Small Great Things(133)

“Did you know any of the hospital staff prior to going to that particular hospital?”

“No. Brit’s OB worked there, so it was sort of a done deal.”

“Did you have a good experience at this hospital, Mr. Bauer?”

“No,” I say firmly. “I did not.”

“Was it like that from the moment your wife was admitted?”

“No. That was fine. So was the labor and delivery.”

The prosecutor walks toward the jury box. “So when did things change?”

“When another nurse took over after the first one went off shift. And she was black.”

The prosecutor clears her throat. “Why was this an issue, Mr. Bauer?”

Unconsciously, I reach up and rub the tattoo on my scalp. “Because I believe in the superiority of the White race.”

Some of the jurors stare harder at me, curious. Some shake their heads. Others look into their laps.

“So you’re a White Supremacist,” the prosecutor says. “You believe that black people, people like me, should be subordinate.”

“I’m not anti-black,” I tell her. “I’m pro-White.”

“You understand that many people in the world—in fact, many people here—might find your beliefs offensive.”

“But hospitals have to treat all patients,” I say, “even the ones whose ideas they might not like. If a school shooter gets injured when the cops try to take him out and he’s brought to the ER, the doctors do surgery to save his life, even if he’s killed a dozen other people. I know the way my wife and I live is not the way others choose to live. But the great thing about this country is that we all have a right to believe whatever we want.”

“What did you do when you found out there was a black nurse caring for your newborn son?”

“I made a request. I asked that she not touch my baby.”

“Is the African American nurse you are referring to here today?”

“Yes.” I point to Ruth Jefferson. I think maybe she shrinks back in her chair.

I want to think that, anyway.

“Who did you ask?” the prosecutor says.

“The head of the nurses,” I reply. “Marie Malone.”

“As a result of that conversation, what happened?”

“I don’t know, but she got reassigned.”

“At some point, did the defendant interact with your son again?”

I nod. “Davis was being circumcised. It was supposed to be no big deal. They were going to take him to the nursery and bring him back as soon as it was done. But the next thing I know, all hell breaks loose. People were screaming, calling for help, crash carts were being pushed down the hall, everyone was running toward the nursery. My kid was in there, and I just…I guess Brit and I knew. We got to the nursery and there was a crowd of people huddled around my son, and that woman, she had her hands on my baby again.” I swallow. “She was hurting him. She was jackhammering on his chest so hard she was practically breaking him in half.”

“Objection!” the other lawyer says.

The judge purses his lips. “I’ll allow it.”

“How did you react, Mr. Bauer?”

“I didn’t say anything. Brit and I, we were both shocked. I mean, they told us this procedure was nothing. We were supposed to go home that afternoon. It was like my brain couldn’t process what was right before my eyes.”

“Then what happened?”

The jury, I realize, is on the edge of their seats. Every face is turned toward me. “The doctors and the nurses, they were moving so fast I couldn’t tell whose hands were whose. Then the pediatrician came in—Dr. Atkins. She worked for a little bit on my son, and then she…then she said there was nothing else to do.” The words become three-dimensional, a movie I can’t turn away from. The pediatrician looking at the clock. The way the others all stepped back, their hands in the air, like someone was pointing a gun at them. My son, too still.

A sob belches out of me. I hold tight to the chair. If I let go, my fists will take over. I will find someone to punish. I look up, and for just one second, I let them all see how empty I am inside. “She said my son was dead.”

Odette Lawton walks toward me with a box of Kleenex. She puts it on the railing between us, but I don’t make a move to take a tissue. I am glad, right now, that Brit doesn’t have to go through this. I don’t want her to have to relive that moment.

“What did you do next?”

“I couldn’t let them stop.” The words feel like glass on my tongue. “If they weren’t going to save him, I was. So I went to the trash and I pulled out the bag they were using to help Davis breathe. I tried to figure out how to attach it again. I wasn’t going to quit on my own kid.”

I hear a sound, a high-pitched keen, one that I recognize from the weeks that Brit did not get out of bed, but shook our home with the force of her grieving. She is hunched over in her seat in the gallery, a human question mark, as if her whole body is asking why this happened to us.

“Mr. Bauer,” the prosecutor says gently, drawing my attention back. “Some people here would call you a White Supremacist, and would say that you were the one who started this ball rolling by requesting that an African American nurse be removed from the care of your child. They might even blame you for your own misfortune. How would you respond?”