House Rules (30 page)

Nothing further, Helen says.

I am about to tell the judge that the defense rests when, instead, something else entirely pops out of my mouth. Mr. Soto, I ask, getting to my feet, would you agree that there is a difference between a true understanding of the law and a photographic memory of the law?

Yes. That‘s exactly the difference between someone with Asperger‘s and someone who truly understands Miranda rights.

Thank you, Mr. Soto, you can step down, I say, and I turn back to the judge. I‘d like to call Jacob Hunt to the stand.

Nobody is happy with me.

During the recess I asked for before Jacob‘s testimony, I told him that all he had to do was answer a few questions. That it was okay to speak out loud when I asked questions, or if the judge or Helen Sharp asked questions, but that he shouldn‘t say anything other than the answers to those questions.

In the meantime, Emma danced around us in circles, as if she was trying to find the best spot to sink her knife into me. You can‘t put Jacob on the stand, she argued. That‘s going to traumatize him. What if he breaks down? How‘s that going to look?

That, I said, would be the best that could possibly happen.

That shut her up pretty quickly.

Now, Jacob is visibly nervous. He‘s rocking on the chair in the witness stand, and his head is bent at some strange angle. Can you tell us your name? I ask.

Jacob nods.

Jacob, you have to speak out loud. The stenographer‘s writing down your words, and she has to be able to hear you. Can you tell me your name?

Yes, he says. I can.

I sigh. What is your name?

Jacob Hunt.

How old are you?

Eighteen.

Jacob, do you know what the Miranda warning says?

Yes.

Can you tell me?

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against
you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney
present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you
at government expense.

Now, Jacob, I ask, do you know what that means?

Objection, Helen argues as Jacob starts to hit his fist against the side of the witness box.

I‘ll withdraw the question, I say. Jacob, can you tell me what the Second Amendment to the Constitution says?

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of
the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed,
Jacob recites.

Atta boy,
I think. What does that mean, Jacob?

He hesitates.
You‘ll shoot your eye out, kid!

The judge frowns. Isn‘t that from
A Christmas Story
?

Yes, Jacob replies.

Jacob, you don‘t know what the Second Amendment really means, do you?

Yes, I do:
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State,
the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.

I look at the judge. Your Honor, nothing further.

Helen is already on the prowl. I watch Jacob shrink back in his seat. Did you know Detective Matson wanted to talk to you about what happened to Jess?

Yes.

Were you willing to talk to him about that?

Yes.

Can you tell me what it means to waive your rights?

I hold my breath as Jacob hesitates. And then slowly, beautifully, the right fist he‘s been banging against the wooden railing unfurls and is raised over his head, moving back and forth like a metronome.

Emma

I was furious when Oliver pulled this stunt. Wasn‘t he the one who‘d said putting Jacob on the witness stand would only be detrimental to the trial? Even if it was a judge here, not a jury of twelve, Jacob was bound to suffer. Thrusting him into a situation certain to make him have a meltdown simply for the sake of being able to say to the judge,
See, I told you
so,
seemed cruel and pointless, the equivalent of jumping off a building in order to command attention, which you‘d be too dead to enjoy in the aftermath. But Jacob rose to the occasion granted, with stims and tics. He didn‘t freak out, not even when that Dragon Lady of a prosecutor started in on him. I have never been so proud of him.

I‘ve listened to all the evidence, Judge Cuttings says. I‘ve observed the defendant, and I do not believe that he voluntarily waived his Miranda rights. I also believe that Detective Matson was on notice that this defendant has a developmental disorder and yet did nothing to address that disability. I‘m going to grant the motion to suppress the defendant‘s statement at the police station.

Once the judge leaves, Oliver turns around and gives me a high five as Helen Sharp begins to pack up her briefcase. I‘m sure you‘ll be in touch, Helen says to Oliver.

So what does it mean? I ask.

She‘s going to have to make her case without Jacob‘s confession. Which means that the prosecutor‘s job just got a lot harder.

