Cookie asks me about Chase and I tell her that he gained an ounce overnight. I don’t think I’ve ever loved her more than right then as her face lights up and she says, “That’s our boy.”
Brice lets Cookie and Frank lead the way as we file through the maze of the old building. Once they’re out of earshot, he whispers to Kevin. “You’ll plead not guilty, just like we talked about. I thought the DA might put a deal on the table before it came to this, but she wants to go through with all the theatrics, draw it out.” Cookie and Frank are too far ahead to hear this conversation, but Matt can.
“My brother ain’t a snitch, man.” He spits the words in Brice’s direction. He looks like he’s about to say more, to make a scene, but Annie grabs him by the elbow and pushes him toward his mother.
“Don’t listen to him,” I say.
Kevin stops short in the entrance—filling three rows of benches on one side are his buddies from the Twenty-Second. I can tell he didn’t know they would be here. It’s a bizarre kind of surprise party. Instead of screaming, “Surprise!” they all turn to look at him, communicate their solidarity through solemn nods and serious expressions. They know it could have been any one of them in Kevin’s shoes. Some of them stare at me. Some look shyly away. They’re standing by him now, but what happens if Kevin testifies against Cameron? Will they all abandon my husband? I know the answer and so does he.
There’s another case being heard. Brice told us to expect to wait, so we find an empty bench and sit watching, waiting as it finishes. The judge is delivering a stern lecture to a sullen teenager about getting his life together and how he needs to support all of his “baby mamas” because that isn’t the taxpayers’ job. It’s impossible to focus. I can’t stop thinking about Chase in the NICU, wondering what he’s doing, whether he’s awake, whether he misses me. My arms are so empty without him in them. A dark laugh threatens to escape as it hits me that I’d rather be back in the NICU, that terrible place of purgatory and sick babies, than here in this courtroom. But at least something is finally happening. Of all the difficult parts of the last few months, the not knowing has been the hardest. I can’t be a proper mother to my little boy in this constant state of limbo. Maybe it’ll all be over soon, whatever the end looks like. I’ve prepared myself to deal with any outcome. I just need clarity. I need to know what comes next.
I’ve never been in a courtroom before, and I’m surprised to find it’s so dark and dingy: faded paint peels off the walls, abandoned cans of Coke and a stack of brown accordion folders crowd the judge’s desk. The ancient radiators clang and grunt. The judge herself looks bored. I can’t believe our fate will be decided in this depressing room, or one exactly like it if Kevin goes to trial.
The judge strikes her gavel, startling both of us. There’s a sudden churn in the courtroom as the cases turn over—actors taking their places, including me. I scoot back on the bench and sit up straighter, readying myself. Kevin stands when the bailiff calls his name. All eyes turn as he and Brice make their way to the table before the judge. I want to offer some final words of encouragement, but Kevin is out of his seat, trudging forward like a zombie before I have the chance.
That horrible district attorney appears from out of nowhere and stands at a table in front of the judge. I want to stick a big wad of gum in her hair. I shoot daggers at Sabrina Cowell and hope she can feel my rage. When she starts to speak, I want to cover my ears against her self-righteousness, her smug tone.
“Kevin Murphy…
“Second-degree murder…
“Manslaughter…
It’s all so fast, a jumble, a blur of legalese and formalities and jargon that’s too hard to follow. Only one moment breaks through, like everything else in the room has stopped, when Kevin speaks. Two words, his voice so hoarse the judge has to ask him to repeat himself.
“Not guilty.”
And just like that, it’s over. It hardly seems worth all the bother of leaving Chase, but when Kevin returns to the bench and collapses in my arms as if he’s run a marathon, I’m glad I came. For better or worse.
We all file back out into the hall, unsure how to behave, what to do now.
“I’ve gotta pee.” I’ve been holding it for hours now and rush off to find a bathroom. In the stall I take my time, thumb through pictures of Chase on my phone for a minute to soothe my nerves. I’m still bleeding and I need another pad, but that would involve going to ask Cookie if she has a quarter and then she’ll ask why and it will be mortifying. Someone comes in. Maybe I can borrow some change.
I walk out and nearly turn back into the stall. It’s her, Tamara Dwyer, so close I can smell her perfume. My knees buckle. I didn’t see her in the courtroom, but of course she would be here. I’ve seen her on television and from a distance at Justin’s funeral, but here, under the flickering fluorescent lights that are mandatory in every sorry municipal building in this city, she looks like a ghost. She locks eyes with me right away. We’re alone with three feet of space between us.
“Congratulations,” she says quietly, looking at my swollen stomach.
“Thank you.” A whisper as I take a small step back to the toilet stall.
“You had a boy, right?”
“Yes.” I can’t allow the guilt brought on by that simple fact to drown me. She doesn’t need my guilt. “Mrs. Dwyer, I’m so sorry. My husband is so sorry.”
“I don’t want your apologies.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. What would you do if someone killed your baby?”
I don’t even hesitate, because I’ve thought about this every single day since Chase was born. “I’d kill them with my bare hands.”
“Exactly.” The hard look in Tamara’s eyes tells me that she’s imagined it too.
“But it wouldn’t do anything, would it?” I stutter a little. “Would it make it better?”
She glares at me in the mirror. “Sometimes I think so. A life for a life. But that’s not what I want. I want my son back. I want my baby back. I want to wrap my arms around him and kiss his sweaty head and never let him go back outside into a world where a man like your husband will shoot him in the chest for walking home from school.”
This is what we deserve. My son is alive.
Both her hands grip the edges of the sink, and we’re talking through her reflection in the mirror. I can leave right now, walk away from this woman and her anguish. But I have to face her, face up to her. I risk reaching out to touch her and she jumps away from my hand so violently I pull back like I’ve been burned.
“Don’t touch me.”
“I’m sorry—”
“And don’t say you’re sorry. I don’t want your sorrys.” Her eyes meet mine again, cold pools of anger and grief.
“Chase—my baby, his name is Chase—he came early. I thought I’d lose him. I knew I’d die if that happened.”
“But you wouldn’t die. You’d have to keep going, and that is so much worse.”
She turns and grabs at the door handle, pulling so hard the door flies open and slams into the wall hard enough to startle us both.