{"product_id":"nineteen-minutes-a-novel-by-jodi-picoult-532ab","title":"Nineteen Minutes: A Novel by Jodi Picoult","description":"\u003cp\u003eIn nineteen minutes, you can mow the front lawn, color your hair, watch a third of a hockey game. In nineteen minutes, you can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist; you can fold laundry for a family of five....In nineteen minutes, you can stop the world, or you can just jump off it. In nineteen minutes, you can get revenge.  Sterling is a small, ordinary New Hampshire town where nothing ever happens -- until the day its complacency is shattered by a shocking act of violence. In the aftermath, the town's residents must not only seek justice in order to begin healing but also come to terms with the role they played in the tragedy. For them, the lines between truth and fiction, right and wrong, insider and outsider have been obscured forever. Josie Cormier, the teenage daughter of the judge sitting on the case, could be the state's best witness, but she can't remember what happened in front of her own eyes. And as the trial progresses, fault lines between the high school and the adult community begin to show, destroying the closest of friendships and families.  Nineteen Minutes is New York Times bestselling author Jodi Picoult's most raw, honest, and important novel yet. Told with the straightforward style for which she has become known, it asks simple questions that have no easy answers: Can your own child become a mystery to you? What does it mean to be different in our society? Is it ever okay for a victim to strike back? And who -- if anyone -- has the right to judge someone else?  Editorial Reviews  Amazon.com Review Best known for tackling controversial issues through richly told fictional accounts, Jodi Picoult's 14th novel, Nineteen Minutes, deals with the truth and consequences of a smalltown high-school shooting. Set in Sterling, New Hampshire, Picoult offers reads a glimpse of what would cause a 17-year-old to wake up one day, load his backpack with four guns, and kill nine students and one teacher in the span of nineteen minutes. As with any Picoult novel, the answers are never black and white, and it is her exceptional ability to blur the lines between right and wrong that make this author such a captivating storyteller.   On Peter Houghton's first day of kindergarten, he watched helplessly as an older boy ripped his lunch box out of his hands and threw it out the window. From that day on, his life was a series of humiliations, from having his pants pulled down in the cafeteria, to being called a freak at every turn. But can endless bullying justify murder? As Picoult attempts to answer this question, she shows us all sides of the equation, from the ruthless jock who loses his ability to speak after being shot in the head, to the mother who both blames and pities herself for producing what most would call a monster. Surrounding Peter's story is that of Josie Cormier, a former friend whose acceptance into the popular crowd hangs on a string that makes it impossible for her to reconcile her beliefs with her actions.   At times, Nineteen Minutes can seem tediously stereotypical-- jocks versus nerds, parent versus child, teacher versus student. Part of Picoult's gift is showing us the subtleties of these common dynamics, and the startling effects they often have on the moral landscape. As Peter's mother says at the end of this spellbinding novel, Everyone would remember Peter for nineteen minutes of his life, but what about the other nine million? --Gisele Toueg   From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Bestseller Picoult (My Sister's Keeper) takes on another contemporary hot-button issue in her brilliantly told new thriller, about a high school shooting. Peter Houghton, an alienated teen who has been bullied for years by the popular crowd, brings weapons to his high school in Sterling, N.H., one day and opens fire, killing 10 people. Flashbacks reveal how bullying caused Peter to retreat into a world of violent computer games. Alex Cormier, the judge assigned to Peter's case, tries to maintain her objectivity as she struggles to understand her daughter, Josie, one of the surviving witnesses of the shooting. The author's insights into her characters' deep-seated emotions brings this ripped-from-the-headlines read chillingly alive. (Mar.)  Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.  