Small Great Things (48 page)

A sob belches out of me. I hold tight to the chair. If I let go, my fists will take over. I will find someone to punish. I look up, and for just one second, I let them all see how empty I am inside. “She said my son was dead.”

Odette Lawton walks toward me with a box of Kleenex. She puts it on the railing between us, but I don't make a move to take a tissue. I am glad, right now, that Brit doesn't have to go through this. I don't want her to have to relive that moment.

“What did you do next?”

“I couldn't let them stop.” The words feel like glass on my tongue. “If they weren't going to save him, I was. So I went to the trash and I pulled out the bag they were using to help Davis breathe. I tried to figure out how to attach it again. I wasn't going to quit on my own kid.”

I hear a sound, a high-pitched keen, one that I recognize from the weeks that Brit did not get out of bed, but shook our home with the force of her grieving. She is hunched over in her seat in the gallery, a human question mark, as if her whole body is asking why this happened to us.

“Mr. Bauer,” the prosecutor says gently, drawing my attention back. “Some people here would call you a White Supremacist, and would say that you were the one who started this ball rolling by requesting that an African American nurse be removed from the care of your child. They might even blame you for your own misfortune. How would you respond?”

I take a deep breath. “All I was trying to do was give my baby the best chance in life he could possibly have. Does that make me a White Supremacist?” I ask. “Or does that just make me a father?”

D
URING THE RECESS,
Odette coaches me in the conference room. “
Her
job is to do whatever she can to make the jury hate you. A little bit of that is okay, because it shows the jury the nurse's motive. But just a little.
Your
job is to do whatever you can to make them see what they have in common with you, not what sets you apart. This is supposed to be a case about how much you loved your son. Don't screw it up by focusing on who you hate.”

She leaves Brit and me alone for a few minutes, before we are called back to the courtroom. “Her,” Brit says, as soon as the door closes behind her. “I hate
her
.”

I turn to my wife. “Do you think she's right? Do you think we brought this down on ourselves?”

I have been thinking about what Odette Lawton said: if I hadn't spoken out against the black nurse, would this have ended differently? Would she have tried to save Davis the minute she realized he wasn't breathing? Would she have treated him like any other critical patient, instead of wanting to hurt me like I'd hurt her?

My son would be five months old now. Would he be sitting up on his own? Would he smile when he saw me?

I believe in God. I believe in a God who recognizes the work we are doing for Him on this earth. But then why would He punish His warriors?

Brit stands up, a look of disgust rippling her features. “When did you become such a pussy?” she asks, and she turns away from me.

I
N THE LAST
few weeks of Brit's pregnancy, our neighbors—a pair of beaners from Guatemala who'd probably jumped a barbed-wire fence to get into this country—got a new puppy. It was one of those little fluffy things that looks like an evil cotton ball with teeth, and never stopped barking. Frida, that was the dog's name, and it used to come into our yard and shit on our lawn, and when it wasn't doing that, it was yipping. Every time Brit lay down to take a nap, that stupid mop head would start up again and wake her. She'd get pissed, and then
I'd
get pissed, and I'd stomp over and bang on the door and tell them if they didn't muzzle their goddamned animal I would get rid of it.

Then one day, I came home from a drywall job to find the beaner digging a hole under an azalea bush, and his hysterical wife holding a shoe box in her arms. When I came into the house, Brit was sitting on the couch. “Guess their dog died,” she announced.

“So I see.”

She reached behind her and held up a bottle of antifreeze. “Tastes sweet, you know. Daddy told me to keep it away from our puppy, when I was little.”

I stared at her for a second. “You poisoned Frida?”

Brit met my gaze with so much nerve that for a second, I could only see Francis in her. “I couldn't get any sleep,” she said. “It was either our baby, or that fucking dog.”

K
ENNEDY
M
C
Q
UARRIE PROBABLY
drinks pumpkin spice lattes. I bet she voted for Obama and donates after watching those commercials about sad dogs and believes the world would be a bright shiny place if we all could
just get along
.

She's exactly the kind of bleeding-heart liberal I can't stand.

I keep this front and center in my head as she walks toward me. “You heard Dr. Atkins testify that your son had a condition called MCADD, didn't you?”

“Well,” I say. “I heard her say that he screened positive for it.”

The prosecutor's coached me on that one.

“Do you understand, Mr. Bauer, that a baby with undiagnosed MCADD whose blood sugar drops might go into respiratory failure?”

“Yes.”

“And do you understand that a baby who goes into respiratory failure might go into cardiac failure?”

