After

by Amy Efaw

  Devon watches the young prosecutor in his pinstripes tell his story. Watches Dom sitting beside her with hands clasped over her yellow legal pad, occasionally picking up her pen to jot something down on it. Watches the judge up front listening, his eyes trained intently on the prosecutor. Across the room, Devon watches the woman with whom Dom had spoken earlier, Ms. Gustafson; her chin is resting in the palm of her left hand. Devon watches the two women facing each other with their back-to-back computer screens, their fingers moving rhythmically over their respective keyboards. It’s like a play; each person here has his own place and assigned role. Even Devon has her script—the laminated paper taped to the tabletop dictates her lines: Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.

  Devon wonders what her mom is thinking now, listening back there in the gallery, wearing her bright sundress. Is this the first time she’s heard this story told in this way? Does she believe the prosecutor in pinstripes? Why did she wait so long to call Dom, and what did they talk about when she finally did? And why didn’t her mom ever come to see her? Where had she been all this time, where did she go?

  Stop thinking and focus now. She needs to concentrate on what’s being said. Listen for discrepancies so she can help Dom.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says.

  Devon looks up sharply. He’s finally finished?

  The prosecutor steps back behind his chair and settles himself into it. Wipes his hands on his pinstriped thighs.

  Judge Saynisch turns his face toward Devon’s table. He nods at Dom. “Defense?”

  Dom stands slowly, pushing off the tabletop. Devon glances up at her quickly. Her face is composed, a slight smile lingering around her lips.

  “Your Honor,” Dom says. “I’m not going to stand here and waste your time rehearsing a litany of reasons why you should decide in favor of my client, Devon Davenport. All my client asks, Your Honor, is that you keep an open mind and weigh the evidence that’s presented here today. Keep an open mind, and weigh the evidence, and I have confidence that you will arrive at the right decision. That’s all I have, Your Honor.”

  Dom sits down.

  That’s it? Where’s the long, persuasive speech that elicits chills or tears? Where’s the drama?

  Devon peeks at Dom out of the corner of her eye. Watches her center the legal pad in front of her, pick up the pen.

  Devon questions if Dom knows what she’s doing after all. Devon remembers that she’s never seen Dom in court, has no idea what she’s capable of. The last time Devon was here she had a balding man with a dandruff-sprinkled suit who served as her attorney. He certainly wasn’t impressive, but she remembers he had made an inspiring speech.

  “Well,” the judge says, “that was refreshing. A counsel who understands the meaning of the word brevity.” He scans the courtroom. “All right, let’s keep pushing ahead, shall we? Mr. Floyd, call your first witness.”

  Devon feels her heart pick up. Okay, these people aren’t on her side, she thinks. They are here to say unflattering things, awful things, about her.

  Don’t react, Devon reminds herself. Not even a little bit.

  Mr. Floyd clears his throat. “The state calls Mr. Jacob Bingham.”

  Devon consciously keeps her head down to avoid any eye contact with the man as he steps to the front of the courtroom, swearing with his right hand raised that his testimony will be the truth, and seats himself on the witness stand—a square wooden enclosure with a chair inside, situated below and to the left of the judge. She wonders what he’s here to say about her, who he is. She risks a peek up at him and sees that the man is directly in front of her and sitting surprisingly close to her. In fact, other than Dom, he is sitting closer to her than any other person in the courtroom.

  Their eyes meet briefly. His narrow slightly, his lips turn down with distaste.

  Devon feels a cold prick inside her chest and quickly drops her face back down to her yellow pad, her cheeks burning.

  “Please state your name for the record,” Mr. Floyd says.

  “Jacob William Bingham. Most people call me Jake.”

  “Thank you. And Mr. Bingham, what were you doing the morning of March twenty-eighth?”

  “I was taking my Labrador retriever, Darko, for a walk just like I do every day before going into work.”

  “And where do you work?”

