After

  “If you mean by ‘support,’ were Devon’s soccer fees paid on time? Yes, they were, generally. Did she show up with the correct equipment—cleats, goalie gloves, uniforms? Always. But if you’re talking emotional support, from my perspective, Devon’s mother wasn’t much involved in Devon’s soccer career. And let me say that it’s understandable, given her work schedule. From what I’ve gleaned about Devon’s home life, her dad’s completely out of the picture. And Devon’s mom, trying to make ends meet as a single parent, keeps two jobs. I imagine her mom’s stretched pretty thin most of the time.”

  “Did Devon’s mother often attend the games?”

  “No, not much. She came pretty regularly when Devon was younger, but her attendance really dropped off as Devon entered middle school. I mean, to the point that I started checking the sidelines while the game was going on to see if she was out there.”

  “And why did you do that, Mr. Dougherty?”

  “You know, I feel sorry for my players whose parents run their lives—micromanaging their kids’ soccer careers or living vicariously through their successes or failures. But I also felt sorry for Devon, who was on the opposite side of the spectrum. Nobody seemed to be a part of her life, nobody seemed to care, at least about her soccer, and yet she pushed herself so hard. Was so hard on herself. Was so driven. And I couldn’t see the source of it. It must have been coming from somewhere inside, from a need to prove something to herself.”

  “You say that Devon is very hard on herself. What is it like being her coach? Does she take constructive criticism well, for instance?”

  “Yes, she does. She’s very coachable. Whenever I point out mistakes any of my players make, I also give them ideas of how they can fix them or do things differently. Devon’s the kind of player who, when a similar situation pops up again, she’ll make the correction. It’s almost like she’s looking for the opportunity to put the advice into practice.”

  “Okay, but when you said Devon’s ‘hard on herself,’ what did you mean, exactly?”

  “She hates to make mistakes. She doesn’t cut herself any slack. Absolutely none.”

  “And how does she demonstrate this lack of ‘cutting herself slack’?”

  Coach Mark doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “She gets very quiet. Very broody. During a game, if she gives up a goal, for example, because she made what she’d perceived as a mistake in judgment or timing, she doesn’t seem to allow it to affect her play while the game’s on. It just sort of rolls off of her. But afterward, when the game’s over, she’ll go off by herself. And you get the impression that she doesn’t want to be disturbed, that you should just leave her alone for a while.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dougherty.” Dom steps back to her seat. “I have no further questions.”

  Mr. Floyd leaps to his feet.

  “I take it, Mr. Floyd,” Judge Saynisch says, “that the State wants to examine this witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Then proceed.”

  “Mr. Dougherty,” the prosecutor starts, “you’ve spoken very admiringly about the respondent—what leadership she’s demonstrated, what a team player she is. How driven. How smart. How reliable. You’ve praised her work ethic, but have said nothing of her ethics. Her trustworthiness. Her proclivity to tell the truth. Do you have an opinion to offer on that issue?”

  “Yes,” Coach Mark says. “I’ve never known Devon to be untrustworthy.”

  “Oh?” The prosecutor paces in front of the witness stand. “So you feel that someone who has deceitfully hidden her pregnancy from everyone around her, has conceived a plot to murder—”

  “Objection! Your Honor—”

  “No, Ms. Barcellona,” the judge says, “I’d like to hear Mr. Dougherty’s response.”

  Coach Mark rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t believe that’s been proven yet.”

  “Fair enough. Then let’s go back for a moment to January of this year, Mr. Dougherty. Did the respondent injure herself during a practice session?”

  “Yes, she hit her head on the goalpost and injured her shoulder.”

  “And, subsequently, did the respondent tell you that she had visited a doctor who had diagnosed these injuries and outlined a treatment plan?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “What did the respondent tell you that diagnosis was?”

  “A concussion and a subluxed shoulder.”

  “And what did the respondent tell you about the treatment for these injuries?”

