PERFECT MATCH JODI PICOULT PDF

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Perfect Match JODI PICOULT ATRIA BOOKS New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore This book is a work of fiction. Names. Perfect Match was particularly difficult, however, because I would sit at the breakfast table her brother, who found my ending; and to Laura Gross, Jane Picoult. Download Read Online Free Now eBook Perfect Match By Jodi Picoult EPUB KINDLE PDF EBOOK. (c) - page 1 of 7 - Get Instant Access.


Perfect Match Jodi Picoult Pdf

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Get Free Read & Download Files Perfect Match Jodi Picoult PDF. PERFECT MATCH JODI PICOULT. Download: Perfect Match Jodi Picoult. PERFECT MATCH. PERFECT MATCH JODI PICOULT PDF - In this site isn`t the same as a solution manual you download in a book store or download off the web. Our. Over Perfect Match (Jodi Picoult, ) explores the conflict between the professional and personal life of an assistant district attorney when she discovers that her.

Angeline is the clerk of the South District Court, and her coiffure resembles something between a muskrat curled on her head and a plate of buttered bowtie noodles. This is our game, Peter and me. In Maine, defendants can come to court and plead innocent, guilty, or request to meet with the prosecutor. Peter and I would sit across from each other at a desk, trading court complaints like aces in a poker game. Okay, but that means you get this trespassing charge. It reminds me of the brain matter case.

On the verge of being scalped. Most of them we hold a grudging respect for; after all, they are just doing their jobs. But Carrington is a different breed. He is the sort of man juries want to believe, just on general principle. It has happened to all of us at one time or another: We put up a mountain of hard evidence against his Newman-blue eyes and knowing smile, and the defendant walks.

Needless to say, we all hate Fisher Carrington. Having to face him at a competency hearing is like getting to Hell and finding out that the only food available is raw liver—insult added to injury. Legally, competency is defined as being able to communicate in a way that the fact finder can understand. But before that happens, the judge has to determine that the witness can communicate, knows the difference between the truth and a lie Which means that when I am trying a sexual abuse case with a young child, I routinely file a motion for a competency hearing.

Now imagine that, as a practice run, you have to go to a courtroom that seems big as a football stadium. You have to answer questions a prosecutor asks you. And then you have to answer questions fired at you by a stranger, a lawyer who makes you so confused that you cry and ask him to stop. And because every defendant has the right to face his accuser, you have to do all this while your daddy is staring you down just six feet away.

Two things can happen here. Or, you are found competent, and you get to repeat this little scene all over again I have tried hundreds of sexual abuse cases, seen hundreds of children on that stand. All this, in the name of a conviction. As defense attorneys go, Fisher Carrington is quite respectful. He acts like a grandfather who will give them lollipops if they tell the truth.

In all but one case we both tried, he managed to have the child declared incompetent to stand trial, and the perp walked out free. In the other case, I convicted his client.

Perfect Match The defendant spent three years in jail. The victim spent seven years in therapy. I look up at Peter. A week later, Rachel told her mother that her daddy used to stick his finger inside her vagina. She has told me that one time, she was wearing a Little Mermaid nightgown and eating Froot Loops at the kitchen table. She remembers borrowing the Franklin video from her sister-in-law. Back then, she and her husband were still living together.

Back then, there were times she left her husband alone with their little girl.

But then, they have not heard Rachel tell the same story over and over. They have not talked to psychiatrists, who say that a traumatic event might stick like a thorn in the throat of a child. They do not see, as I do, that since her father has moved out, Rachel has blossomed.

And even without all that—how can I overlook the word of any child? What if the one I choose to discount is one who has been truly hurt? Today, Rachel sits on my swivel chair in my office, twirling in circles. Her braids reach the tops of her shoulders, and her legs are as skinny as matchsticks. This is not the optimal place to hold a quiet interview, but then again, my office never is.

