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After a long moment of silence, she gives me a quick nod. “All right. ” She steps back from the bars. “Good luck, Ivy. ”
I don’t think luck is going to help me, but I give her a small smile. She has always been good to me, even now.
Once she’s gone, I curl up on the cot. My default position in the cell. I have every crack on the cinderblocks memorized, can tell how long it is until my meal trays arrive by the slant of light through the window above my head. But as hard as I try, I can never hear anything from outside. Just the clank of doors and sometimes the sound of footsteps. No matter what, it will be nice to smell fresh air again and hear the wind in the trees.
I trace my finger across the rough cinderblock, remembering the warmth of Bishop’s skin under this same finger. I hope that someday he is able to forgive himself for loving me. I hope that he finds another girl, one better than me, to guard his heart. One who deserves the faith he puts in her. I hope he touches the ocean and tastes its salty sting. Tears pool in my ear and the hollow of my neck, and I’m glad there is no one here to witness them.
Bishop asked me once who I wanted to be, and I think I know the answer now. I want to be someone strong and brave enough to make hard choices. But I want to be fair and loving enough to make the right ones. After everything, I can’t be sorry for loving Bishop. And I’m not sorry for saving him, either, even if I sacrificed myself in the process. It was my choice and I’m proud of it. If that makes me soft, then it’s a softness I can finally live with.
They leave me handcuffed to a bench in a back hallway while I’m waiting to be escorted to the courtroom for my plea hearing. I’m staring straight ahead, trying very hard to think about nothing, when my father rounds the corner and sits down beside me.
“Dad?” I say, not entirely sure he’s not simply a figment of my imagination.
“We don’t have long,” he says. “The guard said only five minutes. ” He lays a hand on my cheek.
“I’m so glad you came,” I tell him, trying to smile.
“Oh Ivy,” he sighs, his voice breaking, “what have you done?”
My throat tightens at his words. “What I had to do, Dad. ” We’re speaking in a kind of code, neither of us sure who might be listening. But it feels like we’ve always communicated this way, never able to come at anything honestly, always circling around the truth.
He shakes his head, drops his hand. “They’re putting you out. ”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper. “I love you. ”
A tear trails down his cheek. I’ve never seen my father cry before. “I love you, too,” he says.
“But not enough to save me,” I say, my voice harder than I expected it to be.
My father stands and stares down at me. “You made your choice, Ivy. ”
“Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes. “And you made yours. ”
The courtroom is packed with people when they bring me before the judge. Everyone craning for a look at the traitor. A few people hiss at me as I walk by, but I keep my eyes straight ahead and my chin high. Generally, nowadays, crime is not a spectator sport, but I must be an exception.
I’m marched to the defense table and, after I take my seat, the two guards flanking me step back. Victoria’s colleague Jack Stewart is already seated at the table. He came down to my cell once, to tell me he is representing me. Victoria obviously ignored my request to proceed without an attorney. It doesn’t make much difference, though. His job should be short and sweet. He gives me a grim smile before turning back to the front of the courtroom. From behind us, I can hear the buzz of voices, but I don’t focus on the words. I doubt I want to hear them.
The courtroom, with its dark cherry wood and high ceilings, lends a formality to the proceedings before they’ve even started. Any illusions I’ve had that my fate will not be determined today fade in the presence of the courtroom’s authority. My future is in the hands of the judge who will sit behind the high bench in front of me. There is a kind of relief in knowing there is nothing left for me to do.
The voices behind me rise, and I tell myself not to turn. But my curiosity is stronger than my apprehension, and I swing my head to the left. President and Mrs. Lattimer have entered the courtroom, followed by my father and Callie. Bishop brings up the rear. He looks in my direction, his eyes remote. But he doesn’t take his gaze off mine as he joins the rest of them in the front row behind the prosecutor’s table. No one sits directly behind me. The empty bench a testament to how far I have fallen.
I can still feel Bishop watching me, even after I turn back to face the front of the courtroom. I keep my eyes on the door through which the judge will enter and pronounce my sentence.
“All rise, the Honorable Lawrence Lozano in session. ”
Jack puts a hand under my elbow, but I stand on my own. I’m not afraid of what’s going to happen in this courtroom. I’m only afraid of what will come after.
Judge Lozano looks to be in his late forties, with short, salt and pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I never formally met him during my months at the courthouse, but from a distance, he always appeared friendly enough. Today there is no evidence of that friendliness.
“Mr. Stewart,” he says, looking at Jack over the top of his glasses. “I understand your client wishes to enter a guilty plea?”
“That’s correct, Your Honor. ”
Judge Lozano glances at me and beckons me with a sharp curl of his fingers. My stomach does a hard forward roll, but I manage to contain my nerves. I walk up to the bench, and Judge Lozano points me to the witness box next to him. There is no chair inside the box so I stand, facing the gallery full of spectators. My eyes skim over the faces and finally land on Bishop. He is still staring at me, his face grave. I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking. It takes me back to those first days of our marriage, when every word he said or gesture he made was a complete mystery to me.
“You have been charged with attempted murder in the first degree. What’s your plea?” Judge Lozano asks me, voice loud, and I jerk myself back to reality.
“Guilty,” I say without hesitation.
Everyone knew my plea, but hearing it out loud, from my own mouth, sends a ripple of unease around the room. I am thankful that I will be spared having to outline my crime in detail, the way it used to be done before the war. No one is as concerned with a defendant’s rights anymore. If you say you’re guilty, they take you at your word. They must figure you’d be a fool to admit guilt and risk being put out unless you actually committed the crime.
“Given the unusual nature of this case, the president has requested that I pronounce your sentence and have it carried out immediately. ” Now the ripple has turned to outright shock. Apparently, the speed of my punishment is news to the gathered crowd. Most of them look thrilled to be witnessing such excitement. Bishop, too, seems surprised. His head whips toward his parents, and then he leans forward, hands gripping the wooden balustrade separating the gallery from the courtroom.
I try to tell him with my eyes that it’s all right. The last thing I want is for him to worry about me. I want him to forget me and move on. Be safe and happy. He doesn’t need to worry. I am prepared for what’s coming. Or as prepared as I can possibly be.