Dom laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Jennifer. And please call me Dom.”
Dom turns to Devon, squeezes her shoulder. “We won, Devon,” she whispers. “We won.”
Devon nods. “I know.”
Then why does she feel like she’s lost?
chapter twenty-four
“Let’s pop into a conference room,” Dom says as they exit the courtroom. “Just for a sec.”
Dom, Devon, and her mom file into the nearest empty room. Dom drops her briefcase on the tabletop. Pulls out one of the folding chairs.
“Anyone want a soda?” Dom asks. “My mouth is a desert.”
“Sure.” Devon pulls out a chair, oriented in the customary position—directly across the table from Dom. “Maybe a Mountain Dew?”
“I’ll get them,” Devon’s mom says.
“That would be great.” Dom rummages in her briefcase for her wallet. “Diet Pepsi, if they have it. Diet Coke if they don’t.” She hands Devon’s mom a handful of change. “Thanks so much, Jennifer.”
When Devon and Dom are alone, Dom says quickly, “I know you’re totally exhausted, Devon, and the last thing you want to talk about right now is law stuff, but you mind if we just take a few minutes to go over what went on in there?”
“Sure, Dom. That’s fine.”
“Okay, good. So the verdict. Now you do understand that the judge’s decision to retain your case in the juvenile court system is great for you. But his decision makes no statement whatsoever about your guilt or innocence. All right? The hearing wasn’t about guilt or innocence, but about in which system your guilt or innocence will be ultimately determined.”
Devon yawns; she’s so tired. How can Dom still be so energized? “Yes, Dom. I understand that.”
“Okay. So, we’re not off the hook. But I’ve been doing some thinking while we were in there.”
Devon shakes her head. “Dom—”
“Yeah, I know. I’m totally obsessed, right? That’s one reason why I’m still single at the moment.”
“Who’s single?” Devon’s mom says.
Devon and Dom turn to look at her, standing in the doorway, already back from the soda machine.
“I am,” Dom says.
Devon’s mom hands out the cans. “Oh, well, you’re not the only one—I definitely feel your pain. But, on the bright side, they had Diet Pepsi, so you’re in luck. Or still in luck. Or your luck is continuing. Or, this is your lucky day. Or—”
“Mom.”
“Oh, I’m so happy!” Devon’s mom says. “This is such a good day. Isn’t it?”
Dom smiles. “Definitely.” She pops her Diet Pepsi and takes a sip. “So, I was just about to tell Devon that I think there’s a slight chance that this thing could go away.”
“What thing?” Devon’s mom’s face shifts to anxious. “The jurisdiction thing that was decided today? Please say no.”
“No, not that.”
“They can’t reverse it, can they?”
“No, Jennifer. I really doubt the State would request an appeal. No, what I’m talking about is the slight possibility that we could get rid of the most serious charges. The attempted murder charge, specifically.”
Devon feels something prick inside herself. She looks at Dom closely. “Why?”
“Well, because of that issue you brought up, Devon, about the detective and your mom not granting him entrance into—”
“Oh, God,” Devon’s mom says. “That. Don’t remind me. That labeled me permanently as the courthouse slut.”
“Mom,” Devon says. “Please. Dom’s trying to talk.”
“Okay, hon.” Devon’s mom winks. “Sorry.” She makes a motion of zipping her lips.
Devon shakes her head, sighs. She glances down at her Mountain Dew can. Condensation is forming on it causing tiny rivulets, like tears, to flow down its sides.
Dom takes another sip of her Diet Pepsi. “The reason why this issue is so serious is because what happened that morning with the detective may have been an illegal search. Searches and seizures are Fourth Amendment issues, very big deals. Anyway, if we can show that Detective Woods didn’t have your permission to enter”—she nods at Devon’s mom—“or that he didn’t have probable cause to believe that he would find evidence of a crime inside your apartment—”
“Well, didn’t he have probable cause?” Devon brings her thumbnail up to her mouth, chews on it. “Maybe?”