“Yes.”

“And that same baby might die?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Do you also understand, Mr. Bauer, that in none of those events would it make a difference whether or not a nurse attempted every medical intervention possible to save that baby's life? That the baby could still possibly die?”

“Possibly,” I repeat.

“Do you realize that in that scenario, if your son was that baby, Mother Teresa herself could not have saved him?”

I fold my arms. “But that
wasn't
my son.”

She cocks her head. “You heard the medical testimony from Dr. Atkins, which was corroborated by Dr. Binnie. Your baby did indeed have MCADD, Mr. Bauer, isn't that true?”

“I don't know.” I jerk my head toward Ruth Jefferson. “She killed him before he could get tested for sure.”

“You really, truly believe that?” she asks. “In the face of scientific evidence?”

“I do,” I grit out.

Her eyes spark. “You do,” she repeats, “or you
have
to?”

“What?”

“You believe in God, Mr. Bauer, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe things happen for a reason?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Bauer, do you use the Twitter handle @WhiteMight?”

“Yeah,” I say, but I have no idea what that has to do with her questions. They feel like a blast of wind that comes from a different direction every time.

She enters a computer printout into evidence. “Is this a post from your Twitter account, made last July?” I nod. “Can you read it out loud?”

“ ‘We all get what's coming to us,' ” I say.

“Then I guess your son got what was coming to him, right?”

My hands clench on the railing of the witness stand. “What did you say?” My voice is low, hot.

“I said your son must have gotten what he deserved,” she repeats.

“My son was innocent. An Aryan warrior.”

She ignores my response. “Come to think of it, I guess you got what you deserved, too…”

“Shut your mouth.”

“That's why you're accusing an innocent woman of a death that was completely and utterly arbitrary, isn't it? Because if you believe instead what's
really
true—namely that your son carried a genetic disease—”

I stand up, fuming. “Shut up—”

The prosecutor is yelling, and this bitch lawyer is yelling over her. “You can't accept the fact that your son's death was absolutely senseless and nothing more than bad luck. You have to blame Ruth Jefferson, because if you don't, then
you're
the one to blame, because you and your wife somehow created an
Aryan
child with a flaw in his DNA. Isn't that right, Mr. Bauer?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Odette Lawton walk toward the judge. But I'm already out of my seat, leaning over the rail of the witness box. The monster that has been sleeping inside me is suddenly awake and breathing fire. “You bitch,” I say, going for Kennedy McQuarrie's throat. I am already halfway over the railing when some blockhead fake cop bailiff tackles me. “You're a fucking race traitor!”

Distantly, I hear the judge banging a gavel, calling for the witness to be removed. I feel myself being dragged out of the courtroom, my shoes scuffing on the floor. I hear Brit calling my name, and Francis's rally cry, and the thunderous applause of the Lonewolf.org posters.

I don't remember much after that. Except that I blinked, and suddenly I was no longer in the courtroom. I was in a cell somewhere with cement-block walls and a cot and a toilet.

It feels like forever, but it is only a half hour before Odette Lawton shows up. I almost laugh when the deputy opens the cell door, and she is standing there. My savior is a black woman. Go figure.

“That,” she says, “was beyond foolish. There have been numerous times I've wanted to kill a defense attorney, but I've never actually
tried.
”

“I didn't even touch her,” I say with a scowl.

“The jury
does not care
. I have to tell you, Mr. Bauer, that your outburst in there undid any advantage the State might have had in this case. There's nothing else I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

She looks at me. “The prosecution rests.”

But I won't. Ever.

I
F
I
COULD TURN CARTWHEELS
into Judge Thunder's office, I would.

I leave Howard sitting with Ruth in a conference room. There is an excellent chance I can get this entire case tossed out. I've filed my motion for judgment of acquittal, and I can tell, as soon as I get into the judge's office, that Odette already knows she's sunk. “Judge,” I begin, “we know this baby died, which is tragic, but there's been absolutely no evidence of any willful, wanton, or reckless conduct by Ruth Jefferson. The allegation of murder made by the State isn't supported, and as a matter of law, it must be dismissed.”

The judge turns to Odette. “Counselor? Where's the evidence of premeditation? Of malice?”

Odette dances around a response. “I'd consider a public comment about sterilizing a baby a strong indicator.”

“Your Honor, that was the bitter response of a woman who'd been subject to discrimination,” I argue. “It became uncomfortably relevant in light of later events. But it still doesn't point to a plan for murder.”

