"He didn't want to leave her," Caleb admits. "I had to physically drag him away when the time was up."
"How is your son sleeping at night?"
"He won't, unless I take him into bed with me."
Fisher nods gravely. "Do you think, Mr. Frost, that he needs his mother back?"
Quentin Brown stands immediately. "Objection!"
"This is a bail hearing, I'll allow it," the judge replies. "Mr. Frost?"
Caleb sees answers swimming in front of him. There are so many, which is the one he should choose?
He opens his mouth, then closes it to start over.
At that moment he notices Nina. Her eyes are bright on his, feverish, and he tries to remember why this seems so familiar. Then it comes to him: this is the way she looked weeks ago when she was trying to convince a mute Nathaniel that all he had to do was speak from the heart; that any word was better than none. "We both need her back," Caleb says, the right thing after all.
Halfway through Dr. Robichaud's testimony, I realize that this is the trial we would have had to convict the priest, had I not killed him. The information being presented focuses on the molestation of Nathaniel, and the consequences. The psychiatrist walks the court through her introduction to Nathaniel, his sexual abuse evaluation, his therapy sessions, his use of sign language. "Did Nathaniel ever reach a point where he could talk again?" Fisher asks.
"Yes, after he verbally disclosed the name of his abuser to Detective Ducharme."
"Since then, as far as you know, has he been talking normally?"
The psychiatrist nods. "More and more so."
"Did you see him this past week, Doctor?"
"Yes. His father called me, very upset, on Friday night. Nathaniel had stopped speaking again. When I saw him on Monday morning, he'd regressed considerably. He's withdrawn and uncommunicative. I couldn't even get him to sign."
"In your expert opinion, is the separation from his mother causing Nathaniel psychological damage?"
"No question," Dr. Robichaud says. "In fact, the longer it goes on, the more permanent the damage might be."
As she gets down from the stand, Brown gets up to do his closing. He starts by pointing at me. "This woman has a blatant disregard for rules, and clearly, this isn't the first time. What she should have done the moment she saw Peter Eberhardt was turn around and walk the other way. But the fact is, she didn't." He turns to the judge. "Your Honor, you were the one who imposed the condition that Nina Frost not have contact with members of the district attorney's office, because you were concerned about treating her differently than other defendants. But if you let her go without sanction, you'll be doing just that."
Even on edge, as I am, I realize that Quentin's made a tactical mistake. You can make suggestions to a jury . . . but you never, ever tell the judge what to do.
Fisher rises. "Your Honor, what Mr. Brown saw in the produce department was nothing more than sour grapes. The reality of the matter is that no information was exchanged. In fact, there's no evidence that information was even sought."
He puts his hands on my shoulders. I have seen him do this with other clients; in my office, we used to call it his Grandfather Stance. "This was an unfortunate misunderstanding," Fisher continues, "but that's all it is. Nothing more, nothing less. And if, as a result, you keep Nina Frost from her child, you may wind up sacrificing that child. Certainly after what everyone's been through, that's the last thing this court would like to see happen."
The judge lifts his head and looks at me. "I'm not going to keep her away from her son," he rules.
"However, I'm also not going to give her the opportunity to violate the rules of this court again. I release Ms. Frost on the condition that she be on home confinement. She'll wear an electronic bracelet, and will be subject to all the rules of probation and parole with regards to electronic monitoring. Ms.
Frost." He waits for me to nod. "You are not to leave the house, except to meet with your attorney or to come to court. For those times, and only those times, the bracelet will be reprogrammed accordingly.
And God help me, if I have to patrol your street myself to make sure you're adhering to these provisions, I will."
My new wrist cuff works through telephone lines. If I move 150 feet away from my house, the bracelet makes an alarm go off. A probation officer may visit me at any time, demand a sample of my blood or urine to make sure I have not had any drugs or alcohol. I opt to wear my scrubs home, and ask the deputy sheriff to instruct that my old clothes be given, a gift, to Adrienne. They'll be short and tight-in other words, a perfect fit for her.
"You have nine lives," Fisher murmurs as we walk out of the parole office, where my cuff has been computer-programmed.
"Seven left," I sigh.
"Let's hope we don't have to use them all."
"Fisher." I stop walking as we reach the staircase. "I just wanted to tell you ... I couldn't have done that any better."
