Daughter's Keeper

by Ayelet Waldman

  “No, not that I know of.”

  “And it’s your job to know things like that, correct?”

  Stroud sat up a bit higher in his chair. “I suppose it is, yes.”

  “Is there any other way that the prisoner could get out?”

  “After conviction? No.”

  Izaya spun on his heel and exhaled loudly. “Ah. After conviction he could never get out; he’d have to serve a life sentence. What about before conviction?”

  “Well, if the case was dismissed, then he wouldn’t be a prisoner anymore, right?” The little man gave a complacent smirk, as if he’d beaten Izaya at something.

  “Like, say, if the defendant chose to become an informant for the DEA, rather than serve a life sentence in prison, correct?”

  The little man scowled.

  “By deciding to become a DEA informant, a drug dealer could avoid a sentence of life in prison as an INS detainee, correct?”

  “Yeah. That’s correct.”

  “So if our hypothetical prisoner didn’t cooperate, didn’t become a DEA informant, he would spend the rest of his life in jail; but if he did, he would be released immediately, correct?”

  Stroud shrugged his shoulders. A sticky strand of hair fell across one of his eyes, and he carefully spread it back over the top of his head. “Hypothetically, yes.”

  ***

  It was Olivia’s turn. The judge had adjourned early the ­previous day at Izaya’s request, with a lot of pointed glances at his watch, so that Olivia could go to a late-afternoon prenatal appointment. It was a routine appointment. Olivia’s belly measured exactly the right size for a woman eight months along, and the baby’s heartbeat was strong and regular. The midwife let Olivia spend a few extra minutes listening through the Doppler, the little machine that magnified the sound of the baby’s heartbeat into something that you might hear if you put your ear to a conch shell. That night, instead of sleeping, Olivia lay in bed, hearing in her head the submarine rush-rush of her baby’s heart. Once, when she got up to use the bathroom for the fourth or fifth time, she saw a light shining out from under Elaine’s door. She went to the door and was about to knock on it when she heard the low hum of Arthur’s voice. Olivia went back to her own room and stretched back out on the bed.

  The next morning, she wore the maternity business suit that she and Elaine had bought the week before. It was deep green, with a long full skirt and a loose jacket. When she’d tried it on in the store, it had made her feel neat and well-put together, attractive for one so far along. Today, however, she felt fat and ungainly as she lumbered up to the witness stand. Her heavy thighs chaffed against one another, her swollen feet ached in Elaine’s shoes, and she knew she looked as tired as she felt.

  After all her anticipation and anxiety, the actual process of testifying felt almost anticlimactic. The judge had refused to allow Amanda Steele to make any reference to Olivia’s criminal history, ruling before the trial that since the crimes were misdemeanors it would unduly influence the jury even to mention the fact that she’d been arrested. Olivia did as Izaya requested and looked at the jury when she answered a question. She paused in order to gather her thoughts. She answered precisely and slowly. She was a model ­witness.

  After establishing her name, who she was, her educational background, her hometown—the recital of which was designed to convince the jury that she could have been their daughter, sister, or friend—Izaya had Olivia describe her relationship with Jorge. Only after that did they begin to talk about the crime. First, Olivia told the jurors how she had discovered Jorge’s involvement in the drug deal. She recounted her phone conversation with Gabriel, how confused she’d been, how angry her subsequent discussions with Jorge had made her. Then Izaya led her slowly through the events of the night the deal actually happened.

  “Did you have any intention of going with Jorge to do the transaction?” he asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Did you want to go with him?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because it was late, and I didn’t have a ride home. And besides, he told me that all he was going to do was introduce some people.”

  “Did you know he would be bringing drugs into the car?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why didn’t you get out of the car when he brought the drugs back with him?”

  “Because it was late at night, and we were in a really scary part of Oakland. I didn’t want to be on the street alone at night. I was afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “That I’d be attacked or something,” Olivia said, looking at the jurors. The young Asian woman nodded her head.

  “Why didn’t you insist that Jorge take you home?”

  “I asked him to, but he wanted to drop off the drugs. The truth is, I wanted him to drop them off, too. I didn’t want any part of it. I didn’t want them in my car, and I most certainly didn’t want them in my house. I didn’t want him to have them, either.”

  “What did you do when you got home?”

  “I vomited. And then I went to bed.”

  “Why did you vomit?”

  “I don’t really know. I was afraid. And ashamed.”

  “Ashamed of what?”

  “Of being there while he committed a crime. Ashamed of him.”

  “Did you ever accompany Jorge again?”

  “No. I refused to.”

  “Were you with him when he got arrested?”

  “No. He knew better than to ask me to go with him again.”

  “Objection, the defendant cannot testify to another’s knowledge,” the prosecutor said. She had risen to her feet and was leaning slightly forward, her fingertips resting on the table in front of her.

  “Sure she can,” Izaya said. “She’s simply telling the jury that Jorge knew she didn’t want to have anything to do with his drug dealing.”

  The judge raised one eyebrow. He turned to Amanda Steele. “And now you’ve given the defense a chance to tell them again, counsel. Let’s move on, shall we?” She opened her mouth, but then seemed to think the better of it. She sat down again, her mouth drawn into a thin line.

