Is that correct?"
"That's not the clinical term, of course, but it's the way I would describe it in conversation."
"Did she snap before or after she drove to the gun store?" Brown asks.
"Clearly, that was part of her continuing mental decline ..."
"Did she snap before or after she loaded six rounds into a nine millimeter semiautomatic handgun?"
"As I said earlier, that would be part-"
"Did she snap before or after she slipped past the metal detector, knowing the bailiff wouldn't stop her?"
"Mr. Brown-"
"And, Doctor, did she snap before or after she very carefully aimed at one person and only one person's head in a crowded courtroom?"
O'Brien's mouth flattens. "As I told the court before, at that point Mrs. Frost had no control over her actions. She could no more stop herself from shooting the priest than she could stop herself from breathing."
"She sure managed to stop someone else from breathing, though, didn't she?" Brown crosses toward the jury box. "You're an expert on post-traumatic stress disorder, aren't you?"
"I'm considered to be rather knowledgeable in the field, yes."
"And PTSD is triggered by a traumatic event?"
"That's correct."
"You first met Mrs. Frost after Father Szyszynski's death?"
"Yes."
"And," Brown says, "you believe that it was the molestation of Mrs. Frost's son that triggered her PTSD?"
"Yes."
"How do you know it wasn't shooting the priest?"
"It's possible," O'Brien concedes. "It's just that the other trauma came first."
"Isn't it true that Vietnam veterans can be plagued by PTSD their whole lives? That thirty years later these men still wake up with nightmares?"
"Yes."
"Then you can't, with any degree of scientific certainty, tell this jury that the defendant is over the illness that-in your words-caused her to snap?"
More raised voices from the rear of the courtroom. I focus my attention forward.
"I doubt that Mrs. Frost will ever completely forget the events of the past few months," O'Brien says diplomatically. "However, in my personal opinion, she is not dangerous now . . . nor will she be dangerous in the future."
"Then again, Doctor," Brown says, "you're not wearing a white collar."
"Please," a familiar voice shouts, and then Monica shoves away from the bailiff restraining her and runs up the central aisle of the courtroom. Alone. She crouches down beside Caleb. "It's Nathaniel," she sobs. "He's gone missing."
The judge grants a recess, and the bailiffs in the courtroom are sent to look for Nathaniel. Patrick calls in the county sheriff and the state police. Fisher volunteers to appease the frenzy of media that's caught wind of a new problem.
I can't go, because I am still wearing that fucking electronic bracelet.
I think of Nathaniel, kidnapped. Of him wandering into the boxcar of an old train and freezing to death.
