Small Great Things(147)

“Why are you?” he asks, turning toward me. “You’re pretending that what they do doesn’t even matter. I sat through that whole trial; it barely even came up.”

“What barely came up?”

“Racism,” he says.

I suck in my breath. “It may never have been explicitly discussed during the trial, but Turk Bauer was on full display—a museum-quality exhibit.”

He looks at me, one eyebrow cocked. “You really think Turk Bauer is the only person in that courtroom who’s a racist?”

We pull into a spot in front of Ruth’s home. The light is on inside, buttery and warm. She throws open the front door and comes out onto the steps, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her body. “Thank the Lord,” she murmurs, and she folds Edison into her embrace. “What happened?”

Edison glances at me. “She told me not to tell you.”

Ruth snorts. “Yeah, she’s good at that.”

“I spray-painted a swastika on the hospital. And…some other stuff.”

She holds him at arm’s length, waiting.

“I wrote ‘Die Nigger,’?” Edison murmurs.

Ruth slaps him across the face. He reels back, holding his cheek. “You fool, why would you do that?”

“I thought Turk Bauer would get blamed. I wanted people to stop saying awful things about you.”

Ruth closes her eyes for a moment, like she is fighting for control. “What happens now?”

“He’ll be arraigned in court on Monday. The press will probably be there,” I say.

“What am I going to do?” she asks.

“You,” I tell her, “are going to do nothing. I’ll handle this.”

I see her fighting, struggling to accept this gift. “Okay,” Ruth says.

I notice that this whole time, she keeps contact with her son. Even after swatting him, her hand is on his arm, his shoulder, his back. When I drive away, they are still standing together on the porch, tangled in each other’s regret.

—

BY THE TIME I get home, it is four in the morning. It seems stupid to crawl into bed, and anyway, I’m wired. I decide to clean up a little, and then to have a pancake breakfast waiting when Violet and Micah wake.

It’s inevitable that over the course of a trial, my home office becomes more and more cluttered. But Ruth’s case, it’s a done deal. So I tiptoe into the extra bedroom I use and begin to pack up the discovery into its boxes. I stack files and folders and notes I made on the evidence. I try to find Ground Zero.

I accidentally bump a pile on the desk and knock it onto the floor. Picking up the pages, I scan the deposition from Brittany Bauer, which of course never came into play, and the photocopied results from the state laboratory that flagged Davis Bauer’s metabolic disorder. It’s a long, aggregate list of disorders. Most read normal, except of course the line for MCADD.

I glance over the rest of the list, which I never really focused on before, because I’d grabbed the brass ring and run with it. Davis Bauer seemed to be a normal infant in all other regards, his testing standard.

Then I turn the page over, and realize there’s print on the back, too.

There, in a sea of ordinary, is the word abnormal again. This one is much farther down the list of aggregated results—less important maybe, less threatening? I cross-reference the result with the lab tests that were included in the subpoena, a mess of lists of proteins I can’t pronounce, and scraggly graphs of spectrometry I do not know how to read.

I pause at a page that looks like a runny tie-dye. Electrophoresis, I read. Hemoglobinopathy. And at the bottom of the page, the results: HbAS/heterozygous.

I sit down at my computer and plug the result into Google. If this is something else that was medically wrong with Davis Bauer, I can introduce it, even now. I can call for a new trial, because of new evidence.

I can start over with a fresh jury.

Generally benign carrier state, I read, my hopes falling. So much for another potential cause of natural death.

Family to be tested/counseled.

The hemoglobins are listed in the order of hemoglobin present (F>A>S). FA = normal. FAS = carrier, sickle-cell trait. FSA = sickle beta-plus thalassemia.

Then I remember something Ivan said.

I sink to the floor, reaching for the stack of deposition transcripts, and begin to read.

Then, although it is only 4:30 A.M., I grab my phone and scroll through the history of incoming calls until I find the one I am looking for. “This is Kennedy McQuarrie,” I say, when Wallace Mercy picks up, his voice thick with dreams. “And I need you.”

—

ON MONDAY MORNING, the steps are crowded with cameras and reporters, many now from out of state, who have picked up the story of the black kid who wrote a racial slur against his own kind, the son of a nurse on trial just down the hall for killing a white supremacist’s baby. Although I have prepared a song and dance for Howard in case my stay isn’t granted, Judge Thunder shocks me once again by agreeing to delay closing arguments until 10:00 A.M. so I can act as Edison’s attorney before I pick up again as Ruth’s—even if only to be formally fired.

The cameras follow us down the hallway, even though I tuck Ruth under one arm and instruct Howard to shield Edison. The entire arraignment takes less than five minutes. Edison is released on personal recognizance and a pretrial conference date is set. Then we dodge the press the whole way back.