  Coach Mark takes in a breath. “Because of the concussion, Devon told me that she wouldn’t be able to practice for at least four weeks. And she’d need to visit a physical therapist three times a week, I think it was, for about six weeks for her shoulder.”

  “Did the respondent bring you a note from her doctor? A written excuse of some sort?”

  “No, but I’ve been around soccer long enough to know that concussions aren’t anything to mess around with. What Devon told me sounded exactly right.”

  “What would you say, Mr. Dougherty, if I told you that the respondent’s medical files contain no record of a doctor’s diagnosis for any injuries during that time period? That there exists no referral for a physical therapist?”

  “Then I would say that perhaps Devon’s medical files are incomplete.”

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Dougherty. You mean to tell me that you believe these records were somehow misplaced? Or not included?”

  “Not at all.” Coach Mark sits forward in his seat. “What I’m saying is this—in the five years that I’ve coached Devon, I have never known her to skip practice without a valid reason. In fact, I can’t think of a time that she’s missed training for any reason. She has come to my practices coughing and sneezing. She’s jammed her fingers so badly that she was unable to practice in the goal, but she’d come anyway to work out with the field players or just shag balls, if that’s all she could do. I don’t need a doctor’s excuse, and I don’t need medical records. If Devon said she had to miss practice for a couple of weeks, then I believe she had a good reason for it. No matter what explanation she actually gave me.”

  “If the respondent had told you that she was pregnant, you would’ve helped her out. Correct, Mr. Dougherty?”

  “Man.” Coach Mark sits back in his seat. He shakes his head slightly. “If Devon had trusted me enough to confide that fact to me,” he says softly, “yes. I would’ve done anything and everything I could think of to help her.”

  Devon looks up at him. Their eyes meet.

  Devon sees so much hurt there, so much regret.

  Still holding Devon’s eyes, Coach Mark says, “I would’ve told her that I was one hundred percent there for her. She wouldn’t have had to try to fix her problem alone.”

  Devon feels chills shoot up her spine. She drops her eyes to her lap.

  “But she didn’t give you that opportunity. Did she, Mr. Dougherty?”

  Coach Mark sighs sadly. “No,” he says, barely audible. “No, she did not.”

  “I have no further questions.”

  After Coach Mark leaves the courtroom, Dom leans over, places her hand on top of Devon’s, whispers in her ear. “You doing okay?”

  Devon shrugs. She squeezes her eyes shut.

  “We can ask for a short break if you need it.”

  “No, I’ll be okay.”

  Dom pats Devon’s hand, then stands. “Your Honor, the Defense calls Ms. Deborah Evans.”

  The woman steps up to the front, raises her right hand. When she’s seated in the witness stand, she catches Devon’s eye. Gives her a small smile.

  Devon bites her lip. She can’t return the smile.

  Dom begins her battery of questions. In response, Debbie tells her that her full name is Deborah Lynn Evans. That she’s worked for more than ten years as the copresident and escrow manager at the Puget Sound Title Company in University Place. And that she knows Devon because Devon had babysat for her family on and off over the past t
wo years. “But last summer,” she says “from the middle of June up until the middle of August, Devon babysat full-time during the day while I was at work. Every day from about eight A.M. until around five P.M.”

  Dom nods. “And how many children do you have, Ms. Evans?”

  “Two. A set of fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. Their names are Dayton and Danica.”

  “And how old were the twins during the time that Devon was watching them?”

  “They were three years old. Just turned three in April.”

  Dom paces in front of the witness stand. “Toddler twins. Wow. That’s a huge job, Ms. Evans. And you believed that Devon, at age fifteen, could handle this sort of responsibility?”

  “Of course.” Debbie frowns. “I would never have hired Devon otherwise. The previous summer, I had hired a college student attending the University of Puget Sound to be our nanny. Let me just put it this way—without going into detail—Devon exhibited much more common sense and maturity, let alone fortitude under stress, at age fifteen than that other girl did at age twenty.” Debbie smiles then. “Plus, the twins absolutely love her.”