From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. Bestseller Picoult (My Sister's Keeper) takes on another contemporary hot-button issue in her brilliantly told new thriller, about a high school shooting. Peter Houghton, an alienated teen who has been bullied for years by the popular crowd, brings weapons to his high school in Sterling, N.H., one day and opens fire, killing 10 people. Flashbacks reveal how bullying caused Peter to retreat into a world of violent computer games. Alex Cormier, the judge assigned to Peter's case, tries to maintain her objectivity as she struggles to understand her daughter, Josie, one of the surviving witnesses of the shooting. The author's insights into her characters' deep-seated emotions brings this ripped-from-the-headlines read chillingly alive. (Mar.)  Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.  From Bookmarks Magazine Nobody does 'ripped from the headlines' better than Picoult, claims the Christian Science Monitor, and in her 14th book she takes on the sensitive, disturbing topic of school shootings. This is a raw subject for many, and reviewers were quick to note that this intense novel is not for the squeamish. Fans of Picoult (My Sister's Keeper,***1\/2 July\/Aug 2004) will recognize the setting, some of the characters, and her trademark, jaw-dropping plot twists as she explores the events leading up to and following the tragedy. Reviewers applauded her ability to make readers sympathize as much with the shooter as with his targets, blending the lines of aggressor and victim with ease. Those who dare to venture into such dark territory will be richly rewarded.  Copyright © 2004 Phillips \u0026amp; Nelson Media, Inc.  From Booklist Popular and prolific Picoult (My Sister's Keeper, and The Tenth Circle , 2006) now tackles the troubling topic of a school shooting. Picoult considers the tragedy--in 19 quick minutes, 10 are dead and 19 are wounded--from several different perspectives, including that of the shooter, a troubled boy named Peter, who was mercilessly picked on at school. The small town of Sterling is rocked by the carnage. Alex Cormier is the superior court judge planning to hear the case, but her daughter, Josie, Peter's only friend during childhood but now a member of the in crowd, was in the midst of the melee. Peter spared Josie, but killed her boyfriend. Two characters from previous Picoult novels are also involved. Charismatic detective Patrick DuCharme rushes into the school and apprehends Peter, and Jordan McAfee agrees to defend the young killer. Every bit as gripping and moving as Picoult's previous novels, Nineteen Minutes will no doubt garner considerable attention for its controversial subject and twist ending. Kristine Huntley Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved  Review A master of the craft of storytelling. -- AP Newswire  Picoult spins fast-paced tales of family dysfunction, betrayal, and redemption.... [Her] depiction of these rites of contemporary adolescence is exceptional: unflinching, unjudgmental, utterly chilling. -- The Washington Post  Jodi Picoult's books explore all the shades of gray in a world too often judged in black and white. -- St. Louis Post-Dispatch  About the Author Jodi Picoult received an AB in creative writing from Princeton and a master's degree in education from Harvard. The recipient of the 2003 New England Book Award for her entire body of work, she is the author of twenty-six novels, including the #1 New York Times bestsellers House Rules, Handle With Care, Change of Heart, and My Sister's Keeper, for which she received the American Library Association's Margaret Alexander Edwards Award. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and three children. Visit her website at JodiPicoult.com.  From The Washington Post Reviewed by Frances Taliaferro  Early in Nineteen Minutes, Detective Patrick Ducharme walks through a deserted crime scene. Artifacts have been left behind: the Wonder-bread sandwiches scarred by only one bite; the tub of Cherry Bomb lip gloss . . . the salt-and-pepper composition notebooks filled with study sheets on Aztec civilization and margin notes about the current one: I luv Zach S!!! It's eerily ordinary -- until you notice the dead bodies.  This is the cafeteria of Sterling (N.H.) High School, shortly after a gunman has killed 10 people and wounded many others. His rampage lasted 19 minutes. As the prosecutor will later point out, In nineteen minutes, you can mow the front lawn, color your hair, watch a third of a hockey game. You can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist. You can fold laundry for a family of five. Or . . . you can bring the world to a screeching halt.  