  Izaya turned back to Olivia, and with the solicitude that had marked his entire direct examination, said, “Where were you when you were arrested?”

  “Asleep in bed.” Olivia described her arrest. When she told the jurors that she’d been naked and that the agents had watched her dress, she thought she saw sympathy on the faces of the women. One older man scowled at the prosecutor.

  The judge asked Olivia if she needed a recess before the prosecution began her cross-examination. She shook her head. He looked disappointed and unstrapped his watch from his wrist and rested it on the bench before him with a sigh. Olivia wiped her palms on her skirt, leaving a damp smear on her lap. She took a sip of water and then raised her eyes to meet those of Amanda Steele.

  “The second time you talked to the confidential informant, you knew exactly what he was talking about, didn’t you?” Amanda Steele said, her tone neutral but firm.

  Izaya had told Olivia to keep her answers short, not to allow the AUSA to trick her into any unnecessary admissions.

  “Yes.”

  “You knew that he and Jorge were setting up a drug deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you assisted them by passing along information?”

  “No.”

  “No?” The prosecutor raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “You didn’t pass along a message from Mr. Contreras to Jorge?”

  “Well, yes, I did. But I wasn’t trying to assist in the drug deal.”

  “But you passed along the message, knowing full well what it was for.”

  Olivia pressed her fingernails into her palms under cover of the desktop. She tried to keep her voice from shaking. �
��Yes.”

  “Before you got into the car on the night that you and Jorge picked up the drugs, you knew what you were going to do, correct?”

  “No.”

  “You knew that Jorge was going to do the deal.”

  “No. I thought he was going to introduce people.”

  “In order to facilitate a drug deal. You knew that, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when Jorge returned with the drugs, you knew what was in the bag, correct?”

  “Yes. I mean, I was afraid that was what it was and then he told me.”

  “And knowing full well that there was methamphetamine in the bag, you drove Jorge to the location where he was to drop it, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you saw the money he got in return.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you insist that he keep the money out of your house?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you put the money?”

  “I didn’t put it anywhere. He put it under the mattress.”

  “The mattress on which you slept for two more nights, knowing full well it was there?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t know it was there?”

  “I knew it was there, but I didn’t sleep there for two nights. I slept there that night and then the next night I was arrested in the middle of the night.”

  “While you were sleeping on top of the drug money.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Goodman, you have taken illegal drugs, haven’t you?”

  “Objection!” Izaya bellowed.

  “Goes to predisposition, your honor,” the prosecutor said. “He’s given notice of his intention to argue entrapment. The defendant’s history of drug use is relevant to the issue of predisposition.”

  “Your honor, if she had a history of drug dealing that might be relevant. Drug use most certainly is not,” Izaya was just barely containing his anger.

  The judge rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Suddenly, Izaya blurted, “You know what? I withdraw my objection. My client isn’t a drug user. I don’t want the jury to be under the misapprehension that she is.”

  “Are you certain, Mr. Feingold-Upchurch?” the judge asked, obviously doubtful about Izaya’s decision.

  “Absolutely. Go ahead, Olivia. Answer the prosecutor’s question.” He nodded at her.

  For the barest fraction of a second, Olivia considered the question. She thought of the times she’d smoked pot in high school and college. The line of cocaine she’d once snorted at a party. The two or three times she and her friends had taken ecstasy and spent a night contemplating their love for the universe and each other. Then she opened her mouth and spoke.

  “I tried marijuana once in high school. I didn’t like it. I’ve never done any other drugs.” Her voice was firm and clear, and she was the only one who knew how her hands shook in her lap.

  She felt the lie glowing white hot in front of her, a ribbon of reproach in the righteousness of her claim of innocence. She wished she could stuff the words back into her mouth and swallow them.

  Amanda Steele shook her head, “Are you honestly trying to tell this jury that the only time you’ve ever taken drugs was once in high school?”

  “Asked and answered, your honor.” Izaya was crowing.

  The judge, who had been preoccupied with shaking his watch and holding it to his ear, looked up. “That’s enough, Ms. Steele. You’ve got your answer. Let’s move on.”

  The prosecutor leafed through her notes for a moment. “I’m done, your honor.”

  “Mr. Feingold-Upchurch, redirect,” the judge said.

  “I’m done, too, your honor.”

  “The witness is dismissed,” the judge said. Izaya leapt to his feet and made a great show of leading Olivia back to her seat. She needed his arm. The trembling that had begun with her hands had spread now to her entire body, and her back was sticky with sweat. She sat down heavily and turned to look at her mother. Elaine smiled, and Arthur, who sat next to Elaine wearing one of his accountant suits, gave her the thumbs-up.

  Judge Horowitz dismissed the jury, informing them that the next day they would hear closing arguments and begin their deliberations. Elaine, Arthur, and Olivia walked with Izaya to the elevator bank. Amanda Steele was waiting for the elevator, pushing her metal cart full of exhibits, rule books, and notebooks. They all stood together in the narrow hallway, silently. At one point, Arthur opened his mouth as if to say something, but Elaine silenced him with a hand on his arm. When the elevator finally arrived, the AUSA motioned for them to take it.