  “Ms. Evans, you say the twins ‘absolutely love her.’ Based on your observations of Devon with your children, how did she treat them?”

  “She was just a lot of fun. She played games with them, whatever they wanted to play. She read books to them, put them in their double stroller and pushed them to the library for story hour or just to hang out there. She took them to the pool—we’re members of the Tacoma Swim Club, only a few blocks from our house. Fed them lunch. I’d come home after work, and on the refrigerator or the kitchen table, there’d be art projects they did together. Devon was just wonderful with them.”

  “Did Devon ever harm them in any way?”

  “No, never.”

  “Did she ever lose her patience and yell at them or even hit them?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever notice any evidence of neglect? Such as her failing to change their diapers or feed them? Such as leaving them in front of the TV for long periods of time? Or leaving them inside their beds or room unsupervised?”

  “No. She actually helped potty train the twins, since she was with them so much during the day, and that takes a lot of determination, let me tell you!”

  Dom nods. “Did Devon ever bring male visitors into your home, Ms. Evans?”

  “Absolutely not. She never even talked on her cell phone while she was watching the twins, unless she was talking to me, of course. No, she took her job very seriously. We even discussed it once or twice. She told me that she had plenty of time for her friends when she wasn’t at work. That if she had any other job—at a restaurant or in the mall or at a grocery store—she wouldn’t be able to talk on the phone, so she shouldn’t do it while she’s watching the twins, either.”

  “Ms. Evans, are you aware of Devon’s charges? That shortly after giving birth eleven days ago, Devon allegedly attempted to murder her newborn child when she threw her in the trash can behind her apartment complex?”

  “Unfortunately.” Debbie shakes her head, looks down at her hands. “Yes, I am.”

  “So, Ms. Evans, knowing this information, would you ever have Devon babysit your children again?”

  Debbie looks up at Dom. Then she scans the courtroom, her eyes finally finding Devon’s. For once, Devon doesn’t drop her eyes. Not only does Devon want to hear what Debbie has to say, she wants to see her say it, too.

  “Yes, I would,” Debbie says finally. “And I mean it. Many people, those who know that Devon had watched the twins this summer, have asked me that very same question. And I tell them that if Devon really did what she’s accused of doing—dumping her own baby in the trash—something very terrible and desperate must have happened for her to resort to that. I’ve never witnessed Devon in a crisis situation, but that morning must have been it. You know, I’ve been sitting here in the courtroom most of the day today, and I’ve heard what’s been said, and it may be inappropriate for me to say this, but I’m going to do it anyway: I do not believe that Devon had planned on hurting that baby. It’s just not in her. She may be an aggressive soccer player, but she’d never ever intentionally hurt anybody, and absolutely never someone as defenseless as a child. So, yes, I would have no reservations whatsoever about asking Devon to babysit my twins again.”

  The courtroom is silent. Devon’s eyes are still connected to Debbie’s.

  “In fact,” she says, “if she were available next week, I’d make a point to call her. That’s how strongly I feel about it.”

  She’s talking to me, Devon thinks. Directly to me. Devon feels something deep inside herself crack. A feeling, warm and nervous, moves through her. Melting what’s been cold.

  “Thank you,” Dom says. As she turns around, she glances over at the prosecutor. “I have no further questions.”

  Dom walks back to her seat behind the defense table.

  Judge Saynisch clears his throat. “State? Care to examine the witness?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says. “I do not.”

  “All right, then,” the judge says. “You may now step down, Ms. Evans. Thank you for your testimony.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Debbie says.

  As Debbie steps away from the witness stand, Dom leans over to Devon. “Still hanging in there?”

  Devon turns to Dom. She shakes her head, whispers, “No . . .”

  That coldness inside her had melted too fast.

  These people—Coach Mark, Debbie, Henrietta, Kait, even her mom—they don’t hate her.

