House Rules

  It's just like nurses in a hospital tend to know more than the doctors most of the time; if you really want to get the answer to a question about court, you should spend more time buttering up the clerks than the judges. --Hello,|| I say to the small, dark-haired woman peering into a computer screen. --I'm here for a criminal arraignment.||

  She flicks a glance upward. --How nice for you,|| she says flatly.

  My gaze falls on a nameplate on her desk. --I wonder, Dorothy, if you could tell me in which courtroom that might take place?||

  --The criminal courtroom would be a safe bet ...||

  --Right.|| I smile, as if I knew this all along. --And the judge ... ?||

  --If it's Monday, it's Judge Cuttings,|| she says.

  --Thanks. Thanks very much,|| I reply. --Really nice to meet you.||

  --The highlight of my day,|| Dorothy intones.

  I am about to walk out the door when I turn back at the last moment. --One more thing ...||

  --Yes?||

  --Am I, um, supposed to say anything?||

  She looks up from her computer. --The judge will ask you whether your client pleads guilty or not guilty,|| Dorothy answers.

  --Great,|| I say. --I really appreciate that.||

  In the lobby, I find Emma hanging up her cell phone. --So?|| she asks.

  I sink into the empty seat beside her. --Piece of cake,|| I tell her, and I hope I can convince myself.

  Emma and I sit through three drug possession charges, one B and E, and an indecent exposure charge before Jacob is brought into the courtroom. From my vantage point in the gallery, I can tell the moment Emma notices he's here: she sits up a little straighter, and her breath catches in her throat.

  If you have spent any time in a courtroom, you'll know that high school football players--the mean ones with no necks--grow up and become bailiffs. Two of these behemoths are manhandling Jacob, who's doing his damnedest to get the hell away from them. He keeps craning his neck, looking at the people in the courtroom, and as soon as he spots Emma, his entire body sags with relief.

  I stand up, heading down from the gallery, because it's showtime, and realize too late that Emma's following me. --You have to stay here,|| I whisper over my shoulder as I take my place at the defendant's table beside my client.

  --Hi,|| I say to Jacob under my breath. --My name's Oliver. Your mom hired me to be your lawyer, and I've got it all under control. Don't say anything to the judge. Just let me do the talking.||

  The whole time I'm speaking, Jacob is looking at his lap. The minute I finish, he twists in his seat. --Mom,|| he calls out, --what's going on?||

  --Counselor,|| the bigger bailiff says, --either shut your client up or he's going back in the holding cell.||

  --I just told you not to talk to anybody,|| I tell Jacob.

  --You told me not to say anything to the judge.||

  --You can't talk to anybody, || I clarify. --Do you understand?||

  Jacob glances down at the table.

  --Jacob? Hello? ||

  --You told me not to talk to anybody,|| he mutters. --Will you make up your mind already?||

  Judge Cuttings is a hard-boiled New Englander who, in his time off, runs a llama farm and who, in my opinion, looks a little like a llama himself. He has just announced Jacob's name when Dorothy the clerk enters through a side door and passes him a note.

  Looking down his long nose at it, he sighs. --I have two arraignments for Mr. Robichaud that need to be done in another courtroom. Since he's currently here with his clients, I'll do those first, and then we'll take the prisoner's case.||

  The minute he says the word prisoner, Jacob jumps to his feet. --I need a sensory break,|| he announces.

  --Shut up, || I murmur.

  --I need a sensory break!||

  Dozens of thoughts are running through my mind: How do I get the kid to stoptalking? How do I get the judge to forget everything that's unfolding before his eyes?

  How would a seasoned lawyer handle a situation like this, when a client becomes a loose cannon? How long before I am seasoned enough to stop second-guessing myself?

  The minute Jacob takes a step, the two bailiffs are on top of him. He starts screaming, a high, keening sound. --Let go of him!|| Emma shrieks behind me. --He doesn't understand! He's allowed to get up in school when things are overwhelming--||

  --This isn't school,|| the judge thunders. --This is my courtroom, and you, madam, will be leaving it.||

  The second bailiff releases Jacob and steps into the gallery to pull Emma outside. --I can explain,|| she cries, but her voice gets fainter as she's forced down the aisle.

