Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

I turn to Howard, who is watching our volley like we’re the Women’s Singles Final at the U.S. Open. “Howard,” I say evenly, “would you step out for a moment so I can speak to our client alone?”

He jerks his chin and slips outside. I turn on Ruth. “What the hell ? Now is not the time to stand on principle. You have to trust me on this. If you get on the stand and start talking about race, you’ll erase the lead we currently have in the jury’s favor. You’ll be talking about issues that will alienate them and make them uncomfortable. Plus, the fact that you’re upset and angry will come through loud and clear and negate any sympathy they have for you right now. I’ve already said everything the jury needs to hear.”

“Except the truth,” Ruth says.

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried to resuscitate that baby. I told you I didn’t touch him at first. I told everyone that. But I did.”

I feel sick to my stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“At first I lied because I thought I was going to lose my job. Then I lied because I didn’t know if I could trust you. And then, every time I tried to tell you the truth, I was so embarrassed that I’d hidden it for this long it got harder and harder.” She takes a deep breath. “This is what I should have told you, the first day we met: I wasn’t supposed to touch the baby; it was in the medical file. But when he went blue, I unwrapped him. I moved him around. I tapped his feet and turned him on his side, all the things you do when you’re trying to get a baby responsive again. Then I heard footsteps and I wrapped him up tight again. I didn’t want anyone seeing me do what I wasn’t supposed to be doing.”

“Why rewrite history, Ruth?” I ask, after a moment. “The jury could hear that and think you tried your hardest. But they could also think you screwed up, and did something that made him die.”

“I want them to know that I did my job,” she says. “You keep telling me this doesn’t have anything to do with the color of my skin-that it’s about my competence. Well, in addition to everything else, I want them to know that I am a good nurse. I tried to save that baby.”

“You have this idea that if you get on the stand, you’ll be able to tell your story and be in control-and that’s not how it works. Odette is going to shred you. She’ll do everything she can to point out that this means you’re a liar.”

Ruth looks at me. “I’d rather they think I’m a liar than a murderer.”

“If you get up there and give a different version than the one we’ve already presented,” I explain carefully, “you lose your credibility. I lose my credibility. I know what’s best for you. There’s a reason we’re called counsel -you’re supposed to listen to me.”

“I’m tired of following orders. Last time I followed orders, I got into this mess.” Ruth folds her arms. “You are putting me on that stand tomorrow,” she says flatly. “Or I’m going to tell the judge that you won’t let me testify.”

And just like that, I know I’m going to lose this case.

–

ONE NIGHT, WHEN Ruth and I were preparing for the trial, we’d been working in my kitchen and Violet had been high on life, running in circles around the house in her underwear and pretending to be a unicorn. Her shrieks punctuated our discussions, and then suddenly the sound wasn’t joy but pain. A moment later, Violet started sobbing, and we both ran to the living room, where Violet was lying on the floor bleeding profusely from the temple.

I felt my knees wobble, but before I could even reach for my daughter, Ruth had her cradled in her arms, and had pressed the bottom of her shirt up to the wound. “Hey now,” she soothed. “What happened?”

“I slipped,” Vi hiccuped, as her blood soaked Ruth’s shirt.

“And I see you’ve got a little cut here,” Ruth said calmly. “One I’m gonna take care of.” She started ordering me around my own house, efficiently getting me to fetch a damp washcloth, antibiotic ointment, and a butterfly bandage from a first aid kit. She never let go of Violet, and she never stopped talking to her. Even when she suggested that we drive to Yale-New Haven to see if maybe a stitch was in order, Ruth was steely, measured, while I continued to freak out, wondering if Violet would have a scar, if I would be flagged by CPS for not watching my kid more closely or letting her run in socks on a slippery wooden floor. When Violet needed two stitches, it wasn’t me she clung to but Ruth, who promised her that if we sang really loud, she wouldn’t feel anything. And so the three of us belted “Let It Go” at the top of our lungs, and Violet never cried. Later that night, when she had a clean bandage on her forehead and was asleep in her bed, I thanked Ruth.

You’re good at what you do, I told her.

I know, she said.

That’s all she wants. To let people know she was treated unfairly because of her race, and for her reputation as a caregiver to remain intact, even if it means it will be tarnished by a guilty verdict.

“Drinking alone,” Micah says, when he comes home from the hospital and finds me in the dark, in the kitchen, with a bottle of Syrah. “That’s the first sign, you know.”

I lift up my glass, and take a long swallow. “Of what?”

“Adulthood, probably,” he admits. “Hard day at the office?”

“It started out great. Legendary, even. And then went to hell very quickly.”

Micah sits down next to me and loosens his tie. “Do you want to talk about it? Or should I get my own bottle?”

I push the Syrah toward him. “I thought I had an acquittal in the bag,” I sigh. “And then Ruth went and decided to ruin it all.”

While he pours himself a glass of wine, I tell him everything. From the way Turk Bauer spouted his rhetoric of hate to the look in his eyes when he came after me; from the rush of adrenaline I got when my motion for judgment of acquittal was granted to Ruth’s admission about resuscitating the baby to the dizzy realization that I had to put Ruth on the stand if she demanded it. Even if it was going to tank my chances of winning my first murder case.

“What am I supposed to do tomorrow?” I ask. “No matter what I ask Ruth on the stand, she’s going to be incriminating herself. And that doesn’t even begin to consider what the prosecutor’s going to do to her on cross.” I shudder, thinking about Odette, who doesn’t even know that this boon is about to be granted. “I can’t believe I was so close,” I say softly. “I can’t believe she’s going to ruin it.”

Micah clears his throat. “Radical thought number one: maybe you need to take yourself out of this equation.”

I’ve drunk enough that he’s a little fuzzy at the edges, so maybe I’ve just misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“ You weren’t close. Ruth was.”

I snort. “That’s semantics. We both win, or we both lose.”

“But she has more at stake than you do,” Micah says gently. “Her reputation. Her career. Her life. This is the first trial that really matters to you, Kennedy. But it’s the only one that matters to Ruth.”

I scrub a hand through my hair. “What’s radical thought number two?”

“What if the best thing for Ruth isn’t winning this case?” Micah replies. “What if the reason this is so important to her isn’t because of what she’s going to say…but rather the fact that she is finally being given the chance to say it?”

Is it worth being able to say what you need to say, if it means you land in prison? If it nets you a conviction? That goes against everything I’ve ever been taught, everything I’ve ever believed.