So it‘s good.

It‘s
very
good, Oliver says. Jacob, you were perfect up there.

Can we go? Jacob asks. I‘m starving.

Sure. Jacob stands up and starts walking down the aisle. Thanks, I say to Oliver, and I fall into place beside my son. I am halfway up the aisle when I turn around.

Oliver is whistling to himself, pulling on his overcoat. If you want to join us for lunch tomorrow … Fridays are blue, I tell him.

He looks up at me. Blue? That‘s a tough one. Once you get past the blueberries and yogurt and blue Jell-O, what‘s left?

Blue corn chips. Blue potatoes. Blue Popsicles. Bluefish.

That‘s not technically blue, Oliver points out.

True, I reply, but it‘s still allowed.

Blue Gatorade‘s always been my favorite, he says.

On the way home, Jacob reads the newspaper out loud from his spot in the backseat.

They‘re building a new bank downtown, but it‘s going to eliminate forty parking spaces,

he tells me. A guy was taken to Fletcher Allen after he crashed his motorcycle into a snow fence. He flips the page. What‘s today?

Thursday.

His voice races with excitement. Tomorrow at three o‘clock Dr. Henry Lee is going to be speaking at the University of New Hampshire, and the public is welcome!

Why is that name familiar?

Mom, Jacob says, he‘s only the most famous forensic scientist ever. He‘s worked on thousands of cases, like the suicide of Vince Foster and JonBenét Ramsey‘s murder and the O. J. Simpson trial. There‘s a phone number here for information. He starts rummaging in my purse for my cell phone.

What are you doing?

Calling for tickets.

I glance at him in the rearview mirror. Jacob. We cannot go see Dr. Lee. You aren‘t allowed to leave your house, much less the state.

I left the house today.

That‘s different. You went to court.

You don‘t understand. This is
Henry Lee.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I‘m not asking to go out to a movie. There‘s got to be something Oliver can do to get a furlough or something for the day.

I don‘t think so, babe.

So you‘re not even going to try? You‘re just going to assume that the answer‘s no?

That‘s right, I tell him, since the alternative to having you under house arrest is being thrown back in jail. And I am a hundred percent sure that the warden would not have given you a day pass to see Henry Lee speak, either.

I bet he
would,
if you told him who Henry Lee was.

This isn‘t up for discussion, Jacob, I say.

You
left the house yesterday …

That‘s completely different.

Why? The judge said you had to watch over me at all times.

Me, or another adult

See, he already made exceptions for
you

Because I wasn‘t the one who Realizing what I am about to say, I snap my mouth shut.

Who what? Jacob‘s voice is tight. Who
killed
someone?

I turn in to our driveway. I didn‘t say that, Jacob.

He stares out the window. You didn‘t have to.

Before I can stop him, he jumps out of the car while I‘m still pulling to a stop. He runs past Theo, who stands at the front door with his arms crossed. A strange car is parked in the driveway, with a man behind the wheel.

I tried to get him to leave, Theo says, but he said he would wait for you. With that information, he goes back into the house and leaves me face-to-face with a small, balding man with a goatee shaved in the shape of a W. Ms. Hunt? he says. I‘m Farley McDuff, the founder of Neurodiversity Nation. Maybe you‘ve heard of us?

I‘m afraid I haven‘t …

It‘s a blog for people who believe that atypical neurological development is a matter of simple human difference and, as such, should be celebrated instead of cured.

Look, this isn‘t a very good time right now

There‘s no time like the present, Ms. Hunt, for those in the autism community to stand up for the respect they deserve. Instead of having neurotypicals try to destroy diversity, we believe in a new world where neurological plurality is accepted.

Neurotypical, I repeat.

Another word for what‘s colloquially called ‗normal,‘ he says. Like you. He smiles at me, but he cannot hold my gaze for more than a heartbeat. He thrusts a pamphlet into my hand.

MAJORITISM An unrecognized condition.

