After

by Amy Efaw

  Finally, Dom places her BlackBerry down on the table, looks up. Fixes Devon with her eyes through those tiny wire-framed glasses. Her face is set. Not stressed or anxious, just intensely serious.

  “Sorry about that.” She flicks her BlackBerry, and it spins 180 degrees. “Too many irons in the fire today. So.” She raises an eyebrow. “Ready for this?”

  Devon swallows. “I think so.”

  Dom is quiet for a moment. Then, “This hearing will take the better part of the day. It might even bleed over to tomorrow. I need you to be ready for it, Devon. It’ll be long and grueling. At times very boring. At times emotional. At all times, no matter what is said about you—whether it’s something positive or something negative, even something that you may perceive to be a total lie—do not react. No laughing or smiling. No crying. And pay attention. At least, act like you’re paying attention.” Dom pulls a yellow legal pad out of her briefcase, a sharpened pencil. Hands them across the table to Devon. “These are for you. Take notes on what goes on in there; that’ll help you to stay focused and engaged. If you have something you want me to know—something that you suddenly remember about a particular witness or some detail that you think I’ve missed—or if you have a question about anything that goes on, just jot it down on that paper and tap me discreetly to get my attention. You’ll be like my legal assistant, kind of like my second-chair attorney. Sound good?”

  Devon nods. A team. Devon and Dom together, a combined effort. Her heart is hammering again. “Am I going to have to say anything?”

  “The judge may ask you the occasional question directly, which you will need to answer as best you can. But, no, I’m not going to put you on the stand.”

  “So I’ll just be sitting there next to you?”

  Dom nods.

  “The whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  Devon feels relief rolling over her and lets her breath out slowly. She’d been imagining herself up front like in all those courtroom scenes on TV, feeling exposed and vulnerable, the judge pedantically peering down at her from his bench. An antagonistic attorney firing questions at her while she bumbles to find a cogent answer, to make sense. All those people watching. But that’s not going to happen. She’ll remain at the table beside Dom during the whole ordeal, and her back will be to the gallery. The courtroom is small, she remembers. Not many people will be there anyway.

  “For a court proceeding,” Dom is saying now, “this hearing is actually going to be pretty informal. So, quickly, this is what’s going to happen.” She folds her hands on the table. “This is not an actual trial, but a hearing, so there will be no jury today. This is what’s called ‘judge alone,’ because a judge will be making the decision today based on the law and the facts presented to him. Not a jury. Understand?”

  Again, Devon feels some slight relief. She thinks back to that first time in court, eight days ago. The judge was intimidating, but not mean. There hadn’t been a jury that day, either. Devon nods her head. “I understand.”

  “Okay, good. The prosecutor will put on his case first. Remember, he represents the State, society at large, so it’s his job to show that it is in the State’s best interest that you be tried in adult court. He’ll attempt to convince the judge that the charges against you are of such a serious nature that the adult system will be best equipped to deal with you, and society will be that much safer. He’ll bring in his witnesses to support this argument. The police officers who found you in your apartment, for example. The man who discovered the baby that morning. Maybe the emergency room doctor you kicked.”

  Devon jerks her eyes down to the table, feels her face grow warm. Why did she kick that doctor? She didn’t have to do that. She concentrates on studying the tabletop. Not one scratched initial. Not one ink smudge.

  “Then I’ll get the chance to cross-examine each of the prosecutor’s witnesses. It’s my job to neutralize anything negative that those witnesses may have said, anything that I feel is harmful to our case.” She pauses. “You still following me?”

  “Yes.” Devon looks up at her. “I am.”

  “Okay. After the prosecutor is done putting on all his witnesses, it’s our turn. At that point, it’s my job to show the judge that it’s in the State’s and your best interest for you to remain here and be tried as a juvenile. It’s my job to get the judge to see you as a real person. To effectively do that, I’ll bring in our witnesses—”

  A jolt to her heart. “Who?” Devon practically yelps the word.

  Dom stops, watches Devon for a moment. Devon can see her eyes soften behind those wire frames. “I know this is very scary for you, Devon, having to see these people today, to listen to what they have to say. But you need to know that each of the people whom I’m calling as witnesses is coming here only to say good things about you. They care a lot about you and your future.” She pauses. “I’ve carefully selected a variety of people out of the many I’ve talked to over the past several days so that the judge can see the many sides that make up who you are.”

  Devon shifts on her stool impatiently. “Okay. But who are the witnesses?”

  “Are you sure you want to know ahead of time?”

  Devon nods. “Definitely.”

  “Not all of them will be here in person,” Dom says. “Some of them have written letters to the court.”

  Devon nods again. “Okay.”

  “So, your coach, Mark Dougherty, is one who will be here.”

  Devon swallows. She suspected he’d be one, based on Dom’s questions about him the other day. “Who else?”

  “The judge needs to know how well you are adjusting to life here in Remann Hall. So, I have two people who will be able to specifically address that—the teacher here in Delta pod, Ms. Coughran, and one of the detention staff, Ms. Apodaca. Henrietta is probably how you’d know her, and she will be testifying. Ms. Coughran has written a letter.”