“I must agree with Ms. McQuarrie,” Judge Thunder says. “Spiteful, yes; murderous, not by the letter of the law. If attorneys were held accountable for the vindictive comments you make about judges after a case doesn't go your way, you'd all be charged with murder. Count One is dismissed, and, Ms. McQuarrie, your motion on judgment of acquittal for murder is granted.”

As I walk down the hallway toward the conference room to tell my client the excellent news, I check behind me to make sure the coast is clear, and then skip a little in my heels. I mean, it's not every day the tide of a murder trial turns in your direction; and it's certainly not every day that happens with your
first
murder trial. I let myself imagine how Harry will call me into his office, and in his gruff way, tell me I surprised him. I picture him letting me have my own share of the big cases from now on, and promoting Howard to cover my current duties.

Beaming, I let myself into the conference room. Howard and Ruth turn to me, hopeful. “He threw out the murder charge,” I say, grinning.

“Yaaaas!” Howard pumps his fist in the air.

Ruth is more cautious. “I know this is good news…but how good?”

“Excellent,”
I say. “Negligent homicide is a whole different animal, legally. The worst-case scenario—a conviction—carries almost no jail time, and honestly, our medical evidence was so strong that I'd be shocked if the jury doesn't acquit—”

Ruth throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you.”

“Just think,” I say. “By this weekend, this could all be over. I'll go into court tomorrow and say the defense rests and if the jury comes back with a verdict as quickly as I think they will—”

“Wait,” Ruth interrupts. “What?”

I step back. “We've created reasonable doubt. That's all we have to do to win.”

“But I haven't testified,” Ruth says.

“I don't think you should get on the stand. Right now, things are going
really
well for us. If the last thing the jury has in their heads is that whack job Turk Bauer trying to come after me, you already have all their support.”

She stands very, very straight. “You promised.”

“I promised I would do my best to get you acquitted, and I have.”

Ruth shakes her head. “You
promised
I could say my piece.”

“But the beauty of this is you don't
have
to,” I point out. “The jury hands back the verdict, and then you go get your job back. You get to pretend this never happened.”

Ruth's voice is soft, but steel. “You think I can pretend this never happened?” she asks. “I see this every day, everywhere I go. You think I'm going to just walk in and get my job back? You think I'm not always going to be that black nurse who caused trouble?”

“Ruth,” I say, incredulous. “I'm ninety-nine percent sure this jury is going to find you not guilty. What more could you possibly want?”

She tilts her head. “You still have to ask?”

I know what she is talking about.

Namely, everything I
refused
to talk about, in court: what it is like to know that you are a target, because of the color of your skin. What it means to work hard, to be an impeccable employee, and have none of that make a difference in the face of prejudice.

True, I had said she could have a moment to tell the jury her side of the story. But what's the point, if we've already given them a peg on which to hang their exoneration?

“Think of Edison,” I say.

“I
am
thinking of my son!” Ruth replies, heated. “I'm thinking of what he'll make of a mother who didn't speak for herself.” She narrows her eyes. “I know how the law works, Kennedy. I know the State has the burden of proof. I also know that you have to put me on the stand if I ask you to. So I suppose the question is: Are you going to do your job? Or are you going to be just one more white person who lied to me?”

I turn to Howard, who is watching our volley like we're the Women's Singles Final at the U.S. Open. “Howard,” I say evenly, “would you step out for a moment so I can speak to our client alone?”

He jerks his chin and slips outside. I turn on Ruth. “What the
hell
? Now is
not
the time to stand on principle. You have to trust me on this. If you get on the stand and start talking about race, you'll erase the lead we currently have in the jury's favor. You'll be talking about issues that will alienate them and make them uncomfortable. Plus, the fact that you're upset and angry will come through loud and clear and negate any sympathy they have for you right now. I've already said everything the jury needs to hear.”

“Except the truth,” Ruth says.

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried to resuscitate that baby. I told you I didn't touch him at first. I told everyone that. But I did.”

I feel sick to my stomach. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“At first I lied because I thought I was going to lose my job. Then I lied because I didn't know if I could trust you. And then, every time I tried to tell you the truth, I was so embarrassed that I'd hidden it for this long it got harder and harder.” She takes a deep breath. “This is what I should have told you, the first day we met: I wasn't supposed to touch the baby; it was in the medical file. But when he went blue, I unwrapped him. I moved him around. I tapped his feet and turned him on his side, all the things you do when you're trying to get a baby responsive again. Then I heard footsteps and I wrapped him up tight again. I didn't want anyone seeing me do what I wasn't supposed to be doing.”

