The Pact (54 page)

“Then, for a reason we may never know, one of these young people began to hurt. She hurt so badly that she didn't want to live. And she turned to the only person she trusted.” Jordan walked toward Chris, stopping just inches from his client. “He tried to help. He tried to stop her. But at the same time, he could feel her pain as if it were his own. And in the end, he couldn't stop her. He was a failure. He even went so far as to walk away.”

Jordan looked at the jury. "The problem was, Emily couldn't kill herself. She begged him, she pleaded, she cried, she put her hand over his on the gun. She was such a part of him and he was such a part of her, that she couldn't even complete this final act by herself. Now, here's the question you face, as a jury: Did Chris do it by himself?

"Who knows, ladies and gentlemen, what made that trigger kick? There is physical power, and then there's the power of the mind. Maybe it was Emily jerking against Chris's hand. And maybe it was Emily telling him that she wanted to die, more than anything. Telling him that she trusted him and loved him enough to help her to do it. As I said, Chris Harte is the only person in this courtroom who was there. And by his own testimony, even Chris does not know for sure what happened.

“Ms. Delaney wants you to convict Chris on a charge of first-degree murder. However, to do that, she has to prove that he had the time and opportunity for reflection. That he thought about what he was going to do, that he settled on his purpose, and that his mind was made up to take Emily's life.” Jordan shook his head. "But you know what? Chris didn't want to kill Emily that night-or any other night. It was the last thing he wanted to do. And Chris didn't have time to think about what happened. He never made up his mind to do anything. Emily made up his mind for him.

“This trial is not about Ms. Delaney's set of facts, or about anything I said in my opening statement, or even about the witnesses I presented. It is about Chris Harte, and what he chose to reveal to you.” Jordan slowly moved his eyes over the jury, catching each of the twelve gazes. “He was there, and he has some doubts about what actually happened. How couldn't you?”

Jordan started toward the defense table, pausing midway. “Chris told you something most juries never hear-the truth. Now it's up to you to tell him you were listening.”

“Mr. McAfee certainly has a future as a novelist,” Barrie said. “I was getting caught up in the drama, myself. But what Mr. McAfee was trying to do was draw you away from the clear-cut facts of this case, which he says are not the same thing as 'the truth.' ”

“Now, we don't actually know if Chris Harte is telling the truth,” she said. “We know he's lied before-to the police, to his parents. In fact, we've heard three different stories during this trial. The first story was that Emily was going to kill himself, and so was Chris. The second story was that Emily was still suicidal. . . but Chris was going to try to stop her.” Barrie paused. "You know, that works a little better for me, because Chris doesn't seem very suicidal.

“Oh, but then Chris changed his story again: Emily couldn't manage to pull the trigger by herself, so he had to physically pull it for her.” Barrie sighed dramatically. “Mr. McAfee wants you to look at the truth.” She raised her brows. “Which one?”

"For the sake of argument, let's stick to Chris's last story. Let's assume that's the truth. Yet even if it is, you have no choice but to convict him. You've seen the physical evidence-which is the one thing that hasn't changed during the course of this trial. You've heard Detective Marrone say that Chris's fingerprints were on the gun; you've heard the medical examiner say that the trajectory of the bullet through Emily's head indicates that someone shot her; you've heard him give evidence of Chris's skin beneath Emily's fingernails and bruises on Emily's wrist incurred during a struggle. But perhaps more importantly, you've heard Chris Harte say that he shot Emily Gold. By his own admission, he killed her.

"A person is guilty of murder in the first degree if they intend to cause the death of someone else. If their actions are premeditated, deliberate, and willful.

“Let's think about this: Chris Harte weighed the pros and cons and then decided to bring a gun to the scene of the crime. That's premeditated. He loaded the gun. That's deliberate. He took the gun from Emily's hand of his own free will, held it up to her head, and was still holding it when the shot was fired. That, ladies and gentlemen, is murder in the first degree. It doesn't matter if he felt sorry for Emily. It doesn't matter if Emily asked him to do it. It doesn't matter if it hurt him to kill her. In this country, you can't just take a gun and shoot someone. Even if they ask you to.” Barrie walked toward the jury. “If we believe Chris now, where do we draw the line? Especially when the victim is no longer alive to testify. We'd have criminals roaming the streets, assuring us that their victims begged them to kill them, honest to God.” She pointed toward the witness stand.

