After (38 page)

Dr. Bacon was on the stand for over an hour, answering both Dom’s and Mr. Floyd’s intricate questions. When she stepped down, Judge Saynisch asked for the probation officer’s risk assessment. The woman sitting over on the far side of the courtroom stands up and carries a thick file over to one of the women at the base of the judge’s bench. And, as with Dom’s exhibits, the woman places a sticker on it and hands it up to Judge Saynisch.

“Thank you, Ms. Gustafson,” the judge says. “You may be seated.”

Devon watches as the probation officer returns to her seat at the far table. Devon pulls her legal pad toward herself, picks up her pencil. Writes,
She didn’t even say anything! Why no ?’s

Dom scribbles back:
All in her report. No need. The J will read it.

“All right,” the judge says. “We’re seeing the light at the end of the tunnel here. You’ve got any closing comments there, Mr. Floyd?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Saynisch glances at his watch. “It’s currently three thirty-seven, Counsel. Unless there are no objections out there, I’d like to carry on.” He looks around the courtroom wearily. “Object now or forever hold your peace.”

“No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says. “I have no objection.”

“Neither do I, Your Honor,” Dom says.

“Very well. Mr. Floyd, keep it
very
brief. Note the emphasis on the word
very
. Drive on.”

Mr. Floyd adjusts his bright blue tie, then stands.

“A child began her life in a garbage bag, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says. “And her mother put her there. Her graveyard was to be a landfill in Graham, Washington.” He pauses. “The baby’s destiny was for a Tacoma Waste Management truck to pick up and take her to the Tacoma Landfill in South Tacoma. There, she was to join the other residential trash, be put through a compactor, and weighed. Just a mere six pounds, ten ounces, Your Honor, of the two hundred fifty-thousand
tons
of trash that crosses the scales at the Tacoma Landfill annually. After that, a tractor trailer was to haul her away to the Graham Landfill, where she would’ve found her final resting place.” He pauses again. “But instead, Your Honor, fate intervened. You’ve heard today from Mr. Jacob Bingham and his Labrador retriever, Darko, who found the baby. . . .”

Mr. Floyd continues his speech, but Devon is stuck with the image he’d created in her mind—that tiny baby, the one who was lying on the bathroom floor between her legs, being crushed by a trash compactor within a black plastic bag. The tiny face, the miniature hands and feet. The small mouth.

Had she really meant for that to happen?

Standing in the doorway, the cramps start. She grips the doorframe with her left hand, leans against it. In her right hand is the trash bag.

IT’s out
, she thinks.
Why does it still hurt so much?

She glances over at the sink.

There IT is. Slumped inside the basin like a rubber baby doll.

Devon slowly steps toward it, her breath ragged. The pain is subsiding again.

She looks down.

IT is still. The eyes half-opened. Blood smeared along one side of the white porcelain basin, where the tiny body had slid.

The pale skin is covered with something. White goop, like cream cheese.

Devon feels the puke rising in her throat, turns, and heaves.

She collapses onto her hands and knees. Grabs the towels she’d already tossed on the floor. Sops up the blood and puke and urine and whatever else has pooled on the linoleum.

The pain comes again.

“Oh, GOD!” she sobs. She clenches her teeth. “Please! Please make it stop!”

She lies down on the towels, soaked with the filth, clutching her stomach and groaning until the pain finally fades again.

She glances up at the sink, panting; the small limbs motionless. Then she thinks she detects movement. Yes, a little foot appears, kicks up then back down and out of sight.

Then she hears a wail.

“OhgodOhgodOhgod!” She frantically seizes the garbage bag, starts shoving soiled towels into it. She picks up the cleanest towel, a white one.

That white towel she holds twisted in her hands.

Then she stands, leaves the bag at her feet. Approaches the sink.

Peers into it.

IT is there. The legs moving. The hands. The mouth opened and howling.

She hesitates a moment, watching.

Then drops the towel over IT.

She holds her breath and pulls the towel upward, scooping with both hands, IT snug inside.

