Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

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With richly layered characters and a gripping moral dilemma that will lead readers to question everything they know about privilege, power, and race, Small Great Things is the stunning new page-turner from #1 New York Times bestselling author Jodi Picoult.
"[Picoult] offers a thought-provoking examination of racism in America today, both overt and subtle. Her many readers will find much to discuss in the pages of this topical, moving book." – Booklist (starred review)
Ruth Jefferson is a labor and delivery nurse at a Connecticut hospital with more than twenty years' experience. During her shift, Ruth begins a routine checkup on a newborn, only to be told a few minutes later that she's been reassigned to another patient. The parents are white supremacists and don't want Ruth, who is African American, to touch their child. The hospital complies with their request, but the next day, the baby goes into cardiac distress while Ruth is alone in the nursery. Does she obey orders or does she intervene?
Ruth hesitates before performing CPR and, as a result, is charged with a serious crime. Kennedy McQuarrie, a white public defender, takes her case but gives unexpected advice: Kennedy insists that mentioning race in the courtroom is not a winning strategy. Conflicted by Kennedy's counsel, Ruth tries to keep life as normal as possible for her family – especially her teenage son – as the case becomes a media sensation. As the trial moves forward, Ruth and Kennedy must gain each other's trust, and come to see that what they've been taught their whole lives about others – and themselves – might be wrong.
With incredible empathy, intelligence, and candor, Jodi Picoult tackles race, privilege, prejudice, justice, and compassion – and doesn't offer easy answers. Small Great Things is a remarkable achievement from a writer at the top of her game.
Praise for Small Great Things
"Small Great Things is the most important novel Jodi Picoult has ever written… It will challenge her readers… [and] expand our cultural conversation about race and prejudice." – The Washington Post
"A novel that puts its finger on the very pulse of the nation that we live in today… a fantastic read from beginning to end, as can always be expected from Picoult, this novel maintains a steady, page-turning pace that makes it hard for readers to put down." – San Francisco Book Review
"A gripping courtroom drama… Given the current political climate it is quite prescient and worthwhile… This is a writer who understands her characters inside and out." – Roxane Gay, The New York Times Book Review
"I couldn't put it down. Her best yet!" – New York Times bestselling author Alice Hoffman
"A compelling, can't-put-it-down drama with a trademark [Jodi] Picoult twist." – Good Housekeeping
"It's Jodi Picoult, the prime provider of literary soul food. This riveting drama is sure to be supremely satisfying and a bravely thought-provoking tale on the dangers of prejudice." – Redbook
"Jodi Picoult is never afraid to take on hot topics, and in Small Great Things, she tackles race and discrimination in a way that will grab hold of you and refuse to let you go… This page-turner is perfect for book clubs." – Popsugar
From the Hardcover edition.

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Which is why, when I dream of Ruth Jefferson for two consecutive nights, I know I’m in trouble.

In the first dream, Ruth and I are having an attorney-client meeting. I ask her the standard set of questions I’d ask of any client, but every time she speaks, it is in a language I don’t understand. It’s not even a language I recognize. Embarrassed, I have to keep asking her to repeat herself. Finally she opens her mouth, and a flock of blue butterflies pours out.

The second night I dream that Ruth has invited me over to dinner. It is the most sumptuous table, with enough food for a football team, and each dish is more delicious than the last. I drink one glass of water, and then another, and a third, and the pitcher is empty. I ask if I can get a refill, and Ruth looks horrified. “I thought you knew,” she says, and when I glance up I realize that we are locked inside a prison cell.

I wake up, dying of thirst. Rolling onto my side, I reach for the glass of water I keep on my nightstand and take a long, cool drink. I feel Micah’s arm slide around my waist and pull me against him. He kisses my neck; his hand slides up my pajama shirt.

“What would you do if I went to prison?” I blurt out.

Micah’s eyes open. “I’m pretty sure since you’re my wife, and over eighteen, this is legal.”

“No.” I roll to face him. “What if I did something…and got convicted?”

“That’s kind of hot.” Micah grins. “Lawyer in prison. Okay, I’ll play. What did you do? Say public indecency. Please say public indecency.” He pulls me flush against him.

“Seriously. What would happen to Violet? How would you explain it to her?”

“K, is this your way of telling me that you actually, finally did kill your boss?”

“It’s a hypothetical.”

“In that case, could we revisit the question in about fifteen minutes?” His eyes darken, and he kisses me.

WHILE MICAH SHAVES, I try to pin my hair into a bun. “Going to court today?” he asks.

His face is still flushed; so is mine. “This afternoon. How did you know?”

“You don’t stick needles into your head unless you’re going to court.”

“They’re bobby pins, and that’s because I’m trying to look professional,” I say.

“You’re too sexy to look professional.”