  “I’ll wait,” she said.

  “No,” Olivia replied. “You go ahead.” Those were the first words she’d ever spoken to the attorney for the government, outside of her cross-examination. Olivia was sure the woman knew she had lied on the stand. How could she not? What person Olivia’s age could really claim such inexperience with drugs? Olivia was confident, in fact, that the prosecutor herself must have tried them. What did she make of this dishonesty? Olivia wondered. Perhaps she considered it justification for her prosecution of Olivia. Olivia wished she could tell her, now, away from the jury and the judge, that yes, she had lied on the stand, but that didn’t make her guilty of the crime. She was innocent. For some reason it was important to her that the blond woman with the thin lips and expensive clothes know that.

  “Go ahead,” Olivia said, again.

  Amanda nodded her head and wheeled her cart into the elevator.

  “Bitch,” Arthur said as the elevator doors closed behind her.

  “Amen to that,” Izaya said.

  “She’s just doing her job,” Olivia answered.

  Elaine, Arthur, and Izaya looked at her, stunned.

  “Let’s just hope you keep doing yours so much better than she does hers,” Olivia told Izaya. The elevator arrived, and she stepped inside. After a moment, they followed.

  ***

  Izaya stalked through his living room, wearing nothing except for a pair of purple silk boxer shorts he’d gotten for a long ago Valentine’s Day from a girl whose name he could no longer remember. This room was the perfect place to practice a closing argument. He’d never bothered to buy furniture, and the long empty space was ideal for pacing and orating. His words bounced off the pale, dusty walls and echoed from one end of the narrow railroad apartment to the other.

  He had just convinced an imaginary jury to acquit Olivia of all charges when his telephone rang.

  “You ready, boy?” his father asked

  “How did you know I was closing tomorrow?”

  Ervin T. Upchurch’s deep guffaw made the telephone receiver buzz in Izaya’s ear. “You ready?” he asked again.

  “I think so.”

  “You think so! What you mean you think so, son? You better do more than think so.”

  “I’m ready!” Izaya said, in the tone of confident excitement he knew his father expected of him.

  “You want to try your closing out on me?”

  Izaya laughed. “Why don’t you come on up and watch me. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  For all the gifts and acknowledgments that arrived at the end of every trial, his father had never once come to see Izaya in action. With every new trial, Izaya had invited him, at first with a tentative shyness—hoping he would have the opportunity to strut his stuff for the man he had spent most of his life trying to impress. By now, though, he made a joke of the invitation he knew was certain to be rejected.

  “I just might, one of these days,” Ervin said. “You going to win this one, son?”

  Izaya considered the question. The possibility of losing, of ­failing Olivia, made the almost manic buzz of anticipation he experienced with every trial turn into an anxious dread. Olivia was, he realized, the first of his clients, in his nearly five years
of practice, whom he genuinely believed to be innocent. Virtually everyone he met, at some point or another, in a tone either of hostile confrontation or prurient interest, asked him what he would do if he found himself representing someone who was guilty. What they never realized was that that was the constant state of affairs.

  A criminal defense attorney’s job is, by and large, to represent the guilty. If Izaya took a case to trial, it was not because his client was innocent; it was rather because he thought he could win or because the cause was so completely lost it made little difference. In the latter case, he figured that the government might as well work a little for the privilege of prosecution. In the former, while he knew that his client had committed the act of which he’d been accused, the government’s case was, for some reason having nothing whatsoever to do with the truth of the accusation, weak.

  All this was not to say that Izaya believed his clients deserved the punishment meted out to them. One of his clients had been a father who lied on a mortgage application in order to borrow enough money to renovate his home so that it could accommodate his severely disabled daughter’s wheelchair. That man had received two years; the daughter had been institutionalized. Izaya had had mentally ill clients who had tried to rob banks as part of addled plans to assuage the voices in their heads. And, more times than he could count, he had represented minor participants in drug offenses who received ten- or twenty-year prison terms. He was inspired, first and always, by a righteous indignation at the extent of the government’s mean-spirited prosecution of these people, when it was so clear to him that it should have been providing them with the care and services that would allow them to live more productive lives.

  He had, thus, often felt that he was on the side of justice, but never before had he held an innocent person’s future in his hands. And never before—it had to be confessed—had he been so personally involved with a client. The irony of this did not escape him. It was pretty, white Olivia, so clearly not the kind of person he had ever expected or intended to represent, so clearly not one of those he thought of as “his people,” who aroused in him an unprecedented intensity of devotion. He knew that any mistake he made could spell disaster for her, and he felt a grim apprehension at the thought of losing the trial. He told himself that this was because of Olivia’s vulnerability and dependence on him. The truth, he knew, was much more complicated. Olivia was, of course, much more like him than he wanted to acknowledge. They were from the same place and of the same time. Reflected in her was his own devotion, however naive, to social justice. More importantly, he recognized her as another child whose identity had been forged in the absence of a father. They had this in common, and for both of them it had defined their lives. It was, perhaps, why he found himself in love with her.