  Henrietta? This surprises Devon. What is she going to say? That Devon maintains her cell immaculately? Combs her hair thoroughly every morning? Wakes up easily when roused from a dead sleep?

  “You’ve been assigned a probation officer, Devon. All youth who come before this court for any reason are assigned one. I don’t know if you remember, but at your arraignment last week, she spoke briefly—”

  “No,” Devon says. “I don’t remember her at all.”

  “Well, I’ll point her out to you once we’re in the courtroom. Anyway, she’s prepared a risk assessment on you and will report her findings to the judge. And then Dr. Bacon will come to give her expert opinion based on the few sessions she’s had with you.”

  Risk assessments? Expert opinions? These worry Devon. What have they concluded about her? But then she thinks, she’s here, isn’t she? What does she expect? That’s what these people do here, don’t they? Assess and analyze the kids who live here? Kids like Karma and Jenevra. Destiny. Macee. Sam.

  Why would she, Devon Davenport, be exempt?

  “The judge will also need to get a clear picture of who you were before the incident. So I’ve asked your school guidance counselor from Stadium High School, Rita Gonzales, to help explain that in a letter. In it, she’s discussed your grades, test scores, school disciplinary record—which is sparkling clean of course—your extracurricular activities, et cetera.”

  Ms. Gonzales? Devon barely even knows her. She’d gone in to see Ms. Gonzales once, right at the start of second semester freshman year. Devon had been placed in AP history instead of freshman honors American history by mistake. “Computer glitch,” Ms. Gonzales had said. “I’m sure you could hang with those juniors and seniors if you tried. You’re smart enough. But then the senior boys would be asking you out to the prom. And you wouldn’t want that.” She winked. “Not yet.” Her office had smelled like microwaved popcorn. On her desk she’d prominently displayed a light blue dish decorated with snowflakes that was filled mostly with Jolly Rancher wrappers, and a framed picture of two chubby-faced toddlers with round, dark eyes.


  “Also, Debbie Evans will be here to testify,” Dom says, “because of your babysitting job this past summer.”

  Debbie knows? Devon drops her head into her hands. What does she think about me? Looking back, does Debbie suspect that Devon had done something terrible to her twins all those hours she’d been alone with them?

  “And”—Dom hesitates—“your mom.”

  The courtroom is silent. Up front, the judge’s bench is empty.

  Everything is laid out as it had been the last time Devon was here—three rectangular tables equally spaced across the room and facing the judge’s bench, the two back-to-back computer screens below it, the two flags.

  The only other person currently in the room is a uniformed policeman, casually reading the Wall Street Journal. Devon turns to look behind her. The long bench along the back wall is still there, but vacant.

  “We’re here a little early,” Dom says, “so we’ll be all situated and comfortable when everyone else arrives.”

  Comfortable? Will Devon be comfortable for one minute today? One second?

  Dom walks over to the table on the far right, the one where Devon had sat that first day beside the attorney with the sparse hair and dandruff-sprinkled suit. Dom places her briefcase on the table, unzips it. Pulls out the chair on the left.

  Devon moves behind the chair on Dom’s right, the one she’d taken last week. She’d cried in that chair. The laminated sheet is still taped to the table: Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.

  From a side door, a woman enters, drops a briefcase on the table on the far left-hand side of the courtroom. She smiles, calls over to Dom.

  “I’ll be right back. That woman over there is your probation officer, Ms. Gustafson.” Dom gives Devon a quick pat on the back before moving across the courtroom.

  Devon watches as two other women enter together through that same side door, take their places in the face-to-face chairs below the judge’s bench. Turn on their computers. They talk quietly. One spins in her chair, around and around, back and forth, like Devon used to do in the beauty shops as a small child while her mom got her hair colored and styled. The other woman just sits in her own chair and laughs, shakes her head with amusement.

  Next, a young man, who Devon recognizes as the prosecutor from last week, walks through the door. Devon can feel her stomach jitter as he marches up to the center table, plops his briefcase down on it.

  All these briefcases in the room. Filled with papers. Papers about her.

  The prosecutor turns toward Devon in his dark suit with faint pinstripes and bright blue tie. Nods at her quickly, then turns away to arrange his files, set them out just right. Devon notices that he’s wearing one of those obnoxious earpieces. He checks his BlackBerry, tucks it back into the holster at his hip. He rolls his neck, shakes out his hands. Checks his BlackBerry again.

  Devon feels awkward standing here, chewing on her thumbnail, waiting. She drops her hand with annoyance. When had she started this nail-biting habit? It needs to end.

  More people are trickling in now, filing into the long bench at the back. Those sitting together talk in low voices, clear their throats. Cough. Turn off their cell phones.

