After (28 page)

Devon stares at her blank paper. She thinks about what Paula had said about having a life sentence. Paula hadn’t done anything wrong, anything
criminal
at least, but still her life was ruined. Devon thinks about what Dom had said that first time the two of them had met in the conference room, how she had explained that Devon could get a life sentence if she were to be tried in adult court. Then Devon thinks about the hearing tomorrow, remembers how much is riding on it, feels a sharp jolt of panic in her gut. She shuts off the thought, forces herself to breathe evenly and slowly. The roiling in her stomach starts to subside.

The familiar sound of pencils scratching across paper surrounds her.

Devon glances up. Karma is there, sitting at the next table over, in a chair facing Devon. But she’s staring intently down at her own blank paper, her hands in her lap. Devon wonders about this. No scrawled anarchy symbols? No smirk? No acting like she’s asleep and bored?

Then Devon looks back down at her own paper. What should she write? Random memories flicker in her mind.

A soccer ball slipping between Devon’s hands before the jarring thump of her body hitting the ground, the ball whipping into the net behind her as the roar of the parents rises from the sidelines. State Cup last year; in the final minutes of the game her split second of hesitation had caused a goal and, thereby, the loss of the championship game.

Or her mom smiling, holding what was then Devon’s little-girl hand. The two of them, strolling together through the Metropolitan Market, Tacoma’s most upscale grocery store, off of Proctor and 24th and across the street from the Safeway where she worked. Her mom had been in a happy mood then, pointing to the vegetables gloriously displayed and asking Devon to name them. But later, Devon had thrown up in the corridor right in front of the bathrooms. Her mom had been furious. “Couldn’t you even make it into the bathroom? Now someone has to come with a mop and clean up your mess! Do you know how embarrassing this is for me?” Another bad decision and a day ruined. If only she’d told her mom earlier that her stomach hurt. If only she’d run a little faster to the bathroom.

Or playing floor hockey at the Boys and Girls Club, sticks slashing, the hard puck sailing. A boy had bullied Devon into playing goalie so he could be a forward and score. Moments later, the puck connected with her face, leaving a black eye. “You should’ve stood up for yourself!” her mom had yelled at her later. “Now look at you, going to school tomorrow all ugly with that eye. What kind of mother will they think I am? Huh? Your teachers will think I hit you or something. They might even call Child Protective Services!”

Or Karma grabbing the spork from Devon’s tray, breaking off its end. And Devon not saying a word about it. Not telling the staff. Not snatching it out of Karma’s hand. And Karma ended up with blood-soaked sleeves because of it.

Devon could write about any of those things. They’d be acceptable. The assignment complete.

But Ms. Coughran had told them to stretch themselves, to learn something. Other than the Karma incident, which still stings, the others would just be too easy.

Devon thinks about this morning, about what her mind was pushing her to examine, the thoughts so unsettling that they drove her to kick off her blankets and leave her bed to look out the window of her cell.

Being all alone. Why had she chosen it? Because it
had
been a choice, hadn’t it? Yes. That choice had been hers. Every step of the way. She could have answered her cell, returned the texts. She could have joined her classmates at the coffee shop to study, even though more laughing and gossiping and checking out of guys would’ve happened than actual studying. She could have run with Kait and Lucy those afternoons, could have spoken to her coach instead of avoiding him. Could have talked to Kait or written her back instead of crumpling up that letter and tossing it in the trash. Could have waited up for her mom to come home from work instead of feigning sleep.

And what would’ve happened then? If she’d stayed connected instead of pulling away? What had she been so afraid of? What had she been hiding from? Or—something that even Karma seemed to sense on some level—what had she been hiding?

The past six months are a blur, one gray drizzly day blending into the indistinguishable next. Days of the TV blinking endlessly in the dim apartment, meals of cold cereal or SpaghettiOs eaten alone on the ratty couch. The English essays composed on the library computers, completed early. Timing her ascent up the monster hill on Carr Street. Lying in bed, not ready for sleep, instead staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows lengthen until the room filled entirely with darkness. It had started slowly, the pulling away from everybody. And then her isolation became comfortable, then something she’d protected. She’d get annoyed, sometimes angry, if someone tried to interfere with it.

