Jodie Picoult - Nineteen Minutes

“Drew,” Diana said, “we brought you in here because you got a subpoena, and that means you’re going to be testifying sometime next week. We’ll let you know when, for sure, as we get closer…but for now, I wanted to make sure you weren’t nervous about going to court. Today, we’ll go over some of the things you’ll be asked, and how the procedure works. If you have any questions, we can cover those as well. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Patrick leaned forward. “How’s the shoulder?”

Drew swiveled to face him, unconsciously flexing that body part. “I still have to do physical therapy and stuff, but it’s a lot better. Except…” His voice trailed off.

“Except what?” Diana asked.

“I’ll miss hockey season this whole year.”

Diana met Patrick’s eye; this was sympathy for a witness. “Do you think you’ll be able to play again, eventually?”

Drew flushed. “The doctors say no, but I think they’re wrong.” He hesitated. “I’m a senior this year, and I was sort of counting on an athletic scholarship for college.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, as no one acknowledged either Drew’s courage or the truth. “So, Drew,” Diana said. “When we get into court, I’ll start by asking your name, where you live, if you were in school that day.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s try it out a bit, all right? When you got to school that morning, what was your first class?”

Drew sat up a little straighter. “American History.”

“And second period?”

“English.”

“Where did you go after English class?”

“I had third period free, and most people with free periods hang out in the caf.”

“Is that where you went?”

“Yeah.”

“Was anyone with you?” Diana continued.

“I went down by myself, but when I got there, I hung out with a bunch of people.” He looked at Patrick. “Friends.”

“How long were you in the cafeteria?”

“I don’t know, a half hour, maybe?”

Diana nodded. “What happened then?”

Drew looked down at his pants and drew his thumb along the crease. Patrick noticed that his hand was shaking. “We were all just, you know, talking…and then I heard this really big boom.”

“Could you tell where the sound was coming from?”

“No. I didn’t know what it was.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No.”

“So,” Diana asked, “what did you do when you heard it?”

“I made a joke,” Drew said. “I said it was probably the school lunch, igniting or something. Oh, finally, that radioactive mac and cheese.”

“Did you stay in the cafeteria after the boom?”

“Yeah.”

“And then?”

Drew looked down at his hands. “There was this sound like firecrackers. Before anyone could figure out what it was, Peter came into the cafeteria. He was carrying a knapsack and holding a gun, and he started shooting.”

Diana held up her hand. “I’m going to stop you there for a moment, Drew…. When you’re on the stand, and you say that, I’ll ask you to look at the defendant and identify him for the record. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Patrick realized that he was not just seeing the shooting the way he’d have seen any other crime. He wasn’t even visualizing it playing out as a prequel to the chilling cafeteria videotape he’d watched. He was imagining Josie-one of Drew’s friends-sitting at a long table, hearing those firecrackers, not imagining in the least what came next.

“How long have you known Peter?” Diana asked.

“We both grew up in Sterling. We’ve been in the same school, like, forever.”

“Were you friends?” Drew shook his head. “Enemies?”

“No,” he said. “Not really enemies.”

“Ever have any problems with him?”

Drew glanced up. “No.”

“Did you ever bully him?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

Patrick felt his hands curl into fists. He knew, from interviewing hundreds of kids, that Drew Girard had stuffed Peter Houghton into lockers; had tripped him while he was walking down the stairs; had thrown spitballs into his hair. None of that condoned what Peter had done…but still. There was a kid rotting in jail; there were ten people decomposing in graves; there were dozens in rehab and corrective surgery; there were hundreds-like Josie-who still could not get through the day without bursting into tears; there were parents-like Alex-who trusted Diana to get justice done on their behalf. And this little asshole was lying through his teeth.

Diana looked up from her notes and stared at Drew. “So if you get asked under oath whether you’ve ever picked on Peter, what’s your answer going to be?”

Drew looked up at her, the bravado fading just enough for Patrick to realize he was scared to death that they knew something more than they were admitting to him. Diana glanced at Patrick and threw down her pen. That was all the invitation he needed-he was out of his chair in an instant, his hand grabbing Drew Girard’s throat. “Listen, you little fuck,” Patrick said, “don’t screw this up. We know what you did to Peter Houghton. We know you were sitting front and center. There are ten dead victims, and eighteen more who are never going to have the lives they thought they would, and there are so many families in this community that are never going to stop grieving that I can’t even count them. I don’t know what your game plan is here-if you want to play the choirboy to protect your reputation, or if you’re just scared to tell the truth-but believe me, if you get on that witness stand and you lie about your actions in the past, I will make sure you wind up in jail for obstruction of justice.”

He let go of Drew and turned away, staring out the window in Diana’s office. He had no authority to arrest Drew for anything-even if the kid did perjure himself-much less send him to jail, but Drew would never know that. And maybe it was enough to scare him into behaving. Taking a deep breath, Patrick bent down and picked up the pen Diana had dropped and handed it to her.

“Let me ask you again, Drew,” she said smoothly. “Did you ever bully Peter Houghton?”

Drew glanced at Patrick and swallowed. Then he opened his mouth and started to speak.

“It’s barbecued lasagna,” Alex announced after Patrick and Josie had each taken their first bite. “What do you think?”

“I didn’t know you could barbecue lasagna,” Josie said slowly. She began to peel the noodles back from the cheese, as if she were scalping it.

“How’s that work, exactly?” Patrick asked, reaching for the pitcher of water to refill his glass.

“It was regular lasagna. But some of the insides spilled out into the oven, and there was all this smoke…and I was going to start over, but then I sort of realized that I was only adding an extra, charcoal sort of flavor into the mix.” She beamed. “Ingenious, right? I mean, I looked in all the cookbooks, Josie, and it’s never been done before, as far as I can tell.”

“Go figure,” Patrick said, and he coughed into his napkin.

“I actually like cooking,” Alex said. “I like taking a recipe and, you know, going off on a tangent to see what happens.”

“Recipes are kind of like laws,” Patrick replied. “You might want to try to stick to them, before you commit a felony…”

“I’m not hungry,” Josie said suddenly. She pushed her plate away, stood up, and ran upstairs.

“The trial starts tomorrow,” Alex said, by way of explanation. She went after Josie, not even excusing herself first, because she knew Patrick would understand. Josie had slammed the door shut and turned up her music; it would do no good to knock. Alex turned the knob and stepped inside, reaching to the stereo to turn down the volume.