  And Devon starts to cry.

  chapter twenty-three

  “The defense calls Dr. Nicole Bacon.”

  It takes Devon a moment to recognize the woman whom Judge Saynisch swears in, because she doesn’t resemble the Dr. Bacon that Devon knows from Remann Hall. A tight bun and charcoal suit replace the long graying braid and earthy skirts she’s worn before. Instead of the hemp mocs, she’s wearing stiff professional-looking black shoes, pointed at the toes.

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

  “Nicole Alexis Bacon.”

  “And what is your occupation?”

  As Dom goes through Dr. Bacon’s credentials and employment history, and why she’s qualified to testify as an expert witness, Devon allows herself a moment to tune out. She’s so entirely wiped. Her jaw hurts; she must have been clenching her teeth the entire day.

  So much like being in the goal, she thinks. Moments of intense boredom as the battle is being waged up the field in the offensive half, or moments of extreme stress, when the ball’s in her box and chaos is all around. Players pushing and scrambling to get a foot on the ball. Or, in Devon’s case, a hand. Exhausting not just physically, but also mentally.

  That is what sitting in court feels like. But much, much worse. And so much more is riding on it than the outcome of a soccer game.

  “Denial is a defense mechanism,” Dr. Bacon is saying now. “In simple terms, it’s the mind’s ability to not acknowledge something that is truly happening. It’s the mind’s way of keeping unpleasant things in check so that we don’t become distressed all the time. Dr. Benjamin B. Wolman, in his classic work, the Handbook of Clinical Psychology, defines denial as, quote, ‘a defense against the perception of a painful reality.’ So, in Devon’s case, that ‘painful reality’ from which she was protecting herself was her pregnancy. Actually”—Dr. Bacon puts her hand up—“we’d need to first acknowledge her primary painful reality. This is what triggered everything that followed.”

  “Please explain,” Dom says.

  Dr. Bacon nods. “Of course. Devon’s primary painful reality—or the event that triggered everything else that followed—occurred when she first engaged in sexual activity. When she denied this fact to herself—the fact that she ever had sex at all—then the natural extension of this primary denial was avoiding the subsequent reality. This subsequent reality was the resulting pregnancy f
rom that one sexual encounter.”

  “But, Dr. Bacon, in today’s society, teen sexual activity is rather rampant. TV, movies, and popular music generally portray sex as something positive, an experience to strive for. So why would Devon feel so negatively about having engaged in sexual activity herself?”

  “I believe shame played a major role,” Dr. Bacon says. “When you hide something, or deny that something occurred, it’s generally because you are ashamed.”

  “Yes, but what would Devon have been ashamed of?”

  “During my sessions with Devon, I learned that Devon had viewed herself in a very particular—very rigid—way. She desperately needed to see herself as someone diametrically different from her mother.”

  “But isn’t it common for teenage girls to have issues with their mothers? To want to be different from them? Sometimes to the extreme?”

  “Yes. It’s very common in adolescence to define oneself in terms distinct from one’s same-sex parent. It’s an important component of the identity’s development process. But Devon was extremely strict in her definition of self. She had constructed some stringent rules for herself with not much wiggle room.”

  “And what were these rules, Dr. Bacon?”

  “Devon’s mother had been a teen parent herself; she had Devon when she herself was sixteen. And as Devon grew up, her mother entered into relationship after relationship with a variety of men. She paraded her sexuality in front of Devon in a manner that Devon both resented and feared. She watched her mother struggle financially. She witnessed firsthand the result of forgoing an education; her mom had earned her G.E.D. eventually, but never attended college. Devon was terrified of repeating this family history. So, she came up with Rule Number One for herself—avoid any sexual activity altogether. When Devon succumbed to it—broke her own rule—in her mind she had failed beyond forgiveness. She was so ashamed that she completely blocked out the memory of it. If she couldn’t remember it, then therefore, in her mind, it never happened.”

  “Was Devon aware of the various forms of contraception?”