There's never any doubt that the gunman was Peter Houghton, a 17-year-old student. Hundreds of witnesses confirm it. Now, justice must be accomplished -- properly, and not by an angry mob. It won't be easy in this small town where everybody is connected. Peter's mother, for instance, is the midwife who delivered Josie Cormier. Peter and Josie were best friends until puberty hit and Josie became a cool girl while Peter remained a nerd. Matt Royston, Josie's dazzling boyfriend, was Peter's last victim. Josie's mother, Alex Cormier, is the judge who will try Peter's case -- unless she can be brought to recuse herself. And these are only the most salient connections. Dozens of others must be traced as the authorities piece together why the shooting happened.  Parent-child relationships are central to Nineteen Minutes. When you're a teenager, the fact of parents is unavoidable, even when they're not very good at being parents. For Josie's single mother, it's easy to be a judge and hard to be a mother; everything she says comes out wrong. To Peter, his parents seem equally inept and obtuse. But then, most adolescents find their parents wanting; so how does a normal teenage worldview turn into a homicidal one?  As Picoult answers this question, the sociology of Sterling High School comes to life: nerds and jocks and brains, adults from another planet, school as heaven or hell. For many of us, high school meant self-discovery complicated by acne, prom anxiety and the perfidy of other teenagers. Though we've never been homecoming queen or most valuable player, we've made our peace with our own uncoolness. But at Sterling, a nerd doesn't have that relief. Bullying doesn't officially exist -- ask any grown-up -- but if you're a nerd, you know what to expect. At the very least, cool girls will look at you as if you were a bug on the windshield. If you're lucky, the abuse will be verbal: The guys will call you freak or homo or retard. On a bad day, they'll crush your glasses or stuff you into a locker. Torment could come from any direction at any time, and you live in the adolescent version of post-traumatic stress disorder. For some adult characters in the novel, this diagnosis is news, but no teenager would be surprised to hear it.  Certainly the reader is not surprised to hear about HIDE-N-SHRIEK, the video game Peter created, in which the underdog gets a chance to annihilate the bullies with weapons found in any school building. Peter's ingenuity is appalling and pathetic and almost valiant; like Josie, he's a person of moral complexity.   The adult characters, however, tend to be one-sided and given to making snappy comebacks with a frequency that's entertaining but not plausible. The judge has such gumption and good sense that her refrain of maternal inadequacy just doesn't ring true.  Picoult is the author of 13 other novels, most of them widely popular, but I came to Nineteen Minutes with no previous Picoult experience. It's absorbing and expertly made. On one level, it's a thriller, complete with dismaying carnage, urgent discoveries and 11th-hour revelations, but it also asks serious moral questions about the relationship between the weak and the strong, questions that provide what school people call teachable moments. If compassion can be taught, Picoult may be just the one to teach it.   Copyright 2007, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.   Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.  Nineteen Minutes  A novelBy Jodi Picoult  Atria Copyright © 2007Jodi Picoult All right reserved. ISBN: 9780743496728 March 6, 2007  In nineteen minutes, you can mow the front lawn, color your hair, watch a third of a hockey game. In nineteen minutes, you can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist; you can fold laundry for a family of five.  Nineteen minutes is how long it took the Tennessee Titans to sell out of tickets to the play-offs. It's the length of a sitcom, minus the commercials. It's the driving distance from the Vermont border to the town of Sterling, New Hampshire.  In nineteen minutes, you can order a pizza and get it delivered. You can read a story to a child or have your oil changed. You can walk a mile. You can sew a hem.  In nineteen minutes, you can stop the world, or you can just jump off it.  In nineteen minutes, you can get revenge.  As usual, Alex Cormier was running late. It took thirty-two minutes to drive from her house in Sterling to the superior court in Grafton County, New Hampshire, and that was only if she speeded through Orford. She hurried downstairs in her stockings, carrying her heels and the files she'd brought home with her over the weekend. She twisted her thick copper hair into a knot and anchored it at the base of her neck with bobby pins, transforming herself into the person she needed to be before she left her house.  