Looks down at the open black trash bag, bends at the waist, and places the bundle into it.

Grabs the wastebasket beside the toilet. Dumps it. The stripped toilet paper roll and tampons she’d used to try to stop the blood from running down her legs, they tumble into the bag, too.

She lugs the bag into the kitchen, pulls out the trash container under the sink. Upends it, too. Not much is there. The frozen concentrate orange juice container, the Tim’s chips bag, the crumpled newspaper pages.

She ties the bag shut.

She doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t feel anything, doesn’t think anything. She picks up the bulky black bag, hauls it out of the kitchen. Across the living room past the ratty recliner. Opens the door, leaving it ajar. Takes the steps down to the parking lot and into the alley.

She finds the trash can, the same one she finds every morning when taking out the trash.

Yanks up the lid.

Other trash bags are already stuffed inside—black and brown and gray ones.

She closes her eyes, drops her bag in with the others.

Places the lid back.

And quickly turns away.

She looks up at the sky; it’s started to drizzle.

“You’ve also heard today, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd is still pontificating, “from the respondent’s coach and from her employer. You’ve read the letters that the Defense has submitted. Again, more people who described their distress over the respondent’s refusal to reach out for their help—help they would’ve freely given had the respondent simply asked for it. You’ve learned from her primary care physician, Dr. Katial, that when faced with an opportunity to seek medical care, the respondent instead refused it. She attempted to deceive her doctor when she told him that she had started her menstrual cycle that morning, even going so far as to wear a sanitary napkin in her underwear for emphasis. She hid her pregnant body in oversized clothing. She misled her coach, describing in detail two injuries she supposedly sustained and their fictionalized treatment plan. All these facts point to one central theme: that the respondent had a plan to deliberately hide her pregnancy and then, after the baby was born, to dispose of its body in the trash can behind her apartment complex. At any point, the respondent could have changed her own course. At any time she could have relinquished her plan. But she didn’t, Your Honor, and that’s why we are here today.”

Mr. Floyd continues to talk, but Devon doesn’t follow his words anymore.

Because what he’d just said strikes her as the complete truth.
At any time she could have changed her own course
, he’d said.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd finally says, and returns to his seat.

At any time . .
.

When Mr. Floyd is seated, Devon notices him make a quick gesture under the table. He draws his fist toward himself and mouths the word,
“Yes!”

Judge Saynisch nods at Dom. “Defense? You may commence.”

Devon hears the prosecutor chuckle.

Dom stands. “A plan, Your Honor. That’s what I’ve been hearing this entire day from the state. That Devon Davenport had this
nefarious plan
to murder her baby. But where does the evidence point? It doesn’t point to a nefarious plan, Your Honor. If anything it points to a
lack
of a plan. I’m not going to rehash everything that went on in this courtroom today. But you’ve heard Dr. Bacon testify about the role of denial in abandonment cases such as this one. You’re heard Dr. Bacon describe the basis for Devon’s denial—her shame, the fear of following in her mother’s footsteps. And how Devon tried to protect herself by constructing strict rules for herself. The primary rule, Your Honor, was never to allow herself to engage in any sexual activity. Earlier today, Devon’s soccer coach, Mr. Dougherty, testified how very hard Devon is on herself, that she hates to make mistakes and doesn’t cut herself any slack. The evidence, Your Honor, doesn’t paint Devon as a cold, calculating premeditating murderer, but as a panicked child who couldn’t allow herself to fall short of her self-imposed, rigid standard.”

Dom paces in front of the defense table. “I’m not going to lecture you about the
Kent
factors, Your Honor; you are well aware that these factors must be considered when deciding matters regarding where a juvenile should be tried. But I would like to quickly highlight those few that are particularly relevant to my client’s case.”

Dom goes on to discuss Devon’s rehabilitative potential, based on the probation officer’s evaluation in her risk assessment report. Dom emphasizes Devon’s home life, which created an atmosphere that would breed Devon’s brand of denial. Dom reminds the judge about Devon’s academic and athletic achievements, her potential as a Division I soccer player. She talks about Devon’s nonexistent criminal record prior to the incident.

