After (29 page)

Devon nods again. “Okay.”

“So, your coach, Mark Dougherty, is one who will be here.”

Devon swallows. She suspected he’d be one, based on Dom’s questions about him the other day. “Who else?”

“The judge needs to know how well you are adjusting to life here in Remann Hall. So, I have two people who will be able to specifically address that—the teacher here in Delta pod, Ms. Coughran, and one of the detention staff, Ms. Apodaca. Henrietta is probably how you’d know her, and she will be testifying. Ms. Coughran has written a letter.”

Henrietta?
This surprises Devon. What is she going to say? That Devon maintains her cell immaculately? Combs her hair thoroughly every morning? Wakes up easily when roused from a dead sleep?

“You’ve been assigned a probation officer, Devon. All youth who come before this court for any reason are assigned one. I don’t know if you remember, but at your arraignment last week, she spoke briefly—”

“No,” Devon says. “I don’t remember her at all.”

“Well, I’ll point her out to you once we’re in the courtroom. Anyway, she’s prepared a risk assessment on you and will report her findings to the judge. And then Dr. Bacon will come to give her expert opinion based on the few sessions she’s had with you.”

Risk assessments? Expert opinions? These worry Devon. What have they concluded about her? But then she thinks, she’s here, isn’t she? What does she expect? That’s what these people do here, don’t they? Assess and analyze the kids who live here? Kids like Karma and Jenevra. Destiny. Macee. Sam.

Why would she, Devon Davenport, be exempt?

“The judge will also need to get a clear picture of who you were before the incident. So I’ve asked your school guidance counselor from Stadium High School, Rita Gonzales, to help explain that in a letter. In it, she’s discussed your grades, test scores, school disciplinary record—which is sparkling clean of course—your extracurricular activities, et cetera.”

Ms. Gonzales?
Devon barely even knows her. She’d gone in to see Ms. Gonzales once, right at the start of second semester freshman year. Devon had been placed in AP history instead of freshman honors American history by mistake. “Computer glitch,” Ms. Gonzales had said. “I’m sure you could hang with those juniors and seniors if you tried. You’re smart enough. But then the senior boys would be asking you out to the prom. And you wouldn’t want that.” She winked. “Not yet.” Her office had smelled like microwaved popcorn. On her desk she’d prominently displayed a light blue dish decorated with snowflakes that was filled mostly with Jolly Rancher wrappers, and a framed picture of two chubby-faced toddlers with round, dark eyes.

“Also, Debbie Evans will be here to testify,” Dom says, “because of your babysitting job this past summer.”

Debbie knows?
Devon drops her head into her hands.
What does she think about me?
Looking back, does Debbie suspect that Devon had done something terrible to her twins all those hours she’d been alone with them?

“And”—Dom hesitates—“your mom.”

The courtroom is silent. Up front, the judge’s bench is empty.

Everything is laid out as it had been the last time Devon was here—three rectangular tables equally spaced across the room and facing the judge’s bench, the two back-to-back computer screens below it, the two flags.

The only other person currently in the room is a uniformed policeman, casually reading the
Wall Street Journal
. Devon turns to look behind her. The long bench along the back wall is still there, but vacant.

“We’re here a little early,” Dom says, “so we’ll be all situated and comfortable when everyone else arrives.”

Comfortable?
Will Devon be comfortable for one minute today? One second?

Dom walks over to the table on the far right, the one where Devon had sat that first day beside the attorney with the sparse hair and dandruff-sprinkled suit. Dom places her briefcase on the table, unzips it. Pulls out the chair on the left.

Devon moves behind the chair on Dom’s right, the one she’d taken last week. She’d cried in that chair. The laminated sheet is still taped to the table: Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.

From a side door, a woman enters, drops a briefcase on the table on the far left-hand side of the courtroom. She smiles, calls over to Dom.

“I’ll be right back. That woman over there is your probation officer, Ms. Gustafson.” Dom gives Devon a quick pat on the back before moving across the courtroom.