But it hadn’t been a good thing, Devon knows this now. It’s never good to be alone.

Devon picks up her pencil. Taps its pointed end on the paper, making a small gray dot on the whiteness.

So. Choosing isolation had been her decision. And its consequence?

She starts to write.

“You slept, I hope.”

Dom doesn’t glance up when she says it. She’s got her BlackBerry grasped in her hands, her thumbs flicking over the keypad.

Devon takes the seat across from Dom. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good.” Dom raises an index finger, a wait-a-second signal. “Hold on.”

They are inside a small conference room outside the courtroom, one of four situated across from the row of molded plastic seats that are against the wall. The same row of seats where Devon had sat that very first day here, waiting for her first court appearance. That day, Devon hadn’t even noticed the four olive-colored doors to these rooms.

Devon scans the small space. Empty except for the table between herself and Dom. This time, instead of an attached stool, Devon sits in a folding chair, one of four around the table. But the walls are still cinder block, coated with the white paint, and the floor is covered with that familiar gray carpet.

She feels like she’s going to puke, her heart is pumping that jittery pregame adrenaline through her body and into her limbs. She feels sleepy, too. Such a strange dichotomy of emotions—stress and sleepiness.

She watches Dom work. Today she’s wearing a tight French braid, a dark blue suit, and an off-white, crisp-collared blouse underneath. And when Dom lifts her face quickly to check her watch, Devon notes the tiny wire-framed glasses. Devon remembers the short discussion she’d had with Dom about appearances one of the first times they’d met: “You have to look like a winner to be a winner,” Dom had said. A definite “Karma” saying. And a comment that would’ve earned Dom a Henrietta Nod of Approval. Dom certainly looks like a winner today, Devon thinks. Looks like she’s ready to play tough, mix it up if necessary, and take her yellow card if called on it.

Devon’s mind shifts to Henrietta, to what an odd person she is.

Henrietta apparently had worked swing shift last night; she’d been present in the pod this morning to rouse Devon well before Wake Up. Had tossed Devon a clean jumpsuit, folded stiff like cardboard, a bleach-white undershirt, and socks. “Appearances are everything, okay?” she’d said after her customary bobble-head glance around the room. “Even judges judge the covers of books. Okay? Don’t think they don’t.” Then she launched into a speech about the necessity for Devon to groom carefully this morning, to look her very best. Later, she’d argued with the staff on duty while Devon stood before the control desk, Henrietta insisting that she be the staff designated to escort Devon through the maze of hallways to meet Dom here in the small conference room outside the courtroom. Walking side by side, she’d peppered Devon with random advice. “Sit up straight, okay? Look the judge right in the eyes when he speaks to you. You’re going to be nervous, don’t think that you’re not. Okay? Don’t chew on your fingers. Don’t fiddle with your hair, okay? It’s not a beauty contest in there.” Though she’d meant well, Henrietta only managed to increase Devon’s heart rate. Her comments, Devon realizes now with a small amount of amusement, were as similarly unhelpful as those her mom would make before Devon played in a “big” game, at least back when her mom used to come and watch consistently: “Don’t forget to squeeze the ball when you catch it, hon. Remember to do that thing—what’s it called? A dive?—when the ball is far off to the side. Don’t forget to jump.” She might as well have reminded Devon to breathe.

Finally, Dom places her BlackBerry down on the table, looks up. Fixes Devon with her eyes through those tiny wire-framed glasses. Her face is set. Not stressed or anxious, just intensely serious.

“Sorry about that.” She flicks her BlackBerry, and it spins 180 degrees. “Too many irons in the fire today. So.” She raises an eyebrow. “Ready for this?”

Devon swallows. “I think so.”

