Three years ago, Elijah had come for a visit, and she’d talked him into rehab. Having him back in her life, starting over here in New York ... she had let herself indulge in hope for their little family again. Hope had emerged kicking and screaming, and they named her Zuli Hilson.
And then, a few months ago, Max had called to say that Elijah’s mother was in the hospital. Elijah had packed for a short trip to Philadelphia.
And he didn’t return until his wife was paralyzed by a bullet.
Not three feet from her bed, her husband and doctor were discussing her care, talking about physical therapy and rehabilitation facilities, joking about how she would soon be chasing her daughters through the park and her husband through the house.
But Indigo wasn’t sure he would be there when she got home. She couldn’t rely on him to be there for her, and that was just a cold, hard fact. No reason to throw a pity party.
“You okay?” Dr. Dude stepped closer and touched her shoulder. “Feeling tired?”
“I’m okay.”
She was going to be up on her feet again, taking care of her daughters, living her own life, with or without him.
Everything was going to be okay. She was damn sure going to make it okay.
Chapter 34
The smell of the courtroom, that institutional mix of floor wax and dust, was oddly reassuring as Bernie opened her briefcase and placed her stack of blue and yellow folders next to the podium. It was office protocol to color-code cases—blue for misdemeanors and yellow for felonies, with the idea that the cases in the yellow folders—yellowbacks, the assistant district attorneys called them—would stand out and prosecutors would handle each felony with care, following the recommendations of the attorneys in the office’s coveted trial bureau.
She counted the files and stacked them beside her podium. Thirty-nine arraignments for her first day back, not bad. After a week of bereavement leave, she was eager to dig in to work and put aside her personal issues for a few hours. Eight days since the shooting, and this was the best thing for her. She had needed to get back to her own apartment, where she could sit down and not be expected to debate labor contracts and Miranda procedures. She had needed to get back to her own bed, read herself to sleep at night, and punctuate everything with some quiet.
As officers began to escort clients in from the concrete holding cells, she sifted through the folders, skimming data sheets for salient points, planning her strategies.
Not that there was much strategizing necessary for three-minute arraignments on charges that ranged from drinking in public to forging a prescription to assault.
Judge Wendy Lowenstein, a slight woman with a kick-ass haircut, took the bench, and the first case was called.
The defendant, a black man in baggy jeans and white tank top, was arraigned for jumping a turnstile. While his attorney asked for a dismissal, Bernie looked in his eyes and saw only exhaustion and some surprise. What did she expect to find there?
She was picturing Peyton Curtis’s eyes when Judge Lowenstein asked her what she was waiting for. Bernie quickly tried to recover. The turnstile jumper was dismissed, and the next case called.
This defendant wore a dress shirt and dark slacks—a businessman—but the charge was more serious. Michael Hernandez was arraigned for forging a prescription. A felony, as she noted by the yellowback folder.
Time to step up, Bernie told herself. She asked for ten thousand dollars bail. The Legal Aid attorney wanted him released on his own recognizance, claiming he worked in the community and was not a flight risk.
“Then he can come up with three thousand dollars bail,” Judge Lowenstein ruled.
That went okay, Bernie thought, but her palms were sweating. Why was she falling apart here? These were only three-minute arraignments.
The next four cases were misdemeanors. Two for panhandling. Loitering. Possession of an open container of alcohol.
Bernie whipped through them like a pro, starting to feel back on her game. Though she couldn’t help but notice that all four defendants were minorities, three of them black. Was the justice system unfair to minorities? Or was this low-level crime tied to poverty?
The next defendant gave Bernie pause.
The young Asian woman had sunken eyes, with dark half moons beneath them. Maybe the lack of sleep from being in jail overnight. Or maybe something worse. Abuse? That black smudge on the side of her face ... was it dirt or a bruise?