I laugh. “Let’s hope my clients don’t feel the same way.” I spear a flyaway hair into submission and lean my hip against the sink. “I’m thinking of asking Harry to give me a felony.”

“Great idea,” Micah says with mild sarcasm. “I mean, since you already have five hundred open cases, you should definitely take on one that requires even more time and energy.”

It’s true. Being a public defender means I have nearly ten times as many cases as are recommended by the ABA, and that, on average, I have less than an hour to prepare each case that goes to trial. Most of the time I am working, I do not eat lunch, or take a bathroom break.

“If it makes you feel any better, he probably won’t give it to me.”

Micah clatters his razor against the porcelain. When we were first married, I used to stare at the tiny hairs that dried in the bowl of the sink with wonder, thinking that I might read in them our future the way a psychic would read tea leaves. “Does this sudden ambition have anything to do with the question about you going to prison?”

“Maybe?” I admit.

“Well, I’d much rather you take his case than join him behind bars.”

“Her,” I correct. “It’s Ruth Jefferson. That nurse. I just can’t shake her story.”

Even when a client has done something unlawful, I can find sympathy. I can acknowledge a bad choice was made, but still believe in justice, as long as everyone has equal access to the system-which is exactly why I do what I do.

But with Ruth, there’s something that doesn’t quite add up.

Suddenly Violet comes charging into the bathroom. Micah tightens the towel around his waist, and I tie my robe. “Mommy, Daddy,” she says. “Today I match Minnie.”

She clutches a stuffed Minnie Mouse, and indeed, she has managed to pull on a polka-dotted skirt, yellow sneakers, a red bikini top, and long white tea gloves from the dress-up bin. I look at her, wondering how I am going to explain that she can’t wear a bikini to school.

“Minnie’s a fallen woman,” Micah points out. “I mean, it’s been seventy years. Mickey ought to put a ring on it.”

“What’s a fallen woman?” Violet asks.

I kiss Micah. “I’m going to kill you,” I say pleasantly.

“Ah,” he replies. “So that’s why you’re going to prison.”

AT THE OFFICE, we have a television-a tiny screen that sits between the coffee machine and the can opener. It’s a professional necessity, because of the press coverage our clients sometimes get. But in the mornings, before court is even in session, it’s usually tuned to Good Morning America . Ed has an obsession with Lara Spencer’s wardrobe, and to me, George Stephanopoulos is the perfect balance of hard-hitting reporter and eye candy. We sit through a round of hypothetical polls pitting presidential candidates against one another while Howard makes a fresh pot of coffee, and Ed recounts dinner with his in-laws. His mother-in-law still calls him by the name of his wife’s ex, even though they’ve been married for nine years. “So this time,” Ed says, “she asked me how much toilet paper I use.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Just enough,” Ed replies.

“Why did she even want to know?”

“She said they’re trying to cut back, ” Ed answered. “That they’re on a fixed income . Mind you, they go to Foxwoods three out of four weekends a month, but now we’re rationing the Charmin?”

“Well, that’s crap,” I say, grinning. “See what I did there?”

Robin Roberts is interviewing a portly, middle-aged redhead whose poem was accepted for a highly literary anthology-but only after he submitted it with a Japanese pseudonym. “It was rejected thirty-five times,” the man says. “So I thought maybe I’d be noticed more if my name was more…”

“Colorful?” Roberts supplies.

Ed snorts. “Slow news day.”

Behind me, Howard drops a spoon. It clatters into the sink.

“Why is this even a thing?” Ed asks.

“Because it’s a lie,” I say. “He’s a white insurance adjuster who co-opted someone else’s culture so he could get fifteen minutes of fame.”

“If that were all it took, wouldn’t hundreds of poems by Japanese poets get published every year? Clearly what he wrote was good. How come no one’s talking about that?”

Harry Blatt, my boss, blusters through the break room, his coat a tornado around his legs. “I hate rain,” he announces. “Why didn’t I move to Arizona?” With that greeting, he grabs a cup of coffee and holes himself up in his office.

I follow him, knocking softly on the closed door.

Harry is still hanging up his drenched coat when I enter. “What?” he asks.

“You remember that case I arraigned-Ruth Jefferson?”

“Prostitution?”

“No, she’s the nurse from Mercy-West Haven. Can I take it?”

He settles behind his desk. “Right. The dead baby.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, I stumble to fill the void. “I’ve been practicing for five years, almost. And I feel really connected to this one. I’d like the opportunity to try it.”

“It’s a murder,” Harry says.

“I know. But I really, really think I’m the right public defender for this case,” I say. “And you’re going to have to give me a felony sooner or later.” I smile. “So I’m suggesting sooner.”

Harry grunts. Which is better than a no. “Well, it would be good to have another go-to lawyer for the big cases. But since you’re a rookie, I’ll have Ed second-chair it with you.”

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