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Book 5: The Pact

• Listen to a Podcast about The Pact… and how it wound up as a banned book: Big Brother is Watching What you Read

Publisher: William Morrow & Co., 1998; paperback edition published by Quill, 1999.

• A conversation with Jodi about The Pact
• A short synopsis
• What others are saying…
• Book club discussion questions
• Read an excerpt

Synopsis

In this contemporary tale of love and friendship, Jodi Picoult brings to life a familiar world, and in a single terrifying moment awakens every parent's worse fear: We think we know our children… but do we ever really know them at all?

For eighteen years the Hartes and the Golds have lived next door to each other, sharing everything from Chinese food to chicken pox to carpool duty-- they've grown so close it seems they have always been a part of each other's lives. Parents and children alike have been best friends, so it's no surprise that in high school Chris and Emily's friendship blossoms into something more. They've been soul mates since they were born.

So when midnight calls from the hospital come in, no one is ready for the appalling truth: Emily is dead at seventeen from a gunshot wound to the head. There's a single unspent bullet in the gun that Chris took from his father's cabinet-- a bullet that Chris tells police he intended for himself. But a local detective has doubts about the suicide pact that Chris has described.

The profound questions faced by the characters in this heart-rending novel are those we can all relate to: How well do we ever really know our children, our friends? What if…? As its chapters unfold, alternating between an idyllic past and an unthinkable present, The Pact paints an indelible portrait of families in anguish… culminating in an astonishingly suspenseful courtroom drama as Chris finds himself on trial for murder.

With this riveting psychological drama, Jodi Picoult explores the dynamics of intimate relationships under stress-- from the seemingly inexplicable mind of a teenager to the bonds of friendship and marriage. Few writers have such a gift for evoking everyday life coupled with the ability to create a level of dramatic tension that will keep you up reading late into the night. The Pact is storytelling at its best: wonderfully observed, deeply moving, and utterly impossible to put down.

What others are saying about The Pact…

A Featured alternate selection of the Literary Guild, a selection of Doubleday Book Club. Australian edition (Allen & Unwin, 1999) reached the bestseller list.

"Engrossing… The Pact is compelling reading, right up to the stunning courtroom conclusion. Bottom line: Picoult's deft touch makes this her breakout novel."

—PEOPLE magazine

"Picoult is a writer of high energy and conviction who has, in her fifth novel, brought to life a cast of subtly drawn characters caught up in a tragedy as timeless and resonant as those of the Greeks or Shakespeare… this psychologically shrewd tale is as suspenseful as any best-selling legal thrilled… she forges a finely honed, commanding, and cathartic drama."

—Booklist

"As did Judith Guest in Ordinary People, Jodi Picoult captures the ripple effect that occurs after the sudden, violent death of a promising youngster in her captivating fifth novel, The Pact… Scenes from Chris's trial are particularly compelling, more personal and emotionally resonant than anything from John Grisham."

—The Raleigh News & Observer

"From all angles, this is an outstanding story… a wake-up call and an unforgettable experience."

—The Concord Monitor

"The novelist displays an almost uncanny ability to enter the skins of her trouble young protagonists."

—New York Times

"Jodi Picoult's fifth novel, The Pact, is so good that we can't put it down… It is suspenseful, intelligently written, topical."

—Detroit Free Press

"… an affecting story of obsession, loss, and some of the more wrenching varieties of guilt. A moving story, mingling elements of mystery with sensitive exploration of a tragic subject."

—Kirkus Reviews

Book club discussion questions for The Pact

1. How do you feel the extended family environment created by the Hartes and the Golds affected their children? Did it contribute to Emily's suicide?

2. Is there such a thing as being too close to another non-blood relative family?

3. How do you feel Chris handled his guilt? Can he justify helping Emily commit suicide?

4. How did the marital relationships of the Golds and the Hartes contribute to Gus's and Michael's temptations?

5. Is Emily correct in beliving she had no other alternatives to suicide? Explain.

6. Is Melanie justified in her feelings and actions toward the Hartes following Emily's death? What might justify her behavior?

