Mercy (53 page)

. He gritted out the rest of his response through his teeth. "I did not decide to kill her. Not before we got to Wheelock, not after. Never. She made the de cision."

He did not want to look at Graham. The one thing his attorney had coached h im about was keeping his cool. She wants to make you look violent, he had s aid. She wants the jury to think you lost it that night. Jamie peered up at Graham. He was sitting at the defense table, his head bowed to a blank pad

, his forehead braced by his hand as if he was very tired. Audra smiled condescendingly at Jamie. "Assuming the deceased was going al ong with this, isn't it true that she changed her mind in the moments befo re she died?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Didn't she scratch you repeatedly on the face?"

"Yes, but--"

"Surely that was a clear enough sign for someone who couldn't speak at t he moment," Audra smoothly interrupted. "Why didn't you stop, Mr. MacDon ald?"

Jamie looked at the bobbing faces of the jury, as if he might be able to locat e a friend. "She asked me not to. She didn't trust herself, but she trusted me

. And I'd made a promise to her."

"A promise," Audra said slowly, rolling the word in her mouth like an all-d ay candy. "And didn't you promise in your wedding vows to care for her in s ickness and in health?" She stalked back to the prosecutor's table as Graha m was coming to his feet to object. "Nothing further."

"ITT/"hen Cam woke up in the morning he felt across the bed for Vr Allie, b ut found only smooth sheets. He sat up and rubbed his hands through his hai r, making it stand on end. She was probably downstairs making him breakfast

. He sniffed at the air, but caught only the traces of the rose oil Allie u sed on the sheets.

He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. She'd hear the pipes run, and know that he was up. He stared at himself in the mirror. He had slept with his wife last night. An act that was sanctioned by God and by law, an act that should have put things to rights. But he had not awaken ed relieved. He had a stunning headache, created by the two opposing thought s he could not reconcile: he knew that he would love Mia a little for the re st of his life; he knew that he would live with Allie forever. The two ideas seemed to overlap, jagged edges he was forcing that would never fit in the way of a puzzle.

He had committed himself to saving his marriage because he knew he would n ever have Mia, and because--truth be told--he had never stopped loving All ie. In a way, he even looked forward to putting the whole thing behind him

, and going back to the way his life had been. But as he'd touched Allie l ast night, Cam had realized that his wife was now a stranger. She'd looked the same and

Jodi Picoult

felt the same but gave off a heady wave of confidence and competence that made Cam unsure of his footing.

It floored him. Allie had always been the constant in his life. And although he was in no position to make demands, he wanted the old Allie back. He wan ted to see her look up at him as if he'd created the sun, so he could watch her for clues and see what she still found within him of value. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and went downstairs. He would shower after breakfast. Maybe he could convince Allie to join him, but he had a feeling it would be more difficult to create a peace in the light of day than at nig ht, when it was easier to forget that you were still hurting. "Allie," he ca lled. He looked in the living room and the kitchen. Her pocketbook was gone; so were the keys to her car.

She hadn't left him a note.

He remembered that when they were first married, she would scribble down wh erever she was, however ridiculous, just in case he needed to find her. "Th is is stupid," he had said. "When I come home, if you're not in the house, of course I'll look for you in the backyard. You don't have to bother to te ll me." But Allie had done it anyway. It's what I would want of you, she to ld him.

He had never, to his knowledge, left a note about where he was going or wh en he would be back. He was a policeman, invincible, so nothing bad could happen to him. There were times Allie had called the dispatcher to ask if she knew where he was; times he'd been off-duty at four and had decided to walk the perimeter of the lake to take the edge off a harrowing day, or t o drive through the pass of the mountains toward New York. Allie had been concerned for his safety; he'd sniped that she worried too much. He wished she had left him a note.

Cam walked upstairs and turned on the shower. He let the steam fill the bat hroom until he could not see even his own hand in front of him.

