"In light of those twelve convictions, wouldn't you consider the work you did with those children to be successful?"
"No, I wouldn't," she bluntly replies.
"But didn't all those perpetrators go to jail?"
"Not long enough."
"Still, Mrs. Frost," Quentin presses. "You made the justice system work for those twelve children."
"You don't understand," she says, her eyes blazing. "This was my child. As a prosecutor, my responsibility was completely different. I was supposed to take justice as far as I could for each of them, and I did. Anything else that happened outside the bounds of that courtroom was up to the parents, not me. If a mother decided to go into hiding to keep an abusive father away from her child-that was her decision to make. If a mother walked away from a verdict and shot an abuser, it had nothing to do with me. But then one day I wasn't just the prosecutor anymore. I was the parent. And it was up to me to take every step to make sure my son was safe, no matter what."
It is the moment Quentin's waited for. Finely tuned to her anger, he steps closer to her. "Are you saying that your child is entitled to more justice than another child?"
"Those kids were my job. Nathaniel is my life."
Immediately, Fisher Carrington bobs out of his seat. "Your Honor, may we take a short break-"
"No," Quentin and the judge say simultaneously. "That child was your life?" Quentin repeats.
"Yes."
"Were you willing to exchange your freedom, then, to save Nathaniel?"
"Absolutely."
"Were you thinking about that when you held the gun up to Father Szyszynski's head?"
"Of course I was," she answers fiercely.
"Were you thinking that the only way to protect your son was to empty those bullets into Father Szyszynski's head-"
"Yes!"
"-and to make sure he never left that courtroom alive?"
"Yes."
Quentin falls back. "But you told us you weren't thinking at all at that moment, Mrs. Frost," he says, and stares at her until she has to turn away.
When Fisher stands up to redirect, I am still shaking. How could I, who knew better, let that get away from me? I frantically scan the faces of the jury, but I can't tell a thing; you can never tell a thing. One woman looks near tears. Another is doing a crossword puzzle in the corner.
"Nina," Fisher says, "when you were in the courtroom that morning, were you thinking that you would be willing to exchange your freedom to save Nathaniel?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"When you were in the courtroom that morning, were you thinking that the only way to stop that clock from ticking was to stop Father Szyszynski?"
"Yes."
He meets my gaze. "When you were in the courtroom that morning, were you planning to kill him?"
"Of course not," I reply.
"Your Honor," Fisher announces, "the defense rests."
Quentin lies on the godawful bed in the efficiency suite, wondering why the heat hasn't kicked in, when he's cranked it up to eighty degrees. He yanks the covers over himself, then flips through the channels on the television again. An entertainment program, Wheel of Fortune, and an infomercial for balding men. With a small grin, Quentin touches his shaved head.
He gets up and pads to the refrigerator, but the only thing inside it is a six-pack of Pepsi and a rotting mango he cannot recall buying. If he's going to eat dinner, he's going to have to get dinner. With a sigh, he sinks down on the bed to put on his boots and accidentally sits on the remote.
