All of this progress, and it will be erased at a competency hearing.
In the park behind us, a toddler lies on his back making a snow angel. The problem with one of those is that you have to ruin it when you stand up. No matter what, there is always a footprint binding you to the ground. "Fisher," I say simply, "I'm going to jail."
"You don't-"
"Fisher. Please." I touch his arm. "I can handle that. I even believe that it's what I deserve, because of what I did. But I killed a man for one reason and one reason only-to keep Nathaniel from being hurt any more. I don't want him to think about what happened to him ever again. If Quentin wants to punish someone, he can punish me. But Nathaniel, he's off limits."
He sighs. "Nina, I'll do the best I can-"
"You don't understand," I interrupt. "That's not good enough."
Because Judge Neal hails from Portland, he doesn't have chambers at the Alfred Superior Court, so he's been given another judge's lair to borrow for the duration of my trial. Judge Mclntyre, however, spends his free time hunting. To this end, the small room is decorated with the heads of moose and ten-point bucks, prey that has lost the battle. And me? I think. Will I be next?
Fisher has filed a motion, and the resulting meeting is being held in private chambers to prevent the media from getting involved. "Judge, this is so outrageous," he says, "that I can't begin to express my absolute chagrin. The state has Father Szyszynski's death on videotape. What possible need do they have for this child to testify to anything?"
"Mr. Brown?" the judge prompts.
"Your Honor, the alleged rationale for the murder was the boy's psychiatric condition at the time, and the fact that the defendant believed her son had been the victim of molestation at the hands of Father Szyszynski. The state has learned that, in fact, this is not the truth. It's important that the jury get to hear what Nathaniel actually told his mother before she went out and killed this man."
The judge shakes his head. "Mr. Carrington, it's going to be very difficult for me to quash a subpoena if the state alleges they can make it relevant. Now, once we're in trial, I may be able to rule that it's not relevant at all-but as it stands now, this witness's testimony goes to motive."
Fisher tries once again. "If the state will submit a written allegation of what they believe the child's testimony to be, maybe we can stipulate to it, so that Nathaniel doesn't have to take the stand."
"Mr. Brown, that seems reasonable," the judge says.
"I disagree. Having this witness, in the flesh, is critical to my case."
There is a moment of surprised silence. "Think twice, counselor," Judge Neal urges.
"I have, Your Honor, believe me."
Fisher looks at me, and I know exactly what he is about to do. His eyes are dark with sympathy, but he waits for me to nod before he turns to the judge again. "Judge, if the state is going to be this inflexible, then we need a competency hearing. We're talking about a child who's been rendered mute twice in the past six weeks."
The judge will leap at this compromise, I know. I also know that of all the defense attorneys I've seen in action, Fisher is one of the most compassionate toward children during competency hearings. But he won't be, not this time. Because the best-case scenario, now, is to get the judge to declare Nathaniel not competent, so that he will not have to suffer through a whole trial. And the only way Fisher can do that is to actively try to make Nathaniel fall to pieces.
Fisher has kept it to himself, but his personal opinion is that art is beginning to imitate life. That is, his insanity defense for Nina-a complete fabrication at first-is starting to hit quite close to the mark. To keep her from dissolving after the motions hearing this morning, he took her out to lunch in a swanky restaurant, a place where she was less likely to have a breakdown. He had her tell him all the questions the prosecutor would ask Nathaniel on the stand, questions she'd asked child witnesses a thousand times.
The courthouse is dark now, empty except for the custodial staff, Caleb, Nathaniel, and Fisher. They move down the hall quietly, Nathaniel clutched in his father's arms.
"He's a little nervous," Caleb says, clearing his throat.
Fisher ignores the comment. He might as well be walking a tightrope ten thousand feet above the ground. The last thing he wants to do is deal harshly with the boy; but then again, if he's too solicitous, Nathaniel might feel comfortable enough at the hearing to be declared competent to stand trial. Either way, Nina will have his head.
Inside the court, Fisher switches on the overhead lights. They hiss, then flood the room with a garish brilliance. Nathaniel burrows closer to his father, his face pressed into the big man's shoulder. Where is a roll of Turns when you need it?
"Nathaniel," Fisher says tersely, "I need you to go sit in that chair. Your father is going to be in the back. He can't say anything to you, and you can't say anything to him. You just have to answer my questions. You understand?"
The boy's eyes are as wide as the night. He follows Fisher to the witness stand, then scrambles onto the stool that has been placed inside. "Get down for a second." Fisher reaches inside and takes out the stool, replacing it with a low chair. Now, Nathaniel's brow does not even clear the lip of the witness stand.
"I ... I can't see anything," Nathaniel whispers.
"You don't need to."
Fisher is about to begin asking practice questions when a sound distracts him-Caleb, methodically gathering every high stool in the courtroom, corralling them near the double doors. "I thought maybe these might be ... better off somewhere else. So they're not around first thing in the morning." He meets Fisher's gaze.
The attorney nods. "The closet. One of the janitors can lock them up."
When he turns back to the boy, he has to work to keep a smile off his face.
