My Sister's Keeper

Their excuse, given the next morning over eggs Benedict, was an invitation to a party at the Club that night—black-tie, family only. An invitation that, of course, didn't include Julia.

It was so hot out by the time we pulled up to her house that some enterprising boy had pried open the fire hydrant, and kids bounced like popcorn through the stream. "Julia, I never should have dragged you home to meet my parents."

"There's a lot of stuff you shouldn't do," she admitted. "And most of it involves me."

"I'll call you before graduation," I said, as she kissed me and got out of the jeep.

But I didn't call. And I didn't meet up with her at graduation. And she thinks she knows why, but she doesn't.

The curious thing about Rhode Island is that it has absolutely no feng shui. By this I mean that there's a Little Compton, but no Big Compton. There's an Upper Darby but no Lower Darby. There are all sorts of places de

Julia follows me in her own car. Judge and I must break a land-speed record, because it seems less than five minutes have passed since the phone call and the moment we walk into the station to find A

"What?" I stare at A

"Because I need you to get him out," A

"I'm not his lawyer."

"But can't you be?"

"Why don't you call your mother," I suggest. "I hear she's taking new clients."

Julia whacks me on the arm. "Shut up." She turns to A

"What happened?"

"Jesse stole a car and he got nailed."

"Give me more details," I say, already regretting this. "It was a Humvee, I think. A big, yellow one." There's one big yellow Humvee in this entire state, and it belongs to Judge Newbell. A headache begins between my eyes. "Your brother stole a judge's car, and you want me to get him out?" A

Jesus. "Let me go talk to the officer." Leaving A

"It was Judge Newbell's, wasn't it?" The officer smiles. "Yup."

I take a deep breath. "The kid doesn't have a record.”

“That's because he just turned eighteen. He's got a juvy record a mile long."

"Look," I say. "His family's going through a lot right now. One sister's dying; the other one is suing her parents. Can you cut me a break here?"

The officer looks over at A

After a little more negotiation I walk back toward A

"Yeah. But I'm never doing this again, and I'm not done with you." I stalk toward the rear of the station, where the holding cells are.

Jesse Fitzgerald lies on his back on the metal bunk, one arm thrown over his eyes. For a moment I stand outside his cell. "You know, you are the best argument I've ever seen for natural selection."

He sits up. "Who the hell are you?"

"Your fairy godmother. You dumb little shit—do you realize you stole a judge's Humvee?"

"Well, how was I supposed to know whose car it was?"

"Maybe because of the judicial vanity plate that says ALLRISE?"

I say. "I'm a lawyer. Your sister asked me to represent you. Against my better judgment, I've agreed."

"No kidding? So can you get me out?"

"They're going to let you go on PR bail. You need to give them your license and agree to live at home, which you already do, so that shouldn't be a problem."

Jesse considers this. "Do I have to give them my car?"

"No."

You can actually see the gears churning. A kid like Jesse couldn't care less about a piece of paper that permits him to drive, just so long as he has wheels. "That's cool, then," he says.

I motion to an officer waiting nearby, who unlocks the cell so that Jesse can leave. We walk side by side to the waiting area. He is as tall as I am, but unfinished around the edges. His face lights up as we turn the corner, and for a moment I think he is capable of redemption, that maybe he feels enough for A

But he ignores his sister, and instead approaches Julia. "Hey," he says. "Were you worried about me?"

I want, in that moment, to lock him back up. After I kill him.

"Get away," Julia sighs. "Come on, A

Jesse looks up. "Excellent. I'm starving."

"Not you," I say. "We're going to court."

On the day I graduated from Wheeler, the locusts came. They arrived like a thick summer storm, tangling in the branches of trees and thudding hard on the ground. The meteorologists had a field day, trying to explain the phenomenon. They mentioned biblical plagues and El Nino and our prolonged drought. They recommended umbrellas, broad-brimmed hats, staying indoors. The graduation ceremony, however, was held outside under a large white canvas tent. As the salutatorian spoke, his message was punctuated by the suicide leap of bugs. Locusts rolled off the sloped roof, falling into the laps of spectators.

I hadn't wanted to come, but my parents forced me to go. Julia found me while I was putting on my cap. She wrapped her arms around my waist. She tried to kiss me. "Hey," she said. "Which side of the earth did you drop off?"

I remember thinking that in our white gowns, we looked like ghosts. I pushed her away from me. "Don't. Okay P Just don't."

In every graduation photo my parents took, I was smiling as if this new world were a place I actually wanted to live in, while all around me insects fell, big as fists.

What is ethical to a lawyer differs from what's ethical to the rest of the world. In fact, we have a written code—the Rules of Professional Responsibility—which we have to read, be tested on, and follow in order to maintain a practice. But these very standards require us to do things that most people consider immoral. For example, if you walk into my office and say, "I killed the Lindbergh baby," I might ask you where the body is. "Under my bedroom floor," you tell me, "three feet down below the foundation of the house." If I am to do my job correctly, I can't tell a soul where that baby is. I could be disbarred, in fact, if I do.