"Chris Harte sat there and told you that he took the gun, held it to Emily's head, and shot her. No matter what else was going on around that-the emotions, the psychological mumbo-jumbo, the confusion-that is what happened. There is your truth.

“You have to find Christopher Harte guilty if the death of Emily Gold was a direct result of his actions. If those actions were premeditated, deliberate, and willful. So... how do you know without a doubt that Chris Harte's actions qualify?” Barrie crossed the courtroom, ticking off her points.

“Because he could have put down that pistol. Because he could have walked away at any time. Because he was not forced to shoot Emily Gold.” She stopped at the exhibit table and picked up the murder weapon. “After all, ladies and gentlemen, no one was holding a gun to Chris's head.” By six P.M., the jury had not returned a verdict. Chris was brought back to the jail to sleep. He sloughed off his clothes and crawled under the covers, refusing dinner, refusing to speak to anyone who banged on the bars of his cell.

A backbeat pounded at the base of his skull-the one thing that neither Jordan McAfee nor Barrie Delaney had mentioned. Maybe it wasn't important to them; Chris himself certainly hadn't thought about it until Jordan had jogged his memory of that night for what it really was. And it had to do with Emily.

She had loved him. He knew this; he had never doubted it. But she had also asked him to kill her. If you loved someone that much, you did not lay that sort of burden on him for the rest of his life. Chris had struggled with it, had decided that loving Emily meant letting her go, if that was really what she wanted. But Emily had been so selfish, she'd never even given Chris the choice. She had bound him to her irrevocably, with shame, with pain, and with guilt.

The sounds of an inmate fight breaking out one floor below and the jangle of an officer's keys were swallowed by a rage that swelled and roared in Chris's ears. In that moment, he was furious at Emily for doing this to him. For putting her own wishes before his, when he'd done the exact opposite.

For landing him in this stinking hole for seven months, seven months that he was never going to get back. For not telling him about the baby. For leaving him behind. For ruining his life. And in that moment Chris realized that, had Emily Gold been present, he would have willfully killed her.

SELENA PUSHED AWAY her empty wine glass. “It's over,” she said. “You can't change anything, now.”

“I could have-”

“No,” she told Jordan. “You couldn't.”

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the nearly untouched steak stretched on a platter in front of him. “I hate this part,” he said. “Waiting. It would have been cheaper for the taxpayers if they'd just handed me a hara-kiri sword and told me to do the honors.” Selena burst out laughing. “Jordan, you're such an optimist,” she said. “One little glitch isn't going to ruin your career.”

“I don't care about my career.”

“What is it, then?” She studied him, her mouth rounding. “Oh... Chris.” He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face. “You know what I can't get out of my head?” he said. “That part when Chris was on the stand, and said he could still feel Emily touch him sometimes. And I told him to cut the crap.”

“You had to, Jordan.”

He waved her words off, dismissive. “It's not that. It's that I'm more than twice as old as Chris Harte, and I've been married, and I've still never felt that way. Gut feeling-do I think he killed that girl? Yeah, I do. Technically, anyway. But Jesus, Selena. I'm jealous of him. I can't imagine loving someone so much you'd do anything they asked. Even if that happened to be murder.”

“You'd do anything for Thomas,” Selena said.

“It's not the same, and you know it.”

For a moment, Selena was silent. “Don't be jealous of Chris Harte. Feel sorry for him. Because the chances of him getting that close to someone again are very slim. You, on the other hand, still have everything to look forward to.”

Jordan shrugged, steepling his fingers. “Whatever,” he said.

Selena sighed and drew him to his feet. “Time to get home,” she said. “You have an early day tomorrow.” And then, in the middle of the restaurant, she grabbed his ears in her hands and gently tugged his head forward so that she could kiss him.