  I look from her to my client, who has gone boneless and is being dragged out a different door. --Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!|| Jacob yells.

  The judge narrows his eyes at me.

  --It's from Planet of the Apes, || I mutter.

  --I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore,|| he replies. --That's from Network. I highly recommend you watch the movie after you get your client under control.||

  I duck my head and hurry down the aisle. Emma stands outside the courtroom door, flushed and angry, her eyes shooting daggers at the bailiff. --Your kid can wait till the courtroom's empty,|| he says to me. --That's when we'll arraign him. And the mother can't come back inside until then.||

  He enters the courtroom again; the door opens with a gasp. That leaves me standing alone in the hallway with Emma, who grabs my hand and pulls me toward the staircase.

  --What ... what are you doing?||

  --He's down there, isn't he? Come on.||

  --Hold it.|| I dig in my heels and fold my arms. --What was that all about?||

  --I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so. That's Asperger's. Sometimes Jacob seems totally normal--brilliant, even--and sometimes the tiniest thing can set him off into a full-fledged fit.||

  --Well, he can't behave like that in a courtroom. I thought he knew all about crime scenes and cops and the law. He has to be respectful and quiet or this will be disastrous.||

  --He's trying,|| Emma insists. --That's why he asked for a sensory break.||

  --A what?||

  --A place he can go to away from all the noise and confusion, so that he can calm himself down. At school, that's one of the special accommodations he gets ... Look, can we talk about this later and just go see him?||

  Jacob was getting his sensory break ... in a holding cell. --You aren't allowed down there.||

  She flinches, as if I've struck her. --Well,|| Emma says, --are you?||

  To be honest, I am not sure. I poke my head inside the courtroom. The bailiff stands just inside the door, arms folded. --Can I go talk to my client?|| I whisper.

  --Yeah,|| he says. --Go ahead.||

  I wait for him to take me to Jacob, but he doesn't budge. --Thanks,|| I say, and I duck out the door again and head past Emma, down the stairs.

  I hope that's where the holding cells are.

  After five minutes of detours through the custodial closet and the boiler room, I find what I'm looking for. Jacob is sitting in the corner of this cell, one hand flapping like a bird, his shoulders hunched, his voice thready and singing Bob Marley.

  --How come you sing that song?|| I ask, coming to stand in front of the bars.

  He pauses in the middle of the chorus. --It makes me feel better.||

  I consider this. --You know any Dylan?|| When he doesn't answer, I step forward.

  --Look, Jacob. I know you don't know what's going on. And to be honest, neither do I. I've never done this before. But we're going to figure it out together. All you have to do is promise me one thing: Let me do the talking.|| I wait for Jacob to nod, to acknowledge me, but it doesn't happen. --Do you trust me?||

  --No,|| he says. --I don't.|| Then he gets to his feet. --Will you give a message to my mom?||

  --Sure.||

  He curls his hands around the bars. His fingers are long, elegant. --Life is like a box of chocolates,|| h
e whispers. --You never know what you're gonna get.||

  I laugh, thinking the boy can't be all that bad off if he's able to joke around. But then I realize that he's not kidding. --I'll tell her,|| I say.

  When I return, Emma is pacing. --Is he okay?|| she asks, the minute I turn the corner. --Was he responsive?||

  --Yes and yes,|| I assure her. --Maybe Jacob's stronger than you think he is.||

  --You're basing this insight on the five minutes you've spent with him?|| She rolls her eyes. --He has to eat by six. If he doesn't--||

  --I'll get him a snack from the vending machines.||

  --It can't have caseins or glutens--||

  I have no freaking idea what that means. --Emma, you have to relax.||

  She rounds on me. --My older son, who's autistic, has just been arrested for murder.

  He's stuck in a jail cell somewhere in the basement, for God's sake. Don't you dare tell me to relax.||

  --Well, it won't do Jacob any good if you lose it in the courtroom again.|| When she doesn't respond, I sit down on a bench across the hall. --He wanted me to tell you something.||

  The hope on her face is so naked that I have to look away.

  --Life is like a box of chocolates,|| I quote.