Alex had been a superior court judge now for thirty-four days. She'd believed that, having proved her mettle as a district court judge for the past five years, this time around the appointment might be easier. But at forty, she was still the youngest judge in the state. She still had to fight to establish herself as a fair justice -- her history as a public defender preceded her into her courtroom, and prosecutors assumed she'd side with the defense. When Alex had submitted her name years ago for the bench, it had been with the sincere desire to make sure people in this legal system were innocent until proven guilty. She just never anticipated that, as a judge, she might not be given the same benefit of the doubt.  The smell of freshly brewed coffee drew Alex into the kitchen. Her daughter was hunched over a steaming mug at the kitchen table, poring over a textbook. Josie looked exhausted -- her blue eyes were bloodshot; her chestnut hair was a knotty ponytail. Tell me you haven't been up all night, Alex said.  Josie didn't even glance up. I haven't been up all night, she parroted.  Alex poured herself a cup of coffee and slid into the chair across from her. Honestly?  You asked me to tell you something, Josie said. You didn't ask for the truth.  Alex frowned. You shouldn't be drinking coffee.  And you shouldn't be smoking cigarettes.  Alex felt her face heat up. I don't --   Mom, Josie sighed, even when you open up the bathroom windows, I can still smell it on the towels. She glanced up, daring Alex to challenge her other vices.  Alex herself didn't have any other vices. She didn't have time for any vices. She would have liked to say that she knew with authority that Josie didn't have any vices, either, but she would only be making the same inference the rest of the world did when they met Josie: a pretty, popular, straight-A student who knew better than most the consequences of falling off the straight-and-narrow. A girl who was destined for great things. A young woman who was exactly what Alex had hoped her daughter would grow to become.  Josie had once been so proud to have a mother as a judge. Alex could remember Josie broadcasting her career to the tellers at the bank, the baggers in the grocery store, the flight attendants on planes. She'd ask Alex about her cases and her decisions. That had all changed three years ago, when Josie entered high school, and the tunnel of communication between them slowly bricked shut. Alex didn't necessarily think that Josie was hiding anything more than any other teenager, but it was different: a normal parent might metaphorically judge her child's friends, whereas Alex could do it legally.  What's on the docket today? Alex said.  Unit test. What about you?  Arraignments, Alex replied. She squinted across the table, trying to read Josie's textbook upside down. Chemistry?  Catalysts. Josie rubbed her temples. Substances that speed up a reaction, but stay unchanged by it. Like if you've got carbon monoxide gas and hydrogen gas and you toss in zinc and chromium oxide, and...what's the matter?  Just having a little flashback of why I got a C in Orgo. Have you had breakfast?  Coffee, Josie said.  Coffee doesn't count.  It does when you're in a rush, Josie pointed out.  Alex weighed the costs of being even five minutes later, or getting another black mark against her in the cosmic good-parenting tally. Shouldn't a seventeen-year-old be able to take care of herself in the morning? Alex started pulling items out of the refrigerator: eggs, milk, bacon. I once presided over an involuntary emergency admission at the state mental hospital for a woman who thought she was Emeril. Her husband had her committed when she put a pound of bacon in the blender and chased him around the kitchen with a knife, yelling Bam!  Josie glanced up from her textbook. For real?  Oh, believe me, I can't make these things up. Alex cracked an egg into a skillet. When I asked her why she'd put a pound of bacon in the blender, she looked at me and said that she and I must just cook differently.  Josie stood up and leaned against the counter, watching her mother cook. Domesticity wasn't Alex's strong point -- she didn't know how to make a pot roast but was proud to have memorized the phone numbers of every pizza place and Chinese restaurant in Sterling that offered free delivery. Relax, Alex said dryly. I think I can do this without setting the house on fire.  But Josie took the skillet out of her hands and laid the strips of bacon in it, like sailors bunking tightly together. How come you dress like that? she asked.  Alex glanced down at her skirt, blouse, and heels and frowned. Why? Is it too Margaret Thatcher?  No, I mean...why do you bother? No one knows what you have on under your robe. You could wear, like, pajama pants. Or that sweater you have from college that's got holes in the elbows.  