Is that what impaired his judgment enough to rape a girl? Maybe. Is his violent nature what caused him to rape a girl? Maybe. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he did it. And that the state has proved he did it, beyond a reasonable doubt.

“Mr. McAfee has offered you a lot of mumbo jumbo about Gillian’s actions and behavior . . . because he can’t offer you the truth.” Matt leaned over the counsel table, his finger two inches from Jack’s face. “But the truth is that this man went into the woods on April thirtieth, 2000. This man jumped Gillian Duncan and ripped her clothes off and forced her to have sex with him. This man,” Matt said, “is the one I’m asking you to convict today.”

Jack was brought back to the sheriff’s holding cell pending the jury’s verdict. The deputy who was on the front desk was an older man with a white handlebar mustache and a tendency to whistle “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” He nodded as Jack passed, en route to a six-by-six space that was beginning to feel frighteningly comfortable.

Jack stripped off his jacket and tie and lay down on the metal bunk, pressing his fists against his eyes. How big a difference could Catherine Marsh make? Jordan said it would depend on whether the jury wanted to hang its hat on her testimony, although to Jack, one young girl with a case of puppy love seemed an awfully meager reason for acquittal.

Once the jury handed back a conviction, he would be taken directly to the state penitentiary in Concord. If he were sentenced for the maximum term, he would be fifty-one years old when he was released. His hair would have gone gray, his stomach soft, his skin lined. He would have age spots on the backs of his hands, markers for all the empty years gone by.

He would miss the feel of snow on his face. And the taste of Irish whiskey. He would miss the pattern of his mother’s china and the luxurious width of a double bed and the thin orange line where dawn bled into day.

He would miss Addie.

In the distance, Jack could hear the muted conversation of the deputy in the front office. Maybe Jordan had come to tell him the verdict was in. Or maybe some other prisoner had been brought here, to purgatory, to wait.

The thick-soled shoes of the deputy squeaked on the linoleum, stopping in front of Jack’s cell. “I’m going to take a whiz,” he announced.

“Good for you.”

“I’m telling you this,” the deputy said slowly, “because I have no control over who comes through that door when I’m gone, if you understand what I’m saying.”

Jack didn’t. “Believe me, if some nut comes in here and shoots me in cold blood, I’d probably thank him for it.”

The deputy laughed, already halfway down the corridor. Jack lay back down, covering his eyes with his forearm.

“Jack.”

It wasn’t real-it couldn’t be. Addie stood on the other side of the bars, close enough to touch.

Without a word, Jack lunged forward, sticking his arms through the slatted steel and working them around her as best as he could. Her face came up to the cold metal, her nose and mouth jutting forward enough to meet his. She was pushing so hard to get closer that Jack could see red lines forming on her cheekbones and jaw, a cell of their own making.

His hands cupped her face, tilted her forehead against his. “I didn’t think I would get to see you,” he confessed.

“I traded the deputy a chocolate cream pie,” Addie said. “For five minutes.”

Bringing his lips up, he kissed her brow. “What would he have done for a whole meal?” Jack held her back when she would have burrowed closer, tracing his hands over the delicate bones in her face and the bridge of her nose, lighting slight as a butterfly on her eyelids and trailing her lips like a whisper, over and over.