Jodie Picoult - Nineteen Minutes

Eleanor snickered, and Diana scowled. “What’s that, some kind of code?”

“Yeah, Diana. It’s secret defense attorney language for: Whatever you do, don’t tell the prosecutor what I’m saying.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Diana murmured, and then they were in chambers.

Judge Cormier was already in her robe, ready to start the arraignment. Her arms were folded; she was leaning against her desk. “All right, Counselors, we have a lot of people in the courtroom waiting. What’s the problem?”

Diana glanced at Jordan, but he just raised his eyebrows. If she wanted to poke at the hornet’s nest, that was just fine, but he’d be standing far away when it happened. Let Cormier hold a grudge against the prosecution, not the defense.

“Judge,” Diana said hesitantly, “it’s my understanding that your daughter was in the school at the time of the shooting. In fact, we’ve interviewed her.”

Jordan had to give Cormier credit-she somehow managed to stare Diana down as if the prosecutor hadn’t just presented a valid and disturbing fact, but had said something absolutely ludicrous instead. Like the punch line of a dumb-blonde joke, for example. “I’m quite aware of that,” the judge said. “There were a thousand children in the school at the time of the shooting.”

“Of course, Your Honor. I just…I wanted to ask before we got out there in front of everyone whether the court was planning to just handle the arraignment, or if you’re planning to sit during the whole case?”

Jordan looked at Diana, wondering why she was so dead sure that Cormier shouldn’t be sitting on this case. What did she know about Josie Cormier that he didn’t?

“As I said, there were thousands of kids in that school. Some of their parents are police officers, some work here at the superior court. One even works in your office, Ms. Leven.”

“Yes, Your Honor…but that particular attorney isn’t handling this case.”

The judge stared at her, calm. “Are you calling my daughter as a witness, Ms. Leven?”

Diana hesitated. “No, Your Honor.”

“Well, I’ve read my daughter’s statement, Counselor, and I don’t see any reason that we can’t proceed.”

Jordan ran through what he knew so far:

Peter had asked about Josie’s welfare.

Josie was present during the shooting.

Josie’s yearbook photo, in the discovery, was the only one that had been marked with the words LET LIVE.

But according to her mother, whatever she told the police wouldn’t affect the case. According to Diana, nothing Josie knew was important enough to make her a witness for the prosecution.

He dropped his gaze, his mind replaying these facts over and over like a loop of videotape.

One that just didn’t make sense.

The former elementary school that was serving as the physical location for Sterling High did not have a cafeteria-little kids ate in their classrooms, at their desks. But somehow this was considered unhealthy for teenagers, so the library had been turned into a makeshift cafeteria. There were no books or shelves there anymore, but the carpet still had ABC’s sprinkled into its weave, and a poster of the Cat in the Hat still hung beside the double doors.

Josie no longer sat with her friends in the cafeteria. It just didn’t feel right-as if some critical mass were missing, and they were likely to be split apart like an atom under pressure. Instead, she sequestered herself in a corner of the library where there were carpeted risers, where she liked to imagine a teacher reading aloud to her kindergartners.

Today, when they’d arrived at school, the television cameras were already waiting. You had to walk right through them to get to the front door. They’d dribbled away over the past week-no doubt there was some tragedy somewhere else for these reporters to cover-but returned in full force to report on the arraignment. Josie had wondered how they were going to hightail it from the school all the way north to the courthouse in time. She wondered how many times in the course of her high school career they would come back. On the last day of school? At the anniversary of the shooting? At graduation? She imagined the People magazine article that would be written in a decade about the survivors of the Sterling High massacre-“Where Are They Now?” Would John Eberhard be playing hockey again, or even walking? Would Courtney’s parents have moved out of Sterling? Where would Josie be?

And Peter?

Her mother was the judge at his trial. Even if she didn’t talk about it with Josie-legally, she couldn’t-it wasn’t as if Josie didn’t know. Josie was caught somewhere between utter relief, knowing her mom would be sitting on the case, and absolute terror. On the one hand, she knew her mother would start piecing together the events of that day, and that meant Josie wouldn’t have to talk about it herself. On the other hand, once her mother did start piecing together the events of that day, what else would she figure out?

Drew walked into the library, tossing an orange up in the air and catching it repeatedly in his fist. He glanced around at the pods of students, settled in small groups on the carpet with their hot lunch trays balanced on their knees like the bows of crickets, and then spotted Josie. “What’s up?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

“Not much.”

“Did the jackals get you?”

He was talking about the television reporters. “I sort of ran past them.”

“I wish they’d all just go fuck themselves,” Drew said.

Josie leaned her head against the wall. “I wish it would all just go back to normal.”

“Maybe after the trial.” Drew turned to her. “Is it weird, you know, with your mom and all?”

“We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about anything, really.” She picked up her bottled water and took a sip, so that Drew wouldn’t realize that her hand was shaking.

“He’s not crazy.”

“Who?”

“Peter Houghton. I saw his eyes that day. He knew exactly what the hell he was doing.”

“Drew, shut up,” Josie sighed.

“Well, it’s true. Doesn’t matter what some hotshot fucking lawyer says to try to get him off the hook.”

“I think that’s something the jury gets to decide, not you.”

“Jesus Christ, Josie,” he said. “Of all people, I wouldn’t think you’d want to defend him.”

“I’m not defending him. I’m just telling you how the legal system works.”

“Well, thanks, Marcia Clark. But somehow you give less of a damn about that when you’re the one with a slug being pulled out of your shoulder. Or when your best friend-or your boyfriend-is bleeding to death in front of-” He broke off abruptly as Josie fumbled her bottle of water, soaking herself and Drew.

“Sorry,” she said, mopping up the mess with a napkin.

Drew sighed. “Me, too. I guess I’m a little freaked out, with the cameras and everything.” He tore off a piece of the damp napkin and stuck it in his mouth, then tossed the spitball at the back of an overweight boy who carried the tuba in the school marching band.

Oh my God, Josie thought. Nothing’s changed at all. Drew tore off another piece of napkin and rolled it in his palm. “Stop it,” Josie said.

“What?” Drew shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted to go back to normal.”

There were four television cameras in the courtroom: ABC, NBC, CBS, and CNN; plus reporters from Time, Newsweek, The New York Times, The Boston Globe, and the Associated Press. The media had met with Alex last week in chambers, so that she could decide who would be represented in the courtroom while the others waited outside on the steps of the courthouse. She was aware of the tiny red lights on the cameras that indicated they were recording; of the scratch of pens on paper as the reporters wrote down her words verbatim. Peter Houghton had become infamous, and as a result of that, Alex would now have her fifteen minutes of fame. Maybe sixty, Alex thought. It would take her that long to simply read through all the charges.