Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

“I agree,” Melton said. “You’d be in much better shape if the police hadn’t found anything when they searched your house.”

Jack frowned. The police had arrived with a warrant, and he’d let them search the premises, but he hadn’t realized anything fruitful had come of it. Melton pushed a photograph across the table at him. “What is this, a rag?”

“Apparently,” Melton said, “it’s Catherine Marsh’s bra. It was in your briefcase.”

Jack stared at it for a second. Then he started laughing. “Christ, Melton, they can’t think . . . I picked it up for her after she left it in class. No, wait-that came out sounding bad. We were working on a unit on ancient Greek history in this sweltering heat, and the kids had all gotten into togas made out of tablecloths, and-”

“And the police found a bra, with Catherine Marsh’s name sewn into it, in your briefcase. That’s all they know, Jack. And that’s plenty.”

“But I can explain it.”

“I know,” Melton said. “Unfortunately, so can the prosecutor.”

Jack had to see her. He had read and reread the conditions of his bail, which stipulated in black and white that he stay away not only from minors but specifically from Catherine Marsh. If he was caught, there would be another hearing. He would be charged with violating his bail condition and held in contempt of court. He would most likely be put into jail until his trial came up on the docket.

If he were caught, it would contribute to the prosecution’s case against him.

But if he could get away with this one small thing, he had a chance of stopping this charge from going forward.

The schedules of students at Westonbrook had been computerized two years ago, thanks to the diligence of an intern who happened to be a technical whiz. It took Jack less than ten minutes to find Catherine Marsh’s whereabouts. Within an hour, he was standing behind a large oak at the edge of the campus, watching as girls passed by in small clusters, bright butterflies lighting from conversation to conversation.

Catherine was walking alone, the first stroke of luck since this whole debacle had begun. Sweat broke out on his brow as he willed her to come closer. The sun glinted off the brass clutch of her knapsack, momentarily blinding him.

He reached out to grab her upper arm. Pressing her up against the tree, his hand clapped over her mouth. Catherine’s eyes went wide with fear, then suddenly softened. He let go of her. “Coach,” she said, smiling, as if she had not overturned the whole bowl of his life.

He swallowed, reaching for reason, but it was the anger that finally pushed one sentence through, rough and rusty as a spike. “Catherine,” Jack hissed, “what the hell did you do?”

She had never seen him angry before. Well, maybe once or twice, but that usually had to do with a player whose mind was on some stupid guy instead of practice. The bite of his fingers into the bones of her shoulders scared her with one heartbeat, then thrilled her the next. He came here for me, she thought.

Suddenly, he got himself under control again. “What did you tell them?”

In that moment, her feelings were a featherbed, downy and inviting. Catherine took a deep breath and jumped. “That I love you.”

“You love me,” he repeated, the words sounding all wrong on the twist of his mouth. “Catherine, you don’t love me.”

“I do. And I know you love me, too.”

“Anything I’ve ever said to you or done with you I would have said or done with any student,” Coach said. “Catherine, you’ve got to stop lying to them. Don’t you see I could end up in jail?”

For a moment, Catherine’s heart stopped beating. And then she realized this was a test. A way of safeguarding his heart, until her own was laid bare. She smiled tremulously. “You don’t have to hide the truth anymore.”

“The truth?”

“You know . . . how we’re going to be together.”

His eyes flashed. “Before or after I’m tried for a felony?”

“Oh, Jack,” Catherine whispered, and she reached out to him.

He recoiled, unwilling to touch her, unwilling to be touched by her. And this, finally, gave Catherine pause. Even as she called to him, he continued to back away with his palms raised, as if he was no longer seeing a pretty young girl but a poisonous snake that might strike when he least expected.

“Of course she’s skittish,” the prosecutor said gently to Reverend Marsh. Loretta Winwood folded her hands on her desk, patient. “If she wasn’t reluctant to testify, I’d be concerned about her motivations. But it’s common to have underage witnesses balk. In fact, a hesitant witness on the stand is a powerful piece of evidence in a statutory rape case.”

“But you heard her! She says she made the whole thing up.”

Loretta gave the man a moment to compose himself. Poor guy, to find out just a few days ago that his daughter had been carrying on an affair with a teacher and then today to have her recant in a puddle at his feet. It was at moments like this that she truly understood why attorneys were called counselors. “Reverend Marsh, do you believe her?”

“My daughter’s a good Christian girl.”

“Yes, but she’s either lying about this sexual affair . . . or she’s lying about lying about it.”

Marsh pressed his fingers to his temples. “I don’t know, Ms. Winwood.”

“What reason would Catherine have to make up a story about a consensual sexual relationship that doesn’t exist?”

“None.”

“All right. Now, let’s assume that she has been involved in a relationship with Dr. St. Bride, upsetting as that is to consider. What reason would Catherine have to suddenly retract everything she’s confessed?”

Marsh closed his eyes. “To save him.”

Loretta nodded. “One reason it’s against the law to have intercourse with people under the age of sixteen is because minors are so susceptible to manipulation. What your daughter just told me-well, I see it a lot, Reverend Marsh. Unfortunately, these girls are in love. And once they triumphantly tell the world and the object of their affection is carted off in cuffs, they suddenly wonder if that was such a good idea.”

“Can . . . can you force her to be a witness?”

“I can force her to sit on the stand, but if she won’t testify, she won’t testify. That’s why so many of these cases never make it to trial.” She closed the file in front of her. “If Catherine tells the jury this affair existed only in her imagination, I can’t impeach her with her prior statements to the contrary. We have some incriminating evidence . . . but nothing as strong as Catherine’s testimony. And I’m sorry to say that means Jack St. Bride will most likely be acquitted-and will most likely seduce another underage girl in the future.”

Marsh’s face mottled pink. “He’ll burn in hell one day.”

This was a gray area in the law. If Catherine had been lying today about never having sex with St. Bride, it wasn’t really exculpatory evidence . . . which meant her confession didn’t have to be turned over to the defense . . . which meant that Melton Sprigg would not know that Catherine was unwilling to testify against his client. “Hell would be fine,” Loretta said. “But there might be something a little more immediate.”

“A plea bargain?” Jack said. “Doesn’t that mean they’re running scared?”

The attorney shook his head. “Most cases that go to court . . . well, ten percent are sure wins for the county attorney, and ten percent are sure losses. But the bulk of the cases-eighty percent-fall smack in the middle. Prosecutors offer pleas all the time, because they ensure a conviction.”

“So what am I, Melton? The ten percent that wins or the ten percent that loses?”