Whether or not people see it, I'm still expected to dress...well, judiciously.  A cloud passed over Josie's face, and she busied herself over the stove, as if Alex had somehow given the wrong answer. Alex stared at her daughter -- the bitten half-moon fingernails, the freckle behind her ear, the zigzag part in her hair -- and saw instead the toddler who'd wait at the babysitter's window at sundown, because she knew that was when Alex came to get her. I've never worn pajamas to work, Alex admitted, but I do sometimes close the door to chambers and take a nap on the floor.  A slow, surprised smile played over Josie's face. She held her mother's admission as if it were a butterfly lighting on her hand by accident: an event so startling you could not call attention to it without risking its loss. But there were miles to drive and defendants to arraign and chemical equations to interpret, and by the time Josie had set the bacon to drain on a pad of paper toweling, the moment had winged away.  I still don't get why I have to eat breakfast if you don't, Josie muttered.  Because you have to be a certain age to earn the right to ruin your own life. Alex pointed at the scrambled eggs Josie was mixing in the skillet. Promise me you'll finish that?  Josie met her gaze. Promise.  Then I'm headed out.  Alex grabbed her travel mug of coffee. By the time she backed her car out of the garage, her head was already focused on the decision she had to write that afternoon; the number of arraignments the clerk would have stuffed onto her docket; the motions that would have fallen like shadows across her desk between Friday afternoon and this morning. She was caught up in a world far away from home, where at that very moment her daughter scraped the scrambled eggs from the skillet into the trash can without ever taking a single bite.  Sometimes Josie thought of her life as a room with no doors and no windows. It was a sumptuous room, sure -- a room half the kids in Sterling High would have given their right arm to enter -- but it was also a room from which there really wasn't an escape. Either Josie was someone she didn't want to be, or she was someone who nobody wanted.  She lifted her face to the spray of the shower -- water she'd made so hot it raised red welts, stole breath, steamed windows. She counted to ten, and then finally ducked away from the stream to stand naked and dripping in front of the mirror. Her face was swollen and scarlet; her hair stuck to her shoulders in thick ropes. She turned sideways, scrutinized her flat belly, and sucked it in a little. She knew what Matt saw when he looked at her, what Courtney and Maddie and Brady and Haley and Drew all saw -- she just wished that she could see it, too. The problem was, when Josie looked in the mirror, she noticed what was underneath that raw skin, instead of what had been painted upon it.  She understood how she was supposed to look and supposed to act. She wore her dark hair long and straight; she dressed in Abercrombie \u0026amp; Fitch; she listened to Dashboard Confessional and Death Cab for Cutie. She liked feeling the eyes of other girls in the school when she sat in the cafeteria borrowing Courtney's makeup. She liked the way teachers already knew her name on the first day of class. She liked having guys stare at her when she walked down the hall with Matt's arm around her.  But there was a part of her that wondered what would happen if she let them all in on the secret -- that some mornings, it was hard to get out of bed and put on someone else's smile; that she was standing on air, a fake who laughed at all the right jokes and whispered all the right gossip and attracted the right guy, a fake who had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be real...and who, when you got right down to it, didn't want to remember, because it hurt even more than this.  There wasn't anyone to talk to. If you even doubted your right to be one of the privileged, popular set, then you didn't belong there. And Matt -- well, he'd fallen for the Josie on the surface, like everyone else. In fairy tales, when the mask came off, the handsome prince still loved the girl, no matter what -- and that alone would turn her into a princess. But high school didn't work that way. What made her a princess was hooking up with Matt. And in some weird circular logic, what made Matt hook up with her was the very fact that she was one of Sterling High's princesses.  