"Absolutely. That's why courts have competency hearings, Mr. Brown."
At the very mention, Judge Neal gives him a warning glance. "Dr. Robichaud, in your experience, court cases of this type take several months to several years to come to trial, don't they?"
"Yes."
"And the developmental difference between a five-year-old and a seven-year-old is significant, isn't it?"
"Definitely."
"In fact, haven't you treated children who seemed like they might have trouble testifying when they first came to you . . . yet a year or two later-after therapy and time had healed them a bit-they were able to take the stand without a setback?"
"Yes."
"Isn't it true that you have no way of predicting whether Nathaniel would have been able to testify a few years from now without it causing significant psychological harm?"
"No, there's no way to say what might have happened in the future."
Quentin turns toward me. "As a prosecutor, Mrs. Frost would certainly be aware of this time lag for court appearances, don't you think?"
"Yes."
"And as the mother of a child this age, she would be aware of the development changes possible over the next few years?"
"Yes. In fact, I tried to tell Mrs. Frost that in a year or so, Nathaniel might be doing far better than she expected. That he might even be capable of testifying on his own behalf."
The prosecutor nods. "Unfortunately, though, the defendant killed Father Szyszynski before we could find out."
Quentin withdraws the statement before Fisher can even object. I tug on the edge of his jacket. "I have to talk to you." He stares at me as if I have lost my mind. "Yes," I say. "Now."
I know what Quentin Brown is thinking, because I have seen a case through his eyes. I proved she murdered him. I did my job. And maybe I have learned not to interfere in the lives of others, but surely it's my responsibility to save myself. "It's up to me," I tell Fisher in the conference room. "I need to give them a reason to say it doesn't matter."
Fisher shakes his head. "You know what happens when defense attorneys overtry a case. The prosecution has the burden of proof, and all I can do is pick holes in it. But if I pick too hard, the whole thing deflates. Put on one too many witnesses, and the defense loses."
"I understand what you're saying. But Fisher, the prosecution did prove that I murdered Szyszynski.
And I'm not your average witness." I take a deep breath. "Sure, there are cases where the defense loses because they put on one witness too many. But there are other cases where the prosecution loses because the jury hears from the defendant. They know horrible things have been done-and they want to hear why, right from the horse's mouth."
"Nina, you can barely sit still when I'm doing cross-exams, you want to object so badly. I can't put you on the stand as a witness when you're such a goddamned prosecutor." Fisher sits down across from me, splaying his hands on the table. "You think in facts. But just because you're telling the jury something doesn't mean they're going to accept it as reality. After all the groundwork I've laid, they like me; they believe me. If I tell them you were so overcome with emotion you were beyond rational thought, they'll buy it. On the other hand, no matter what you say to them, they're predisposed to think you're a liar."
"Not if I tell them the truth."
"That you really meant to shoot the other guy?"
"That I wasn't crazy."
"Nina," Fisher says softly, "that'll undo your whole defense. You can't tell them that."
"Why not, Fisher? Why can't I make twelve lousy people understand that somewhere between a good deed and a bad deed are a thousand shades of gray? Right now, Quentin's got me convicted, because he's told them what I was thinking that day. If I take the stand, I can give them an alternative version. I can explain what I did, why it was wrong, and why I couldn't see that, then. Either they'll send me to jail ... or they'll send me home with my son. How can I not take that chance?"
Fisher stares down at the table. "You keep this up," he says after a moment, "and I may have to hire you when we're through." He holds out a hand, counting off on his fingers. "You answer only the questions I ask. The minute you start trying to educate the jury I'm yanking you off. If I mention temporary insanity, you damn well find a way to support it without perjuring yourself. And if you show any temper whatsoever, get ready for a nice long stay in prison.'
"Okay." I leap to my feet, ready to go.
But Fisher doesn't move. "Nina. Just so you know . . . even if you can't convince that jury, you've convinced me."
Three months ago, if I'd heard that from a defense attorney, I'd have laughed. But now I smile at Fisher, wait for him to come up beside me at the door. We walk into that courtroom as a team.
My office, for the past seven years, has been a courtroom. It's a space that is intimidating for many people, but not for me. I know what the rules are there: when to approach the clerk, when to talk to the jury, how to lean back and whisper to someone in the gallery without calling attention to myself. But now I am sitting in a part of that office I've never been in before. I am not allowed to move. I am not allowed to do the work I usually do.