7. On page 35 is the following statement: "Chris and Emily had grown up with love, with wealth, and with each other. What more could they have needed?"Comment.

8. In what ways does jail change Chris? In what ways does he benefit from the experience, and in what ways does it hurt him?

9. Consider the personalities of the Hartes and the Golds. Do opposites attract? Does it make for the best communication in a marriage? How do the events of the book support or deny this thesis?

10. Where do you see these characters in five years?

11. Is the punishment meted out to Chris just? In your opinion, is Chris guilty of murder?

12. Which character in the book is the most adaptable? The least adaptable? Why?

13. Do you think Chris's trial will affect Jordan's view of the justice system? Explain.

14. What is the significance of the "blank"piece of paper that Chris finds in the tin can at the end of the book?

15. The title refers to The Pact between Emily and Chris. Are there other pacts? And what about the subtitle ("A Love Story")?

• Return

An excerpt from the first chapter of The Pact

NOW: November, 1997

There was nothing left to say.
      He covered her body with his, and as she put her arms
around him she could picture him in all his incarnations:
age five, and still blond; age eleven, sprouting; age
thirteen, with the hands of a man. The moon rolled,
sloe–eyed in the night sky; and she breathed in the
scent of his skin."I love you,"she said.
      He kissed her so gently she wondered if she had
imagined it. She pulled back slightly, to look into his
eyes.
      And then there was a shot.
      When the telephone rang at three in the morning, James
Harte was instantly awake. He tried to imagine what could
possibly have gone wrong with Mrs. Greenblatt, because that
was his most potentially emergent case. He groped across the
bed, across where his wife would have been on a night she
wasn't working, for the telephone."Yes?"
      "Is this Mr. Harte?"
      "This is Dr. Harte,"James amended.
            