Devon watches as two other women enter together through that same side door, take their places in the face-to-face chairs below the judge’s bench. Turn on their computers. They talk quietly. One spins in her chair, around and around, back and forth, like Devon used to do in the beauty shops as a small child while her mom got her hair colored and styled. The other woman just sits in her own chair and laughs, shakes her head with amusement.

Next, a young man, who Devon recognizes as the prosecutor from last week, walks through the door. Devon can feel her stomach jitter as he marches up to the center table, plops his briefcase down on it.

All these briefcases in the room. Filled with papers. Papers about her.

The prosecutor turns toward Devon in his dark suit with faint pinstripes and bright blue tie. Nods at her quickly, then turns away to arrange his files, set them out just right. Devon notices that he’s wearing one of those obnoxious earpieces. He checks his BlackBerry, tucks it back into the holster at his hip. He rolls his neck, shakes out his hands. Checks his BlackBerry again.

Devon feels awkward standing here, chewing on her thumbnail, waiting. She drops her hand with annoyance. When had she started this nail-biting habit? It needs to end.

More people are trickling in now, filing into the long bench at the back. Those sitting together talk in low voices, clear their throats. Cough. Turn off their cell phones.

Finally, Devon pulls out her chair, sits down. Carefully places her yellow legal pad and pencil on the table. Folds her hands in her lap. They’re clammy so she wipes them on the legs of her jumpsuit, refolds them. She can feel all the eyes behind her, feel their gaze at the back of her head. At the back of her tight French braids—two identical cords of shiny black hair, the ends twisted with rubber bands and brushing her shoulders. Dom had fixed them in the little conference room before they’d left for the courtroom. The braids actually itch now with all those eyes on them. Devon resists the urge to unclasp her hands again and touch them. Resists the urge to look back at those people behind her.

Her mom might be there. Dom had said that last night her mom had finally returned all those messages Dom had left on her cell. Late last night. After midnight.

Devon stares down at the laminated paper, busies herself with reading what’s there: Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor. Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.

Finally Dom returns, chats in passing with the prosecutor in the pinstripes at the middle table. He says something and shrugs, then reaches up to remove his earpiece.

When Dom takes her seat, an amused expression lingers on her face. “Nice Bluetooth. I should’ve just let him keep it on. But, then, that wouldn’t be playing nice, would it? The judge would’ve eaten him alive for wearing it in here, and he would’ve looked like a total fool.” She checks her watch. “Speaking of the judge, we’re just waiting on him to arrive. Should be any minute now.” She leans over, looks closely at Devon, down at her tightly clasped hands, then back up into her face. “You doing okay?”

Devon nods.

“All rise!” a voice barks from the side door.

Dom nudges Devon, and everybody in the courtroom is on their feet. Complete silence descends.

The judge enters, his black robe trailing lightly behind him. The same judge as last time with his short military-style haircut. He mounts the steps to his bench, Devon can hear his feet hit as they make contact with each step. He takes his seat, then waves dismissively. Everybody moves to sit down again.

“Devon!” a sharp whisper from behind. “Hey!”

Devon jerks her head on reflex, scans the faces in the gallery behind her.

Her mom.

There, standing in the center of the long bench. Waving and smiling. Long red nails, big red lips. A new spaghetti-strapped sundress, too bright for the room, and ridiculously too summery for April in Tacoma. Her lips form the words, “Hi, hon. I’m here!”

Devon jerks back around, falls into her seat. She fills her lungs then, again and again. Way too fast. Silver sparkles flicker at the corners of her vision. She shakes her head.
Hold on. Don’t pass out. Don’t cry.

She’s been wanting her mom to be here all this time, hasn’t she? And now that she actually is . . .

Dom places a hand on Devon’s arm, gives it a gentle squeeze. “Just breathe,” she whispers, “but slowly. Relax and breathe. And you’ll be okay.”

“This court is called to order,” Judge Saynisch says. He clears his throat, shuffles the papers before him. “We’re here today for a declination hearing in the case of State versus Davenport.” He looks up, squints at the courtroom. “Is that your understanding, Counsel?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says quickly.

