Beside me, I see Jacob open his mouth to object, and immediately, I grab his forearm where it rests on the table. Startled, he turns to me, and I shake my head, hard.

“But how do you know he doesn’t understand his Miranda rights?” Helen asks. “You yourself said he’s very bright. And he told the detective he understood them, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Soto admits.

“And by your own testimony, didn’t you also say Jacob is supremely honest?”

My brilliant witness, my stellar find, opens and closes his mouth without answering.

“Nothing further,” Helen says.

I am about to tell the judge that the defense rests when, instead, something else entirely pops out of my mouth. “Mr. Soto,” I ask, getting to my feet, “would you agree that there is a difference between a true understanding of the law and a photographic memory of the law?”

“Yes. That’s exactly the difference between someone with Asperger’s and someone who truly understands Miranda rights.”

“Thank you, Mr. Soto, you can step down,” I say, and I turn back to the judge. “I’d like to call Jacob Hunt to the stand.”

Nobody is happy with me.

During the recess I asked for before Jacob’s testimony, I told him that all he had to do was answer a few questions. That it was okay to speak out loud when I asked questions, or if the judge or Helen Sharp asked questions, but that he shouldn’t say anything other than the answers to those questions.

In the meantime, Emma danced around us in circles, as if she was trying to find the best spot to sink her knife into me. “You can’t put Jacob on the stand,” she argued. “That’s going to traumatize him. What if he breaks down? How’s that going to look?”

“That,” I said, “would be the best that could possibly happen.”

That shut her up pretty quickly.

Now, Jacob is visibly nervous. He’s rocking on the chair in the witness stand, and his head is bent at some strange angle. “Can you tell us your name?” I ask.

Jacob nods.

“Jacob, you have to speak out loud. The stenographer’s writing down your words, and she has to be able to hear you. Can you tell me your name?”

“Yes,” he says. “I can.”

I sigh. “What is your name?”

“Jacob Hunt.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Jacob, do you know what the Miranda warning says?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me?”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”

“Now, Jacob,” I ask, “do you know what that means?”

“Objection,” Helen argues as Jacob starts to hit his fist against the side of the witness box.

“I’ll withdraw the question,” I say. “Jacob, can you tell me what the Second Amendment to the Constitution says?”

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed,” Jacob recites.

Atta boy, I think. “What does that mean, Jacob?”

He hesitates. “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!”

The judge frowns. “Isn’t that from A Christmas Story?”

“Yes,” Jacob replies.

“Jacob, you don’t know what the Second Amendment really means, do you?”

“Yes, I do: A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.”

I look at the judge. “Your Honor, nothing further.”

Helen is already on the prowl. I watch Jacob shrink back in his seat. “Did you know Detective Matson wanted to talk to you about what happened to Jess?”

“Yes.”

“Were you willing to talk to him about that?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what it means to waive your rights?”

I hold my breath as Jacob hesitates. And then slowly, beautifully, the right fist he’s been banging against the wooden railing unfurls and is raised over his head, moving back and forth like a metronome.

I was furious when Oliver pulled this stunt. Wasn’t he the one who’d said putting Jacob on the witness stand would only be detrimental to the trial? Even if it was a judge here, not a jury of twelve, Jacob was bound to suffer. Thrusting him into a situation certain to make him have a meltdown simply for the sake of being able to say to the judge, See, I told you so, seemed cruel and pointless, the equivalent of jumping off a building in order to command attention, which you’d be too dead to enjoy in the aftermath. But Jacob rose to the occasion-granted, with stims and tics. He didn’t freak out, not even when that Dragon Lady of a prosecutor started in on him. I have never been so proud of him.

“I’ve listened to all the evidence,” Judge Cuttings says. “I’ve observed the defendant, and I do not believe that he voluntarily waived his Miranda rights. I also believe that Detective Matson was on notice that this defendant has a developmental disorder and yet did nothing to address that disability. I’m going to grant the motion to suppress the defendant’s statement at the police station.”

Once the judge leaves, Oliver turns around and gives me a high five as Helen Sharp begins to pack up her briefcase. “I’m sure you’ll be in touch,” Helen says to Oliver.

“So what does it mean?” I ask.

“She’s going to have to make her case without Jacob’s confession. Which means that the prosecutor’s job just got a lot harder.”

“So it’s good.”

“It’s very good,” Oliver says. “Jacob, you were perfect up there.”

“Can we go?” Jacob asks. “I’m starving.”

“Sure.” Jacob stands up and starts walking down the aisle. “Thanks,” I say to Oliver, and I fall into place beside my son. I am halfway up the aisle when I turn around. Oliver is whistling to himself, pulling on his overcoat. “If you want to join us for lunch tomorrow… Fridays are blue,” I tell him.

He looks up at me. “Blue? That’s a tough one. Once you get past the blueberries and yogurt and blue Jell-O, what’s left?”

“Blue corn chips. Blue potatoes. Blue Popsicles. Bluefish.”

“That’s not technically blue,” Oliver points out.

“True,” I reply, “but it’s still allowed.”

“Blue Gatorade’s always been my favorite,” he says.

On the way home, Jacob reads the newspaper out loud from his spot in the backseat. “They’re building a new bank downtown, but it’s going to eliminate forty parking spaces,” he tells me. “A guy was taken to Fletcher Allen after he crashed his motorcycle into a snow fence.” He flips the page. “What’s today?”

“Thursday.”

His voice races with excitement. “Tomorrow at three o’clock Dr. Henry Lee is going to be speaking at the University of New Hampshire, and the public is welcome!”

“Why is that name familiar?”

“Mom,” Jacob says, “he’s only the most famous forensic scientist ever. He’s worked on thousands of cases, like the suicide of Vince Foster and JonBenét Ramsey’s murder and the O. J. Simpson trial. There’s a phone number here for information.” He starts rummaging in my purse for my cell phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling for tickets.”

I glance at him in the rearview mirror. “Jacob. We cannot go see Dr. Lee. You aren’t allowed to leave your house, much less the state.”

“I left the house today.”

“That’s different. You went to court.”

“You don’t understand. This is Henry Lee. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’m not asking to go out to a movie. There’s got to be something Oliver can do to get a furlough or something for the day.”

“I don’t think so, babe.”

“So you’re not even going to try? You’re just going to assume that the answer’s no?”