There are cops running in and out, and the secretary I share with the other district attorneys chooses this moment, of course, to put a file on my desk. Patrick, my oldest friend, sticks his head inside.

Jodi Picoult

As kids, I used to tease him about those. But all this will have to wait. I hear the door close behind Patrick as I turn back to Rachel. I like your hairdo, too. When Nathaniel was two and broke his arm, I stood in the ER as the bones were set and put in their cast. He was brave—so brave, not crying out, not once—but his free hand held onto mine so tightly that his fingernails left little half-moons in my palm. Rachel is one of the easier ones; she is nervous but not a wreck.

Miriam is doing the right thing. I will make this as painless as possible for both of them. I walk out of my office and close my door, because I have a job to do.

He has this down to an art. Moreover, the state has no physical evidence and no witnesses. All Ms. I lead her to the witness box, but when she sits down, she cannot see over the railing.

Judge McAvoy turns to his clerk. How are you? I keep smiling so hard my jaw begins to hurt. Did you get any presents? I got the Swimming Barbie. She does the backstroke. And the rule in court, where we are right now, is that you have to tell the truth when we ask you questions. Do you understand? First hurdle, cleared. Do you think you can talk to him? Fisher stands up, oozing security. I love this kid. His voice is as soft as flannel. This is the point where we will lose her.

Was that on TV, or was it a video? Rachel lifts her head and smiles, proud. Did she tell you what to say when you got up into this little box? She said she would be proud of me, for being such a good girl. Ten minutes later, Fisher and I stand in front of the judge in chambers.

Under those circumstances, any conviction the state might secure could be overturned anyway. Does the state have another motion in regard to this case? Of course, Rachel might not be brave enough for that. Or her mother might just want her to get on with life, instead of reliving the past. The judge knows this, and I know this, and there is nothing either of us can do about it.

We veer off in different directions, magnets repelled. After all, I am the one who made her undergo a competency hearing, and it was all for nothing. But none of this shows in my face as I lean down to talk to Rachel, who is waiting in my office. Can you wait outside with your grandma? Maybe when Rachel gets older. Miriam collapses in front of me. I have seen it dozens of times, strong mothers who simply go to pieces, like a starched sheet that melts at a breath of steam.

She rocks back and forth, her arms crossed so tight at her waist that it doubles her over. For her car keys, I think. And quite possibly, for her resolve. There are many things Patrick loves about Nina, but one of the best things about her is the way she enters a room. All Patrick knows is that his back can be to the door, and when Nina comes in, he can feel it— a tickle of energy on the nape of his neck, a snap to attention as every eye in the place turns toward her.

Today, he is sitting at the empty bar. In fact, there have been times that Patrick has wondered whether the establishment opens early simply to accommodate himself and Nina for their standing Monday lunches. He checks his watch, but he knows he is early—he always is. Stuyvesant, the bartender, flips over a tarot card from a deck.

Patrick shakes his head. You need these more than I do. The air in the room hums like a field full of crickets, and Patrick feels something light as helium filling him, until before he knows it he has gotten up from his seat. Back then she had freckles and jeans with holes at the knees and a ponytail yanked so tight it made her eyes pull at the corners. Now, she wears pantyhose and tailored suits; she has had the same short-bob hairstyle for five years. But when Patrick gets close enough, she still smells like childhood to him.

Nina glances at his uniform as Stuyvesant slides a cup of coffee in front of her. The chief insisted I wear a costume, too. Nina stirs her coffee, then smiles up at him. When he went off to the military, Nina was at law school. Kennedy in the Persian Gulf, he received a letter from her, and through it, the vicarious life he might have had. He learned the names of the most detested professors at U of Maine.

He discovered how terrifying it was to take the bar exam.

Where is this going to take me? Patrick considered settling down in places that rolled off the tongue: Shawnee, Pocatello, Hickory. But Jesus, Nina. But Patrick climbed all the way up here.

