"An asshole then?"
"Your words, counselor," I reply, and we both grin.
"Then again, people can surprise you all the time," he muses. "For example, a district attorney who commits murder. Or an assistant attorney general that drives past a defendant's home at night just to make sure she's okay."
I snort. "If you drove by at all, it was to make sure I was still there."
"Nina, didn't you ever wonder who in your office left you the lab report from the underwear?"
My jaw drops open. "My son's name," Quentin says. "It's Gideon."
Whistling, he nods to me, and jogs up the staircase.
The courtroom is so quiet that I can hear Caleb breathing behind me. What he said the moment before we walked in to hear the judge's verdict echoes too, in the silence: I am proud of you.
Judge Neal clears his throat and begins to speak. "The evidence in this case clearly shows that on October thirtieth, 2001, the defendant Nina Frost went out, purchased a handgun, concealed it, and brought it into a Biddeford district courtroom. The evidence also shows that she positioned herself near Father Szyszynski, and intentionally and knowingly shot him four times in the head, thereby causing his death. The evidence is also clear that at the time she did these things, Nina Frost was under the mistaken impression that Father Szyszynski had sexually molested her five-year-old son."
I bow my head, each word a blow. "So what does the evidence not support?" the judge asks rhetorically. "Specifically, the defendant's contention that she was legally insane at the time of the shooting. Witnesses testified that she acted deliberately and methodically to exterminate the man who she thought had harmed her child. And at the time, the defendant was a trained, practicing assistant district attorney who knew very well that every person charged with a crime-Father Szyszynski included-was innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Basically, this court believes Nina Frost to be a prosecutor through and through ... so much so, that to break a law, she would have had to give the act careful consideration."
He raises his head and pushes his glasses up on his nose. "And so I reject the defendant's insanity defense."
A shuffling to my left, from Quentin Brown.
"However-"
Quentin stills.
"-in this state there is another reason to justify the act of murder- namely, if a defendant was under the influence of a reasonable fear or anger brought about by reasonable provocation. As a prosecutor, Nina Frost didn't have reason to be fearful or angry the morning of October thirtieth . . . yet as Nathaniel's mother, she did. Her son's attempt to identify the victim, the wild card of the DNA evidence, and the defendant's intimate knowledge of the treatment of a witness in the criminal justice system all add up, in this court's opinion, to reasonable provocation under the law."
I have stopped breathing. This cannot be true.
"Will the defendant please rise?"
It is not until Fisher grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet that I remember the judge means me. "Nina Frost, I find you Not Guilty of Murder. I do find you Guilty of Manslaughter pursuant to 17-A M.R.S.A. Section 203 (1)(B). Does the defendant wish to waive a presentence report and be sentenced today?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Fisher murmurs.
The judge looks at me for the first time this morning. "I sentence you to twenty years in the Maine State Prison, with credit for the time you have already served." He pauses. "The remainder of the twenty years will be suspended, and you'll be on probation for that time. You need to check in with your probation officer before you leave court today, and then, Mrs. Frost, you are free to go."
The courtroom erupts in a frenzy of flashbulbs and confusion. Fisher embraces me as I burst into tears, and Caleb leaps over the bar. "Nina?" he demands. "In English?"
"It's . . . good." I laugh up at him. "It's great, Caleb." The judge, in essence, has absolved me. I will never have to serve out my prison term, as long as I manage not to kill anyone again. Caleb grabs me and swings me around; over his shoulder I see Adrienne pump her fist in the air. Behind her is Patrick.
He sits with his eyes closed, smiling. Even as I watch, they blink open to focus on me. Only you, Patrick mouths silently; words I will wonder about for years.
When the reporters run off to call their affiliates with the verdict and the crowd in the gallery thins, I notice one other man. Quentin Brown has gathered his files and his briefcase. He walks to the gate between our tables, stops, and turns to me. He inclines his head, and I nod back. Suddenly my arm is wrenched behind me, and I instinctively pull away, certain that someone who has not understood the judge's verdict is about to put handcuffs on me again. "No," I say, turning. "You don't understand . . ."
But then the bailiff unlocks the electronic bracelet on my wrist. It falls to the floor, ringing out my release.
When I look up again, Quentin is gone.
After a few weeks, the interviews stop. The eagle eye of the news refocuses on some other sordid story.
A caravan of media vehicles snakes its way south, and we go back to what we used to be.
Well, most of us do.
Nathaniel is stronger every day; and Caleb has picked up a few new jobs. Patrick called me from Chicago, his halfway point to the West Coast. So far, he is the only one who has been brave enough to ask me how I will fill my days now that I am not a prosecutor.