"ITTV'hile Harrison Harding was waiting outside the courtroom Vr that afternoon to be called, he scribbled down a thumbnail sketch of the jury for Graham. He passed this to him minutes before he was called to take the stand as a psychiatric expert for the defense. 379

Graham stared at it as the doctor was being sworn in. Juror #2, staid, a probl em. Juror #3, nervous tic in left eye, conservative, guarded. Juror #5, tie-dy ed blouse, possibly the best. Juror #7, dreadlocks, fair and very involved. Ju ror #11, red dye job, grossly neurotic, unpredictable.

Graham patiently walked Dr. Harding through the pedantic exercise of stating his credentials, done only to impress upon the jury that this in fact was s omeone who was an expert in his field. "How many years have you been in prac tice, Doctor?" he asked, his first real question since Jamie had left the st and.

"Seventeen years."

Graham let the jury file the information away. They were a bit off-kilter to day. From time to time, one member or another would glance at Jamie, either in accusation or to see how he was standing up after yesterday's cross.

"Have you ever testified in court, Doctor?"

"Many times," Harding said. He folded his hands neatly in his lap.

"Can you describe your meetings with Jamie?"

Harding looked directly at Jamie, as if he needed to see into his head to r emember what had passed between them. "Jamie is a reserved man, not one who opens up easily. He spent most of the time during our sessions speaking of his wife Maggie. It is clear from the depth of his detail and his affect w hen discussing her that their relationship was a powerful one, one that hel ped to establish his own sense of self. I believe that Jamie was suffering from a twofold psychological problem. One involved a building fusion fantas y, in which a person's personality is so fragile that he physically connect s himself to someone else. In Jamie's case, this would have been Maggie. Se eing Maggie in pain would have brought pain to Jamie himself, not sympathy as you or I might feel, but a true physical empathy. Likewise, ending Maggi e's suffering would have ended his suffering as well.

"In addition, he suffered from a temporary psychotic reaction brought about by prolonged stress."

"Can you describe that for us?"

"It's a short period of time during which a person behaves in a way that is cl early strange and clearly different from his usual lifestyle. It often include s memory loss, periods of amnesia, and

Jodi Picoult

distortions of reality. In other words, a person might not be aware of what i s happening, even if he's the one making it happen."

"In your professional opinion, Doctor, is Jamie aware of the difference bet ween right and wrong today?"

"Yes."

"And at the time of his wife's death?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Harding crossed his legs. "Jamie was suffering from tremendous amounts of p ressure, which impaired his ability to think clearly and to objectively wei gh a statement made to him by his wife. People who live with a deterioratin g spouse are often struck by prolonged grief that can lead to a more severe depression and a blurring of judgment. In layman's terms, Jamie went over the edge. In my opinion, he was consciously aware of the scope of his actio ns on the night of his wife's death."

Graham thanked Dr. Harding and turned the witness over to Audra Campbell. She stood up, put her finger to her lips, and then peered at him a little more closely. Then a smile broke across her face. "Dr. Harding!" she cried

, as if she were seeing an old friend. "Haven't I seen your name before? I n Time magazine? The Kevorkian case?"

Harding puffed up visibly, his shoulders becoming three inches taller and h is chest expanding with a deep, indrawn breath. "That's right," he said. "N

ovember 1995."

Audra nodded at him like she was clearly impressed. "Isn't it true, Dr. Hardi ng, that you've testified at numerous cases advocating the right to die?"

"Yes, I have."

"Isn't it possible that your interpretation of the defendant's understanding o f right and wrong is actually your own personal justification for his act?" Graham watched the wind sink out of Harding's sails. "No, of course not."

"Nothing further."

Audra sat down and shot Graham a smug glance. He stood up wearily, his hand on Jamie's shoulder, unsure if he was giving or asking for support. "The d efense rests," he said.

381

Cam brought Allie a cup of coffee. She was speaking to his mother with her back to him, so there was no possible way she could see that he was comin g, but when he placed his hand on her arm, she stiffened. Ellen glanced up at her son, finished her sentence, and said she was going to the ladies' room.

"I missed you this morning," Cam said. He felt ridiculous, nervous. His han ds were shaking.