Majoritism is an incapacitating developmental condition which affects 99% of the
population in areas of mental function, including self-awareness, attention, emotional
capacity, and sensory development. The effects begin at birth and cannot be cured. Luckily,
the number of those afflicted by majoritism is decreasing,as a better understanding of
autism emerges.

You‘ve got to be kidding me, I say. I step around him, intent on getting inside my house.

Why is it so delusional to think that a person who feels someone else‘s grief or pain isn‘t hampered by that excess of emotion? Or that imitating others in order to fit in to the crowd is more acceptable than doing what interests you at any given moment? Why isn‘t it considered rude to look a total stranger in the eye when you first meet him, or to invade his personal space by shaking hands? Couldn‘t it be considered a flaw to veer off topic based on a comment someone else makes instead of sticking to your original subject?

Or to be oblivious when something in your environment changes like a piece of clothing that gets moved from a drawer to a closet?

That makes me think of Jacob. I really have to go

Ms. Hunt, we think that we can help your son.

I hesitate. Really?

Do you know who Darius McCollum is?

No.

He‘s a man from Queens, New York, who has a passion for anything transit-related. He wasn‘t much older than Jacob the first time he took over the E train headed from the World Trade Center to Herald Square. He‘s taken city buses out for a spin.

He tripped the emergency brakes on an N train and impersonated a transit worker in uniform in order to fix it himself. He‘s posed as a railroad safety consultant. He‘s been convicted more than nineteen times. He also has Asperger‘s.

A shiver goes down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. Why are you telling me this?

Do you know of John Odgren? At age sixteen he stabbed a student to death at a suburban high school in Sudbury, Massachusetts. He‘d previously had knives and a fake handgun confiscated at school but didn‘t have a history of violent behavior. He has Asperger‘s, and a special interest in weapons. But as a result of the stabbing, the link between Asperger‘s and violence was raised when in fact medical experts say there‘s no known link between Asperger‘s and violence, and in fact kids diagnosed with the disorder are far more likely to be teased as victims than to be perpetrators themselves. He takes a step forward. We can help you. We can rally the autistic community to spread the word.

Imagine all the mothers who‘ll stand behind you, once they realize their own autistic children might be targeted by neurotypicals once again not just to be ‗fixed‘ this time around but possibly to be charged with murder over what might otherwise be a misunderstanding.

I want to say that Jacob is innocent, but God help me I can‘t make the words come out of my mouth. I don‘t want my son to be the poster child for
anything.
I just want my life to go back to the way it used to be. Mr. McDuff, please get off my property, or I‘ll call the police.

How convenient that they‘d already know the quickest route here, he says, but he moves back toward his car. He hesitates at the door, a small, sad smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. It‘s a neurotypical world, Ms. Hunt. We‘re just taking up space in it.

I find Jacob at his computer. Tickets are thirty-five dollars each, he says, without turning to face me.

Have you ever heard of a group called Neurodiversity Nation?

No. Why?

I shake my head and sit down on his bed. Never mind.

According to MapQuest, it will take three hours and eighteen minutes to get there.

To get where? I ask.

UNH? Remember? Dr. Henry Lee? He pivots in his chair.

You can‘t go, Jacob. Period. I‘m very sorry, but I‘m sure Dr. Lee will be speaking again sometime in the future.

Will you be in prison then?

The thought jumps into my head like a cricket onto a picnic blanket, and it is equally unwelcome. I walk toward his desk and stare down at him. I need to ask you something, I say quietly. I need to ask you, because I haven‘t, and I need to hear your voice saying the answer. Jess is dead, Jacob. Did you kill her?

His face collapses around a frown. I did
not.

The breath I have not realized I am holding rushes out of me. I throw my arms around Jacob, who stiffens in the sudden embrace. Thank you, I whisper. Thank you for that.

Jacob doesn‘t lie to me. He can‘t. He tries, but it is so blatantly obvious that all I have to do is give a beat of silence before he caves in and admits the truth.