“For what?” Dom sounds annoyed now. “To find a teenaged girl staying home from school? Hundreds of kids do that every day in Tacoma.” She sighs. “Look, if the police have neither permission nor probable cause, then they can’t legally enter a person’s home. Period. And we can argue that since they had neither, they in fact entered illegally. And if they entered illegally, then any evidence that they found inside the apartment because of it—like you, Devon, covered in blood and lying under a blanket, for example—”
The words send a jolt through Devon. Again. When will these ugly facts about her finally lose their sting?
“—then that evidence would not be admissible in court. At all.”
But still . . . it should be admissible, Devon thinks. Shouldn’t it?
“I’m sorry, Dom,” Devon’s mom says. “I know that I’m probably being very dumb about this legal stuff. But what does that all mean?”
Dom takes off her wire frames, polishes them on the hem of her skirt. “Look, a case is built on evidence, right? So, if we can block the evidence from coming into the trial, there’s no case. Understand?”
Devon’s mom’s face brightens. “Are you kidding? No case? That would be great! We should definitely go for it.”
“So, if we got rid of the search,” Dom says, putting her glasses back on, “then the only charge that might stick is the assault charge against the doctor in the emergency room. And even with that one, we can make a pretty good argument against it. That crime is only a misdemeanor anyway.”
“I still can’t believe you did that, Dev,” Devon’s mom says. “Kicking that doctor when she was only trying to help you.”
Neither can I. Devon traces one of the Mountain Dew can’s tears with a fingertip. She opens her mouth, and before she realizes what she’s doing, she says it. “No.”
Dom turns to Devon, frowns. “What’s ‘no,’ Devon?”
Devon can’t take it back now. She clears her throat. “No, as in I don’t think I want to do that, Dom.”
Dom frowns. “Do what?”
Devon sighs. “You know . . . whatever it is you’re talking about. Saying that the detective came into our apartment illegally. It just doesn’t feel right . . . or something.”
“Why not? Look, it might not even fly. We’d have to file a suppression motion, have a hearing on it, and there’s a fair chance that we’d lose. Just based on your mom’s body language alone, which arguably could convey tacit permission, not to mention the doctrine of discovery.” She pauses. “At the very least, we could use the search as a bargaining chip. Get the state to knock the murder charge down to manslaughter, or even off the table altogether, and just keep the criminal mistreatment and abandonment charges.” Dom’s eyes are bright with the possibilities.
Devon can’t believe that Dom is saying this. Where was all the tough talk she’d fired at Devon over the past week? Threatening that Devon could end up in jail for life, insinuating that she’d probably deserve it, too, if it ended up that way.
Was Dom so intoxicated with her victory that she couldn’t see things straight anymore?
The day had been excruciating, something Devon would never ever want to go through again. But she had learned so many things . . . about herself.
She looks at her mom over on the opposite side of the table. She’s digging in her purse now, searching for lipstick and the tiny mirror she always keeps inside. She’d dug around for a baby bottle once. She’d carried diapers, too.
Devon looks over at Dom. Dom doesn’t know. She thinks she knows, but she doesn’t. No
t the details of That Night. Only Devon knows them. Only Devon and that little baby, and, thankfully, she’d never even remember it.
But Devon, she will always remember it.
Devon closes her eyes. She sees that tiny body again, lying in the sink, the limbs momentarily lifeless.
Devon had hoped, hadn’t she? She feels the resistance, but her brain pushes through it. Yes. She had stood outside her bathroom door, the trash bag limp in her right hand. She had stared across the bathroom at the thing slumped in the sink. And at that moment, she had hoped that IT was dead.
But she saw it move again. She knew it was alive.
No, Dom has never seen the nightmare in the bathroom. The gore spread across the bathroom floor and splattered up the walls. How could Devon ever explain it to her? She bites her lip at the memory. No words exist to adequately describe that particular glimpse of hell.
I think there’s a slight chance that this thing could go away, Dom had said.
This thing could go away.
How would that help, exactly? It wouldn’t take away the memories. It wouldn’t change the truth.
Devon feels moisture slipping down her cheeks. She wipes it away.