  Finally, Devon pulls out her chair, sits down. Carefully places her yellow legal pad and pencil on the table. Folds her hands in her lap. They’re clammy so she wipes them on the legs of her jumpsuit, refolds them. She can feel all the eyes behind her, feel their gaze at the back of her head. At the back of her tight French braids—two identical cords of shiny black hair, the ends twisted with rubber bands and brushing her shoulders. Dom had fixed them in the little conference room before they’d left for the courtroom. The braids actually itch now with all those eyes on them. Devon resists the urge to unclasp her hands again and touch them. Resists the urge to look back at those people behind her.

  Her mom might be there. Dom had said that last night her mom had finally returned all those messages Dom had left on her cell. Late last night. After midnight.

  Devon stares down at the laminated paper, busies herself with reading what’s there: Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor. Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.

  Finally Dom returns, chats in passing with the prosecutor in the pinstripes at the middle table. He says something and shrugs, then reaches up to remove his earpiece.

  When Dom takes her seat, an amused expression lingers on her face. “Nice Bluetooth. I should’ve just let him keep it on. But, then, that wouldn’t be playing nice, would it? The judge would’ve eaten him alive for wearing it in here, and he would’ve looked like a total fool.” She checks her watch. “Speaking of the judge, we’re just waiting on him to arrive. Should be any minute now.” She leans over, looks closely at Devon, down at her tightly clasped hands, then back up into her face. “You doing okay?”

  Devon nods.

  “All rise!” a voice barks from the side door.

  Dom nudges Devon, and everybody in the courtroom is on their feet. Complete silence descends.

  The judge enters, his black robe trailing lightly behind him. The same judge as last time with his short military-style haircut. He mounts the steps to his bench, Devon can hear his feet hit as they make contact with each step. He takes his seat, then waves dismissively. Everybody moves to sit down again.

  “Devon!” a sharp whisper from behind. “Hey!”

  Devon jerks her head on reflex, scans the faces in the gallery behind her.

  Her mom.

  There, standing in the center of the long bench. Waving and smiling. Long red nails, big red lips. A new spaghetti-strapped sundress, too bright for the room, and ridiculously too summery for April in Tacoma. Her lips form the words, “Hi, hon. I’m here!”

  Devon jerks back around, falls into her seat. She fills her lungs then, again and again. Way too fast. Silver sparkles flicker at the corners of her vision. She shakes her head. Hold on. Don’t pass out. Don’t cry.

  She’s been wanting her mom to be here all this time, hasn’t she? And now that she actually is . . .

  Dom places a hand on Devon’s arm, gives it a gentle squeeze. “Just breathe,” she whispers, “but slowly. Relax and breathe. And you’ll be okay.”

  “This court is called to order,” Judge Saynisch says. He clears his throat, shuffles the papers before him. “We’re here today for a declination hearing in the case of State versus Davenport.” He looks up, squints at the courtroom. “Is that your understanding, Counsel?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says quickly.

  Dom nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “All right, then,” the judge says. “Let’s get to it.” He nods at the prosecutor. “Opening statement, Mr. Floyd? Keep it brief.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Devon snatches up her pencil, pulls her legal pad toward herself so she’s ready. Her fingers are trembling.

  She hadn’t waved back. Her mom had waved and smiled at her, had finally shown up here to help her, and Devon hadn’t responded. No smile or wave back. No nod. Nothing at all.

  chapter nineteen

  The first thing the prosecutor does is stand. The second is to make a speech. He tells the judge, “This case, Your Honor, is about the commission of society’s most serious crime—murder—against society’s most innocent, most helpless, victim. A victim who doesn’t possess the physical strength to defend herself. A victim who lacks the ability to even plead for her own life. But this case is about much more than even that, Your Honor. It’s about a breach of trust, the breaking of a bond. The most basic bond in the human experience—the bond between a child and her mother. This is a case, Your Honor, where the victim is a baby, and the perpetrator is her mother.”

  Devon glances over at Dom. She’s sitting very still, listening, hands clasped over her opened yellow legal pad. When the prosecutor said that last line, Dom had pressed her lips together, picked up her pen.

  The prosecutor goes on to discuss how egregious is the breaking of the maternal bond. He says, “Of all the p
eople on the face of the earth, Your Honor, the one person this particular baby should have been able to count on to welcome her into the world, to keep her safe and protect her, was that person sitting right over there.” He turns his face and eyes toward Devon. “But, instead, Your Honor, that person”—he extends his right arm with index finger elongated and pointing—“that person was trying to kill her.” He pauses. “She scooped her tiny infant body into a black plastic trash bag, tied it off tightly, and tried to suffocate the life out of her.”

  The prosecutor goes on, explaining how Devon had hid her pregnancy, deceiving the people closest to her—her mother, her soccer coach, her teammates, her classmates. How she’d purposefully sought no prenatal care, and when confronted with the opportunity to actually discuss her pregnancy with a doctor, became hostile and uncooperative. How she began wearing baggy clothing to conceal her changing body and started skipping out on soccer practices once her body got too cumbersome to play anymore. And how she’d doggedly carried out the deception to the very end, when she gave birth to the baby alone in her apartment. And after it was over, how she’d collected up the bloody evidence and stuffed it into a trash bag, including the baby itself, dumped it all into the trash can behind her apartment building, and walked away.