      "Dr. Harte, this is Officer Stanley of the
Bainbridge Police. Your son has been injured, and he's being
taken to Bainbridge Memorial Hospital."
      James felt his throat working up sentences that
tangled around each other."Is he… was there a car
accident?"There was a brief pause."No, sir,"
the officer said. James's heart twisted."Thank
you,"he said, hanging up, although he did not know why
he was thanking someone who had brought him such horrible
news. The moment the receiver was back in place, he had a
thousand questions to ask.. Where was Christopher hurt?
Critically or superficially? Was Emily still with him? What
had happened? James dressed in the clothes he'd already
thrown into the hamper and made his way downstairs in a
matter of minutes. The hospital, he knew, would take him
seventeen minutes to reach. He was already speeding down
Wood Hollow Road when he picked up the car phone and dialed
Gus.
      "What did they say?"Melanie asked for the
tenth time."What did they say exactly?"
      Michael buttoned the fly of his jeans and stuffed his
feet into tennis shoes. He remembered, too late, that he
didn't have on socks. Fuck the socks. "Michael."
      He glanced up."That Em was injured, and that
she'd been taken to the hospital."His hands were
shaking, yet he was somewhat amazed to find himself able to
do what was necessary: push Mel toward the door, find his
car keys, plot the fastest route to Bainbridge Memorial.
      He had hypothetically wondered what would happen if a
phone call came in the middle of the night; a phone call
that had the power to render one speechless and
disbelieving. He had expected deep down that he'd be a
basket case. And yet here he was, backing carefully out of
his driveway, holding up well, the only betraying panic a
tiny tic in his cheek.
      "James operates there,"Melanie was saying,
a soft, slurred litany."He'll know who we should
contact; what we should do."
      "Sweetheart,"Michael said, groping for her
hand in the dark,"we don't know anything yet."But
as he drove past the Harte's house he took in the absolute
quiet of the scene, the peaceable lack of light in the
windows; and he could not help but feel a stab of jealousy
at the normality of it all. Why us? he thought, and did not
notice the brake lights of a car at the end of Wood Hollow
Road, already turning toward town.
      They wouldn't take the lights out of his eyes. The
fixtures hung over him, bright silver saucers that made him
wince. He could feel at least three people touching
him— laying hands, shouting directions, cutting off
his clothes. He could not move his arms or legs, and when he
tried, he felt straps cutting across them, a collar
anchoring his head. "BP's falling,"said a
woman."It's only seventy over palp."
      "Pupils dilated but unresponsive. Christopher?
Christopher? Can you hear me?"
      "He's tachycardic. Get me two large–bore
IVs, either 14 or 16 gauge, stat. Give him D5 normal saline,
wide open for a liter to start with, please. And draw some
bloods… get a CBC with diff, platelets, coags,
chem–20, UA, tox screen, and send a type and screen to
the blood bank."
      Then there was a stabbing pain in the crook of his arm
and the sharp sound of ripping adhesive tape."What have
we got?"asked a new voice, and the woman spoke
again."A holy mess,"she said. Chris felt a sharp
prick near his forehead, which had him arcing against his
restraints and floating back to the soft, warm hands of a
nurse."It's okay, Chris,"she soothed. How did
they know his name?
      "There's some visible cranium. Call radiology, we
need them to clear the C–spine."
      There was a scurry of noise, of yelling. Chris slid
his eyes to the slit in the curtain off to his right and saw
his father. This was the hospital; his father worked at a
hospital. But he wasn't in his white coat. He was wearing
street clothes, a shirt that wasn't even buttoned right. He
was standing with Emily's parents, trying to get past a
bunch of nurses who wouldn't let him by.
      Chris flailed so suddenly he managed to rip the IV out
of his arm. He looked directly at Michael Gold and screamed,
but there was no sound, no noise, just wave after wave of
fear.
      "I don't give a fuck about procedure,"James
Harte said, and then there was a crash of instruments and a
scuffle of footsteps that diverted the attention of the
nurses enough to let him duck behind the stained curtain.
His son was fighting backboard restraints and a Philadelphia
collar. There was blood everywhere, all over his face and
shirt and neck."I'm Dr. Harte,"he said to the ER
physician who was barreling toward them."Courtesy
staff,"he added. He reached out and firmly grasped
Chris's hand."What's going on?""EMTs brought
him in with a girl,"the doctor said quietly."From
what we can see, he's got a scalp laceration. We were about
to send him to radiology to check skull and cervical
vertebral fractures, and if they report back negative, we'll
get him down to CT scan."
      James felt Chris squeeze his hand so tightly his
wedding band dug into the the skin. Surely, he thought, he's
all right if he has this strength."Emily,"Chris
whispered hoarsely."Where'd they take Em?"
      "James?"a tentative voice asked. He turned
around to see Melanie and Michael hovering at the edge of
the curtain, horrified, no doubt, by all that blood. God
