Blood Sugar(74)

Roman and I settled into a plastic-cushioned booth at a Cuban restaurant near the courthouse. It was after the rush, so only a few other diners were in the place. They looked and whispered but kept to themselves. And the waitstaff just wanted to get their side work over with and go home. No one hassled me. I ate my entire plate of chicken and plantains and beans and rice in peace. Each bite tasted newly sweet and delicious and energizing. While there, Roman got the official phone call. He took it outside. I watched him pace on the street, through the large restaurant window. It had stopped pouring, and the sun was out. I could tell his shirt had finally fully dried. Roman strode back in, and instead of sitting on his side of the booth, he slid in next to me.

In a very official tone he told me, “Due to recent facts that have come to light about witness tampering, the assistant district attorney has moved to drop the case. The judge will sign off, and the charges against you will disappear. There will be no trial.”

I didn’t know what to do with all my energy. The nightmare was over. And I was wide-awake. And I wanted to run and run and run. I felt like that first time I tried cocaine. Surging with power and relief. “Let’s go for a run.” Roman would usually never turn down exercise, but he pointed out we just ate, and he had some work to do. So I would have to turn my energy inward for now.

Roman said there would be an official hearing where the assistant district attorney asked the judge to grant the people’s motion to dismiss all charges against me. And it was my legal right to be there, if I wanted to go. But I didn’t have to go. Roman would be there representing me. “Fuck yes, I want to go!” I wanted to see that “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire”–spouting ADA when he admitted he was wrong about me. I had no idea if Detective Jackson would be there, but if he was, I wanted to see his face as all the fruits of his unpaid overtime labor rotted on the vine. I couldn’t imagine Gertrude would be there, especially since she was the start of this entire unjust mess, and she had lost. But I wouldn’t underestimate her trying to pull one last stunt.

That night I went for a run on the beach by myself. The ocean reminded me of my childhood, and of Jason, and of my life as a whole up to this point. It was so big, and always changing, but also still there.

The next morning, for the first time in months, I left my house with my head held high. I even put on a little lip gloss and eyeliner and flat-ironed my hair. The hearing was very short. Detective Keith Jackson was there, and I noticed he had new pants on, ones that actually fit him. Maybe his most recent wife took him shopping. He looked glum. He listened as the ADA, a balding, wiry middle-aged man with thin metal-rimmed glasses, requested all charges against me be “dismissed in the interest of justice.” Ah, justice. I made eye contact with the detective, and I knew he knew he was right about me. At least partially. Those hairs on the back of his neck were probably still standing up. I also saw Jesula there, quietly sitting in the back, watching to make sure all ended well and was made right. I wanted to talk to her afterward, to hug her again, to tell her that it was okay, really. That I 100 percent forgave her. But once the judge officially dropped all charges and said I was free to go, she slipped away before I had a chance.

Gertrude was not there. I kept glancing around the room, checking that she wasn’t somehow hiding under a table or behind a curtain. She was sort of haunting me, partially because a few details about the whole bribery story didn’t fully sit right. It was nagging at me. Jesula was already a United States citizen. I knew because I had helped her study for the test. And her son was born in Miami. So the threat of her being deported felt off. But I started to second-guess myself. Maybe she didn’t pass the citizenship test and was too embarrassed to tell me? Or maybe in this new American climate she didn’t trust her fresh citizenship to protect her? Whatever the reason, it was of no matter. She would not be deported. Her son was safe at home. And I would not go to prison.

As I watched the courtroom door close behind Jesula, Roman touched my arm to get my attention. I looked at him and couldn’t discern his expression. Then he quietly said, “A video has been leaked.”





CHAPTER 50


    AUTONOMY



My brief elation deflated. Roman handed me his phone. I was sure Gertrude had somehow gotten hold of the crosswalk video, despite Roman’s best efforts to keep it hidden. She would ruin me one way if not the other. But when I looked at the screen, I didn’t see grainy wet security camera footage. I saw instead a crisp view of ceramic lawn frogs. And I realized I was looking at the front of Gertrude’s house. A man was at her door. He spoke about being a representative of JDRF, an organization that raises money and awareness to find a cure for type 1 diabetes. He asked if perhaps Gertrude, now a bit of a public figure, would want to be a part of the cause? Since her only son had type 1. I could then see Gertrude in her door frame. The camera zoomed in a little—clearly someone was filming from the side of her yard. Gertrude spat, “Why would I support you? My son died of diabetes. So what good are you?” And she shut the door.

It took me a moment to comprehend. Then I got it. Gertrude just admitted diabetes killed Jason, not me. And it was caught on tape. What were the odds? Who was filming it? When I asked, Roman gave a little shrug. A sly “Who cares?” It was time-stamped and out in the world. And Gertrude’s credibility was gone forever. That was the important part. She could haunt me no more.