“Yes, it is possible.”
“Thank you.” Dom sits down. “I have no more questions for the doctor.”
Judge Saynisch looks over at Mr. Floyd. “Redirect?”
“No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says. “Additionally, the state has no other evidence to present at this time.”
“Then you may step down, Dr. Katial,” Judge Saynisch says. “Thank you for your testimony.”
Devon has no idea if the doctor glanced at her as he passed the defense table.
She’s turned her face away.
chapter twenty-one
“Defense?” The judge has his hands clasped under his chin. “Got anything for me?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Dom stands, reaches to the tabletop and opens the file folder before her. “I have documentary evidence, exhibits A through H, which I would like to present to the court.”
“Present away, Ms. Barcellona.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I have Exhibit A: Devon’s Stadium High School transcript, which annotates her numerous honors classes and her weighted 4.15 grade point average. Exhibit B: a letter from Devon’s guidance counselor at Stadium High School, a Ms. Rita Gonzales, detailing Devon’s numerous extracurricular activities. Exhibit C: a letter from a Mr. Jeff Johnson, a parent of one of the youth soccer players with whom Devon conducts private goalkeeper training sessions. Exhibit D: a letter from a Miss Kaitlyn Bassett, a friend and teammate on both Devon’s varsity high school and club soccer teams. Exhibit E: a letter from a Ms. Nadia Coughran, the teacher in Delta Pod here at Remann Hall. Exhibit F . . . ”
All those people—her guidance counselor, Mr. Johnson—had taken the time to write nice and positive things about her? Even after knowing everything that happened? After reading all those newspaper articles?
Even Kait? Devon thinks about the last letter Kait wrote, the one Kait had watched Devon crumple into a tight ball and toss in the trash. And still, even after being angry and hurt and drifting apart, she had written another.
Devon quickly switches her thoughts away from Kait to something else. She thinks about the time that’s passed since she came to this place. Only one week and one day ago, Devon was sitting here in the courtroom for the first time. Eight subsequent nights spent lying on a rubberized mattress, staring up at the ceiling in her cinder block cell. Eight mornings waking to the bolt snapping to unlock her door. Eight showers standing naked and shivering under a low-water-pressure showerhead in the pod bathroom. Eight times pulling a black plastic comb through her wet hair afterward.
Eight days. Eight days for those other people, too. Eight days for them to hear about what she’d done. To think about it.
Her thoughts return, full circle, to Kait. Had the soccer team sat on the field before practice, discussing Devon while they strapped on their shin guards and tied up their cleats? Had they probed Kait with questions like, “So, did you know? Did she tell you anything?” And if they had asked such questions, how did it make Kait feel? Knowing that Devon, her supposed best friend, didn’t trust her enough to tell her? How did it make Kait feel when she thought about what Devon did to . . . IT? Did she feel betrayed somehow? That Devon was someone very different from the person she’d always thought her to be? Did she feel like she must have never known Devon at all? Had she cried?
And the teachers, had they congregated in the teachers’ lounge before classes started, sharing what they’d last heard, shaking their heads with disappointment and disbelief?
Had Ms. Gonzales covered her mouth with her hand when she’d first heard the story?
Did Mr. Johnson take his little daughter, Haley, aside—have her sit down—and explain to her why Devon probably won’t be training with her anymore?
“Your Honor,” Dom is saying now, “I have copies of each exhibit that I’d like to submit into evidence. May I approach the bench?”
Judge Saynisch shifts his gaze to the prosecutor. “Any objections, Mr. Floyd?”
“No, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says. “The defense has previously furnished the state with copies. We have reviewed them and have no objection.”
“Then by all means,” the judge says, “bring ’em on.”
Dom walks up to one of the women sitting behind her computer at the base of the bench, hands the stack of papers to her. The woman places little stickers on each exhibit, so that Dom is already back in her seat before the woman has even passed them up to the judge. He puts the letters aside, then looks back down at Dom expectantly.
“Your Honor,” Dom says, “we also have five witnesses we’d like to call.”
