Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

Matt tossed him a file. “There’s the charge, and the victim’s statement.”

It was a gift, Jordan knew. Without it, the victim would be a complete cipher and it would be nearly impossible to prepare a case. He opened the file, and the name of the victim leaped out. Jordan kept his face poker straight. “Well,” he said, getting to his feet. “We’ll talk again.”

“About what?” Matt steepled his fingers, his casual pose completely at odds with the grim determination in his eyes. “I’ve got a young girl saying some jerk raped her, a jerk who was just in jail for doing the same thing. There’s nothing to talk about, Jordan. I’m gonna lock your client up for twenty long years.”

The moment Jordan McAfee walked into the celled corridor of the sheriff’s department beneath the county court building, Jack got to his feet. Jordan met his gaze immediately, something the deputies tried not to do. “Hi, Jack,” he said smoothly. “I know we’ve met, but I’m not sure you realize why I’m here. I’ve been practicing law for nearly twenty years, and occasionally I help out when the court needs someone because the public defender’s office has a conflict. I’ve been asked to stand up in your case.”

Jack opened his mouth to say something, but Jordan held up his hand. “There’s not much we can accomplish this morning, so we’re just going to keep our powder dry. We’re not going to say anything about the case, and we’re not going to ask the judge for anything.”

“You have to get me released on bail.”

“Jack, you have a prior conviction. You have about as much chance of walking out of here today as a groom at a shotgun wedding. You’re going to have to trust me on-”

“Trust you? Trust you?” Jack’s eyes were wild. “I don’t even know you.”

Jordan was quiet for a moment. “You know I take my coffee light and that I read the New York Times and not the Globe. You know I leave a twenty percent tip, every time. That’s more than most defendants know about their attorneys. Now, I wasn’t the one who landed you in this cell. . . . Apparently, you were able to do that all by yourself.”

“I don’t want to go back to jail,” Jack said desperately. “I didn’t do what they said.”

Jordan looked at Jack’s disheveled clothing, his wild eyes, the long scrape on his cheek, and let the words roll right off his back. If he’d had a nickel for every time he’d heard that, he’d have been living the high life in Belize. “I understand you’re upset right now. Let’s just get through the arraignment, and then we’ll start to look at our options.”

“The last time a lawyer told me we’d look at my options,” Jack said, “I spent eight months in jail.”

Jordan shrugged, silent. But he was thinking: This time, it’s going to be much worse.

“If this isn’t déjà vu,” said Judge Freeley, opening the file on his desk again. “Mr. St. Bride, I see you’re now being represented by Mr. McAfee.”

Jordan stood and neatly buttoned his suit jacket. Immediately, he could feel the eyes of the cameras in the back of the courtroom blinking to life. “Yes, Your Honor. I’ve explained the complaint to my client, and he’s read it and he understands it. If I could ask the court to enter a not-guilty plea on the defendant’s behalf?”

“Fine,” the judge said. “Is there an issue about bail?”

Matt Houlihan unfolded his lanky body and glanced at Jack. “This was an extremely violent crime, Judge. Moreover, the defendant already has a prior conviction and has virtually no ties to the community-he just moved here, has no family nearby, owns no property-all these facts indicate that he’s a flight risk. Finally, Your Honor, this community would not be safe if he were to be released. This man has been charged with violently sexually assaulting a young girl, and he has already been convicted once of doing the exact same thing. The court could expect that on release, he’d only go out and find yet another victim. For these reasons, Your Honor, the state requests that bail be denied.”

The judge turned toward the defense table. “Mr. McAfee?”

“I don’t have a problem with that at this point, Your Honor.”

Judge Freeley nodded. “All right then-”

“The reason,” Jordan interrupted, “that I don’t feel a need to contest the state’s request for denying bail is because frankly, it’s the safest place for my client. You see before you a man whose first amendment rights have been stripped away by the force of rumor and conjecture-a man who has committed no crime but in reality has been victimized. Your Honor, the town of Salem Falls has been out for Jack St. Bride’s blood since the moment he arrived.”

The judge gestured at the cameras. “I’m sure the academy is enjoying your Oscar-worthy performance, Mr. McAfee,” he said dryly. “Let’s pity the justice who draws your trial. Next?”

As the clerk called the following case, Jordan turned to his client, who was speechless. “What?” he demanded.

“I . . . I didn’t expect you to stick up for me,” Jack admitted.

Jordan stuffed the manila file from the county attorney’s office in with his other papers. “Well, if I can give you the benefit of the doubt, maybe you can find it in yourself to do the same.” He watched the bailiff approach to take his client away to the jail next door.

“Wait,” Jack called over his shoulder. “When am I going to talk to you again?”

“Not today. I’ve got a really busy schedule.” Jordan tucked his briefcase beneath his arm and walked out of the courtroom, wondering what Jack St. Bride would think if he knew that for the rest of the day, Jordan had absolutely nothing else to do.

November 1998

Loyal,

New Hampshire

Sometimes, when Jack watched his girls fly down the field, time stopped. He would hear only the beat of his own heart and see the small dark stitches sewn by their cleats as they ran from goal to goal, and he would think: It does not get any better than this.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” he called out, clapping. “Arielle’s open!”

He watched his strikers scuffle against the opposing team, a hurricane of feet and mud obliterating the play for a moment. Then his right wing sent the ball spinning toward Arielle, his center. The senior captain of the team, Arielle was the best striker he had. She was on the field continuously, with the second- and third-string centers coming in only briefly to give her a chance to catch her breath . . . and even then, only when Jack felt that they were winning by a decent margin. Jack watched with pride as she sped toward the net with her eye on the ball, intent on heading it in. But just as the crown of her head connected, she slammed her left shoulder into the post. The ball skimmed off the top of the net, rolling offside, as Arielle crumpled to the ground at the goalie’s feet.

A hush fell over the field. Players from both teams stood restless as colts, pawing at the ground in an effort to stay loose while they waited for Arielle to get up.

But she didn’t. Jack’s breath caught as the ref blew his whistle. He ran out across the field to where Arielle lay flat on her back, staring at the sky.

“I misjudged the goal,” she moaned, cradling her arm against her belly. Jack watched her hold the limb tight against her, rounding her shoulders against the pain. He’d bet anything it was her collarbone. Christ, he’d smashed his own three times when he was playing in college.

Sliding an arm around her waist, Jack helped Arielle off the field. There were cheers from the fans of both teams. “Maybe if I rest a minute, I can go back in,” Arielle suggested.

He loved her for that. “I think we’d better play it by ear,” Jack said. The ref held up his hands, looking to Jack for a replacement so that play could be resumed.