Her mouth was hard on his, and her tongue slid easily between his lips. By the time Selena drew away, Jordan was fighting for breath. “What,” he said, “made you do that?” She patted his cheek. “Just wanted to give you something else to obsess about,” she said, and turned on her heel, leaving him to follow.

By NINE O'CLOCK, the Hartes were ready for bed. There was no other way Gus could think of to make the morning come more quickly. She shut the light off and waited for James to come out of the bathroom.

The mattress creaked and dipped as James got under the covers. Gus turned her head away, staring out the window, where the moon was fingernail-thin. By the time it was full again, her firstborn would be serving a life sentence at the State Penitentiary.

She knew why Chris had interrupted her testimony, just as well as she knew that she'd been doing a miserable job. He couldn't watch her on the stand, each lie splitting her heart into a set of Russian nesting dolls, growing smaller and smaller until there was nothing left inside. Chris had never been able to bear seeing someone he loved in great pain.

It was why he had shot Emily.

She must have made a sound, an involuntary sob, because all of a sudden James drew her against his chest. Gus turned into the solid heat of him, wrapping her arms around him. She wanted to get closer, under James's skin; to become a part of him so that she wouldn't have her own thoughts, her own worries. She wanted his strength. But instead of speaking she turned her face up and kissed him, her mouth raining over his neck and her hips pressing into his. The bed, the room, was burning up around them. They scratched at each other in an effort to come together. James entered Gus within seconds, her body convulsing around his, her mind blessedly, blissfully empty.

When it was over, James stroked her damp back. “Do you remember,” she whispered, “the night we made him?”

He nodded into Gus's hair. “I knew it then,” she murmured. “I could feel it was different from other times. Like you'd given yourself to me, to hold.”

James tightened his arms. “I had,” he said. He felt Gus's shoulders quiver, and the slick of her tears against his chest. “I know,” he soothed. “I know.”

As THE JURY FILED INTO THE COURTROOM, Chris realized he could not swallow. His Adam's apple had lodged in his throat, and he could feel himself wheezing and his eyes watering. Not a single member of the jury looked his way, and he tried to remember what other inmates at the jail had said about that, from their own experiences-was it a good thing, or not?

Judge Puckett turned to one of the jurors, an elderly man wearing a stained broadcloth button-down.

“Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.”

“And is this verdict unanimous?”

“It is.” At the judge's nod, the clerk of the court approached the jury box and took a folded piece of paper from the foreman. He walked slowly-snail's pace, Chris thought-back to the judge and handed it to him. The judge nodded, and then sent the note back to the foreman. Leslie Puckett glanced up, face blank. “Will the defendant please rise?” Chris felt Jordan come to his feet beside him. He had every intention of standing up, too, but his legs wouldn't work. They lay puddled beneath the bench, his feet block-heavy and immobile. Jordan looked down and raised his eyebrows. Get up,

“I can't,” Chris whispered, and felt his attorney grab him beneath the armpit and haul him upright. His heart was pounding wildly, and his hands felt so leaden he could not even clasp them, no matter how hard he tried. It was as if all of a sudden this body did not belong to him anymore. He could sense everything in that instant: the smell of soap that had been used to clean the woodwork in the courtroom the night before; the drop of sweat that streaked between his shoulderblades; the tap of the court reporter's shoe on the edge of her work station. “In the matter of The State of New Hampshire versus Christopher Harte, on the count of murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

The foreman looked at the slip of paper he held. “Not guilty,” he read. Chris felt Jordan turn to him, a wide, astonished smile splitting his face. He heard his mother's soft cry a few feet behind him. He listened to the roar of the courtroom, exploding in the wake of the unexpected. And for the third time in his life, Christopher Harte fainted.