She couldn't confide in her mother, either. You don't stop being a judge just because you step out of the courthouse, her mother used to say. It was why Alex Cormier never drank more than one glass of wine in public; it was why she never yelled or cried. A trial was a stupid word, considering that an attempt was never good enough: you were supposed to toe the line, period. Many of the accomplishments that Josie's mother was most proud of -- Josie's grades, her looks, her acceptance into the right crowd -- had not been achieved because Josie wanted them so badly herself, but mostly because she was afraid of falling short of perfect.  Josie wrapped a towel around herself and headed into her bedroom. She pulled a pair of jeans out of her closet and then layered two long-sleeved tees that showed off her chest. She glanced at her clock -- if she wasn't going to be late, she'd have to get moving.  Before leaving her room, though, she hesitated. She sank down onto her bed and rummaged underneath the nightstand for the Ziploc sandwich bag that she'd tacked to the wooden frame. Inside was a stash of Ambien -- pirated one pill at a time from her mother's prescription for insomnia, so she'd never notice. It had taken Josie nearly six months to inconspicuously gather only fifteen pills, but she figured if she washed them down with a fifth of vodka, it would do the trick. It wasn't like she had a strategy, really, to kill herself next Tuesday, or when the snow melted, or anything concrete like that. It was more like a backup plan: When the truth came out, and no one wanted to be around her anymore, it stood to reason Josie wouldn't want to be around herself either.  She tacked the pills back beneath her nightstand and headed downstairs. As she walked into the kitchen to load up her backpack, she found her chemistry textbook still wide open -- and a long-stemmed red rose marking her place.  Matt was leaning against the refrigerator in the corner; he must have let himself in through the open garage door. Like always, he made her head swim with seasons -- his hair was all the colors of autumn; his eyes the bright blue of a winter sky; his smile as wide as any summer sun. He was wearing a baseball hat backward, and a Sterling Varsity Hockey tee over a thermal shirt that Josie had once stolen for a full month and hidden in her underwear drawer, so that when she needed to she could breathe in the scent of him. Are you still pissed off? he asked.  Josie hesitated. I wasn't the one who was mad.  Matt pushed away from the refrigerator, coming forward until he could link his arms around Josie's waist. You know I can't help it.  A dimple blossomed in his right cheek; Josie could already feel herself softening. It wasn't that I didn't want to see you. I really did have to study.  Matt pushed her hair off her face and kissed her. This was exactly why she'd told him not to come over last night -- when she was with him, she felt herself evaporating. Sometimes, when he touched her, Josie imagined herself vanishing in a puff of steam.  He tasted of maple syrup, of apologies. It's all your fault, you know, he said. I wouldn't act as crazy if I didn't love you so much.  At that moment, Josie could not remember the pills she was hoarding in her room; she could not remember crying in the shower; she could not remember anything but what it felt like to be adored. I'm lucky, she told herself, the word streaming like a silver ribbon through her mind. Lucky, lucky, lucky.  Patrick Ducharme, the sole detective on the Sterling police force, sat on a bench on the far side of the locker room, listening to the patrol officers on the morning shift pick on a rookie with a little extra padding around the middle. Hey, Fisher, Eddie Odenkirk said, are you the one who's having the baby, or is it your wife?  As the rest of the guys laughed, Patrick took pity on the kid. It's early, Eddie, he said. Can't you at least wait to start in until we've all had a cup of coffee?  I would, Captain, Eddie laughed, but it looks like Fisher already ate all the donuts and -- what the hell is that?  Patrick followed Eddie's gaze downward, to his own feet. He did not, as a matter of course, change in the locker room with the patrol officers, but he'd jogged to the station this morning instead of driving, to work off too much good cooking consumed over the weekend. He'd spent Saturday and Sunday in Maine with the girl who currently held his heart -- his goddaughter, a five-and-a-half-year-old named Tara Frost. Her mother, Nina, was Patrick's oldest friend, and the one love he probably would never get over, although she managed to be doing quite well without him. Over the course of the weekend, Patrick had deliberately lost ten thousand games of Candy Land, had given countless piggyback rides, had had his hair done, and -- here was his cardinal mistake -- had allowed Tara to put bright pink nail polish on his toes, which Patrick had forgotten to remove.  