Part 23 (1/2)

”All right, then,” the judge says. ”Let's get to it.” He nods at the prosecutor. ”Opening statement, Mr. Floyd? Keep it brief.”

”Yes, Your Honor.”

Devon s.n.a.t.c.hes up her pencil, pulls her legal pad toward herself so she's ready. Her fingers are trembling.

She hadn't waved back. Her mom had waved and smiled at her, had finally shown up here to help her, and Devon hadn't responded. No smile or wave back. No nod. Nothing at all.

chapter nineteen.

The first thing the prosecutor does is stand. The second is to make a speech. He tells the judge, ”This case, Your Honor, is about the commission of society's most serious crime-murder-against society's most innocent, most helpless, victim. A victim who doesn't possess the physical strength to defend herself. A victim who lacks the ability to even plead for her own life. But this case is about much more than even that, Your Honor. It's about a breach of trust, the breaking of a bond. The most basic bond in the human experience-the bond between a child and her mother. This is a case, Your Honor, where the victim is a baby, and the perpetrator is her mother.”

Devon glances over at Dom. She's sitting very still, listening, hands clasped over her opened yellow legal pad. When the prosecutor said that last line, Dom had pressed her lips together, picked up her pen.

The prosecutor goes on to discuss how egregious is the breaking of the maternal bond. He says, ”Of all the people on the face of the earth, Your Honor, the one person this particular baby should have been able to count on to welcome her into the world, to keep her safe and protect her, was that person sitting right over there.” He turns his face and eyes toward Devon. ”But, instead, Your Honor, that person”-he extends his right arm with index finger elongated and pointing-”that person was trying to kill her.” He pauses. ”She scooped her tiny infant body into a black plastic trash bag, tied it off tightly, and tried to suffocate the life out of her.”

The prosecutor goes on, explaining how Devon had hid her pregnancy, deceiving the people closest to her-her mother, her soccer coach, her teammates, her cla.s.smates. How she'd purposefully sought no prenatal care, and when confronted with the opportunity to actually discuss her pregnancy with a doctor, became hostile and uncooperative. How she began wearing baggy clothing to conceal her changing body and started skipping out on soccer practices once her body got too c.u.mbersome to play anymore. And how she'd doggedly carried out the deception to the very end, when she gave birth to the baby alone in her apartment. And after it was over, how she'd collected up the b.l.o.o.d.y evidence and stuffed it into a trash bag, including the baby itself, dumped it all into the trash can behind her apartment building, and walked away.

Devon watches the young prosecutor in his pinstripes tell his story. Watches Dom sitting beside her with hands clasped over her yellow legal pad, occasionally picking up her pen to jot something down on it. Watches the judge up front listening, his eyes trained intently on the prosecutor. Across the room, Devon watches the woman with whom Dom had spoken earlier, Ms. Gustafson; her chin is resting in the palm of her left hand. Devon watches the two women facing each other with their back-to-back computer screens, their fingers moving rhythmically over their respective keyboards. It's like a play; each person here has his own place and a.s.signed role. Even Devon has her script-the laminated paper taped to the tabletop dictates her lines: Yes, Your Honor. No, Your Honor.

Devon wonders what her mom is thinking now, listening back there in the gallery, wearing her bright sundress. Is this the first time she's heard this story told in this way? Does she believe the prosecutor in pinstripes? Why did she wait so long to call Dom, and what did they talk about when she finally did? And why didn't her mom ever come to see her? Where had she been all this time, where did she go?

Stop thinking and focus now. She needs to concentrate on what's being said. Listen for discrepancies so she can help Dom.

”Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Floyd says.

Devon looks up sharply. He's finally finished?

The prosecutor steps back behind his chair and settles himself into it. Wipes his hands on his pinstriped thighs.

Judge Saynisch turns his face toward Devon's table. He nods at Dom. ”Defense?”

Dom stands slowly, pus.h.i.+ng off the tabletop. Devon glances up at her quickly. Her face is composed, a slight smile lingering around her lips.