  “I work at The Job Mob, a social networking start-up in Seattle. I’m a Web developer there.”

  “And about what time was it that you were walking your dog?”

  “About six forty-five in the morning. I’m usually out the door no later than six-thirty, but that morning I was running a little behind”—he takes a breath—“thank God.”

  With those words, Devon can feel the man’s eyes on her again, his anger and disdain directed at her. But Devon resists the urge to glance up at him again. She keeps her eyes fixed on the binding holding her yellow legal pad together.

  “Yes.” Mr. Floyd clears his throat uncomfortably. “And, uh, why exactly was it that you were running late that morning, Mr. Bingham?”

  “I’d overslept my alarm. My sister in Chicago called me late the night before. Long story short, but our mom was recently diagnosed with second-stage breast cancer, and, well, we were just talking about the whole situation. Anyway—”

  “Objection!” Dom jumps up. “Relevance.”

  “Yes, let’s keep things focused, Mr. Floyd,” Judge Saynisch says, “like a laser beam. Move your witness along.”

  Dom sits again, and Devon can feel Dom’s tenseness beside her, can feel the heat emanating from her body.

  “Mr. Bingham, you mentioned that you walk your dog every day before you go to work. Do you recall the route you took that particular morning?”

  “Yes, I do, because I take the same route every day. But that day, actually, it was a little different. I took a shortcut to make up for oversleeping.”

  The prosecutor displays a blown-up street map of North Tacoma and asks Mr. Bingham to point out his usual route for the court to see. Then he has Mr. Bingham show the court exactly which alley he had taken as a shortcut.

  “Okay, Mr. Bingham. So, when you entered the alley, did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Just that Darko, my lab, started barking like crazy and straining at his leash and pulling me toward this trash can about halfway down the alley.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Well, I told him to be quiet because it was kind of early for a dog to be outside barking. People tend to get pretty upset that early in the morning when a dog barks like that.”

  “Was this behavior unusual for your dog?”

  “Definitely. He hardly ever strains or barks. Never for no reason, that’s for sure.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, like I said, he was pulling me toward that trash can pretty energetically. And he’s a big boy, weighs like ninety-five pounds, so I just sort of went with him.”

  “When you arrived at the trash can, did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Only that I heard this strange noise. A crying noise. A sort of squalling.”

  “And, Mr. Bingham, where was this noise coming from?”

  “It seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the trash can.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “Well, I tried to pull Darko away because I was in a hurry, but he refused to budge. He just wouldn’t stop barking and whining. And then he did the weirdest thing—he stood up on his hind legs and tried to actually pry the lid off of that trash can—with his nose and both of his front paws. At that point, I decided to see what the big deal was and lifted off the lid myself and started pulling out the trash bags that were in it.”

  “How many trash bags did you pull out?”

  “Well, two. The top bag was partially covering another one beneath it. When I pulled out that top one, the noise seemed to get louder. So, I dropped it on the ground, and when I picked up the second bag, which was much heavier than
the first, I saw something moving around inside of it.”

  “What kind of movement, Mr. Bingham?”

  “A sort of thrashing and squirming. And, at that point, I knew that the noise was definitely coming out of that bag I was holding.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “Well, my first thought was that it was a cat stuck in there or something. So, I placed the bag back down on top of the other bags that were still in the trash can and ripped it open. Inside I found a white towel all covered with blood. And inside that was a newborn baby.”

  “Let’s slow down for a second. Was the bag secured in any way?”

  “Yes, I saw that it was tied with a knot at the top. But I didn’t want to mess around with trying to untie it; that’s why I ripped it open.”

  “Okay, so when you ripped open the bag, did you see anything in there besides that baby and the bloody towel?”

  “Just some random trash. Juice containers. Grimy newspapers. That sort of thing. Feminine-type products. Tampons, I think. But I wasn’t really paying close attention. When I saw that baby, I just grabbed it and shoved it, bloody towel and all, under my coat and called 911 on my cell phone.”