“One of the main
Kent
factors that pertains to my client, Your Honor, is the calculus between societal protection
from
the respondent versus rehabilitation services
for
the respondent. The adult system has limited resources for rehabilitating its inmates. In contrast, the juvenile detention system was designed for it. The adult prison system does not offer its inmates therapeutic or psychiatric care, but the juvenile detention system does. Defendants within the adult criminal system are sentenced to prison, in part, to protect society. But how will society be protected if Devon is eventually placed there? Society actually stands to
gain
from someone as bright and determined as Devon
if
she is given the opportunity for therapy. Devon will go on to lead a productive life. Devon will go on to be a more effective adult. But she needs therapy, Your Honor. Give her a future. Allow her to remain under the jurisdiction of the juvenile court system. Thank you, Your Honor.”

Dom returns to her seat.

Judge Saynisch clasps his hands under his chin. He surveys the courtroom. “I have looked at all the evidence presented to me today, and I’ve heard the witness testimony. And I am happy to announce that I have arrived at a decision.”

Devon’s heart picks up.
Already?
No recess for him to think about it? Devon feels Dom shift in her seat. Devon glances side-long at her; Dom’s face is calm, but she’s gripping her pen so hard that her fingertips are white.

Devon peeks over at Mr. Floyd behind his table in the center of the room. He’s wiping his hands on his pinstriped pants. One foot jiggles up and down.

Judge Saynisch looks down at a paper in his hands. “Pierce County’s Juvenile Court will”—he glances around the courtroom again for dramatic effect—“
retain
jurisdiction of the respondent, Devon Davenport, in the case of
State versus Davenport
. The respondent will remain in custody here at the Remann Hall Juvenile Detention Center until trial.”

Dom’s expression doesn’t change behind the wire-framed glasses, but Devon notices a puff of air escape between her lips.

The prosecutor clenches his jaw.

“I’ll get with my clerks,” Judge Saynisch says, “and we’ll set a trial date. This court is adjourned.”

The gavel bangs through the courtroom.

“All rise!”

Dom and Devon and the rest of the courtroom jump to their feet. Judge Saynisch collects his papers and slowly descends from his bench, exits the side door of the courtroom.

Dom turns to shake Mr. Floyd’s hand. They converse for a moment. As they’re talking, Mr. Floyd replaces his Bluetooth to the side of his head, and pulls his BlackBerry out of its holster.

Devon stares up at Judge Saynisch’s empty bench.

When he’d announced his decision, Devon didn’t feel as relieved or exhilarated as she imagined she would. And she doesn’t understand why.

She’s exhausted; that’s the most prominent feeling Devon’s aware of. Maybe she’s too tired to feel relief.

Dom turns to Devon. Her smile is huge. She holds out her hand.

Devon looks down at it. She remembers the first time Dom had offered her hand for Devon to shake. That first time in the conference room. Devon had ignored it that day. Not a good way to kick off a relationship.

“We won!” Dom says. “Congratulations, Devon.”

Devon reaches for Dom’s hand. They shake, then high-five.

“No, congrats to
you
, Dom. You totally did everything.” Devon tries to return Dom’s smile, but she doesn’t feel much like smiling.

“Hey, guys!”

Devon’s mom’s voice. Both Devon and Dom turn around to look for her.

She’s rushing up from the gallery, pushing past the few people lingering between them. “That was amazing!” Devon’s mom says. “You were so
awesome
, Ms. Barcellona.” She giggles. “You should be on TV. Like that Judge Judy. You’re that good.”

Dom laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Jennifer. And please call me Dom.”

Dom turns to Devon, squeezes her shoulder. “We
won
, Devon,” she whispers. “We won.”

Devon nods. “I know.”

Then why does she feel like she’s lost?

“Let’s pop into a conference room,” Dom says as they exit the courtroom. “Just for a sec.”

Dom, Devon, and her mom file into the nearest empty room. Dom drops her briefcase on the tabletop. Pulls out one of the folding chairs.