“Ms. Sharp,” the judge asks, “what is the basis for your objection to having the defendant’s mother sit at counsel table?”

“It’s twofold, Your Honor. There’s a concern about how to explain to the jury the defendant’s mother’s presence there. She’s testifying as a witness, so she will clearly be identified as the defendant’s mother, and as the court well knows, it is not good protocol to allow anyone other than the attorney and clients to sit at counsel table. Giving her the elevated position at table awards her more importance in the eyes of the jury, and it becomes an unexplained incident that negatively impacts the State. Moreover, we’ve heard all too often that the defendant’s mother interprets for him. She intervenes at his school with teachers, with strangers, with police officers. She’s the one who burst into the station and told the detective she had to be present at the interrogation. Judge, what’s to prevent her from writing an entire script for Jacob and passing it to him or whispering in his ear during the course of the trial to coach him into saying or doing something inappropriate and prejudicial?”

I stare at her for a moment. She’s really good.

“Mr. Bond? How do you respond?” the judge asks.

“Judge, Jacob’s mother’s presence at counsel table is the equivalent of having a Seeing Eye dog for a defendant who’s blind. The jury will understand if told that it’s not just an animal in the courtroom-it’s a necessity, an accommodation being made for the defendant because of his disability. Jacob’s mother, and her proximity to him during the trial, can be explained the same way,” I say. “What you’re ruling on today, Judge, is what accommodations need to be made to ensure that my client has a fair trial. That right, and those accommodations, are assured to him pursuant to the Americans with Disabilities Act and, even more important, pursuant to the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Amendments of the United States Constitution. Does this mean giving Jacob some minor concessions that other defendants don’t get in court? Yes, because those other defendants don’t have to deal with the crippling inability to communicate effectively and to interact with other people like Jacob does. For them, a trial is not a gigantic mountain standing between them and freedom, without even having the most basic tools with which they can begin climbing.”

I glance surreptitiously at the judge and make the snap decision to tone it down a little. “So how do we explain Jacob’s mother’s position to the jury? Easy. We say that the judge has given her a right to sit at counsel table. We say that this isn’t usual practice, but in this case she has a right to sit there. As for her role in the trial, Your Honor, I will have her agree not to speak to Jacob but instead to communicate with him via writing, and those notes can be turned in to the court at the close of the day or during each recess, so that Ms. Sharp gets to see exactly what dialogue is going on between them.”

The judge removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “This is an unusual case, with unusual circumstances. I’ve certainly had a good number of defendants come in front of me who had a hard time communicating… But in this case, we have a young man facing very serious charges and possible incarceration for the rest of his life, and we know he has a diagnosed inability to communicate the way the rest of us do… so it would be an oversight to expect him to behave in a courtroom the way the rest of us would.” He looks at Jacob, who-I imagine-is still not meeting his gaze. “What a fair trial looks like for this defendant may well be different from what it looks like for others, but that’s the nature of America-we make room for everyone, and that’s what we’re going to do for Mr. Hunt.” He looks down at the motion before him. “All right. I’m going to allow for the sensory breaks. We will ask the bailiff to set up a special room at the back of the courtroom, and anytime the defendant feels the need to leave, he is to pass a note to you, Mr. Bond. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Then, Counselor, you may approach and ask me to call for a recess. You will explain to your client that he may not leave the courtroom until the recess has been called and he’s been excused by the court.”

“Got it, Your Honor,” I reply.

“As for your third request, I will not use my gavel for the duration of this trial. However, I’m not going to turn down the lights. It’s a security hazard for the bailiffs. Hopefully, having sensory breaks will help compensate, and I have no objection to the defendant turning out the lights in the break room in the rear of the court.”

Jacob tugs on my coat. “Can I wear sunglasses?”

“No,” I say curtly.

“Third, I’ll shorten the court sessions. We will break the trial into three forty-five-minute sessions in the morning, two in the afternoon, with fifteen-minute breaks in between. We will adjourn at four P.M. every day. I assume that will be satisfactory, Mr. Bond?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“I agree to allow the defendant’s mother to sit at counsel table; however, they can only communicate in writing, and those notes must be turned in to the court at every break. Finally, in regard to your request for the prosecution’s questioning to be direct and simple,” the judge says, “that I will deny. You can ask whatever short, literal questions you like, Mr. Bond, but the defendant has no constitutional right to direct how the State chooses to present its case.” He sticks my motion back inside a folder. “I trust that’s all satisfactory, Mr. Bond?”

“Of course,” I say, but inside, I’m doing handsprings. Because all of these little quirks and concessions are greater than the sum of their parts: the jury cannot help but see that Jacob’s different from your average defendant, from the rest of us.

And should be judged accordingly.

I wake up sneezing.

When I open my eyes, I’m in a pink room and there are feathers tickling my nose. I jackknife upright in the narrow little bed and remember where I am-one of the girls’ rooms. There are mobiles with glittery stars and piles of stuffed animals and a pink camouflage rug.

I sneeze again, and that’s when I realize I’m wearing a pink feather boa.

“What the fuck,” I say, unspooling it from my neck, and then I hear giggling. I lean over the side of the bed and find my father’s younger kid-I think her name is Grace-hiding under the bed.

“You said a bad word,” she tells me.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “This is my room.”

I flop back down on the mattress. Between the time my flight arrived and the Talk, I probably got all of four hours of sleep. No wonder I feel like shit.

She slips out from underneath the bed and sits down beside me. She’s really little-I’m not good with kid ages, though. She has purple nail polish on her toes, and she’s wearing a plastic tiara.

“How come you’re not in school?”

“Because it’s Friday, silly,” Grace says, although this doesn’t make any sense to me. “You have really big feet. They’re bigger than Leon.”

I’m wondering who Leon is, but then she takes a stuffed pig and holds it up against the bare sole of my foot.

My watch is on the nightstand, next to a book about a mouse too shy to tell anyone her name. I read it last night before I went to bed. It’s only 6:42 A.M., but we are leaving early. We’ve got a plane to catch.

“Are you my brother?” Grace asks.

I look at her. I try really hard, but I can’t see a single feature we have in common. And that’s really weird, because my mom has always told me I remind her of my dad. (For the record, now that I’ve seen for myself, it’s not true. I’m just blond, that’s all, and everyone else in my household has dark hair.) “I guess you could say that,” I tell her.