”Your Honor,” Dom says. ”I'm not going to stand here and waste your time rehearsing a litany of reasons why you should decide in favor of my client, Devon Davenport. All my client asks, Your Honor, is that you keep an open mind and weigh the evidence that's presented here today. Keep an open mind, and weigh the evidence, and I have confidence that you will arrive at the right decision. That's all I have, Your Honor.”

Dom sits down.

That's it? Where's the long, persuasive speech that elicits chills or tears? Where's the drama?

Devon peeks at Dom out of the corner of her eye. Watches her center the legal pad in front of her, pick up the pen.

Devon questions if Dom knows what she's doing after all. Devon remembers that she's never seen Dom in court, has no idea what she's capable of. The last time Devon was here she had a balding man with a dandruff-sprinkled suit who served as her attorney. He certainly wasn't impressive, but she remembers he had made an inspiring speech.

”Well,” the judge says, ”that was refres.h.i.+ng. A counsel who understands the meaning of the word brevity.” He scans the courtroom. ”All right, let's keep pus.h.i.+ng ahead, shall we? Mr. Floyd, call your first witness.”

Devon feels her heart pick up. Okay, these people aren't on her side, she thinks. They are here to say unflattering things, awful things, about her.

Don't react, Devon reminds herself. Not even a little bit.

Mr. Floyd clears his throat. ”The state calls Mr. Jacob Bingham.”

Devon consciously keeps her head down to avoid any eye contact with the man as he steps to the front of the courtroom, swearing with his right hand raised that his testimony will be the truth, and seats himself on the witness stand-a square wooden enclosure with a chair inside, situated below and to the left of the judge. She wonders what he's here to say about her, who he is. She risks a peek up at him and sees that the man is directly in front of her and sitting surprisingly close to her. In fact, other than Dom, he is sitting closer to her than any other person in the courtroom.

Their eyes meet briefly. His narrow slightly, his lips turn down with distaste.

Devon feels a cold p.r.i.c.k inside her chest and quickly drops her face back down to her yellow pad, her cheeks burning.

”Please state your name for the record,” Mr. Floyd says.

”Jacob William Bingham. Most people call me Jake.”

”Thank you. And Mr. Bingham, what were you doing the morning of March twenty-eighth?”

”I was taking my Labrador retriever, Darko, for a walk just like I do every day before going into work.”

”And where do you work?”

”I work at The Job Mob, a social networking start-up in Seattle. I'm a Web developer there.”

”And about what time was it that you were walking your dog?”

”About six forty-five in the morning. I'm usually out the door no later than six-thirty, but that morning I was running a little behind”-he takes a breath-”thank G.o.d.”

With those words, Devon can feel the man's eyes on her again, his anger and disdain directed at her. But Devon resists the urge to glance up at him again. She keeps her eyes fixed on the binding holding her yellow legal pad together.

”Yes.” Mr. Floyd clears his throat uncomfortably. ”And, uh, why exactly was it that you were running late that morning, Mr. Bingham?”

”I'd overslept my alarm. My sister in Chicago called me late the night before. Long story short, but our mom was recently diagnosed with second-stage breast cancer, and, well, we were just talking about the whole situation. Anyway-”

”Objection!” Dom jumps up. ”Relevance.”

”Yes, let's keep things focused, Mr. Floyd,” Judge Saynisch says, ”like a laser beam. Move your witness along.”

Dom sits again, and Devon can feel Dom's tenseness beside her, can feel the heat emanating from her body.

”Mr. Bingham, you mentioned that you walk your dog every day before you go to work. Do you recall the route you took that particular morning?”

”Yes, I do, because I take the same route every day. But that day, actually, it was a little different. I took a shortcut to make up for oversleeping.”

The prosecutor displays a blown-up street map of North Tacoma and asks Mr. Bingham to point out his usual route for the court to see. Then he has Mr. Bingham show the court exactly which alley he had taken as a shortcut.

”Okay, Mr. Bingham. So, when you entered the alley, did you notice anything unusual?”

”Just that Darko, my lab, started barking like crazy and straining at his leash and pulling me toward this trash can about halfway down the alley.”

”What did you do then?”