Jodie Picoult - Nineteen Minutes

Jordan knew Sterling High. It was just down the street from his barber and two blocks away from the room over the bank he rented as his law office. He had represented a few students who’d been busted with pot in their glove compartments or who got caught drinking underage at the college in town. Selena, who was not only his wife but also his investigator, had gone into the school to talk to kids from time to time about a case.

They hadn’t lived here very long. His son Thomas-the only good thing to come out of his lousy first marriage-graduated from high school in Salem Falls and was now a sophomore at Yale, where Jordan spent $40,000 a year to hear that he had narrowed down his career plans to becoming either a performance artist, an art historian, or a professional clown. Jordan had finally asked Selena to marry him, and after she’d gotten pregnant, they’d moved to Sterling-because the school district had such a good reputation.

Go figure.

When the telephone rang and Jordan-who didn’t want to watch the coverage but couldn’t tear his eyes away from it either-made no motion to answer it, Selena dumped the baby in his arms and reached for the receiver. “Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”

Jordan glanced up and raised his brows.

Thomas, Selena mouthed. “Yeah, hang on, he’s right here.”

He took the phone from Selena. “What the hell is going on?” Thomas asked. “Sterling High’s all over MSNBC.com.”

“I don’t know any more than you do,” Jordan said. “It’s pandemonium.”

“I know some kids there. We competed against them in track and field. It’s just-it’s not real.”

Jordan could still hear ambulance sirens in the distance. “It’s real,” he said. There was a click on the line-call-waiting. “Hang on, I have to take this.”

“Is this Mr. McAfee?”

“Yes…”

“I, um, understand that you’re an attorney. I got your name from Stuart McBride over at Sterling College…”

On the television, a list of the names of the known dead began to scroll, with yearbook pictures. “You know, I’m on the other line,” Jordan said. “Could I take down your name and number, and get back to you?”

“I was wondering if you’d represent my son,” the caller said. “He’s the boy who…the one from the high school who…” The voice stumbled, and then broke. “They say my son’s the one who did it.”

Jordan thought of the last time he’d represented a teenage boy. Like this one, Chris Harte had been found holding a smoking gun.

“Will you…will you take his case?”

Jordan forgot about Thomas, waiting. He forgot about Chris Harte and how the case had nearly turned him inside out. Instead he looked at Selena and the baby in her arms. Sam twisted, grabbing at her earring. This boy-the one who had walked into Sterling High this morning and committed a massacre-was someone’s son. And in spite of a town that would be reeling for years, and media coverage that had already reached the point of saturation, he deserved a fair trial.

“Yes,” Jordan said. “I will.”

Finally-after the bomb squad had dismantled the pipe bomb in Peter Houghton’s car; after one hundred and sixteen shell casings had been found scattered in the school from fired bullets; after the accident recon guys had begun to measure the evidence and the location of the bodies so that they could produce a scale diagram of the scene; after the crime techs had taken the first of hundreds of snapshots that they would put into indexed photo-books-Patrick called everyone together into the auditorium of the school and stood on the stage in the near darkness. “What we have is a massive amount of information,” he told the crowd assembled before him. “There’s going to be a lot of pressure on us to do this fast, and to do this right. I want everyone back here in twenty-four hours, so that we can see where we’re at.”

People began to disperse. At the next meeting, Patrick would be given the completed photo-books, all evidence not being sent to the lab, and all lab submissions. In twenty-four hours, he’d be buried so far underneath the avalanche he wouldn’t know which way was up.

While the others headed back to various parts of the building to complete the work that would take them all night and the next day, Patrick walked out to his car. It had stopped raining. Patrick planned to go back to the station to review the evidence that had been seized from the Houghtons’ home, and he wanted to talk to the parents, if they were still willing. But he found himself pointing his car instead toward the medical center, and he pulled into the parking lot. He walked into the emergency entrance and flashed his badge. “Look,” he said to the nurse, “I know you had a lot of kids come through here today. But one of the first was a girl named Josie. I’m trying to find her.”

The nurse fluttered her hands over her computer keyboard. “Josie who?”

“That’s the thing,” Patrick admitted. “I don’t know.”

The screen swam with a flurry of information, and the nurse tapped her finger against the glass. “Cormier. She’s up on the fourth floor, Room 422.”

Patrick thanked her and took the elevator upstairs. Cormier. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. It was common enough, he figured-maybe he’d read it in the paper or seen it on a television show. He slipped past the nurses’ desk and followed the numbers down the hall. The door to Josie’s room was ajar. The girl sat up in bed, wrapped in shadows, talking to a figure that stood beside her.

Patrick knocked softly and stepped into the room. Josie stared at him blankly; the woman beside her turned around.

Cormier, Patrick realized. As in Judge Cormier. He’d been called to testify in her courtroom a few times before she became a superior court judge; he’d gone to her for warrants as a last resort-after all, she came from a public defender’s background, which in Patrick’s mind meant that even if she now was scrupulously fair, she still had once played for the other side.

“Your Honor,” he said. “I didn’t realize Josie was your daughter.” He approached the bed. “How are you doing?”

Josie stared at him. “Do I know you?”

“I’m the one who carried you out-” He stopped as the judge put her hand on his arm and drew him out of Josie’s range of hearing.

“She doesn’t remember anything that happened,” the judge whispered. “She thinks for some reason that she was in a car accident…and I…” Her voice trailed off. “I haven’t been able to tell her the truth.”

Patrick understood-when you loved someone, you didn’t want to be the one who brought their world crashing down. “Would you like me to do it?”

The judge hesitated, and then nodded gratefully. Patrick faced Josie again. “You all right?”

“My head hurts. The doctors said I have a concussion and have to stay overnight.” She looked up at him. “I guess I ought to thank you for rescuing me.” Suddenly, a flicker of intention crossed her face. “Do you know what happened to Matt? The guy who was in the car with me?”

Patrick sat down on the edge of the hospital bed. “Josie,” he said gently, “you weren’t in a car accident. There was an incident at your school-a student came in and started shooting people.”

Josie shook her head, trying to dislodge the words.

“Matt was one of the victims.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Is he okay?”

Patrick looked down at the soft waffle weave of the blanket between them. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Josie said. “No. You’re lying to me.” She struck out at Patrick, clipping him across the face and chest. The judge rushed forward, trying to hold her daughter back, but Josie was wild-shrieking, crying, clawing, drawing the attention of the nursing staff down the hall. Two of them flew into the room on white wings, shooing out Patrick and Judge Cormier, while they administered a sedative to Josie.