He glanced down at his feet and curled his toes under. Chicks think it's hot, he said gruffly, as the seven men in the locker room struggled not to snicker at someone who was technically their superior. Patrick yanked his dress socks on, slipped into his loafers, and walked out, still holding his tie. One, he counted. Two, three. On cue, laughter spilled out of the locker room, following him down the hallway.  In his office, Patrick closed the door and peered at himself in the tiny mirror on the back. His black hair was still damp from his shower; his face was flushed from his run. He shimmied the knot of his tie up his neck, fashioning the noose, and then sat down at his desk.  Seventy-two emails had come in over the weekend -- and usually anything more than fifty meant he wouldn't get home before 8:00 p.m. all week. He began to weed through them, adding notes to a devil's To Do list -- one that never got any shorter, no matter how hard he worked.  Today, Patrick had to drive drugs down to the state lab -- not a big deal, except that it was a four-hour block of his day that vanished right there. He had a rape case coming to fruition, the perp identified from a college face book and his statements transcribed and ready for the AG's office. He had a cell phone that had been nabbed out of a car by a homeless guy. He had blood results come back from the lab as a match for a break-in at a jewelry store, and a suppression hearing in superior court, and already on his desk was the first new complaint of the day -- a theft of wallets in which the credit cards had been used, leaving a trail for Patrick to trace.  Being a small-town detective required Patrick to be firing on all cylinders, all the time. Unlike cops he knew who worked for city departments, where they had twenty-four hours to solve a case before it was considered cold, Patrick's job was to take everything that came across his desk -- not to cherry-pick for the interesting ones. It was hard to get excited about a bad check case, or a theft that would net the perp a $200 fine when it cost the taxpayers five times that to have Patrick focus on it for a week. But every time he started thinking that his cases weren't particularly important, he'd find himself face-to-face with a victim: the hysterical mother whose wallet had been stolen; the mom-and-pop jewelry store owners who'd been robbed of their retirement income; the rattled professor who was a victim of identity theft. Hope, Patrick knew, was the exact measure of distance between himself and the person who'd come for help. If Patrick didn't get involved, if he didn't give a hundred percent, then that victim was going to be a victim forever -- which was why, since Patrick had joined the Sterling police, he had managed to solve every single case.  And yet.  When Patrick was lying in his bed alone and letting his mind sew a seam across the hem of his life, he did not remember the proven successes -- only the potential failures. When he walked around the perimeter of a vandalized barn or found the stolen car stripped down and dumped in the woods or handed the tissue to the sobbing girl who'd been date-raped, Patrick couldn't help but feel that he was too late. He was a detective, but he didn't detect anything. It fell into his lap, already broken, every time.  It was the first warm day of March, the one where you started to believe that the snow would melt sooner rather than later, and that June was truly just around the corner. Josie sat on the hood of Matt's Saab in the student parking lot, thinking that it was closer to summer than it was to the start of this school year, that in a scant three months, she would officially be a member of the senior class.  Beside her, Matt leaned against the windshield, his face tipped up to the sun. Let's ditch school, he said. It's too nice out to be stuck inside all day.  If you ditch, you'll be benched.  The state championship tournament in hockey began this afternoon, and Matt played right wing. Sterling had won last year, and they had every expectation of doing it again. You're coming to the game, Matt said, and it wasn't a question, but a statement.  Are you\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Book Express","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":41828253270090,"sku":"532ab","price":10.0,"currency_code":"NZD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0618\/9101\/8826\/files\/532ab_1_ee56b708-627d-4c39-b7b5-c9bef245ddc0.jpg?v=1764419616","url":"https:\/\/www.bookexpress.nz\/products\/nineteen-minutes-a-novel-by-jodi-picoult-532ab","provider":"Book Express","version":"1.0","type":"link"}