“Well.” Judge Saynisch glances at his watch. “Before we launch into that, let’s take a recess for lunch. My stomach is getting cantankerous. How does an hour sound? Any objections, Counsel?”
“No, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says. “That’s fine with me. My stomach’s getting cantankerous as well.”
Judge Saynisch shakes his head at that comment, then looks over at Dom. “Defense?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then let’s do it. We’ll recommence at one P.M.” The judge pounds his gavel and stands.
“All rise!”
Dom shuts the door to the conference room. Leans against it. “So, Devon, what do you think? Not too bad, right?”
Devon selects the folding chair with its back to the door, sits down. “It’s not too much fun.”
Dom shakes her head, moves to take the chair opposite Devon. “Stating the obvious.” She drops her briefcase on the tabletop and sits down. “What I’m asking is how do you think we’re doing in there?”
Devon reaches up to feel her French braids. Still tight. “I have no idea, Dom.”
It’s actually a lot like playing soccer, Devon thinks. Passing the ball around the field, making runs, trying crosses—all to feel out the opponent’s weaknesses. When you find an opening, you shoot. And if you’re lucky, the ball drops between the crossbars. But in a close game, like today in court, there’s that underlying tension of not knowing which team will be the winner in the end. Not until the ref blows the final whistle and the clock stops.
“Well, I think we’ve got in some good hits,” Dom is saying. “The prosecution is trying to show that you knew exactly what you were doing—that you had a plan and then executed it. We’re throwing doubt on every point they make, and I think we’ve managed to do that pretty effectively.” Dom sighs. “But, ultimately, it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what the judge thinks.”
“Well, what you did to that detective, Dom. That was really good.”
“Yeah.” Dom smiles, nodding like she’s relishing the memory. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“Plus, I think the judge kind of likes you.”
Dom frowns. “Meaning?”
“Oh, not in that way, Dom! I meant in the ‘you’re a good lawyer’ kind of ‘like.’ In the ‘he thinks that you totally know what you’re doing’ kind of way.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, way more than that Floyd guy anyway. He’s a complete dork most of the time.”
Dom laughs. An almost giddy laugh. “Oh, yeah. You gotta love it when the opposition comes across like a dork.”
A quick rap on the conference room door.
Dom shifts her eyes toward the door, at the small rectangular window there. Her expression changes. Her smile fades, her mouth forming a little O.
Devon turns her head, following Dom’s gaze.
Through the rectangular window, Devon sees a familiar face crowding there. Grinning and waving.
Her mom. Devon feels her stomach drop.
Dom gives Devon a pointed look, then moves for the door. Opens it narrowly and leans out. Devon waits while Dom speaks briefly to her mom outside.
Dom softly closes the door. When she turns back around, her body’s blocking Devon’s view of the window. “Your mom brought lunch,” Dom says. “Sandwiches from Subway.”
Devon looks down at her hands. “Why?”
“She said
she thought it would save us time. She was afraid we might not get a chance to eat.” Dom lowers her voice to a whisper then. “And she wants to talk to you, Devon.”
Devon looks up at Dom. “Now?”
“You don’t have to,” Dom says quickly. “I can have her go away. I’ll just tell her that we are in the middle of something, which we are.” She watches for Devon’s reaction. “It may not be the best timing.”
Devon thinks about her mom on the other side of the door, waiting for the answer. Her ear probably pressed tight against the door. Her face eager and hopeful, holding in her breath.
Devon needed her mom days ago, needed to know that her mom didn’t . . . didn’t what? Reject her? Hate her? And now? So much has happened without her. It’s almost too late now.
She thinks about the awkwardness of having to sit here, the two of them finally meeting each other’s eyes. Because hadn’t they both wronged each other in their own way? Her mom had deserted Devon when she’d needed her most. But Devon might have done something even worse. She’d taken her mom’s hopes and destroyed them. The last time she’d seen her mom, those hopes were still intact. Her mom will now be the very first person from her old life to see Devon face-to-face since that day when the image of who Devon Used To Be was irreconcilably shattered. Leaving only a splinter, a glass thorn. And sharp pain.