  “And how did the baby look to you?”

  “It was sort of bluish white. I specifically remember its lips; they were almost entirely blue, like it had sucked on a blue lollipop or Popsicle or something. It was trembling pretty violently. And screaming for its life.”

  “Did you note the sex of the baby?”

  “No, I just thrust it under my coat because it was pretty cold outside and starting to drizzle.”

  “When you called 911, what did the operator tell you to do?”

  “She told me to keep the baby as warm as possible. I told her I had already put it inside my coat, and she told me that was perfect. She said that an ambulance was on its way.”

  “Did you do anything else?”

  “Yes, after I hung up from talking to 911, I called my wife. She was going to get there right away to help me out. And then I, uh, I kind of prayed. A lot.”

  The prosecutor clears his throat. “Okay. About how long did it take for the ambulance to arrive?”

  “About five minutes. Or less. They came pretty quick. A squad car with a police officer arrived at about the same time. And shortly after that, my wife got there. She had just gotten out of the shower when I called her.”

  “Okay, and what were you doing during those five minutes while you were waiting for the ambulance to arrive?”

  “I was just sort of talking to the baby, telling it that everything was going to be okay and to hold on. Rocking back and forth. Stuff like that.”

  “Did the baby stop crying at any point while you were holding her?”

  “Yes, for a few seconds at a time, and then I would sort of jiggle it, and it would start crying all over again. I was absolutely terrified that it would die in my arms. I knew that if it was crying, it was still alive.”

  “And what was your dog doing all this time?”

  “Just circling around me, barking. I had dropped his leash when I started pulling out the bags, but he stayed right by me the entire time.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  Devon feels Dom move beside her.

  “I was thinking, what kind of a—”

  “Objection!” Dom’s voice rings out as she springs to her feet. “Relevance, Your Honor—”

  “—coldhearted psycho would do something like—”

  “Hold it right there, Mr. Bingham!” Judge Saynisch says. He looks over at Dom. “I’m all over this, Ms. Barcellona. Be seated.”

  Devon jerks her eyes up toward the judge. He’s glaring down at Mr. Floyd now.

  “Counsel,” the judge says, “you know better than that. The witness’s thoughts are irrelevant here. Let’s just stick strictly to the facts in my courtroom, shall we? Now, any more questions for the witness?”

  Dom sits down again.

  “No, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says. “That’s about all I have.”

  “Defense?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Devon turns to look at Dom beside her. What? She’s not going to ask him any questions?

  “Then you may step down, Mr. Bingham,” Judge Saynisch says. “Thank you for your testimony.”

  Dom’s just going to let him leave? On TV, the attorneys never pass up a chance to cross-examine. Devon watches as Dom folds her hands carefully, places them on the tabletop.

  Devon grabs up her own pencil and scrawls WHY NOT??? across her legal pad and slides it in front of Dom. Dom just presses her lips together, shakes her head, keeping her eyes on the judge.

  “Mr. Floyd,” the judge says, “are you prepared to call your next witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. The state calls Mr. Ron Woods.”

  Devon watches as another man walks up to the front of the courtroom and raises his right hand. Unlike the first, this man is somehow familiar to her. Short blond hair. Tall and muscular. His gait, Devon sees when he makes his way to the witness stand, exudes confidence and strength. He moves with an authoritative swagger, an earned one, and he’s wearing a black suit and white shirt with a black tie. Like the stereotypical FBI types on TV, Devon thinks.

  “Please state your name for the record,” Mr. Floyd says.

  “Ron Woods.”

  “And please state your current occupation, Mr. Woods.”

  “I am a police officer for the Tacoma Police Department, a detective within the Homicide Unit of the Criminal Investigations Division.”

  Devon feels a jolt. A police officer. Definitely not someone on her side.

  “And did you hold this position on March the twenty-eighth?”

  “Yes.”