Allie nodded. She took a sip of the coffee, mentally noting that Cam had ad ded sugar, and she never took sugar.

"So," he said, cutting with his eyes to the door of the courtroom. "Almost ov er."

"It may be some time. Graham says the State will put up a rebuttal witness. Their own psychologist."

Cam nodded. He felt bad for Jamie, but he didn't want to talk about him rig ht now. He lowered his voice. "Any regrets? " he asked. Allie looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and clear, the color of oak. "I lo ve you, Cam," she said frankly. "But I still don't like you very much." The State called Roanoke Martin to the stand Graham watched him mount the s tairs and place his palm over the Bible. It was clear from the set of his h ead and the slouch in his walk that he wanted to be somewhere else. Audra walked the psychologist through his credentials. Then, all business, she stood squarely in front of him, blocking him from Graham's view. "Whe n did you meet with the defendant?"

"On December nineteenth, last year."

"And can you give us your evaluation?"

"The defendant clearly understood right from wrong, and suffered no break f rom reality."

Audra nodded shortly. "Doctor, on the night of the killing, in your expert opinion, did the defendant know that holding a pillow to someone's face wou ld lead to asphyxiation?"

"Yes."

"Did he know that asphyxiation would lead to death?"

"Yes."

Audra glanced at the jury. "Based on your conversation with Jodi Picoult

the defendant, on the night of the killing, do you feel that he was insane?"

"No," Martin said firmly. "I do not."

"Your witness." Audra marched back to the prosecution table and began to clo se folders and files as if she had the case all wrapped up. Graham stood slowly. "Do you recall what time Jamie arrived at your office

?"

Martin furrowed his brow, exhibiting enormous concentration. "I'm not sure. I can look it up in my notes."

"Please."

Graham paced while Dr. Martin flipped through a black leatherbound book he had pulled from his breast pocket. "12:05 p.m.," he said.

"Can you tell me without looking at your notes how long the meeting lasted

?"

The psychologist blinked owlishly at Graham. "I can't recall," he said.

"Would it help you to check your notes?" Graham said, indulgent. Martin scanned several pages. "It concluded at 12:23 p.m."

"You had eighteen minutes with Jamie."

"Yes, apparently."

"Did you discuss the night in question?"

"Yes."

"Did you discuss his wife's illness?"

"Briefly."

"Did you cover the prospects for her recovery?"

"I can't recall."

By this point, Graham had advanced on the witness so that he was bent back u nder the force of the attorney's questions. "Did you explore their relations hip?"

"Possibly," the doctor said, somewhat faintly.

Graham let out a long whistle through his front teeth. He stuck his hands de ep into his pockets. "You mean to tell me you did all this in eighteen minut es? And based on this no doubt thorough conversation with Jamie, you feel qu alified to judge his mental state?"

383

Roanoke Martin tipped his chin up. "Yes," he said.

"Isn't it true that you listened to Jamie that day, and took into considerati on his answers and his affect on that day, and reached a conclusion about his mental state based on what was right before your eyes?"

"Well," Martin said, "of course that entered into it--"

"Nothing further."

Graham went back to his seat.

/t was Friday, and everyone in the legal community knew Juno Roarke liked to get out as early as he could Friday and go to the dog track, so it wa s no surprise when the judge dismissed the jury and announced that summat ions would begin on Monday morning. No surprise, but simply a disappointm ent.

Graham loaded his file into his briefcase. Jamie was still sitting beside him.

"That's the end of the show?" he asked.

"That's it," Graham said. Summations didn't count. The prosecution had the last word then, anyway. "I just wish he hadn't broken off today. It means a nother weekend of waiting for you."

Jamie shrugged. He didn't say anything, but Graham knew what he was think ing. Another weekend you're still free.

"You've got a ride?" Graham asked.

Jamie nodded. He told Graham to have a nice weekend. Then he turned around

. Most of the spectators had filed out the door a few minutes before. Alli e and Cam were gone. Ellen was sitting by herself on the bench behind him.

"I didn't know you were still here," he said, smiling at her.