Rose Wu was being arraigned for Menacing Two, a misdemeanor. Wu had threatened her landlord with a carving knife, and the ADA who had processed the arrest specified two thousand dollars bail. There were notes in the yellow file referring to a counter-complaint that was to be filed against the landlord, whom Ms. Wu said was sexually harassing her, but Bernie didn’t have that complaint in her files. Had it been filed? Was it withdrawn out of fear? Was it unfounded? It was the sort of thing Bernie would have checked out with a call to the Early Case Assessment Room. If she were on her game.
But right now, Bernie had to run with this. After all, this was only the arraignment. The reading of formal charges. Her job was to arraign and get these people moving through the system.
“Ms. Sullivan?” Judge Lowenstein prodded. “Are you asking for bail, or shall we release the defendant on her own recognizance?”
“I ...” Bernie looked down at her folder, trying to get back on track. “Two thousand, Your Honor. The prosecution requests the court post bail in the amount of two thousand dollars.”
The Legal Aid attorney, who looked more tired than Ms. Wu, said that her client had acted in self-defense and did not have the money to post bail. “She was defending herself against her landlord, who has persistently trespassed and threatened sexual assault.”
The judge frowned. “Lovely. And where is said landlord?”
“My client is filing a complaint.” “I hope so.” The judge addressed the defendant. “Ms. Wu. Look at me, please.”
The young woman raised her chin.
“These charges against you are serious, but if what you’re saying is true, you need to voice your complaint and protect yourself. You need to work with your lawyer and make this official. Do you understand me?”
Wu’s eyes glistened. She gasped and let out a whimper as a tear slid down her cheek. “Yes, ma’am.” And then she tipped her face back toward the floor.
“The defendant is released on her own recognizance,” the judge ordered.
Swallowing back a wave of concern for Rose Wu, Bernie turned to her next case. There wasn’t time to worry about the young woman, and it certainly wasn’t her job to advocate for her, but something had shifted, and Bernie was teetering off balance from the change. Somehow the lines of protocol that had once separated Bernie from the other side had faded. The defendants she was charged with prosecuting had sorrow in their hooded eyes. Rose Wu’s spirit was broken. Some of them, like Mr. Hernandez, might lose their jobs if convicted.
These were people, not simply criminals.
And that realization made her very uncomfortable. With those clear limits gone, Bernie felt her passion as a prosecutor fading. How could she maintain her stance to punish wrongful behavior when so many of the criminals coming before her were victims themselves?
The next case was called, and Bernie opened the fat yellow folder. Jeremiah Jamison, a black man in his thirties, was charged with robbery and assault for robbing a pharmacy at gunpoint and making off with the supply of OxyContin.
This time, Bernie kept her eyes on her notes; she didn’t want to make the mistake of looking at the defendant. Steeling herself, Bernie asked the court for twenty-five thousand dollars bail.
The defense attorney, a wiry young woman with a bad haircut that reminded Bernie of an ex-nun, objected. “Your Honor, my client needs a rehab program, not a stay at Rikers.”
“We’re talking about Third Degree Robbery,” Bernie argued. “He waved a loaded gun in a pharmacist’s face.” It was easier when she didn’t see the defendant
.
“Bail is set at twenty thousand,” said Judge Lowenstein.
As Bernie turned to jot down the ruling, the defendant caught her eye. Dressed in an old army jacket and unshaven, he had a broad face and a creased forehead that spoke of a troubled life. His eyes, wide open, were shiny with tears.
Was he a war veteran, or had he just happened upon the worn uniform jacket?
She squinted at him as he turned, and saw the name “Jamison” printed over the breast pocket. A thief. An addict. A former soldier.
Why did it have to be so complicated? How had this gray area of consciousness crept into a job that used to be so black and white, so clear-cut for her. Crystal clear.
The next case was called, which sent Bernie fumbling for the file folder. Why was she finding it so hard to keep up today?
“Take a minute if you need it, Ms. Sullivan,” Judge Lowenstein said in an uncharacteristic display of patience.