When you commit a foul, you have to take the penalty. In the game of soccer, it’s not an option. Sometimes it’s a kick, and sometimes it’s a red card, sending you off the field to sit the bench for the rest of the game.
Devon had earned the penalty against her.
She must face it.
“What’s the matter, hon?” her mom says suddenly. “You’re not crying?”
Devon opens her eyes. She looks at her mom’s face. She looks at Dom’s.
“Oh, she’s just so happy.” Her mom sniffles then, and smiles. “It’s been such a good day. Those are joy tears.”
“Devon?” Dom asks, her tone concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Actually, I think I am,” Devon says. “Because I know what I want to do, Dom.”
Dom narrows her eyes, asks warily, “What?”
“I—” Devon takes a breath. “I want to plead Guilty.”
Dom studies Devon quietly. Then, “Devon, you’re tired.” She starts gathering her things. “We don’t need to make the decision now. There’s no hurry. We’ll get you back to your unit, give you a couple of days to rest up. And talk about this later.” She looks up from her briefcase, over at Devon. “I should’ve just waited to discuss all this—”
Devon shakes her head firmly no.
“Why, Devon?” Dom stops packing her briefcase, places her hands on her hips. “Why in the world would you want to plead Guilty at this point? We have a strong case here. Even if the suppression motion fails. They can’t sentence you beyond the age of twenty-one, and I think I can certainly do better than that—”
Devon shakes her head again. “No. I want to plead Guilty, Dom.”
“But, again. Why?” Dom squints at Devon. “Because you think you’ll get less time? Is that it?”
Devon swallows. The words are right there, waiting for her lips to form them, her tongue to force them out.
“Because you think that you’ll get out of detention quicker that way? What?”
“No, Dom,” Devon says, louder. “I want to plead Guilty because . . . I am guilty.”
Devon’s mom gasps.
Dom presses her lips together. Crosses her arms. “Look, you need to think this over, Devon. Very carefully. As I said before, there’s no hurry. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. The pros and the cons.”
“No.” Devon keeps her eyes focused on Dom. She doesn’t blink. Not even once. “I’ve already thought this over very carefully, Dom. I’m not going to change my mind. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
Dom and Devon stand like that for a long moment, each watching the other.
There’s a battle going on there, behind Dom’s wire frames. Devon sees Dom’s lips move. She has something more she wants to say.
Dom lets her breath out slowly. And nods.
“Okay, Devon.” Dom drops her arms down to her sides. “Okay. I’ll work hard to get you the best deal that I can.” She shrugs. “I don’t know if I agree with your decision, but the decision has to be yours.” She shakes her head, sighs. “Not mine.”
Devon throws her head back, smiles up at the ceiling.
She’s never felt so free from something in her life.
She’d won.
author’s note
The “Dumpster baby” phenomenon is an invisible American tragedy, poorly understood, and rarely acknowledged.
Though most people would consider the behavior inexplicable and unusual, its occurrence is disturbingly common. Approximately one baby is abandoned to a trash can every day in the United States, and when an American child is slain by a parent, 45 percent of those killings occur within twenty-four hours of birth.1 After conducting a study of the issue over the nine-year period between 1989 and 1998, the Center for Disease Control and Prevention has concluded that “the homicide rate on the first day of life was at least 10 times greater than the rate during any other time of life.”2
This may be just the tip of the iceberg. Experts believe that the vast majority of discarded babies are never found. No statistic exists for those babies. They lie in the unmarked graves of numerous municipal garbage dumps across the country.
I first became interested in “Dumpster babies” while living in Philadelphia in the mid-nineties. My husband was a law student at the University of Pennsylvania at the time, and my third child, Arianna, was about five months old. A few days before Christmas 1995, I was listening to public radio when I learned that earlier that morning an off-duty Philadelphia police officer had found a baby in the trash. He had been out walking his pit bull when the dog started barking and straining toward a trash bag set out at the curb near a couple of garbage cans. Inside the bag, the baby was still alive. The emergency room nurses nicknamed the newborn “Baby Nick” because he was miraculously rescued in “the nick of time” during the holiday season. Given the twenty-two-degree temperature that morning, had he been discovered even fifteen minutes later, Baby Nick would’ve undoubtedly died. This story strongly affected me. I had three little children of my own at the time, and though money was very tight for us in those days, I couldn’t fathom what desperation would lead a woman to throw away her helpless infant.