“Why rewrite history, Ruth?” I ask, after a moment. “The jury could hear that and think you tried your hardest. But they could also think you screwed up, and did something that made him die.”

“I want them to know that I did my job,” she says. “You keep telling me this doesn't have anything to do with the color of my skin—that it's about my competence. Well, in addition to everything else, I want them to know that I
am
a good nurse. I tried to save that baby.”

“You have this idea that if you get on the stand, you'll be able to tell your story and be in control—and that's not how it works. Odette is going to shred you. She'll do everything she can to point out that this means you're a liar.”

Ruth looks at me. “I'd rather they think I'm a liar than a murderer.”

“If you get up there and give a different version than the one we've already presented,” I explain carefully, “you lose your credibility. I lose
my
credibility. I know what's best for you. There's a reason we're called
counsel
—you're supposed to listen to me.”

“I'm tired of following orders. Last time I followed orders, I got into this mess.” Ruth folds her arms. “You are putting me on that stand tomorrow,” she says flatly. “Or I'm going to tell the judge that you won't let me testify.”

And just like that, I know I'm going to lose this case.

O
NE NIGHT, WHEN
Ruth and I were preparing for the trial, we'd been working in my kitchen and Violet had been high on life, running in circles around the house in her underwear and pretending to be a unicorn. Her shrieks punctuated our discussions, and then suddenly the sound wasn't joy but pain. A moment later, Violet started sobbing, and we both ran to the living room, where Violet was lying on the floor bleeding profusely from the temple.

I felt my knees wobble, but before I could even reach for my daughter, Ruth had her cradled in her arms, and had pressed the bottom of her shirt up to the wound. “Hey now,” she soothed. “What happened?”

“I slipped,” Vi hiccuped, as her blood soaked Ruth's shirt.

“And I see you've got a little cut here,” Ruth said calmly. “One I'm gonna take care of.” She started ordering me around my own house, efficiently getting me to fetch a damp washcloth, antibiotic ointment, and a butterfly bandage from a first aid kit. She never let go of Violet, and she never stopped talking to her. Even when she suggested that we drive to Yale–New Haven to see if maybe a stitch was in order, Ruth was steely, measured, while I continued to freak out, wondering if Violet would have a scar, if I would be flagged by CPS for not watching my kid more closely or letting her run in socks on a slippery wooden floor. When Violet needed two stitches, it wasn't me she clung to but Ruth, who promised her that if we sang really loud, she wouldn't feel anything. And so the three of us belted “Let It Go” at the top of our lungs, and Violet never cried. Later that night, when she had a clean bandage on her forehead and was asleep in her bed, I thanked Ruth.

You're good at what you do,
I told her.

I know,
she said.

That's all she wants. To let people know she was treated unfairly because of her race, and for her reputation as a caregiver to remain intact, even if it means it will be tarnished by a guilty verdict.

“Drinking alone,” Micah says, when he comes home from the hospital and finds me in the dark, in the kitchen, with a bottle of Syrah. “That's the first sign, you know.”

I lift up my glass, and take a long swallow. “Of what?”

“Adulthood, probably,” he admits. “Hard day at the office?”

“It started out great. Legendary, even. And then went to hell very quickly.”

Micah sits down next to me and loosens his tie. “Do you want to talk about it? Or should I get my own bottle?”

I push the Syrah toward him. “I thought I had an acquittal in the bag,” I sigh. “And then Ruth went and decided to ruin it all.”

While he pours himself a glass of wine, I tell him everything. From the way Turk Bauer spouted his rhetoric of hate to the look in his eyes when he came after me; from the rush of adrenaline I got when my motion for judgment of acquittal was granted to Ruth's admission about resuscitating the baby to the dizzy realization that I had to put Ruth on the stand if she demanded it. Even if it was going to tank my chances of winning my first murder case.

“What am I supposed to do tomorrow?” I ask. “No matter what I ask Ruth on the stand, she's going to be incriminating herself. And that doesn't even begin to consider what the prosecutor's going to do to her on cross.” I shudder, thinking about Odette, who doesn't even know that this boon is about to be granted. “I can't believe I was so close,” I say softly. “I can't believe she's going to ruin it.”

Micah clears his throat. “Radical thought number one: maybe you need to take yourself out of this equation.”

I've drunk enough that he's a little fuzzy at the edges, so maybe I've just misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“
You
weren't close.
Ruth
was.”