  With a sigh, Emma sinks down beside me. --Forrest Gump. That's one of his favorites.||

  --Movie buff?||

  --An intense one. It's almost like he's studying for a test he'll have to take later.||

  She glances at me. --When he feels something overwhelming, he doesn't always have the words for it, so he quotes someone else's.||

  I think about Jacob spouting Charlton Heston when the bailiff grabbed him and smile broadly.

  --He sets up crime scenes for me,|| Emma says softly. --So that I can look at the forensic evidence and work backward. But I should have been working forward. We never really talked about what happens after. What happens now. ||

  --I know you're upset, but we have a lot of time to figure it out. Today's arraignment is just a rubber stamp.||

  She stares at me. When I was in college, the girls that I always found myself drooling over were the ones who had dabs of toothpaste on their chins, or who stuck pencils through their messy hair to keep it away from their faces. The ones who slayed me were so far removed from caring how they looked that they circled back to a natural, artless beauty.

  Emma Hunt might be a decade older than me, but she's still a knockout. --How old are you?|| she asks after a moment.

  --I don't really think that chronological age is a decent measure of--||

  --Twenty-four,|| she guesses.

  --Twenty-eight.||

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head. --I was twenty-eight a thousand years ago.||

  --Then you look great for your age,|| I say.

  Blinking, she focuses fiercely on me. --Promise,|| she demands. --Promise me that you're going to get my son out of here.||

  I nod at her, and for a moment I want to be a white knight; I want to be able to tell her I know law as well as I know how to shoe a skittish mare, and I don't want it to be a lie.

  Just then the bailiff peers around the corner. --We're ready,|| he says.

  I only wish I could say the same.

  The courtroom is different when it's empty. Dust motes hang in the air, and my footsteps sound like gunshots on the parquet flooring. Emma and I walk to the front of the gallery, where I leave her sitting just behind the bar as I cross through to sit at the defense table.

  It's deja vu.

  Jacob is led out by the bailiffs. He's handcuffed, and I hear Emma suck in her breath behind me when she notices. But then again, he left the courtroom violent; there's no reason to assume he wouldn't pull the same trick twice. When he sits down beside me, the handcuffs jingle in his lap. He presses his lips together in a flat line, as if he's trying to show me he remembers my instructions.

  --All rise,|| the bailiff says, and when I stand up, I grab Jacob's sleeve so he will, too.

  Judge Cuttings enters and sits down heavily in his chair, his robes billowing around him like a storm. --I trust you've talked to your client about his behavior in the courtroom, Counselor?||

  --Yes, Your Honor,|| I answer. --I'm sorry about the outburst. Jacob's autistic.||

  The judge frowns. --Are you concerned about competency?||

  --Yes,|| I reply.

  --All right. Mr. Bond, your client is here to be arraigned on a charge of first-degree murder pursuant to 13 VSA, section 2301. Do you waive the reading of the rights on his behalf at this time?||

  --Yes, Your Honor.||

  He nods. --I'm going to enter a not guilty plea on his behalf, because of the competency issue.||

  For a moment, I hesitate. If the judge enters the plea, does that mean I don't have to?

  --Are there any other issues with the charge as it stands today, Counselor?||

  --I don't think so, Your Honor ...||

  --Excellent. This is bound over for a competency hearing fourteen days from today at nine A.M. I'll see you then, Mr. Bond.||

  The larger bailiff approaches the defense table and hauls Jacob to his feet. He lets loose a squeak, and then, remembering the rules of the courtroom, squelches it. --Hang on a minute,|| I interrupt. --Judge, didn't you just say we could go?||

  --I said you could go, Counselor. Your client, on the other hand, is charged with murder and being held pending his competency hearing at your own request.||

  As he leaves the bench to return to chambers, as Jacob is pulled out of the courtroom again--silent, this time--headed to a two-week stay in jail, I gather the courage to turn around and confess to Emma Hunt that I've just done everything I told her I wouldn't.