Other stories started popping up in the news after that, and I took notice: the infamous Amy Grossberg/Brian Peterson story where two young unmarried—but economically privileged—college students killed their newborn son upon his birth, and the shocking story of Melissa Drexler, whom the media dubbed “Prom Mom.” The New Jersey teen gave birth in the bathroom stall during her high school prom, returning to the dance floor shortly after dumping the baby’s dead body in the restroom’s trash can.
Then, when I was pregnant with my fifth child and my husband was an Army prosecutor in Washington State, I truly grew intrigued with the issue. My husband was assigned a “Dumpster baby” case to try. In that case, a soldier secretly gave birth in the barracks, placed the newborn in a trash bag, and tossed the bag into a Dumpster behind the barracks. Fortunately, another soldier passing by heard a cry and discovered the baby alive. I was amazed that a soldier living within the stringent military environment could successfully conceal her pregnancy.
As my husband began to pull the case together, many interesting facts came to light. He discovered that several members of the soldier’s unit, including her superior officers, had suspected she was pregnant during the last few weeks of her pregnancy, but they were afraid to approach her. They didn’t want to offend her if they were mistaken, and they didn’t want to intrude on the female soldier’s private life.
Beginning then, I started researching the issue for myself and discovered that baby dumping has a long history. In England during the Middle Ages, neonaticide (the killing of a newborn by its parent during the first twenty-four hours of life)3 was such a problem that the Stuart Bastard Infanticide Act of 1624 wa
s enacted. This law mandated that any woman having concealed her pregnancy and childbirth must provide proof that the child was stillborn or be guilty of murder, often with the penalty of death. In Colonial America, lawmakers similarly passed statutes whose aim was to punish “lewd and dissolute women” who produced “bastard children” but lacked enough “natural affection to keep them alive.”4 By the time of the Reformation, children were being abandoned at such a high rate that governments in Northern Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal created foundling homes, often in cooperation with the Catholic Church, in order to help eradicate the problem.
Fast forwarding to contemporary times and the United States, in an attempt to alleviate the growing problem and give pregnant women a way to anonymously abandon their babies without fear of prosecution, Texas was the first state to enact what would later be termed “safe haven” legislation. That was in 1999, and since then, all forty-nine other states have passed similar legislation. Yet news outlets all over the United States are still reporting these “Dumpster baby” stories with alarming regularity. So why is this still happening? After attempts to answer that question.
1 Kaye, Neil S. (1991). Abstract of Kaye, N., Borenstein, N., Donnelly, M.: Families, Murder, and Insanity: A Psychiatric Review of Paternal Neonaticide. Clinical Digest Series.
2 Riley, Laura. (2005). Neonaticide: A Grounded Theory Study. Journal of Human Behavior in the Social Environment, Vol. 12 (4), 3.
3 Dr. Phillip Resnick, forensic psychiatrist, was the first to coin the term “neonaticide,” differentiating it from infanticide and filicide in his 1970 groundbreaking study on the issue (published in his classic article, “Murder of the newborn: A psychiatric review of neonaticide,” in the American Journal of Psychiatry, Volume 126, 1970.)
4 Schwartz, Lita Linzer, and Isser, Natalie K. (2000). Endangered Children: Neonaticide, Infanticide, and Filicide. New York: CRC Press, 36-37.
acknowledgments
This may seem cliché, but it’s nevertheless true: writing is a lot like being pregnant. First there’s a conception. Then comes what feels like an endless period of development. And, finally, the birth. The hard work of labor is finally over, and everybody celebrates and gushes, “How beautiful!” and “You must be so proud!” You hold this new, exciting thing in your hands and somehow forget the pain it took to put it there.