“I’m okay,” Bernie insisted, unnerved by the judge’s scrutiny, sure that the woman could see she was becoming unhinged. Her palms were damp and now, despite the fact that the old court building was chill and drafty, she felt sweat trickling down between her breasts.
What was wrong with her?
“Maybe you came back to work too soon,” Keesh said as he worked on notes in the cubicle beside her. The regular click of his fingers on the keyboard reminded her of the steady patter of raindrops. Cool, soothing rain.
At an adjacent desk, Bernie put her head down and inhaled the scent of paper and Chinese food from a cubicle in the next aisle. She’d worked in this office for more than three years. It was her first real job, and now, out of the blue, she didn’t feel fit to do it anymore.
“It’s not grief,” she said. “Not that I’m free of that beast, but what happened today was about something else. It was as if someone gave me a new pair of eyes in the courtroom, and I could see inside each defendant.”
“Sounds like the plot of a sci-fi thriller,” Keesh said. “I think I saw that one. Sigourney Weaver’s in it.”
“No.” Bernie pushed her head up and rested her chin on a fist. “It was some sort of breakdown. I started worrying about the defendants. Did you ever notice that almost all of our defendants are minorities? And most of the ADAs are white. It’s not balanced. The scales of justice are tipped.”
“I get what you’re saying, but we don’t choose our cases; they come to us.” Keesh was on his feet, standing behind her. She would have loved a shoulder massage right now, but she knew he wouldn’t touch her. Not in their workplace. Keesh knew better. “Are you finished with your notes?” he asked. “I’ll help you knock them off and we can go somewhere for a drink.”
“I’m only about half done.” She sat up and took the top folder from her stack. “Here’s a young woman who’s probably being stalked by her landlord, and I had to push for bail.”
“Bernie, you do what you gotta do.” He picked up the folder and was reading when the voice of their boss came wending through the desk dividers. He was conversing on his Bluetooth, as usual.
“Yeah, let me call you back. I gotta talk to Bernie here. Yeah, okay. I’ll get back to you.”
Bernie looked up in time to see Mark Schumer end the call, though she had his full attention. Their boss was a small man, five-foot-two or three and slender, but what he lacked in size he more than made up for in persistence. Mark left you alone if you got the job done, but when he became aware of a problem, he didn’t back off.
“Bernie, what’s this I heard about you falling apart at arraignment proceedings?” He spread his hands wide with an expression that said “What the hell?”
“I didn’t fall apart.” She rose, folding her arms across her chest. “Not really.”
“Corey from Legal Aid said they had to pause the proceedings for you. Judge Lowenstein is worried. Said you were breaking a sweat in the middle of winter. What’s going on?”
“I just ...” What could she say? That she felt a new empathy for the defendants?
“You just fell apart.” Mark shook his head. “And I can’t have that here. You’ve worked arraignments when we had fifty cases to get through. You gotta keep moving.”
“I know. I just lost focus for a while.”
“No can do.” Mark looked from Bernie to Keesh, then threw his head back. “Ah, jeez. I’m sorry to come down so hard on you, Bernie. I know you just went through a lot, but I got a job to do here, too.”
“I know, Mark. I respect that.”
“Maybe you came back too soon.”
She thought of her week off, an interlude filled with tasks and family gatherings in the beginning that had dwindled down to a day of such boredom yesterday that she’d forced herself to run in the park, then taken herself out for a pedicure. She didn’t want more time off, time alone in her apartment, or hours of rattling conversation in front of the television at the house.
“I can do this job,” she said, though the fluttering in her chest told her it wasn’t true anymore.
“Are you sure? Because I’m not so sure. Judge Lowenstein isn’t sure, either.” Mark was never one to sugarcoat things.
She turned to Keesh, who had judiciously remained quiet during the discussion of her professional life. A more domineering man would have jumped in to defend her, but she appreciated Keesh’s silence. He knew she could fight her own battles.
“Look.” Mark stared at the ceiling a moment. “Why don’t you take some time off to sort things out?”