You didn’t even give your mom the chance, Dom had said to Devon Saturday morning. You robbed her of an opportunity to finally make a good decision for you!
Now another opportunity presents itself. Devon can choose to push her mom away again, or allow her mom a small opening to take a step closer.
Devon takes in a breath, lets it out. This is something she must do. “No. It’s okay, Dom. I’ll . . . I’ll see her.”
“You sure? Look, I don’t want you upset, Devon. I don’t want you to lose focus.” Dom sounds irritated. “You can’t be all freaked out when we go back in there. Understand?” She pauses. “Actually, I don’t think it’s a good idea. No, you can wait to see her until after the hearing. I’ll just tell her—”
“No,” Devon says firmly. “I’ll be fine.” She looks down at her hands, softens her tone. “I think I need to do this. Now, Dom. Not later.”
Dom shakes her head, reluctantly says, “Okay.” Then she turns around, pulls the door wide.
Devon’s mom steps through. A streak of color—bright sundress, golden blonde hair freshly colored. Bright red lipstick.
“Hey, Dev!” A quick and jerky smile rolls over Devon’s mom’s lips. “I brought some turkey subs. Provolone, extra onions and pickles and tomatoes and sweet peppers with mustard—not mayo—on honey wheat. Your favorite.” She stands beside Dom awkwardly, clutches the white plastic bag tightly in her hands. “I thought that maybe you’ve missed them, being here. . . .” Her voice trails off.
“Well!” Dom’s voice is a little too loud for the small room. She checks her watch. “I really need to hit the little girls’ room, and then I’ve got to look over some notes before going back into court.” She nods at Devon. “I’ll just be outside. All right? The conference room next door is free. So, if you need me for any reason”—Dom pauses, giving Devon a significant look—“that’s where you can find me. But in about twenty minutes or so, Devon, you and I will need some time alone together. Just to get on the same page again before we head back into the courtroom.”
“Yes, of course.” Devon’s mom holds the bag out to Dom. “Oh, and I’ve brought a sandwich for you, too.”
“Oh, no.” Dom holds up a hand. “But thanks.” She smiles. “Too keyed up to eat. I’ll just grab some caffeine, and that should hold me.” Dom grabs her briefcase from off the table and glances back at Devon once more before walking out the door, carefully closing it behind her.
Devon watches her mom from where she sits on the folding chair, and her mom watches Devon from the doorway. Neither says anything for a long moment.
Finally, her mom opens her mouth. Her voice squeaks out, “Devon!” Immediately, her eyes turn soupy. She tosses the bag of sandwiches onto the table, collapsing on the metal folding chair opposite Devon. She hides her face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I told myself that I wouldn’t do this, be a baby like this.” She looks up at the ceiling, waves a hand in front of her face, as if the small breeze she’s made will dry away the tears. Presses her lips together to stop their trembling.
Devon turns her face away. Looks down at the floor, feels her throat tighten. She, Devon Davenport, has caused this. “It’s okay, Mom,” Devon whispers.
“Oh, yeah.” Her mom laughs ruefully, then sniffs—a thick, soggy sound. “Devon, I’m sorry that I didn’t come . . . before this. I just . . . couldn’t. Isn’t that just so horrible?” Her voice squeaks again, and Devon can hear her mom’s losing battle against her tears. “Making you . . . go . . . through this . . . all alone?”
Devon feels herself start to detach now. Feels a coldness creep in, freezing solid any feeling inside herself. Her mom, her emotions. Too much.
No, don’t do this. Devon tries to push the coldness away. Seldom has anything positive ever come from detaching herself. Devon looks up.
Her mom has a hand pressed over her heart, pushing against it like she’s having a hard time swallowing something. Her eyes are pleading. “I just . . . couldn’t. You know? I’m not good at dealing with stuff.”