  When the man opens his mouth to answer the questions, Devon notices his teeth, the most prominent of his features, dazzling in contrast to his tanned face. Perfectly straight and bright white. And then suddenly she remembers everything—who he is, where she’d seen him before. He’s the one, the guy who’d crouched on the floor beside her while she was on the couch That Morning. He’d smiled at her, tried to shake her hand. Asked her questions, ones she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. Devon remembers her mom, angry and embarrassed, pulling away the blanket. And Devon was left there, lying on the couch, cold and exposed.

  “Yes,” the detective is saying now, “I was called to the scene by the first responder, Police Sergeant Keith Cruz. Since the newborn was found in a trash can and enclosed in a plastic trash bag, requesting a detective from Homicide would be the appropriate next step. Hence, why I was called.”

  “When did you arrive at the scene?”

  “Approximately fifteen to twenty minutes after the ambulance had come and gone. The exact time, according to my records, was seven twenty-two A.M.”

  The prosecutor then launches into a series of questions about what was going on at the scene when he arrived. The detective speaks confidently about how everything was running smoothly—how the area was cordoned off with police tape and the crime scene secured. How he’d instituted crowd control and ensured all witness statements were taken. How he’d organized the officers at the scene to conduct a door-to-door search within a four-block radius of the trash can. “The paramedics had estimated that the birth had occurred within the past two hours, three at the most, so time was of the essence,” the detective says.

  “What did you hope to find during this door-to-door search?”

  “Well, obviously, the mother. But at the very least, I hoped to uncover witnesses who may have heard or seen something regarding the incident—someone seen near the trash can or in the vicinity of the alley during the early morning hours. Or perhaps ID any pregnant women, suspected or known, living in the area. Anything, really.”

  “Where did you begin your search?”

  “I decided to concentrate first on the Kingston Manor Apartment complex.”

  “Why did you choose to start there?”

  “Because of it
s proximity to the trash can. The alley runs immediately behind the complex, and the residents of that apartment building use the trash cans placed back there. The number of residents living in the complex was a factor. The complex contains thirty units, so I figured the chances of uncovering an eyewitness or any helpful information there was pretty high.”

  “Did you have another officer accompany you?”

  “Yes, I took Police Sergeant Bruce Fowler, an officer present at the scene, with me.”

  “And at what time, would you say, did you begin your search, Detective?”

  “According to my records, we began canvassing the area at approximately eight oh five A.M., give or take.”

  The prosecutor’s questions continue to come, and the police officer answers them, the two male voices melding together. So tedious, every little step discussed and analyzed. Dom is attentive, though. Devon notices that her brows are creased in concentration behind her wire frames, her teeth pressing into her lipsticked lips, leaving little dents.

  Devon lets her mind drift back to That Morning. She’s surprised with the ease that the memories flow: the dim room, the TV flashing its morning drivel, stuff she never much cared to watch before, the sound off. How chilled and feverish she felt under the blanket, a blanket that she’d pulled from her bed at some point in the morning and dragged with her into the living room. She remembers her mom bursting into the apartment when she got home from work, then blathering seamlessly. She’d gone to answer the door later, flirted with some guys outside. The chronology is a fog, though, what happened when. And Devon, lying there on the couch under her blanket. Hiding and waiting.

  Waiting? For what? For her mom to leave? For time to pass? Devon’s not sure now.

  “A woman in her early thirties answered the door to Apartment 213,” the police detective is saying now, “and we had a brief conversation with her.”

  “What was this woman’s name?”

  “She told us that her name was Jennifer Davenport.”

  “And what was your conversation about?”

  “Pretty standard, basic stuff. We told her that we were canvassing the area, asking residents in the vicinity whether they had seen or heard anything unusual. She mentioned that she had just gotten home from work, so she hadn’t been around during those early morning hours, but that her teenaged daughter may have seen or heard something as she had stayed home from school that morning.”