Jodie Picoult - Salem Falls

Matt jerked his head toward Gillian, and Charlie quickly slid his arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay, honey. You just relax.”

“But you wanted me to be able to pick it. For evidence.”

“We have other evidence,” Matt said.

Gilly sniffed loudly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “This is just icing on the cake. Okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“You want to stop?”

“No.” Gilly turned back to the counter, her hands clenched at her sides as if she could will herself to remember. “It was purple,” she said a minute later. “The package was purple.” When she smiled, it transformed her entire face. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You bet,” Matt said, collecting the condom from her hand.

Charlie walked her to the door and opened it. “Joe,” he said to the officer standing outside. “Would you be kind enough to walk Miss Duncan back to her father?”

“Sure, Lieutenant.”

Charlie watched Gillian walk away with the big patrolman, then went back inside to the county attorney. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “She picked the Trojan.”

Matt nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said, “that wasn’t the brand you took from the house.”

It made Jack look good.

The unexpected thought hit Jordan like a punch to the belly, driving all the air from his lungs. To his absolute shock, there were things in the discovery he’d received from Matt Houlihan that evening that actually worked in his favor.

Jordan blew a ring of cigar smoke in the direction of his bare feet, levered onto the railing of the porch. The police statement from Charlie Saxton lay open on his lap. Beside him on the wooden floor were the testimonies of the girls who had been eyewitnesses, and the surprising result of the condom lineup. The only missing piece of the discovery was the forensic scientist’s workup, which had been delayed for a week owing to lab overload.

The past two weeks had not convinced Jordan of Jack St. Bride’s innocence-he was certain his client’s one-note performance of the I-wasn’t-there refrain was grounded in nothing more than wishful thinking. The Nelson Mandela tactics in jail were not a measure of a clear conscience as much as they were a nuisance. And the crazy story about decorations in the forest said less about the man’s credibility than the brand of whiskey he’d been drinking.

But right now, staring over the county attorney’s discovery, Jordan wondered whether Jack St. Bride might not be the real thing.

He slid open the door and padded down the hallway to his own bedroom, which he’d chivalrously given up to Selena. A pie slice of moonlight illuminated her, and for a moment the sight of this woman in his bed again took his breath away. He was not surprised when Selena sensed his presence and immediately woke, sliding her hand under the pillow.

“You don’t sleep with a gun at my house,” Jordan murmured. “Which is a good thing for me, I imagine.”

Selena rolled away. “Get out of my bedroom, Jordan,” she muffled into the covers.

“It’s my bedroom.”

“I still don’t want you in it. And that’s a clear invite to leave, unless you’ve been taking lessons from your client on social interaction with females.”

“It’s about Jack. I need to talk to you.”

Resigned, Selena flopped onto her back. “At three in the morning.”

“Four, but who’s counting?” Jordan eased down onto the bed beside her. “Did you read the discovery?”

“Some of it.”

“Well . . . there are holes.”

Selena shrugged. “There are always holes. Or so you tell me.”

“But half the time I’m lying. In this case, it’s true.”

“Such as?”

“The scratch. Remember I told you about that? And the psych records. And the girls’ stories don’t match a hundred percent.”

“What about the physical evidence?”

“Hasn’t come back from the lab yet,” Jordan admitted.

Selena read over the transcript, then looked at him. “But you’re thinking . . . ?”

“Yeah,” Jordan said with surprise. “That it just might tell us what Jack’s been telling us all along.”

In his nightmare, Matt was in court.

He stared at the jury as if he had the power to mesmerize, because a rape case really came down to whom they believed the most. The judge called his name. “Mr. Houlihan!”

“Yes, Your Honor. Excuse me.” He pulled at his collar, trying to keep from being strangled by his tie. “The state calls Gillian Duncan to the stand.”

There were camera flashes and rustles of movement as the entire gallery strained to see the prosecution’s star witness make her way toward the front of the courtroom. But the doors did not open; the girl didn’t appear. Matt tried to ask the bailiff where his witness was but was stopped once again by the judge’s voice. “Counsel, now what’s the problem?”

“My witness,” Matt said. “I can’t find her.”

“She’s right here.” The judge pointed down at the stand.

But Matt couldn’t see anything past the lip of the box. He walked toward the bench quickly, although his legs felt like pudding beneath him, and put his hand on the carved railing. “Please state your name for the record,” he said. When no answer came, he peered into the witness box.

And saw his own baby lying at its base, smiling up at him as if she knew he’d be able to save her.

There was some guilty pleasure that came from watching Jack appear with a correctional officer at the door of the small conference room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Jordan,” he said, “it’s the middle of the night.”

“Didn’t bother you before.” Jordan sat back, studying his client.

“What?” Jack asked, looking down at his jumpsuit as if there might be bloodstains or some other incriminating evidence on it. “Did I get convicted?”

At that, Jordan almost smiled. “You would have been in the courtroom with me if you had.”

“Then why are you here?”

Jordan rested his elbows on the table. “Because,” he said slowly, “I am having a spiritual moment of sorts.”

Jack looked at him warily. “Good for you.”

“And for you, actually.” Jordan pushed a manila envelope across the table to Jack. “I got the discovery from the county attorney today. Everything but the lab results, anyway.” As he watched Jack open the packet and scan the pages, Jordan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “This isn’t something I’ve said very often, and never directly to a client, so it’s a little hard for me. Christ.” He shook his head, a crimson flush rising up his neck. “Three little words, and I can’t even choke them out.”

Jack glanced up, eyes guarded. “You’re not going to tell me you love me, are you?”

“Hell, no,” Jordan said. “I believe you.”

Then Jack managed to draw a breath into his burning lungs. “You what?”

“I think the girl’s lying. And I don’t know where you were that night, but it wasn’t with her.”

He watched Jack’s eyes darken with surprise. “I would have gotten you off no matter what,” Jordan said brazenly. “But now I actually want to.” He felt drunk, dizzy. As if something bound tight inside him had broken free, making him able to move mountains, to bring down giants.

Stunned, Jack turned away. “I don’t believe this.”

Jordan laughed. “Jack,” he said. “You’re not the only one.”

1989

New York City

The girl had to be drunk, that was the first rule.

If she wasn’t on the verge of passing out, she usually freaked and spoiled it right in the middle of the fun. Every now and then one had gotten her bearings and gone all skittish, but it hadn’t taken much more than another beer to convince her to stay. After all, this was why she’d come in the first place.