Nathaniel jerks his head, yes. Slower this time, Nathaniel nods. He feels something open up in his chest, making it easier to breathe.

He looks at his mother, but Patrick shakes his head, and he knows that, now, it is all up to him. Tentatively, his hand comes up to his head. He touches his brow, as if there is a baseball cap there. He cannot sign those words. Then falls, deliberately, in the middle. That makes Patrick grin. He squeezes his eyes shut. Please please please, he thinks. Let me. He looks from one card to the other.

He cannot read, he cannot speak, but he knows that Rollie Fingers has a handlebar moustache, Al Hrabrosky looked like a grizzly bear. Nathaniel looks up at Patrick; and he nods. This, this he can do. Nathaniel lies on the lower bunk while I read him a book before bedtime.

Suddenly, he jacknifes upright and fairly flies across the room, to the doorway where Caleb stands. He is lost in this moment. Seeing them together, I want to kick myself again. How could I have ever believed that Caleb was at fault? The room is suddenly too small to hold all three of us. I back out of it, closing the door behind me. Downstairs, I wash the silverware that sits on the drying rack, already clean.

I sit down on the living room couch; then, restless, stand up and arrange the cushions.

I turn, my arms crossed over my chest. Does that look too defensive? I settle them at my sides, instead. Coming out of the shadows, Caleb walks toward me. He stops two feet away, but there might as well be a universe between us. I know every line of his face. The one that was carved the first year of our marriage, by laughing so often. The one that was born of worries the year he left the contracting the company, to go into business for himself.

The one that developed from focusing hard on Nathaniel as he took his first steps, said his first word. My throat closes tight as a vise, and all the apologies sit bitter in my stomach. We had been naive enough to believe that we were invincible; that we could run blind through the hairpin turns of life at treacherous speeds and never crash.

He did this to our baby. The action arrests me; it is not what I have been expecting. But then I grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him back. I kiss him from the bottom of my soul, I kiss him until he can taste the copper edge of sorrow. We undress each other with brutality, ripping fabric and popping buttons that roll under the couch like secrets. This is the anger overflowing: anger that this has happened to our son, that we cannot turn back time.

For the first time in days I can get rid of the rage, I pour it into Caleb, only to realize that he is doing the same to me. We scratch, we bite, but then Caleb lays me down with the softest touch.

Our eyes lock when he moves inside me, neither one of us would dare to blink.

My body remembers: this is what it is to be filled by love, instead of despair. I close my eyes, and this time, these tears are a relief. Finally, someone knows exactly how I feel. I pull into the parking lot and get out of my car, avoiding the front walk to tiptoe, instead, around to the back of the building.

The rectory is here, attached to the main body of the church. My sneakers leave prints in the frost, the trail of an invisible man.

If I climb onto the ridge of a drainage well, I can see into the window. A cup of tea sits, the bag still draining, on a side table. A book — Tom Clancy — is cracked open on the couch.

All of these people believed him, too; I have not been the only sucker. But as I stand there I remember the day before Nathaniel had stopped speaking, the last time we had all gone to Mass. I remember that the flavored coffee that morning was Hazelnut. That there were no powdered sugar donuts left, though Nathaniel had wanted one. I remember talking to a couple I had not seen in several months, and noticing that the other children were following Father Szyszynski downstairs for his weekly storytime.

He had been hiding behind me, clinging to my legs. I fairly pushed him into joining the others. I pushed him into it. I stand here on the drainage ditch for over an hour, until the priest comes into his living room. He sits down on the couch and picks up his tea and he reads. Caleb examines one. Remember when I talked to you the other day? Patrick pats the cushion beside him, and Nathaniel immediately climbs up. Caleb and I sit on either side of them, in two overstuffed chairs.

How formal we look, I think. He looks at me, and then at Caleb — a silent warning that now, this is his show.

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Even though there is. He is sitting on his hands.

Nathaniel nods. One hand creeps out from beneath a thigh. I want him to be able to do this, oh, I want it so badly it aches, so that this case will be set into motion.

