Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

For DNA analysis, the lab needed only a few hairs-five to ten, at most. Charlie met Jack’s gaze without flinching. “Thirty,” he said, and settled back to watch.

May 1, 2000

Salem Falls,

New Hampshire

Matt Houlihan had the instincts of a pit bull and the face of Opie Taylor, a combination that led to a stunning number of convictions in his job as assistant county attorney and that made most local defense lawyers want to strangle him in his sleep. As he stood outside a conference room at 7 A.M. at the Grafton County Courthouse, listening to a particularly loud and obnoxious defense attorney argue with his equally loud and obnoxious client, he closed his eyes and thought of Molly.

He could conjure the exact cornflower blue of her eyes, and the softness of her skin, and even the sweet smell that he breathed in when he buried his face in her neck. She kept him up all night, but he didn’t mind at all. He was head over heels in love with her.

Had been, in fact, since the moment she was born six months ago.

He had always enjoyed getting convictions, but now that he had a baby, he was a man driven. He wanted to get every single bad guy behind bars, so that by the time his daughter was walking free in this world, it was a safe place to be. Sydney, his wife, told him he was headed right for hypertension medication and that he couldn’t play Superman all by himself. “Watch me,” Matt had answered.

Matt crossed his arms, wishing he could just be done with this case. The perp had been found with drugs in his hand, so the very fact that Matt had offered him a plea seemed a remarkable act of graciousness on his part, at least in his opinion. His lawyer had argued anyway, trying to get the state to reduce the charges. Matt had refused but offered to step out into the hall to let the attorney talk things over with his client.

“No,” the client said, for the fourth time. “I ain’t gonna take it.”

Rolling his eyes, Matt walked back into the conference room. He plucked the form out of the defendant’s hand and ripped it up, raining the pieces down over the man’s upturned, stunned face. “The plea’s no longer on the table.”

“Jesus!” the defense attorney shouted. “He was on the verge of accepting!”

Matt had the smaller man backed up against the table within seconds. “I don’t want him to plead,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m going to body-slam your client at trial until he wishes he had been more cooperative and you wish you had been more persuasive.” He stepped away suddenly, straightening his jacket. “Good-bye,” he said, and exited.

Matt checked his watch and smiled. He had two hours before he was expected at the office. With any luck, he could feed Molly her breakfast.

The room was airless and bare, with the exception of a card table, two folding chairs, and a tape recorder. A fluorescent bulb overhead spit and blinked at random intervals.

It was difficult to believe that this was really happening, that the steel circles linking his wrists were not playthings and that history had, in fact, repeated itself. Jack wasn’t frightened-instead, he was almost resigned, as if he’d been expecting this shoe to drop for a while. The painted messages on the diner and the beating should have been warning enough. But nothing so far-not the arrest nor Wes’s comments nor even the samples taken in the hospital-had left as deep a scar as the moment he realized Addie had her doubts.

The door opened and Charlie Saxton walked in. He slid a pack of cigarettes toward Jack. “Want one?” Jack shook his head. “Oh, that’s right. Big-time athlete, weren’t you?”

When Jack didn’t answer, Charlie sighed. He pushed the Record button, so that it glowed red and the tape began to turn. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you can’t afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.” Charlie folded his hands on the table. “You want to tell me your story, Jack?”

Jack turned his head away, silent.

Charlie nodded; this wasn’t a shock. “Got a lawyer you want phoned?”

The last lawyer Jack had trusted with his life had landed him in jail for eight months. His jaw tightened at the thought of putting himself at the mercy of another leech who couldn’t care less about winning the case, as long as there was a retainer.

“Okay,” Charlie said on a sigh. He beckoned to another officer, who came into the interrogation room to lead Jack back to the holding cell. They were nearly out the door when Charlie’s voice made Jack stop. “Is there anyone you want me to call?”

Addie.

Jack stared straight ahead, and kept walking.

“Did you know,” Matt said, watching his wife sprinkle nutmeg onto cottage cheese for her own breakfast, “that if you inject that stuff intravenously it can kill you?”

“Cottage cheese? I would think so.”

“No, nutmeg.” Matt dipped the rubber-coated spoon into the jar of peaches again and held it to their daughter’s lips. Predictably, Molly spit it back at him.

Sydney slid into the seat beside Matt’s. “Do I want to know where you picked up such an esoteric knowledge of spices?”

He shrugged. “I put away a woman who killed her diabetic husband by mixing some in his insulin.”

“I’ll have to file that one away,” Sydney said, smiling. “Just in case you start getting on my nerves.”

Matt passed a washcloth over Molly’s face, and for good measure, rubbed it over his cheek as well. “I feel like I ought to invest in a haz mat suit.”

“Oh, I have great faith that by the time she marches down the aisle, she’ll be able to use a spoon with finesse.”

Molly, on cue, burst into a peal of giggles. “You’re not gonna walk down any aisle, are you, muffin?” Matt cooed. “Not until Daddy’s done background checks-”

They were interrupted by the telephone. Molly’s head swiveled toward the sound, her eyes wide and curious. “It’s for you,” Sydney said a moment later. “Charlie Saxton.”

He had last worked with Charlie over a year ago, on a grand theft auto charge that was pleaded down. Truth was, not too many cases came out of Salem Falls. “Charlie,” Matt said, taking the receiver. “What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got a rape case. A guy who just got out on an eight-month sentence for misdemeanor sexual assault attacked a teenage girl here last night.”

Matt immediately sobered. “The victim wants us to prosecute?” Too often, women who had been raped would suffer through the collection of evidence . . . and then decide they couldn’t go through with it.

“Yeah. Her dad is Amos Duncan.”

“Duncan, as in the drug company?” Matt whistled. “Holy cow.”

“Exactly.”

“So,” Matt repeated, “what can I do for you?”

“Meet me at the crime scene?” Charlie asked. “Nine o’clock?”

He took down directions. For a long moment after Charlie hung up, Matt absently listened to the dial tone while stroking the soft, vulnerable crown of his daughter’s head.

Meg, Whitney and Chelsea arrived at Gillian’s house shortly after 8 A.M. “Girls,” Amos said soberly, greeting them at the door. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

They were too polite to comment on his bloodshot eyes, his rumpled clothing. “Our parents said we should stay home.” Whitney spoke for the three of them.

“We wanted to make sure that Gilly was doing okay,” Chelsea added, her voice nearly a whisper, as if speaking of what had happened would only make it worse.

“I don’t know if she’s up to seeing . . .” Amos’s words trailed off as the girls shifted their attention to something over his shoulder. Gilly stood behind him, looking as fragile as a milkweed pod, a big quilt wrapped around her shoulders. Her feet were bare like a child’s, and this made Amos’s stomach knot.