“There you are!” Cookie looks up from chopping celery as I slide in beside Kevin on the upholstered bench. I rest my head on his shoulder; he leans his own down to rest atop mine. We fit together like puzzle pieces. His thigh brushes my leg, and I shift to keep us close. We used to touch all the time, back when we were dating and first married, our various body parts finding each other like they were magnetized. But somewhere along the way—maybe when we started scheduling sex on a Google calendar—we stopped reaching for each other. Now I find myself seeking him out whenever I’m near him, a hand squeeze, a shoulder rub, anything to say, I’m here. Whatever Cookie might think, I am. I’m trying.
Fred spots me through the patio doors and offers a pathetic whine. She’s not happy either, being exiled here at Cookie and Frank’s house, especially since Cookie keeps her locked in the backyard.
“Julia Sanchez will be here any moment, you know.”
Cookie’s accusatory tone makes me clutch the table so hard my knuckles turn white. Of course I know the media consultant sent by the union will be here any moment. Cookie’s only reminded us like a hundred times, which is pretty hilarious because she didn’t even know what a media consultant was until two days ago, and now she thinks this woman can magically make the world stop hating her son.
“We know…，” I say.
“You keep telling us,” Kevin finishes my sentence, another habit we fell out of since we were first married.
My mother-in-law wipes her hands furiously on a tea towel. Cookie is somehow always wiping her hands on a tea towel. She has an absurdly large collection of them.
Now she waves a plaid one in the air. “I could use some help here.” She looks at me pointedly, which is unnecessary. We both know she’s not drafting Kevin or his dad, Frank, into kitchen duty. I learned the rules a long time ago. When Cookie says, “I’m getting started on dinner,” it means “we’re” getting started on dinner. And by “we’re,” she means any women in the house better snap to attention and start chopping.
It’s not like I was a big feminist or anything before I married Kevin. At least, I wasn’t until I started coming to dinner at the Murphys’ and found myself filling deviled eggs to Cookie’s exacting standards while the men—Kevin, Matt, and Frank—watched the Eagles in the sunken living room, even though I’m the biggest Eagles fan in the whole stupid house. Our baby’s womb name is Little Bird, for God’s sake! I was at the Linc in 2005 when Chad Lewis scored that two-yard touchdown against the Falcons to send them to the NFC championship. But I’ve never been able to sit and enjoy a game here. Kevin will wander in every now and then to report the score while offering me a commiserating look that says, This is just how it is with my mom. Easy for him to say as he stuffs his face with Cheetos in front of the TV.
I trudge to the counter, and Cookie thrusts a plastic sack of celery and a knife at me.
“Three-inch slices,” she commands, like an epicurean surgeon.
Along with Julia, Matt and Annie are coming over. Cookie has demanded that we all circle the wagons; she, for her part, will make sure we’re well-fed while we do.
“Do you think we should have invited Brice over this afternoon too?” Cookie asks before answering her own question.
She’s notorious for these animated conversations with herself, which is fine by me. I’d rather silently chop.
“No, no, I suppose we got what we needed in yesterday’s call. I know we have to hold tight.”
Brice Hughes is the lawyer Kevin’s parents hired to represent him. Kevin insisted his union lawyer was enough, but Cookie wouldn’t hear of it.
“You need a real attorney,” she’d said.
Brice is the son of a woman Cookie knows from her bridge group, and he comes “highly recommended.” I have no idea if these stellar reviews are from anyone besides Brice’s own mom. He seemed fine on our initial call, even if he sounded like he was throwing around words from a legal dictionary to impress us. I don’t want to think about the money Frank and Cookie are spending on this. When Brice told us his rates—$300 an hour and a $10K retainer—Cookie looked like she’d swallowed her tongue. Living on Frank’s police pension doesn’t leave room for many extras, like, say, a legal defense fund. But it doesn’t matter. Cookie will sell her last possession to help her son. For all her faults, I love this about Cookie.
During the call, we’d all hovered around Kevin’s cracked iPhone on the kitchen table, as Brice explained that the boy, Justin, is the real key to everything, and that we’re waiting for him to regain consciousness so he can tell his version of events. “As you probably know, they’ve moved him over to CHOP—the children’s hospital. Maybe so he can receive better care… but also the optics, to remind everyone that he’s just a kid. And you know, of course, if he dies, we’re talkin’ a whole other ball game. The DA, Sabrina Cowell, I don’t know if you’re familiar with her, but she’s a real tough-ass, power hungry. Her whole agenda is police reform, so… it’s possible she could go after serious charges here. Assault with a deadly weapon, manslaughter, or even second-degree murder.”
Murder. Cookie audibly gasped and fanned herself with a towel. The word made its home in the room like it would be there forever.
“My son is no murderer,” she spat, actual drops of spit flying out of her mouth and onto the tabletop.
“Well, we just have to hope the kid pulls through. That’ll make this a whole lot better,” Brice said, his tone so shockingly matter-of-fact I wanted to reach through the phone and grab him by his throat.
A boy could die.
“In any case, everything here will depend on two words.” He paused, and I pictured him holding up two meaty fingers. “Reasonable. Threat. In order for Kevin and Cameron to be convicted of any crime, the prosecutor will have to prove that they didn’t believe there was a reasonable threat to their lives. You thought this kid pulled a gun, right? You feared for your life?” The way Brice posed the questions, there was only one answer. But Kevin didn’t say anything.
I didn’t dare turn to look at Kevin, but I felt his hand land heavy on my thigh beneath the kitchen table. I squeezed his fingers, willing him to respond.
“I followed my training.” His voice was robotic.
“I gotta say, that seems like a dodge, Kev. That’s not going to work for the prosecutor or jury. We need conviction.”
Kevin tried again like he was rehearsing lines. “We were in fast pursuit of a dangerous offender we knew was armed and had already shot someone. It all happened so fast. Cameron yelled, ‘Gun!’ and fired, and in that split second my training kicked in and I fired to protect myself and my partner.”
“Exactly, exactly. It was a dangerous—deadly—situation. And it happened so fast. All leads to reasonable fear for your life. And there’s something else here—sounds like Cameron was the instigator. He’s the one who supposedly spotted the gun. So technically it was Cameron who shot the wrong guy. I mean, you had no choice but to back him up? You had to, that was your training, but it was on Cameron to identify the right guy and properly assess if there was a weapon. Yeah, yeah, that could work…” It was as if we weren’t even there and Brice was working out an entire defense in his head. “And Cameron is young, inexperienced?”