Dom is quiet for a moment. Then, “This hearing will take the better part of the day. It might even bleed over to tomorrow. I
need
you to be ready for it, Devon. It’ll be long and grueling. At times very boring. At times emotional. At
all
times, no matter what is said about you—whether it’s something positive or something negative, even something that you may perceive to be a total lie—do not react. No laughing or smiling. No crying. And pay attention. At least,
act
like you’re paying attention.” Dom pulls a yellow legal pad out of her briefcase, a sharpened pencil. Hands them across the table to Devon. “These are for you. Take notes on what goes on in there; that’ll help you to stay focused and engaged. If you have something you want me to know—something that you suddenly remember about a particular witness or some detail that you think I’ve missed—or if you have a question about anything that goes on, just jot it down on that paper and tap me discreetly to get my attention. You’ll be like my legal assistant, kind of like my second-chair attorney. Sound good?”

Devon nods. A team. Devon and Dom together, a combined effort. Her heart is hammering again. “Am I going to have to say anything?”

“The judge may ask you the occasional question directly, which you will need to answer as best you can. But, no, I’m not going to put you on the stand.”

“So I’ll just be sitting there next to you?”

Dom nods.

“The whole time?”

“Yes.”

Devon feels relief rolling over her and lets her breath out slowly. She’d been imagining herself up front like in all those courtroom scenes on TV, feeling exposed and vulnerable, the judge pedantically peering down at her from his bench. An antagonistic attorney firing questions at her while she bumbles to find a cogent answer, to make sense. All those people watching. But that’s not going to happen. She’ll remain at the table beside Dom during the whole ordeal, and her back will be to the gallery. The courtroom is small, she remembers. Not many people will be there anyway.

“For a court proceeding,” Dom is saying now, “this hearing is actually going to be pretty informal. So, quickly, this is what’s going to happen.” She folds her hands on the table. “This is not an actual trial, but a hearing, so there will be no jury today. This is what’s called ‘judge alone,’ because a judge will be making the decision today based on the law and the facts presented to him. Not a jury. Understand?”

Again, Devon feels some slight relief. She thinks back to that first time in court, eight days ago. The judge was intimidating, but not mean. There hadn’t been a jury that day, either. Devon nods her head. “I understand.”

“Okay, good. The prosecutor will put on his case first. Remember, he represents the State, society at large, so it’s his job to show that it is in the State’s best interest that you be tried in adult court. He’ll attempt to convince the judge that the charges against you are of such a serious nature that the adult system will be best equipped to deal with you, and society will be that much safer. He’ll bring in his witnesses to support this argument. The police officers who found you in your apartment, for example. The man who discovered the baby that morning. Maybe the emergency room doctor you kicked.”

Devon jerks her eyes down to the table, feels her face grow warm. Why did she kick that doctor? She didn’t have to do that. She concentrates on studying the tabletop. Not one scratched initial. Not one ink smudge.

“Then
I’ll
get the chance to cross-examine each of the prosecutor’s witnesses. It’s my job to neutralize anything negative that those witnesses may have said, anything that I feel is harmful to our case.” She pauses. “You still following me?”

“Yes.” Devon looks up at her. “I am.”

“Okay. After the prosecutor is done putting on all his witnesses, it’s our turn. At that point, it’s my job to show the judge that it’s in the State’s and your best interest for you to remain here and be tried as a juvenile. It’s my job to get the judge to see you as a real person. To effectively do that, I’ll bring in our witnesses—”

A jolt to her heart. “Who?” Devon practically yelps the word.

Dom stops, watches Devon for a moment. Devon can see her eyes soften behind those wire frames. “I know this is very scary for you, Devon, having to see these people today, to listen to what they have to say. But you need to know that each of the people whom I’m calling as witnesses is coming here only to say good things about you. They care a lot about you and your future.” She pauses. “I’ve carefully selected a variety of people out of the many I’ve talked to over the past several days so that the judge can see the many sides that make up who you are.”

Devon shifts on her stool impatiently. “Okay. But who are the witnesses?”

“Are you sure you want to know ahead of time?”

Devon nods. “Definitely.”

“Not all of them will be here in person,” Dom says. “Some of them have written letters to the court.”