Fisher turns to the witness. "Then is it any wonder in your mind, Ms. Martine, that she did?"
"Of course Quentin objected," Fisher says, his mouth full of pepperoni pizza. "That's not the point. The point is that I didn't withdraw the question before I dismissed the witness. The jury's going to notice that nuance."
"You are giving far too much credit to a jury," I argue. "I'm not saying the cross wasn't fantastic, Fisher, it was. But . . . watch it, you're going to get sauce on your tie."
He looks down, then flips the tie over his shoulder and laughs. "You're a riot, Nina. At what point during this trial do you think you might actually start to root for the defense?"
Never, I think. Maybe it is easier for Fisher, a defense attorney, to come up with rationalizations for why people do the things they do. After all, when you have to stand up next to felons on a daily basis and fight for their freedom, you either convince yourself they had some excuse for committing a crime ... or you tell yourself this is nothing but a job, and if you lie on their behalf it's all in the name of billable hours. After seven years as a prosecutor, the world looks very black and white. Granted, it was easy enough to persuade myself that I was morally righteous when I believed I'd killed a child molester. But to be absolved of murdering a man who was blameless-well, even Johnnie Cochran must have nightmares every now and then.
"Fisher?" I ask quietly. "Do you think I ought to be punished?"
He wipes his hands on a napkin. "Would I be here if I did?"
"For what you're making, you'd probably stand in the middle of a gladiator's ring."
Smiling, he meets my eye. "Nina, relax. I will get you acquitted."
But I shouldn't be. The truth lies at the base of my stomach, even though I can't say it aloud. What good is the legal process if people can decide their motives are bigger than the law? If you remove one brick from the foundation, how long before the whole system tumbles down?
Maybe I can be pardoned for wanting to protect my child, but there are plenty of parents who shelter their children without committing felonies. I can tell myself that I was only thinking of my son that day; that I was only acting like a good mother . . . but the truth is, I wasn't. I was acting like a prosecutor, one who didn't trust the court process when it became personally relevant. One who knew better than to do what I did. Which is exactly why I deserve to be convicted.
"If I can't even forgive myself," I say finally, "how are twelve other people going to do it?"
The door opens and Caleb enters. Suddenly the atmosphere is plucked tight as a bowstring. Fisher glances at me-he knows that Caleb and I have been estranged, lately-and then balls his napkin up and tosses it into the box. "Caleb! There's a couple slices left." He stands up. "I'm going to go take care ...
of that thing we were talking about," Fisher says vacuously, and he gets out of the room while he can.
Caleb sits across from me. The clock on the wall, fast by five minutes, ticks as loud as my heart.
"Hungry?" I ask.
He traces the sharp corner of the pizza box. "I'm starving," Caleb answers.
But he makes no move to take one of the slices. Instead, we both watch as his fingers creep forward, as he clasps my hand between both of his. He scoots his chair closer and bows his head until it touches our joined fists. "Let's start over," he murmurs.
If I have gained anything over these months, it is the knowledge there is no starting over-only living with the mistakes you've made. But then, Caleb taught me long ago you can't build anything without some sort of foundation. Maybe we learn to live our lives by understanding, firsthand, how not to live them.
"Let's just pick up where we left off," I reply, and I rest my cheek on the crown of Caleb's head.
How far can a person go ... and still live with himself?
It's something that's been haunting Patrick. There are certain acts for which you easily make excuses-killing during wartime; stealing food if you're starving; lying to save your own life. But narrow the circumstances, bring them closer to home-and suddenly, the faith of a man who's dedicated his life to morality gets seriously shaken. Patrick doesn't blame Nina for shooting Glen Szyszynski, because at that moment she truly believed it was her only option. Likewise, he doesn't consider making love with her on Christmas Eve to be wrong. He'd waited for Nina for years; when she finally was his-even for a night-the fact of her marriage to another man was inconsequential. Who was to say that the bond between Patrick and Nina was any less strong because there was no piece of paper sanctifying it?
Justification is a remarkable thing-takes all those solid lines and blurs them, so that honor becomes as supple as a willow, and ethics burst like soap bubbles.
If Nina chose to leave Caleb, Patrick would be at her side in an instant, and he could come up with a multitude of reasons to defend his behavior. Truth be told, it's something he's let himself consider in the soft gray moments before sleep comes. Hope is his balm for reality; if Patrick spreads it thick enough, sometimes he can even envision a life with her.
But then, there's Nathaniel.
And that's the point Patrick cannot get past. He can rationalize falling in love with Nina; he can even rationalize her falling in love with him. There's nothing he would like more than to see Caleb gone from her life. But Caleb is not just Nina's husband ... he is also the father of her son. And Patrick could not bear knowing that he was responsible for ruining Nathaniel's childhood. If Patrick did that after all that has happened, well . . . how could she ever love him?
Compared to a transgression of that size, what he is about to do seems insignificant.
He watches Quentin Brown from the witness box. The prosecutor is expecting this to go easily-just as easily as it did during the practice session. After all, Patrick is a law enforcement official, used to testifying. As far as Brown knows, despite his friendship with Nina, he's on the side of the prosecution.
"Were you assigned to work the Nathaniel Frost case?" Quentin asks.
"Yes."