Everywhere Chris went, he opened windows. He drove with them rolled down, even though the air conditioning was on. He opened them in every room of the house. Even at night, when it grew cool, he piled blankets on his bed, preferring those to a small square of air that did not circulate. But sometimes, even with all the fresh breezes, a scent would carry on the wind. He'd wake up suddenly from his sleep, fighting to get away from it, suffocating. And his parents would find him the next morning sleeping on the couch, or on the living room floor, or once even at the foot of their own bed.

What's the matter? they would ask. What happened?

But there was no way to explain it to someone who had not been there; for absolutely no reason, he had suddenly smelled prison.

It came one Saturday in June, a long white truck with the world on its side, backing into the Golds'

driveway and spitting out six men who would carry away their belongings. Gus and James watched from the porch as boxes were hauled and mattresses settled, as lamps were noosed with their own cords and bicycles ridden into the belly of the truck. They did not say a thing to each other, but they both found outdoor tasks to occupy themselves, so that for the entire day they were able to bear witNeighborhood gossip said that the Golds were moving across town-not a long-distance move, but certainly a necessary one. The house had been put on the market and a new one purchased before it even sold.

People said that Michael had wanted to go far, Colorado, maybe, or even California. But Melanie had refused to leave her daughter behind, and where did that leave them?

The new house had an office, again, for Michael's veterinary practice, and was by all accounts a lovely, secluded place. It was a rumor, of course, but someone had heard that it had three bedrooms. One for Michael Gold, one for his wife, and one for Emily.

BEFORE Gus COULD STOP HERSELF, she walked to the end of the driveway. She watched the long van slip over the crest of the road, followed by Melanie's Taurus. And then, some way behind, came Michael's truck.

The windows were open in the truck; it was too old for the air conditioning to work with any regularity. Michael slowed as he came to the Hartes' driveway. She saw that he was going to stop. She saw that he wanted to talk to her. To take her apology, to offer absolution, to simply say goodbye. The truck rolled to a near stop, and Michael turned, his sober gaze meeting Gus's. There was a flash of pain; the weight of possibility; and on its heels, the flat, square stare of understanding. Without saying a word, he drove away.

CHRIS WAS IN HIS ROOM when the moving van began to pull out of the Golds' driveway. Long and white, it groaned its way through the trees that lined the gravel strip, narrowly missing the mailbox.

Melanie Gold's Ford, and finally Michael's truck. A caravan, Chris thought. Like the gypsies-off to find something easier, or better.

And then the house was empty, a yellow clapboard monolith. The windows, bare of curtains, seemed like vague and distant eyes, willing to stare but unable to remember. Chris leaned out the sill of his open window, listening to the buzz of cicadas, the settling heat of summer, and the quiet crunch of the moving van making its way down Wood Hollow Road.

Curious, he craned his neck out the window, trying to see the edge of the sill that curved around the top. It was still there, the pulley that had been one end of the tin-can message system he'd had with Emily when he was a kid. There was another one, he knew, on the top edge of Emily's old window. Chris stretched up his hand, twanging the fishing line that was moldy, but still intact. It had long ago caught in one of the pine trees between the properties, tangling up the can and whatever message had been inside it, and they'd never managed to get it loose.

Chris had tried, but back then he'd been too little.

He twisted himself so that he was sitting on the still, his hands stretching up along the shingles outside the house. He was able to snag the string with his fingers, and he felt a disproportionate amount of accomplishment, as if getting it on the first try meant something. As the rotted string gave way, Chris watched the rusty can fall from its threaded perch between the houses. With his heart pounding, Chris ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He headed toward the spot where he'd seen the can go down, his eyes tracking back and forth until he saw a winking of silver.

The trees grew tall and narrow here, shading away the sun. Chris fell to his knees beside a high pine and jammed a finger into the can, drawing forth a piece of paper. He could not remember what this final message had been about; could not even remember whether he had been sending it to Emily or Emily had been sending it to him. His stomach knotted as the paper slid free of the tin. Carefully, feeling the fragile folds give, he opened it.

The paper was blank.

Whether it had always been that way, or if years had erased whatever was written, he did not know. Chris tucked the note in the pocket of his shorts and turned away from Emily's house, thinking that maybe it really didn't matter one way or the other.