Jodie Picoult - Nineteen Minutes

“You must be joking,” Jordan said. “They exist?”

“You better believe it,” Selena said.

Jordan started to smile for the first time since they’d started driving to court. “And you found them for us?”

Selena squeezed his arm. “You can thank me later,” she said.

His client looked like he was going to faint. Jordan nodded at the deputy who let him into the holding cell where Peter was being kept at the courthouse, and then sat down. “Breathe,” he commanded.

Peter nodded and filled up his lungs. He was shaking. Jordan had expected this, had seen it at the start of every trial he’d ever been a part of. Even the most hardened criminal suddenly panicked when he realized that this was the day his life was on the line. “I’ve got something for you,” Jordan said, and he took a pair of glasses out of his pocket.

They were thick and tortoiseshell, Coke-bottle glasses, very different from the thin wire ones Peter usually wore. “I don’t,” Peter said, and then his voice cracked. “I don’t need new ones.”

“Well, take them anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone will notice these on your face,” Jordan said. “I want you to look like someone who could never in a million years see well enough to shoot ten people.”

Peter’s hands curled around the metal edge of the bench. “Jordan? What’s going to happen to me?”

There were some clients you had to lie to, just so that they’d get through the trial. But at this point, Jordan thought he owed Peter the truth. “I don’t know, Peter. You haven’t got a great case, because of all the evidence against you. The likelihood of you being acquitted is slim, but I’m still going to do whatever I can for you. Okay?” Peter nodded. “All I want you to do is try to be quiet out there. Look pathetic.”

Peter bowed his head, his face contorting. Yes, just like that, Jordan thought, and then he realized that Peter had started to cry.

Jordan walked toward the front of the cell. This, too, was a familiar moment for him as a defense attorney. Jordan usually allowed his client to have this final breakdown in private before they went into the courtroom. It was none of his business, and to be honest, Jordan was all about business. But he could hear Peter sobbing behind him; and in that sad song was one note that reached right down into Jordan. Before he could think better of it, he had turned around and was sitting on the bench again. He wrapped an arm around Peter, felt the boy relax against him. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, and he hoped he was not lying.

Diana Leven surveyed the packed gallery, then asked a bailiff to turn off the lights. She pushed the button on her laptop, beginning her PowerPoint presentation.

The screen beside Judge Wagner filled with an image of Sterling High School. There was a blue sky in the background and some cotton-candy clouds. A flag snapped in the wind. Three school buses were lined up like a caravan in the front circle. Diana let this picture stand alone, in silence, for fifteen seconds.

The courtroom grew so quiet you could hear the hum of the transcriptionist’s laptop.

Oh, God, Jordan thought. I have to sit through this for the next three weeks.

“This is what Sterling High School looked like on March 6, 2007. It was 7:50 a.m., and school had just started. Courtney Ignatio was in chemistry class, taking a quiz. Whit Obermeyer was in the main office getting a late pass, because he’d had car trouble that morning. Grace Murtaugh was leaving the nurse’s office, where she’d taken some Tylenol for a headache. Matt Royston was in history class with his best friend, Drew Girard. Ed McCabe was writing homework on the blackboard for the math classes he taught. There was nothing to suggest to any of these people or any other members of the Sterling High School community at 7:50 a.m. on March sixth that this was anything other than a typical school day.”

Diana clicked a button, and a new photo appeared: Ed McCabe, lying on the floor with his intestines spilling out of his stomach as a sobbing student pressed both hands against the gaping wound. “This is what Sterling High School looked like at 10:19 a.m. on March 6, 2007. Ed McCabe never got to give his homework assignment to his math class, because nineteen minutes earlier, Peter Houghton, a seventeen-year-old junior at Sterling High School, burst through the doors with a knapsack that contained four guns-two sawed-off shotguns, as well as two fully loaded, semiautomatic 9-millimeter pistols.”

Jordan felt a tug on his arm. “Jordan,” Peter whispered.

“Not now.”

“But I’m going to be sick…”

“Swallow it,” Jordan ordered.

Diana flicked back to the previous slide, the picture-perfect image of Sterling High. “I told you, ladies and gentlemen, that none of the people in Sterling High School had any inclination this would be something other than a typical school day. But one person did know that it was going to be different.” She walked toward the defense table and pointed directly at Peter, who stared steadfastly down at his lap. “On the morning of March 6, 2007, Peter Houghton started his day by loading a blue knapsack with four guns and the makings of a bomb, plus enough ammunition to potentially kill one hundred and ninety-eight people. The evidence will show that when he arrived at the school, he set up this bomb in Matt Royston’s car to divert attention away from himself. While it exploded, he walked up the front steps of the school and shot Zoe Patterson. Then, in the hallway, he shot Alyssa Carr. He made his way to the cafeteria and shot Angela Phlug and Maddie Shaw-his first casualty-and Courtney Ignatio. As students started running away, he shot Haley Weaver and Brady Pryce, Natalie Zlenko, Emma Alexis, Jada Knight, and Richard Hicks. Then, as the wounded were sobbing and dying all around him, do you know what Peter Houghton did? He sat down in the cafeteria and he had a bowl of Rice Krispies.”

Diana let this information sink in. “When he finished, he picked up his gun and left the cafeteria, shooting Jared Weiner, Whit Obermeyer, and Grace Murtaugh in the hall, and Lucia Ritolli-a French teacher trying to shepherd her students to safety. He stopped off in the boys’ bathroom and shot Steven Babourias, Min Horuka, and Topher McPhee; and then went into the girls’ bathroom and shot Kaitlyn Harvey. He continued upstairs and shot Ed McCabe, the math teacher, John Eberhard, and Trey MacKenzie before reaching the gym and firing at Austin Prokiov, Coach Dusty Spears, Noah James, Justin Friedman, and Drew Girard. Finally, in the locker room, the defendant shot Matthew Royston twice-once in the stomach, and again in the head. You might remember that name-it’s the owner of the car that Peter Houghton bombed at the very beginning of his rampage.”

Diana faced the jury. “This entire spree lasted nineteen minutes in the life of Peter Houghton, but the evidence will show that its effects will last forever. And there’s a lot of evidence, ladies and gentlemen. There are a lot of witnesses, and there’s a lot of testimony to come…but by the end of this trial, you will be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that Peter Houghton purposefully and knowingly, with premeditation, caused the deaths of ten people and attempted to cause the deaths of nineteen others at Sterling High School.”

She walked toward Peter. “In nineteen minutes, you can mow the front lawn, color your hair, watch a third of a hockey game. You can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist. You can fold laundry for a family of five. Or, as Peter Houghton knows…in nineteen minutes, you can bring the world to a screeching halt.”

Jordan walked toward the jury, his hands in his pockets. “Ms. Leven told you that on the morning of March 6, 2007, Peter Houghton walked into Sterling High School with a knapsack full of loaded weapons, and he shot a lot of people. Well, she’s right. The evidence is going to show that, and we don’t dispute it. We know that it’s a tragedy for both the people who died and those who will live with the aftermath. But here’s what Ms. Leven didn’t tell you: when Peter walked into Sterling High School that morning, he had no intention of becoming a mass murderer. He walked in intending to defend himself from the abuse he’d suffered for twelve straight years.