  Theo

  My mother doesn't cry very often. The first time, like I said, was at the library when I had a tantrum instead of Jacob. The second time was when I was ten years old and Jacob was thirteen and he had homework for his life skills class--an extracurricular he hated because he was one of only two autistic kids, and the other boy didn't have AS but was lower on the spectrum and spent most of the class lining up crayons end to end. The other three kids in the class had Down syndrome or developmental disabilities. Because of this, a lot of time was spent on things like hygiene--stuff Jacob already knew how to do--with a little bit of social skills tossed in. And one day, his teacher assigned the class to make a friend before the next time they all met.

  --You don't make a friend,|| Jacob said with a scowl. --It's not like they come with directions like you'd find on a box of macaroni and cheese.||

  --All you have to do is remember the steps that Mrs. LaFoye gave you,|| my mother said. --Look someone in the eye, tell them your name, ask them if they'd like to play.||

  Even at ten, I knew that this protocol would surely lead to getting your ass kicked, but I wasn't going to tell Jacob that.

  So the three of us trekked to the local playground, and I sat down next to my mother on a bench while Jacob set out to make a friend. The problem was, there was no one his age there. The oldest kid I could see was about my age, and he was hanging upside down from the monkey bars. Jacob walked up to him and twisted sideways so that he could look the kid in the eye. --My name is Jacob,|| he said in his voice, which I'm used to but which is weird to everyone else--flat as a sheet of aluminum, even in places where there should be exclamation points. --Do you want to play?||

  The kid did a neat flip onto the ground. --Are you, like, some kind of retard?||

  Jacob considered this. --No.||

  --News flash,|| the boy said. --You are.||

  The kid ran off, leaving Jacob standing alone under the monkey bars. I almost got up to rescue him, but then he started to turn in a slow circle. I couldn't figure out what he was doing, and then I realized he liked the sound his sneaker made when it crunched a dry leaf underneath the sole.

  He walked on his tiptoes, very precisely crushing the leaves, until he reached the sandbox. A pair of tiny kids--one blond and one with red pigtails--were busy m
aking pizzas out of sand. --Here's another one,|| the first girl said, and she slapped a glob of sand onto the wooden railing so that the other girl could decorate it with pepperoni rocks and mozzarella grass.

  --Hi, I'm Jacob,|| my brother said.

  --I'm Annika, and I'm going to be a unicorn when I grow up,|| the blonde said.

  Pigtails didn't look up from the pizza assembly line. --My little brother threw up in the bathroom and slipped in it and landed on his butt.||

  --Do you want to play?|| Jacob asked. --We could dig for dinosaurs.||

  --There aren't any dinosaurs in the sandbox, just pizza,|| Annika said. --Maggie's the one who gets to put on the cheese and stuff, but you can be the waiter.||

  Jacob looked like a giant in the sandbox beside those two girls. A woman was staring daggers at him, and I would have bet fifty bucks it was either Annika's or Maggie's mom, wondering if the thirteen-year-old playing with her precious little daughter was a perv. Jacob picked up a stick and began to outline a skeleton in the sand. --The allosaurus had a wishbone, like other meat-eating dinosaurs,|| he said. --Just like you'd find on a chicken.||

  --Here's another one,|| Annika said, and she dumped a pile of sand in front of Maggie. You could practically draw a line between the little girls and Jacob. They weren't playing together as much as they were playing next to each other.

  Jacob looked up at that moment and grinned at me. He tipped his head toward the girls as if to say, Hey, check it out, I made two friends.

  I glanced at my mother, and that's when I saw her crying. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she wasn't doing anything to try to wipe them away. It was almost as if she didn't know it was happening.

  There were plenty of other times in my life that it would have made more sense for my mother to cry: when she had to go to the school to talk to the principal about something Jacob had done to get himself into trouble, for example. Or when he had one of his tantrums in the middle of a crowded space--like last year, in front of the Santa Claus pavilion at the mall while a bazillion kids and parents watched the nuclear meltdown ensue.

  But then, my mother had been dry-eyed, her face wiped clean of expression. In fact, during those moments, my mother looked a little like Jacob did.

  I don't know why seeing my brother with two little girls in a sandbox was a straw that broke the so-called camel's back, for her. I just know that, at that moment, I remember feeling like the world had turned itself inside out. It's the child who's supposed to cry, and the mom who makes it all better, not the other way around, which is why mothers will move heaven and earth to hold it together in front of their own kids.