only knew how they'd gotten past the dragons at
triage."Is Chris all right?"
      "He's fine,"James said, more to himself
than to anyone else."He's going to be just fine."
      A resident hung up a telephone
receiver."Radiology's waiting,"she said. The ER
doctor nodded toward James."You can go with him,"
he said."Keep him calm."James walked beside the
gurney, but he did not let go of his son's hand. He began
trotting as the ER staff wheeled it more quickly past the
Golds."How's Emily?"he remembered to ask, and
disappeared before they could answer. The doctor who'd been
attending Chris turned around."You're Mr. and Mrs.
Gold?"
      They came forward simultaneously. "Can you step
outside with me?"
      The doctor led them to a small alcove behind the
coffee machines, decorated with nubby blue couches and ugly
formica endtables, and Melanie instantly relaxed. She was an
professional expert when it came to reading, verbal or
nonverbal clues. If they weren't being led to an examination
room on the double, the danger must have passed. Maybe Emily
was already up on a patient ward, or off to radiology as
Chris was. Maybe she was being brought out to meet them.
      "Please,"the doctor said."Sit
down."
      Melanie had every intention of standing, but her knees
gave out from beneath her. Michael remained upright, frozen.
      "I'm very sorry,"the doctor began, the only
words that Melanie could not rework into anything but what
they signified. She crumpled further, her body folding into
itself, until her head was so deeply buried beneath her arms
that she could not hear what the man was saying.
      "Your daughter was pronounced dead on arrival.
There was a gunshot wound to the head. It was instantaneous;
she didn't suffer."He paused."I'm going to need
one of you to identify the body."
      Michael tried to remember to blink his eyes. Before,
it had always been an involuntary act, but right now
everything— breathing, standing, being— was
strictly tied to his own self–control."I don't
understand,"he said, in a voice too high to be his
own."She was with Chris Harte. That other
boy.""Yes,"the doctor said."They were
brought in together."
      "I don't understand,"Michael repeated, when
what he really meant was, How can she be dead if he's alive?
      "Who did it?"Melanie forced out, her teeth
clenched around the question as if it was a bone she had to
keep possession of."Who shot her?"
      The doctor shook his head."I don't know, Mrs.
Gold. I'm sure the police who were at the scene will be here
to talk to you shortly."Police?
      "Are you ready to go?"Michael stared at the
doctor, wondering why on earth this man thought he ought to
be leaving. Then he remembered. Emily. Her body.
      He followed the doctor back into the ER. Was it his
imagination or did the nurses look at him differently, now?
He passed through cubicles with moaning, damaged, living
people and finally stopped in front of a curtain with no
noise, no bustle, no activity behind it. The doctor waited
until Michael inclined his head, then drew back the blind.
      Emily was lying on her back on a table. Michael took a
step forward, resting his hand on her hair. Her forehead was
smooth, still warm. The doctor was wrong; that was all. She
was not dead, she could not be dead, she…  He shifted his
hand, and her head lolled toward him, allowing him to see
the hole above her right ear, the size of a silver dollar,
ragged on the edges and matted with dried blood. But no new
blood was trickling.
      "Mr. Gold?"the doctor said.
      Michael nodded and ran out of the examination room. He
ran past the man on the stretcher clutching his heart, four
times older than Emily would ever be. He ran past the
resident carrying a cup of coffee. He ran past Gus Harte,
breathless and reaching for him. He picked up speed. Then
Michael turned the corner, sank to his knees, and retched.
      Gus had run the whole way to Bainbridge Memorial
holding hope to her chest, a package that grew heavier and
more unwieldy with every step. But James was not in the ER
waiting room, and all of her wishes for a manageable
injury— a broken arm or a light concussion— had
vanished when she'd stumbled upon Michael in the triage
area."Look again,"she demanded of the
nurse."Christopher Harte. He's the son of Dr. James
Harte,"Gus stressed.
      The nurse nodded."He was in here a while
ago,"she said."I just don't know where they've
taken him."She glanced up sympathetically."Why
don't I see if anyone else knows something?"
      "Yes,"Gus said as imperiously as she could,
wilting as soon as the nurse turned her back.
      She let her eyes roam over the serviceable Emergency
entranceway, from the empty wheelchairs waiting like
wallflowers at a dance, to the television shackled to the
ceiling. At the edge of the area, Gus saw a swatch of red
fabric. She began to move toward it, recognizing the scarlet
overcoat Melanie had found for eighty percent off at
Filene's.
      "Mel?"Gus whispered. Melanie lifted her
head, her face just as stricken as Michael's had
been."Is Emily hurt too?"
      Melanie stared at her for a long
moment."No,"she said carefully."Emily is not
hurt."
      "Oh, thank God—"
      "Em,"Melanie interrupted,"is
dead."
      "What's taking so long?"Gus asked for the
third time, pacing in front of the tiny window in the
private room that had been assigned to Christopher."If