And just as badly, for the same reasons, I want Nathaniel to fail. His hand floats over each card in succession, a dragonfly hovering over a stream. With my eyes, I try to will him back. Do you see the person who hurt you?

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He hesitates there, then begins to move the other cards. We all wait, wondering what he is trying to tell us. But he slides one photo up, and another, until he has two columns. He connects them with a diagonal.

All this deliberation, and it turns out he is only making the letter N. He buries his face on his bent knees and refuses to look at me.

The mad in the room is all the colors of fire, and it presses down on him, so that Nathaniel has to make himself small enough to fit in the cracks of the cushions. His pants smell like maple syrup and November. Nathaniel can remember when just waking up in the morning used to make them happy. He knows this is true: what happened happened because of him. He wishes he could make them smile again. He wishes he had the answers. His mother throws up her hands and walks toward the fireplace, her back to everyone.

His father and Patrick are trying hard not to look at each other, their eyes bouncing like a Superball off everything in the tiny room. She turned the key and the engine groaned, whining and whining before it kicked to life.

Nathaniel feels that same thing now, in his belly. That kindling, that croak, the tiniest bubble rising up his windpipe.

It chokes him; it makes his chest swell. The name that gets shoved out is feeble, thin as gruel, not nearly the thick and porous block that has absorbed all his words these past weeks. In fact, now that it sits on his tongue, bitter pill, it is hard to believe something this tiny has filled all the space inside him.

Nathaniel worries no one will hear him, since so many angry words are flying like kites in the room. And he speaks, he speaks. Patrick feels the warm weight of Nathaniel on his left side. And no wonder; Patrick himself is ducking from the comments Caleb and Nina are winging at each other; Nathaniel has to be faring just as poorly. He slides an arm around the child.

A sound slips into his ear. Then he turns to interrupt Caleb and Nina. Father Glen, to the children like Nathaniel who cannot pronounce his last name — is otherwise occupied. Patrick cannot remember the last time he went on a hunt for evidence wearing a coat and tie, but he wants to blend in with the crowd. He smiles at strangers while they all file into the church before 9 AM; and when they turn into the main nave of the church he walks in the opposite direction, down a staircase.

Still, he moves quietly through the hallway, reluctant to draw attention to himself. He passes a classroom where small children sit wriggling like fish at even smaller tables and chairs. If he were a priest, where would he stash the Goodwill Box? Nina has told him about the Sunday Nathaniel came home with a different pair of underwear on beneath his clothes. I think this, and in the next second, hate myself for it. I fell in love with Caleb because of those hands, which can touch me as if I am a soap bubble certain to burst, yet are powerful enough to hold me together when I am in danger of falling to pieces.

He will finish one project with exquisite finesse before moving on to the next, and he makes decisions the same way.

Perfect Match - Jodi Picoult

I feel his lips brush the top of my head as I work the clasp on the back of my skirt. Perfect Match He walks toward the door, and when I look up I am struck by pieces of him—the breadth of his shoulders, the tilt of his grin, the way his toes turn in in his big construction boots. Caleb sees me watching.

I have nineteen minutes to rouse and feed my son, stuff him into his clothes and his car seat, and make the drive across Biddeford to his school with enough time to get myself to the superior court in Alfred by Then I think, Falling is the first step in learning how to fly.

There is a cameraman set up to the right of the defense table, his head bent close to the machine in preparation. The bailiff takes a step away — this defendant, scum of the earth, still has the right to privacy with his own attorney.

Suddenly I am on the floor beside Nathaniel, my hands on his shoulders, my eyes locked with his. Would you be capable of murder? In the afternoon, I have to meet with a DNA scientist about a bloodstain inside a wrecked car, which revealed brain matter belonging to neither the drunk driver accused of negligent homicide nor the female passenger who was killed.

I fairly pushed him into joining the others.

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