Redemption(50)

Drew sucked his lips between his teeth and chewed on the bottom one before he raised his gaze back to Jethro.

“He was the deepest shade of red—like he’d been badly sunburned. His whole body was wet when I finally got him out of the seat in the truck, even his hair. What little he had was matted to his tiny head. His eyes were closed, but it was clear he had cried. His cheeks were streaked with dried tears.”

The fireman stopped speaking, choked up on the words he’d just uttered. Unable to maintain his composure, he shed tears for the life lost that day. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t stop the emotion pouring from his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” His stare met my weary eyes, and my own tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I didn’t try to wipe them away. I accepted what he was offering me. “We were too late. I held him close to the air vents, but I didn’t have him out of the seat more than a few seconds before EMS took over. I’m so very sorry, Ms. Jackson.”

He was the first person to offer me any condolences. The first to express I had lost something precious that day. The first to acknowledge my pain. And the only one who ever would.

When he was finally dismissed, his face was puffy from crying, his eyes rimmed red. I watched him cross the courtroom, his back straight, his shoulders stiff. His Class A was firmly pressed, and his commendations proudly displayed on his left breast. With his hat tucked under his arm, he came to my side. He squatted beside me, put his hand on my forearm and uttered the only sentiments he could offer so low no one else could hear.

“Worst day of my life, ma’am. My deepest condolences.” He stood before anyone had time to object, and in the regimented manner he’d arrived, he left.

A paramedic came next. Each witness struggled to keep the emotion from their version of the events that day, especially the EMTs and the state troopers. I wanted to believe they knew it was an accident, but in the end, the only opinions that would matter were the jurors’, who were not making eye contact with me. All but one kept their focus trained on the front of the courtroom. An older man, with hair that had long lost its color, and warm, brown eyes, met my gaze and tilted his head just slightly in my direction. He connected with me, in just a glance. There were no words or gestures other than that, but I had one juror on my side.

I only needed one.

“Elizabeth Simmons. NREMT paramedic.” Her voice was gentle, and I hoped she was a mother. My attorney had deposed all of the witnesses, but I didn’t know much about them personally.

In another life, this was a woman I would have wanted to befriend. She had come dressed professionally, her uniform clearly identifying who she was. Her auburn hair was tied neatly behind her head revealing the kindest brown eyes. She offered me a gentle smile, and it was one I knew would be infectious in the throes of laughter.

“Did you try to revive the baby when you got to the scene?” The prosecutor continued in front of me.

She was poised and confident sitting in front of the court. Unlike her predecessor, she didn’t fidget and held her composure.

“No, sir. When I retrieved the baby from Mr. Sullivan, the child was clearly gone and had been. I checked the ABC upon arrival—”

“Can you tell the court what ABC refers to?”

“Airway, breathing, and circulation. There was no breathing and no pulse. I put the baby on a monitor to confirm asystole.” She then took a deep breath. Her shoulders rose, and her face fell when she exhaled. “I pronounced the child DOA, sorry, dead on arrival. The time of death was 4:03.” A moment in time that had left a mark on her life. “My partner contacted central to reach the coroner.”

She looked me straight in the eyes, the honey color of hers deepening as I watched them brim with unshed tears. What she said next was for me, not the court. “I held him to my chest and rocked him until the coroner arrived.”



The state trooper didn’t add much to the other accounts, but he did present what they believed were the timeline of events based on my statements and those who were there.

“Ms. Jackson said she pulled over around three that afternoon with about a quarter of a tank of gas. We have to assume it was less than that because by the time Mrs. Bartell and her husband found her and the baby, it wasn’t quite four. The call came in to 9-1-1 at 3:58 pm. The car was out of gas, and it was one hundred and three degrees that afternoon. We can only speculate as to the exact temperature of the inside of the vehicle because the windows had already been broken by the time we arrived, and no one knows how long the car was off before witnesses found the victims.”

“What do you estimate the internal temperature might have been?” This question had already been answered, but I guess the more people who testified, the more weight it would carry with a jury.

“Objection, the witness would be speculating.” Jethro didn’t even bother to rise as he called out to the judge.

“Counselor, his job is to piece together the scene.” She was right, and Jethro knew it, but his job was to make sure the jury knew there were no true witnesses with a first-hand account.

“The internal temperature could have been anywhere from one hundred thirty degrees Fahrenheit to upwards of one seventy-five, depending on how long the car had been off.”

This wasn’t pleasant for anyone involved, but I’d been lucky. Even with the sneers I’d received before the trial and the forced isolation, negative media attention, and even my own family ostracizing me—everyone who’d taken that stand after me had been kind even if it had only been because their testimony was clinical. No one had taken any cheap shots. I hadn’t received any threatening stares. I’d been met with pity when anyone dared point their words in my direction from the stand.