he's really all right, then how come they haven't brought
him back yet?"
      James sat in the only chair, his head in his hands. He
himself had seen the CT scans, and he'd never looked over
one with such a fear of finding an intracranial contusion or
an epidural hemorrhage. But Chris's brain was intact; his
wounds superficial. They had taken him back to the ER to be
stitched up by a surgeon; he would be monitored overnight
and then sent for additional tests the next day.
      "Did he say anything to you? About what
happened?"James shook his head."He was scared,
Gus. In pain. I wasn't going to push him."He stood up
and leaned against the door frame."He asked where
they'd brought Emily."
      Gus turned slowly."You didn't tell him,"she
said.
      "No."James swallowed thickly."At the
time I didn't even think about it. About them being together
when this happened."
      Gus crossed the room and slipped her arms around
James. Even now, he stiffened; he had not been brought up to
embrace in public places, and near–death experiences
did not alter the rules."I don't want to think about
it,"she murmured, laying her cheek against his
back."I saw Melanie, and I keep imagining how easily
that could have been me."
      James pushed her away and walked toward the radiator,
belching out its heat."What the hell were they
thinking, driving through a bad
neighborhood?""What neighborhood?"Gus said,
seizing on the new detail."Where did the ambulance come
in from?"
      James turned to her."I don't know,"he
said."I just assumed."Suddenly she was a woman
with a mission."I could go back down to Emergency while
we're waiting,"Gus said. "They have to have that
sort of information logged."She strode purposefully
toward the door, but as she went to pull it, it opened from
the outside. A male orderly wheeled in Chris, his head
swathed in thick white bandages.
      She was rooted to the floor, unable to connect this
sunken boy with the strong son who had towered over her just
that morning. The nurse explained something that Gus didn't
bother to listen to, and then she and the orderly left the
room.
      Gus could hear her own breathing providing a backbeat
for the thin drip, drip of Chris's IV. His eyes were glassy
with sedatives, unfocused with fear. Gus sat down on the
edge of the bed and cradled him in her arms."Ssh,"
she said, as he started to cry against the front of her
sweater, first thin tears and then loud, unstoppable
sobs."It's all right."
      Within minutes Chris's hiccups leveled, and his eyes
closed. Gus tried to hold him to her, even after his big
body went slack in her arms. She glanced at James, who was
sitting in the chair beside the hospital bed like a stiff
and stoic sentry. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn't. James
hadn't cried since he'd been seven.
      Gus did not like to cry around him, either. It was not
that he ever told her she shouldn't, but the plain fact that
he wasn't as visibly upset as she was made her feel foolish
rather than sensitive. She bit her lip and pulled open the
door of the room, wanting to have her breakdown in private.
In the hallway she flattened her palms against the cool
cinder block wall and tried to think of just yesterday, when
she had gone grocery shopping and had cleaned the downstairs
bathroom and had yelled at Chris for leaving the milk out on
the kitchen counter all day so it spoiled. Yesterday, when
everything had made sense. "Excuse me."
      Gus turned her head to see a tall, dark–haired
woman. "I'm Detective Marrone of the Bainbridge Police.
Would you be Mrs. Harte?"
      She nodded and shook the policewoman's hand."Were
you the one who found them?"
      "No, I wasn't. But I was called in to the scene.
I need to ask you some questions."
      "Oh,"Gus said, surprised."I thought
you might be able to answer mine."
      Detective Marrone smiled; Gus was momentarily stunned
at how beautiful that one transformation made her."You
scratch my back, I'll scratch yours,"she said.
      "I can't imagine I'll be much help,"Gus
said."What did you want to know?"
      The detective took out a pad and a pen."Did your
son tell you he was going out tonight?"
      "Yes."
      "Did he tell you where he was going?"
      "No,"Gus said."But he's seventeen, and
he's always been very responsible."She glanced at the
hospital room door."Until tonight,"she added.
      "Uh–huh. Did you know Emily Gold, Mrs.
Harte?"Gus immediately felt tears well in her eyes.
Embarrassed, she swiped at them with the backs of her
hands."Yes,"she said. "Em is… was like a
daughter to me."
      "And what was she to your son?"
      "His girlfriend."Gus was more confused now
than before. Had Emily been involved in something illegal?
Was that why Chris had been driving through a bad
neighborhood?
      She did not realize that she'd spoken aloud until
Detective Marrone's brows drew together."A bad
neighborhood?"
      "Well,"Gus said, coloring."We know
there was a gun involved."The detective snapped shut
her notebook and started for the door."I'd like to talk
to Chris now,"she said.
      "You can't,"Gus insisted, blocking the
other woman's way."He's asleep. He needs his rest.
Besides, he doesn't even know about Emily yet. We couldn't
tell him, not like this. He loved her."
      Detective Marrone stared at Gus."Maybe,"she
said. "But he also may have shot her."