Devon’s eyes drop down to her mom’s hand. Her nails, Devon notices, are still long, still red. No chips. The shade is perfectly matched to the color running through the pattern of her sundress. Steady hands had brushed on that polish, Devon thinks, smooth red strokes. She resents those nails, those steady hands that brushed that polish.
Those same steady hands could have pushed the buttons on her cell to make a simple phone call. They could have grasped a pen and scrawled a note.
“I was just so afraid . . . to have to talk to someone . . . especially the cops . . . about . . . you know? All those questions . . .”
Her mom’s mascara is smudged. Her eyes are rimmed, red where her black eyeliner should be. Devon clears her throat, changes the subject. “So, I heard you aren’t living at the apartment anymore?”
Her mom looks confused for a moment. Then, “Oh, no. How could I? Devon, the mess . . . that you . . . they put police tape across our door, you know. . . . ” She clamps her mouth shut, delicately dabbing at her eyes with her fingertips. “I took a couple days for myself. I just needed to think. You know? Get away and think. Tiffany—she’s been such a good friend through all this— came by and packed up our stuff. . . . It’s all in a storage unit on Sprague Avenue. I just had to get away. . . .”
A picture forms in Devon’s mind. Her cleats, her gloves, her jerseys, her trophies—all dumped into a cardboard box and taped shut. Her jeans and sweatshirts and shoes, stuffed animals and CDs, posters removed from the walls and rolled, books pulled from the shelves—all crammed into trash bags and boxes. It’s not a particularly difficult picture for her to imagine. She’s witnessed similar scenes with her own eyes, after her mom’s numerous breakups or landlord evictions. Once, a very young Devon had watched her mom pack everything they owned into brown paper bags because she didn’t have suitcases, while the ex-boyfriend at the time loaded everything into the bed of his white pickup. Devon had sat in the cab of the truck between the two silent adults, looking back at their belongings through the small sliding window until the truck finally stopped in front of their new place.
“Well.” Devon swallows. “Where did you go?”
Her mom shrugs. “Oh, just away. It’s not important, really.” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger.
“Mom! Tell me where you went! It is important.” She feels her throat tighten again. “To me.”
Her mom pulls a napkin out of the white plastic bag that’s still holding the sandwiches. Blows her nose. Folds the napkin in fourths. “I went to see my mother,” she finally says. “In Spokane.”
“You did?”
br /> “You know, it’s been almost seventeen years?” Her mom shakes her head. “Time just . . . goes.” She gets a distant look in her eyes. “Things really haven’t changed there. So weird.”
When her mom speaks again, it’s much softer. So soft that Devon has to lean forward to hear her. “And then I went to see the . . . baby.” She sniffs. “Your baby, Devon.”
Devon feels a jolt. Did she hear that right? Panic surges inside her. Why?
Her mom must have seen the change cross Devon’s face because she starts blathering. “But I . . . she wasn’t there, Devon. She wasn’t at the hospital anymore. They said she’d already been placed in foster care with a wonderful family. So many people wanted to take her, you know, and . . . uh, and they—the nurses, I mean—said that I wouldn’t have been allowed to see the baby anyway, even if she was still there. I . . . I didn’t tell them who I was or anything. I didn’t leave my name. I didn’t want them to know.”
Why would she do that? Then, Why would she try to see IT and . . . not come to see me?
Suddenly, her mom snatches Devon’s hand. Devon flinches. Tries to pull away, but her mom’s grip is too strong.
“Why?” she wails. “Why couldn’t you tell me, Devon? I’m your mother! Why couldn’t you just tell me?”
Devon shakes her head. “Mom, stop.” She feels a tear form in the corner of her eye. Can’t you see? she wants to say. I couldn’t even tell myself.
Her mom makes a tortured groan, a frightening sound. She drops Devon’s hand then, like it’s burned her, and pulls it back toward herself, rubbing it with the other.
“Am I that huge of a failure? Huh? Did I screw up that bad?”
Devon shakes her head again. She feels the one tear slide down her face, from the corner of her eye down to her chin. “Please, Mom. Don’t. . . .”