Small Great Things(124)

My head is aching with images of Davis Bauer, and with the look on Dr. Atkins’s face when she realized what the test results said. True, Kennedy had shared them with me two nights ago, but this was even more devastating. To see someone else from the hospital—someone I liked and trusted—silently thinking, If only…It recentered me a little.

Yes, this is a trial against me.

Yes, I was blamed for something I shouldn’t have been blamed for.

But at the end of the day, there’s still a dead baby. There’s still a mama who doesn’t get to watch him grow up. I could be acquitted; I could become a shining light for Wallace Mercy’s message; I could sue in civil court for damages and get a payout that makes my nerves about Edison’s college bills disappear—and still, I would know that nobody had really won this case.

Because you can’t erase the colossal, tragic loss of a life at its very beginning.

That’s what’s running through my mind as I wait for the hallways to clear, so that Edison and I can go home without attracting attention. He is waiting for me on a bench outside the conference room. “Where’s your aunt?”

He shrugs. “She said she wanted to get home before the snow really started.”

I glance out the window, where flakes are falling. I’ve been turned inward so much, I hadn’t even noticed an oncoming storm. “Let me just use the restroom,” I tell Edison, and I walk down the empty hall.

I go into the stall and do my business, flush, and come out to wash my hands. Standing at the sink is Odette Lawton. She glances at me in the mirror, puts the cap on her lipstick. “Your lawyer had a good first day,” she concedes.

I don’t know what to say, so I just let the hot water run over my wrists.

“But if I were you, I wouldn’t get too complacent. You may be able to convince Kennedy McQuarrie you’re Clara Barton, but I know what you were thinking after that racist put you in your place. And they were not healing thoughts.”

It is too much. Something bubbles up inside me, a geyser, a realization. I shut the faucet, dry my hands, and face her. “You know, I have spent my life doing everything right. I have studied hard and smiled pretty and played by the rules to get where I am. And I know you have too. So it is really hard for me to understand why an intelligent, professional African American woman would go out of her way to put down another intelligent, professional African American woman.”

There is a flicker in Odette’s eyes, like a breath on a flame. Just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by a steel stare. “This has nothing to do with race. I’m just doing my job.”

I throw my paper towel into the trash, put my hand on the door handle. “Aren’t you lucky?” I say. “No one told you you couldn’t.”

—

THAT NIGHT I am sitting at the kitchen table, just lost in my thoughts, when Edison brings me a cup of tea. “What’s this for, baby?” I say, smiling.

“I thought you could use it,” he tells me. “You look tired.”

“I am,” I confess. “I am so damn tired.”

We both know I’m not talking about the first two days of testimony, either.

Edison sits down beside me, and I squeeze his hand. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Trying so hard to prove that you’re better than they expect you to be?”

He nods, and I know he understands what I’m saying. “Court’s different than I thought it would be, from what I’ve seen on TV.”

“Longer,” I say, at the same time he says, “Boring.”

We both laugh.

“I was talking a little to that Howard dude, during one of the recesses,” Edison says. “It’s pretty cool, his job. And Kennedy’s. You know, the whole idea that everyone has the right to a good attorney, even if they can’t pay for it.” He looks at me, a question wreathed around his features. “You think I’d be a good lawyer, Mama?”

“Well, you’re smarter than me, and Lord knows you know how to argue,” I tease. “But, Edison, you’ll be a star at whatever you choose to do.”

“It’s funny,” he says. “I’d want to do what they do—work for people who can’t afford legal representation. But it’s kind of like my whole life has prepared me for the other side, instead—the prosecution.”

“How do you mean?”

He shrugs. “The State’s got the burden of proof,” Edison says. “Kind of like we do, every day.”

—

THE SNOW FALLS hard and fast that night, so that the plows can’t keep up, and the world becomes completely white. I wear my winter boots with the same skirt I’ve worn all week—I’ve been changing up the blouse—and stuff my dress shoes into a Stop & Shop bag. The radio is full of school closings, and the bus Edison and I have been taking breaks down, so we have to hurry to a different line and transfer twice. As a result, we reach the courthouse five minutes late. I’ve texted Kennedy, and know we don’t have time to sneak in through the back. Instead, she meets me on the steps of the courthouse, where immediately microphones are shoved at me and people call me a killer. Edison’s arm comes around me and I duck against his chest, letting him form a barrier.

“If we’re lucky Judge Thunder had trouble digging his car out today,” she mutters.