Have You Seen Luis Velez?(59)

“Now for the really important question.”

He turned quickly to face the jury. Swept his gaze from one face to another. Met as many eyes as he could.

Raymond was still wishing there was even one Latino or Latina face on that jury. But there had been only three in the jury pool, and all three had been excused by the defense attorney, ostensibly over unrelated concerns.

“What if your neighbor is wrong? What if you’re only trying to help, but he—or she—mistakenly thinks you mean him some kind of harm, and he fires on you? Ends your life? Takes you away from your spouse and your children? Does he have that right? What about your right to walk down the street in safety?

“Look, I have a handgun in the drawer of my bedside table. If someone breaks in and tries to do any kind of harm to my wife or me . . . well, all I can say is, God help that person. But with the license to carry and use a gun comes an enormous responsibility. And it’s pretty simple, ladies and gentlemen: You have to be right. You owe it to the guy who’s trying to give you back your wallet to be sure you know the difference between a robber and a good Samaritan. You have to be willing to hold your fire for just a moment—even a split second—until you know for a fact what kind of situation you’ve got on your hands. Sure, it’s a temptation to think there’s some risk involved in waiting that split second. And maybe there is. But to fail to take that risk is to put too much weight on your own rights and not enough on the other guy’s. It’s thinking only of yourself. We all put ourselves first. That’s just human, and maybe it’s not even a bad thing. But we at least have to make the other guy a very close second. Because, you know what? Luis Velez had a right to go home that night. He had a right to raise his children. He had a right to be there when his wife gave birth to their third child.”

He stopped—stopped talking, stopped pacing. Turned his eyes to Isabel. The jury’s eyes followed his gaze.

Raymond looked over at Isabel and watched her squirm under their gazes. Watched her face flush red.

“Mr. Velez had those rights violently ripped away from him. Did the defendant, Ms. Hatfield, wake up that morning with thoughts of murder?” He paused. Looked in the direction of the defendant. So far Raymond had still only seen the back of her head. “Did she bear ill will toward Mr. Velez and premeditate his demise? Of course not. She was just afraid. But afraid or not, we still have to use reasonable judgment before we use lethal force. And if we don’t, there has to be a price. A fair price, but a price nonetheless for taking an innocent life first and asking questions later. Over the course of this trial, I will be trusting you to make a fair and reasoned judgment regarding what that price will be.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you, Your Honor.”

As the prosecutor moved to take his seat again, Raymond realized he had been so caught up in listening that he’d forgotten to take notes. He typed as fast as he possibly could while the defense attorney rose to begin his opening statement.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to use your imagination. What would you do if you were walking down the street at dusk and a stranger came up behind you and grabbed you by the shoulder?”

“He didn’t grab her by the shoulder!”

Raymond jumped at the sound of Isabel’s voice, coming from right beside him. She had pushed to her feet with surprising speed, considering her condition.

“He tapped her on the shoulder!” Isabel shouted. “Both witnesses said so!”

The judge rapped his gavel hard against the bench.

“Silence!” he bellowed at her. “One more outburst like that and you’ll be looking at a contempt charge. Now be seated.”

Isabel did not move. She stood frozen like a statue, teetering slightly, staring off into space as if listening to voices no one else could hear.

“I said be seated!” the judge roared again.

Isabel turned her gaze to the judge and spoke four words that nearly stopped Raymond’s heart. They actually did stop it, but only for the space of about one and a half beats.

“My water just broke,” she said.



The uniformed woman who had touched Isabel’s belly ushered them out of the courtroom and down to the lobby.

She was New York City police, he saw as they trotted along together. He could see her badge. The nameplate on the pocket flap of her uniform shirt read “J. Truesdale.”

Raymond looked behind him for the tenth time at least, uneasy with leaving Mrs. G behind in the courtroom. She had told them to. She had promised to remain seated until Raymond returned. But it still made him deeply uncomfortable to leave her out in the world without his help.

Officer Truesdale left them standing in the lobby of the courthouse.

“My patrol car is parked around the corner,” she said. “Wait here and I’ll bring it around.”

Raymond held on to Isabel’s elbow. He felt, briefly, dizzyingly, as though he were the only thing holding her up. Her face looked bloodless and pale, tight with fear and pain.

“Contraction,” she hissed.

Her face contorted with the agony of it, and Raymond felt a sickening pain run down through his gut and then the insides of his thighs. A visceral reaction to what he was able to imagine.

“Okay,” Isabel said a minute or two later. “Okay.”

But it was only okay until the next inevitable contraction, and Raymond knew it.