Bernie shook her head quickly. “No, that’s okay. I’ll make it work here.”
But behind Mark’s left shoulder Keesh was nodding yes. Take the time. Go for it.
“I can’t pay you, since we only get a week of bereavement leave from the city, but I can get you the time, Bernie, and I think you should take advantage of it. Really. Think about it. A chance to get away from this place for a while and relax. What’s not to like about that? I could go for a vacation, myself.”
Bernie recognized that Mark was in sales-pitch mode now, and though she dreaded the thought of not having this job to distract her, she could see that there would be no dissuading her intractable supervisor.
“I don’t know.” Bernie looked down at the yellow and blue case folders scattered on the desktop; the task of logging in the court actions on the computer seemed exhausting, if only because she knew she would be stuck with an image of each defendant in her mind, and she would mull over it and worry the edges until the early hours of the morning.
Right now, she felt no love for this job. No fire or passion.
“I guess I could take some time. Do some quilting.”
Mark clapped his hands together. “Bernie, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
Behind him, Keesh touched hands folded for prayer to his forehead.
“Okay, then.” Mark touched Bernie’s shoulder. “I’m going to call HR and see what we have to do to make this happen.”
After he was gone, Keesh stepped close enough that Bernie could smell a hint of his cologne, or maybe it was just aftershave. “You did the right thing, Bernie. You’ve got a stellar record here. You don’t want to screw that up because you’re going through all this.”
She turned away. He was right, but it hurt to be told that you weren’t good enough, even if it was a temporary disability.
“And what was that crap about you quilting?” Keesh asked.
“Just a load of bullshit,” she said quietly. She sat down at the desk and handed Keesh a bunch of folders. “Help me get these updated on the computer, okay?”
“Okay.”
They got to work. Once again the rhythmic tapping of keys in the adjacent cubicle made her think of rain on the roof. Rain that could wash a wealth of sins away.
At least she had Keesh. His help and the reassuring noise of his keystrokes.
She realized that when she came back from her leave, if she came back, Keesh would be gone to his new job.
This office would hav
e a different tone, a new tenor.
Her world was changing quickly, becoming so unrecognizable and alien that soon she would be a stranger walking through her own life.
Chapter 35
When Chris Schiavone came into Dr. Parsons’s office with his father, Mary Kate let out a squeal as she peered through the pass-through of the reception desk. “Oh, my goodness, look at you! I saw your name in the appointment calendar, but what are you doing here?”
Chris’s broad grin still possessed traces of the boy who had gotten into many a scrape with Mary Kate’s son Conner. “Spring break from Auburn.”
“I just have to hug you!” She ran around to the door and popped into the reception area to throw her arms around the hulking boy. “What are you, six feet now?”
“Six-two.”
“He got a full ride at Auburn to play football,” Craig said proudly.
“I heard!” Mary Kate patted Chris’s shoulder and turned to shake hands with his father, who was almost as tall, but leaner. “Craig, how are you? It’s been years.”
“It’s all good. I didn’t know you worked for Dr. Parsons.”
“I started a while back. It’s been almost a year.” She turned to Chris. “Does Conner know you’re back?”
“We’re supposed to hook up today or tomorrow. I got in touch as soon as I heard about his uncle on the news. I was floored. He was your brother, right?”
Mary Kate nodded, not wanting to go there. Right now the allure of work was that she could escape the things that still kept her awake at night.
“We’re so sorry, Mary Kate,” Craig said.
“Thank you.” She pressed a hand to her throat. “It’s still kind of emotional for me.”
Craig nodded. “Understandable.”
Mary Kate pointed to the coatrack. “Chris, if you want to hang up your coat, we can get you set up and start your X-rays.” She got him seated in the gray room, then returned to her desk. “Your son has grown so much. Conner, too. It’s hard to believe they were ever scraggly little Cub Scouts.”
The Daughter She Used To Be Page 19