Dom nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“All right, then,” the judge says. “Let’s get to it.” He nods at the prosecutor. “Opening statement, Mr. Floyd? Keep it brief.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Devon snatches up her pencil, pulls her legal pad toward herself so she’s ready. Her fingers are trembling.

She hadn’t waved back. Her mom had waved and smiled at her, had finally shown up here to help her, and Devon hadn’t responded. No smile or wave back. No nod. Nothing at all.

The first thing the prosecutor does is stand. The second is to make a speech. He tells the judge, “This case, Your Honor, is about the commission of society’s most serious crime—murder—against society’s most innocent, most
helpless
, victim. A victim who doesn’t possess the physical strength to defend herself. A victim who lacks the ability to even plead for her own life. But this case is about much more than even that, Your Honor. It’s about a breach of trust, the breaking of a bond. The most basic bond in the human experience—the bond between a child and her mother. This is a case, Your Honor, where the victim is a baby, and the perpetrator is her mother.”

Devon glances over at Dom. She’s sitting very still, listening, hands clasped over her opened yellow legal pad. When the prosecutor said that last line, Dom had pressed her lips together, picked up her pen.

The prosecutor goes on to discuss how egregious is the breaking of the maternal bond. He says, “Of all the people on the face of the earth, Your Honor, the one person this particular baby should have been able to count on to welcome her into the world, to keep her safe and protect her, was that person sitting right over there.” He turns his face and eyes toward Devon. “But, instead, Your Honor, that person”—he extends his right arm with index finger elongated and pointing—“
that
person was trying to kill her.” He pauses. “She scooped her tiny infant body into a black plastic trash bag, tied it off tightly, and tried to suffocate the life out of her.”

The prosecutor goes on, explaining how Devon had hid her pregnancy, deceiving the people closest to her—her mother, her soccer coach, her teammates, her classmates. How she’d purposefully sought no prenatal care, and when confronted with the opportunity to actually discuss her pregnancy with a doctor, became hostile and uncooperative. How she began wearing baggy clothing to conceal her changing body and started skipping out on soccer practices once her body got too cumbersome to play anymore. And how she’d doggedly carried out the deception to the very end, when she gave birth to the baby alone in her apartment. And after it was over, how she’d collected up the bloody evidence and stuffed it into a trash bag, including the baby itself, dumped it all into the trash can behind her apartment building, and walked away.

Devon watches the young prosecutor in his pinstripes tell his story. Watches Dom sitting beside her with hands clasped over her yellow legal pad, occasionally picking up her pen to jot something down on it. Watches the judge up front listening, his eyes trained intently on the prosecutor. Across the room, Devon watches the woman with whom Dom had spoken earlier, Ms. Gustafson; her chin is resting in the palm of her left hand. Devon watches the two women facing each other with their back-to-back computer screens, their fingers moving rhythmically over their respective keyboards. It’s like a play; each person here has his own place and assigned role. Even Devon has her script—the laminated paper taped to the tabletop dictates her lines: Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.

Devon wonders what her mom is thinking now, listening back there in the gallery, wearing her bright sundress. Is this the first time she’s heard this story told in this way? Does she believe the prosecutor in pinstripes? Why did she wait so long to call Dom, and what did they talk about when she finally did? And why didn’t her mom ever come to see her? Where had she been all this time, where did she go?

Stop thinking and focus now.
She needs to concentrate on what’s being said. Listen for discrepancies so she can help Dom.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says.

Devon looks up sharply.
He’s finally finished?

The prosecutor steps back behind his chair and settles himself into it. Wipes his hands on his pinstriped thighs.

Judge Saynisch turns his face toward Devon’s table. He nods at Dom. “Defense?”

Dom stands slowly, pushing off the tabletop. Devon glances up at her quickly. Her face is composed, a slight smile lingering around her lips.

“Your Honor,” Dom says. “I’m not going to stand here and waste your time rehearsing a litany of reasons why you should decide in favor of my client, Devon Davenport. All my client asks, Your Honor, is that you keep an open mind and weigh the evidence that’s presented here today. Keep an open mind, and weigh the evidence, and I have confidence that you will arrive at the right decision. That’s all I have, Your Honor.”