Jodie Picoult - Nineteen Minutes

“Mr. Houghton,” Alex said, “you are charged with, on March 6, 2007, a count of first-degree murder, contrary to 631:1-A, in that you purposely caused the death of another, to wit, Courtney Ignatio. You are charged with, on March 6, 2007, a count of first-degree murder, contrary to 631:1-A, in that you purposely caused the death of another, to wit…” She glanced down at the name. “Matthew Royston.”

The words were routine, something Alex could do in her sleep. But she focused on them, on keeping her voice measured and even, on giving weight to the name of each dead child. The gallery was packed full, and Alex could recognize the parents of these students, and some students themselves. One mother, a woman Alex did not know by sight or name, sat in the front row behind the defense table, clutching an 8 x 10 photo of a smiling girl.

Jordan McAfee sat beside his client, who was wearing an orange jail jumpsuit and shackles, and was doing everything he could to avoid looking at Alex as she read the charges.

“You are charged with, on March 6, 2007, a count of first-degree murder, contrary to 631:1-A, in that you purposely caused the death of another, to wit, Justin Friedman….

“You are charged with, on March 6, 2007, a count of first-degree murder, contrary to 631:1-A, in that you purposely caused the death of another, to wit, Christopher McPhee….

“You are charged with, on March 6, 2007, a count of first-degree murder, contrary to 631:1-A, in that you purposely caused the death of another, to wit, Grace Murtaugh….”

The woman with the photo stood up as Alex was reciting the charges. She leaned over the bar, between Peter Houghton and his attorney, and smacked the photograph down so hard that the glass cracked. “Do you remember her?” the woman cried, her voice raw. “Do you remember Grace?”

McAfee whipped around. Peter ducked his head, keeping his eyes trained on the table in front of him.

Alex had had disruptive people in her courtroom before, but she could not remember them stealing her breath away. This mother’s pain seemed to take up all the empty space in the gallery; heat the emotions of the other spectators to a boiling point.

Her hands began to tremble; she slipped them underneath the bench so that nobody could see. “Ma’am,” Alex said. “I’m going to have to ask you to sit down…”

“Did you look her in the face when you shot her, you bastard?”

Did you? Alex thought.

“Your Honor,” McAfee called.

Alex’s ability to judge this case impartially had already been challenged by the prosecution. While she didn’t have to justify her decisions to anyone, she’d just told the attorneys that she could easily separate her personal and her professional involvement in this case. She’d thought it would be a matter of seeing Josie not as her daughter, specifically, but as one of hundreds present during the shooting. She had not realized that it would actually come down to seeing herself not as a judge, but as another mother.

You can do this, she told herself. Just remember why you’re here. “Bailiffs,” Alex murmured, and the two beefy courtroom attendants grabbed the woman by the arms to escort her out of the courtroom.

“You’ll burn in hell,” the woman shouted as the television cameras followed her progress down the aisle.

Alex didn’t. She kept her eyes on Peter Houghton, while his attorney’s attention was distracted. “Mr. McAfee,” she said.

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Please ask your client to hold out his hand.”

“I’m sorry, Judge, but I think there’s already been enough prejudicial-”

“Do it, Counselor.”

McAfee nodded at Peter, who lifted his shackled wrists and opened his fists. Winking in Peter’s palm was a shard of broken glass from the picture frame. Blanching, the attorney reached for the glass. “Thank you, Your Honor,” he muttered.

“Any time.” Alex looked at the gallery and cleared her throat. “I trust there will be no more outbursts like that, or I’ll be forced to close these proceedings to the public.”

She continued reading the charges in a courtroom so quiet you could hear hearts break; you could hear hope fluttering to the rafters on the ceiling. “You are charged with, on March 6, 2007, a count of first-degree murder, contrary to 631:1-A, in that you purposely caused the death of another, to wit, Madeleine Shaw. You are charged with, on March 6, 2007, a count of first-degree murder, contrary to 631:1-A, in that you purposely caused the death of another, to wit, Edward McCabe.

“You are charged with attempted first-degree murder, contrary to 630:1-A and 629:1, in that you did commit an act in furtherance of the offense of first-degree murder, to wit, shooting at Emma Alexis.

“You are charged with possession of firearms on school grounds.

“Possession of explosive devices.

“Unlawful use of an explosive device.

“Receiving stolen goods, to wit, firearms.”

By the time Alex had finished, her voice was hoarse. “Mr. McAfee,” she said, “how does your client plead?”

“Not guilty to all counts, Your Honor.”

A murmur spread virally through the courtroom, something that always happened in the wake of hearing that not-guilty plea, and that always seemed ridiculous to Alex-what was the defendant supposed to do? Say he was guilty?

“Given the nature of the charges, you are not entitled to bail as a matter of law. You are remanded to the custody of the sheriff.”

Alex dismissed court and headed into chambers. Inside, with the door closed, she paced like an athlete coming off a brutal race. If there was anything she was sure of, it was her ability to judge fairly. But if it had been this hard at the arraignment, how would she function when the prosecution began to actually outline the events of that day?

“Eleanor,” Alex said, pressing the intercom button for her clerk, “clear my schedule for two hours.”

“But you-”

“Clear it,” she snapped. She could still see the faces of those parents in the gallery. What they’d lost was written across their faces, a collective scar.

Alex stripped off her robe and headed down the back stairs to the parking lot. Instead of stopping for a cigarette, though, she got into her car. She drove straight to the elementary school and parked in the fire lane. There was one news van still in the teachers’ parking lot, and Alex panicked, until she realized that the license plates were from New York; that the chance of someone recognizing her without her judicial robes on was unlikely.

The only person who had a right to ask Alex to recuse herself was Josie, but Alex knew that ultimately her daughter would understand. It was Alex’s first big case in superior court. It was modeling healthy behavior for Josie herself, to get on with her life again. Alex tried to ignore the last reason she was fighting to stay on this case-the one that pricked like a thorn, like a splinter, rubbing raw no matter which way she came at it: she had a better chance of learning from the prosecution and the defense what her daughter had endured than she ever would from Josie herself.

She walked into the main office. “I need to pick up my daughter,” Alex said, and the school secretary pushed a clipboard toward her, with information to be filled out. STUDENT, Alex read. TIME OUT. REASON. TIME IN.

Josie Cormier, she wrote. 10:45 a.m. Orthodontist.

She could feel the secretary’s eyes on her-clearly the woman wanted to know why Judge Cormier was standing in front of her desk instead of at the courthouse presiding over the arraignment that they were all waiting to hear about. “If you could just send Josie out to the car,” Alex said, and she walked out of the office.

Within five minutes, Josie opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “I don’t have braces.”