Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

“Before we discuss bail, I would like an opportunity to speak with my client.”

The judge frowns. “You just had one.”

“I would like an opportunity to speak with my client for more than ten seconds,” I amend.

He rubs his hand over his face. “Fine,” he concedes. “You can speak to your client at the recess and we’ll revisit this matter at second call.”

The bailiffs grab Ruth’s arms. I can tell she has no idea what’s going on. “I’m coming,” I manage to tell her, and then she’s dragged out of the courtroom, and before I know it, I’m speaking on behalf of a twenty-year-old who calls himself the symbol # (“Like Prince, but not,” he tells me), who has spray-painted graffiti of a giant penis on a highway bridge and cannot understand why it’s criminal mischief, and not art.

–

I HAVE TEN more arraignments, and during all of them, I’m thinking about Ruth Jefferson. Thank God for the stenographers’ union contract, which mandates a fifteen-minute pee break, during which I find my way into the dank, dirty guts of the courthouse to the holding cell where they’ve taken my client.

She looks up from the metal bunk where she’s sitting, rubbing her wrists. She’s no longer wearing the chains that she had in the courtroom, like any other defendant accused of murder would have, but it’s almost as if she doesn’t notice they’re gone. “Where have you been?” she asks, her voice sharp.

“Doing my job,” I reply.

Ruth meets my eye. “That’s all I was doing, too,” she says. “I’m a nurse.”

I start to piece together the puzzle: something must have gone south during Ruth’s care of the infant, something that the prosecution believes was not an accident. “I need to get some information from you. If you don’t want to be locked up pending trial, you and I need to work together.”

For a long moment Ruth is silent, and it surprises me. Most people in her situation would grab on to the lifeline offered by a public defender. This woman, however, feels like she’s trying to determine if I’m going to measure up.

It’s a pretty disturbing feeling, I must admit. My clients don’t tend to be judgmental; they’re people who are used to being judged…and found lacking.

Finally she nods.

“Okay,” I say, letting out a breath I did not realize I’d been holding. “How old are you?”

“Forty-four.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” Ruth says. “My husband died in Afghanistan, during his second deployment. An IED went off. It was ten years ago.”

“Your son-is he your only child?” I ask.

“Yes. Edison’s in high school,” she says. “He’s applying to college right now. Those animals came into my house and handcuffed a straight-A student.”

“We’ll get to that in a second,” I promise. “You have a nursing degree?”

“I went to SUNY Plattsburgh and then to Yale Nursing School.”

“Are you employed?”

“I worked at Mercy-West Haven Hospital for twenty years, on the birthing pavilion. But yesterday, they took my job away from me.”

I make a note on a legal pad. “What source of income do you have now?”

She shakes her head. “My husband’s military death benefits, I suppose.”

“Do you own your own home?”

“A townhouse in East End.”

That’s the area where Micah and I live. It’s an affluent white neighborhood. The black faces I see there are usually passing through in their cars. Violence is rare, and when a mugging or a carjacking does happen, the online comments section of the New Haven Independent is full of East End folks lamenting how the “elements” from poor neighborhoods like Dixwell and Newhallville are finding their way into our perfect hamlet.

By “elements,” of course, they mean black people.

“You look surprised,” Ruth remarks.

“No,” I reply quickly. “It just happens to be where I live, too, and I’ve never seen you around.”

“I keep a pretty low profile,” she says dryly.

I clear my throat. “Do you have relatives in Connecticut?”

“My sister, Adisa. She’s the one who’s sitting with Edison. She lives in Church Street South.”

It’s a low-income apartment complex in the Hill neighborhood, between Union Station and the Yale medical district. Something like 97 percent of the kids live in poverty, and I’ve had my share of clients from there. It’s only a handful of miles away from East End, and yet it’s another world: kids selling drugs for their older brothers, older brothers selling drugs because there aren’t any jobs, girls turning tricks, gang shootings every night. I wonder how Ruth wound up living so differently from her sister.

“Are your parents still alive?”

“My mother works on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.” Ruth’s eyes slide away from mine. “You remember Sam Hallowell?”

“The TV network guy? Didn’t he die?”

“Yes. But she’s still the family maid.”

I open the folder with Ruth’s name on it, which has the indictment that was handed down by the grand jury and that precipitated her arrest. I hadn’t had time to scan anything more than the charges before this moment, but now I skim with that superpower that PDs have, where certain words leap off the page and lodge into our consciousness. “Who’s Davis Bauer?”

Ruth’s voice gets softer. “A baby,” she says, “who died.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Ruth begins to weave a story. For every thick black fact she spins, there’s a silver flicker of shame. She tells me about the parents and the supervisor’s sticky note and the circumcision and the emergency C-section and the newborn’s seizure. She says that the man with the swastika tattoo who spit at her in the courtroom was the baby’s father. Threads knot around us, like the silk from a cocoon.

“…and the next thing I knew,” Ruth says, “the baby was dead.”

I glance down at the police statement. “You never touched him?” I clarify.

She stares at me for a long moment, as if she is trying to figure out if I can be trusted. Then she shakes her head. “Not until the charge nurse told me to start compressions.”

I lean forward. “If I can get you out of here, so you can go home to your son, you’ll have to post a percentage of the bail amount. Do you have any money saved up?”

Her shoulders square. “Edison’s college fund, but I won’t touch that.”

“Would you be willing to put your home up?”

“What does that even mean?”

“You let the State put a lien on it,” I explain.

“And then what? If I lose the trial does that mean Edison won’t have anywhere to live?”

“No. This is only a measure to make sure you’re not going to skip town if they let you leave.”

Ruth takes a deep breath. “Okay. But you have to do me a favor. You have to tell my son that I’m all right.”

I nod, and then she nods.

In that moment, we’re not black and white, or attorney and accused. We’re not separated by what I know about the legal system and what she has yet to learn. We are just two mothers, sitting side by side.

–

THIS TIME, AS I walk through the gallery of the courtroom, I feel like I’ve put on corrective lenses. I notice onlookers I didn’t pay attention to before. They may not be tattooed like the baby’s father, but they are white. Only a few are wearing Doc Martens; the rest are in sneakers. Are they skinheads, too? Some hold signs with Davis’s name on them, some wear powder-blue ribbons pinned to their shirts in solidarity. How did I miss this the first time I came into the courtroom? Have they assembled to support the Bauer family?

I think about Ruth walking down the street in East End and wonder how many other residents questioned what she was doing there, even if they never said it to her face. How incredibly easy it is to hide behind white skin, I think, looking at these probable supremacists. The benefit of the doubt is in your favor. You’re not suspicious.