A Good Mother

by Lara Bazelon

  Abby Rosenberg was the closest thing their status-less, grimy job had to a celebrity. Until, spectacularly, she was not. Marbury had gotten himself murdered, proving true the grim public defender axiom that every victory is a Pyrrhic one. There was also the lingering, still-unresolved question of exactly how Abby had come by the evidence she used to free him.

  Then there was her drinking—she tried to hide it but everyone knew it was a problem—and making, well, other poor choices, often because of it. A few months after the trial she had gotten knocked up by Rayshon Marbury’s marshal. Slut wasn’t the right word for Abby Rosenberg, Will knew that wasn’t the right word to describe anyone anymore, but just the circumstances of her situation, not to mention that she was basically abandoning her own baby after six weeks. Who would do that? Forty-six days. Counting down like it was some kind of jail sentence.

  That case made her, one of his colleagues had told Will, but it fucked her, too.

  Yes, people talked smack out of spite, but in Will’s experience, that didn’t make the smack they talked any less true. He could only imagine what Meredith would say when he told her tonight at dinner. At least she’d have no reason to be jealous herself. The woman standing in front of him bore no resemblance to the image he’d carried in his head of a light-filled avenging angel who spoke in a lilting poet’s voice.

  Will startles, realizing too late that it’s his turn to say something. “Well,” he offers, “that’s great, sir. And I—” he forces himself to look at Abby “—really look forward to working with you, ma’am—Mrs.—” He takes a deep breath. “Abigail.”

  Paul claps his hands together. “Terrific. Let’s schedule a time to sit down next week, after Abby’s had a chance to go over the discovery.”

  “Yes, sir. And also about the arraignment?”

  “Right, of course. How was it?”

  “Fine, everything went fine. The trial date is March 19.” “The government asked for the extra time to get the witnesses from overseas.”

  “Who’s the judge?” Abby asks.

  “He’s one of the new Bush II appointees. Got a funny name.” Will grins. “Dars Ducey.”

  The ensuing silence feels explosive. He looks at Paul, then at Abby, but they are locked on each other again. It’s like Will has disappeared from the room, at which point the realization dawns. Newly appointed. Funny name. Dars Ducey had been the prosecutor in Rayshon Marbury’s case.

  “He’ll recuse himself,” Abby says to Paul. “He has to.”

  Paul negates this assertion with one firm shake of the head. “Dars is a federal judge now. He can do any damn thing he wants.”

  2005

  Tuesday, October 11, 2005

  9:51 p.m.

  Willowick, Ohio

  From: sexxygirljax@yahoo.com

  To: travman@hotmail.com

  Travis,

  I never thought it would be like this with us again.

  i’m on the verge just thinkin about it, you on me, you in me, over and over. i know its messed up with you being back home only cuz your dad died, but no one knows you and your fam better than me. i’m thinking its god’s will bringing us back together.

  yeah, so u made a dumb ass mistake & got married. yeah, im w/ Lance but not for realz. not like us. im gonna end it. i know its me you love not her, its just a matter of you figuring that out.

  sent some sexy pix.

  J

  Wednesday, October 12, 2005

  3:54 a.m.

  Ramstein Air Base

  Ramstein-Miesenbach, Germany

  From: travman@hotmail.com

  To: sexxygirljax@yahoo.com

  Jaxx-eeee!!!

  i needed u and u were there 4 me. ur the best thing that could’ve come out of all this. My dad gone just like that. still grieving, not believing, can’t sleep thinking about it all. Being with u. nothing here for me except same shit patrols day after day waiting to get sent back to hell. i am goin to figure my way out of this.

  pix is amazin. keep sending.

  T

  Saturday, December 24, 2005,

  6:45 a.m.

  Willowick, Ohio

  From: sexxygirljax@yahoo.com

  To: travman@hotmail.com

  merry xmas, t. Got a special present 4u. i missed last month and missed again this month so last week i took the pee stick test and guess what???!!! i’m thinking it’s a boy he’ll look just like u.

  luv you like krazzzeee

  jax

  Sunday, December 25, 2005,

  10:29 p.m.

  Willowick, Ohio

  From: sexxygirljax@yahoo.com

  To: travman@hotmail.com

  t—wassup? waiting for you to answer me needing to hear from you.

  2007

  Friday, January 5, 2007

  2:30 p.m.

  Office of Jorge Estrada

  Riverside, California

  Jorge Estrada’s law office is in a strip mall so nondescript that Will had passed it on the first two tries. Not much to look at from the inside, either, just a small entry area with an empty receptionist’s desk and this larger backroom office. Estrada’s practice was, according to his website, “generalist” in nature. I take all comers and handle all matters: personal injury, medical malpractice, DUIs, criminal cases, family law, wills, trusts, and estate planning.

  “Mr. Estrada?”

  The older man stands up from behind his desk, which is piled high with paper. A nice-looking guy, probably closing in on sixty, but still hustling. No personal touches in the room except a picture on the credenza behind him of a teenage girl with long dark hair and a wide smile, set against one of those blue-sky photo-studio backgrounds that suggests an occasion—high school graduation, probably. She must be his daughter. No wedding ring, though.

  “You found me.” He extends a hand.

  “Will Ellet.”

  They shake, and Estrada gestures at the single chair opposite him. “Sit down.”

  Will obliges, trying at the same time to make out the name of the law school featured on the framed diploma on the wall. There was something called the California Western School of Law? He makes a mental note to check to see if it’s even accredited. “Thank you, sir, for making the time.”

  Estrada smiles. He’s got a decent crop of silvery hair and eyebrows to match. “Military guy, are you? Or just brought up real polite?”

  “Both, sir.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Will. And I appreciate your coming out all this way.”

  “Not a problem.” It had, in fact, been something of a journey even by LA standards. The freeway had been backed up to West Covina, an accident involving an 18-wheeler. The hour-plus-change drive to Riverside had stretched to two, then two and a half. The air-conditioning in Will’s Hyundai had broken down yet again, the internal temperature reading in the car exceeded 100 degrees at various points. Will’s shirt is lacquered to his back, a fact he hopes to mask by not removing his jacket. He leans forward, hands on his knees, trying and failing to break the seal of sweat.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “Well, sir, as I explained on the phone, I represent Mrs. Rivera Hollis.”

  Estrada nods.

  “It’s quite a serious matter. First-degree murder, like I said.”

  “Yes,” Estrada agreed, “you did say. And I’ve read about it in the papers. Getting a lot of coverage, especially in the local news being that she’s from out here and all.”

  “Right. Well, I—It’s my understanding that in the months leading up to her husband’s death, she consulted with you about—” Will stopped. He did not know what Luz had consulted Estrada about. All he had was a copy of Estrada’s bill, with the government’s blue pagination numbers stamped in the lower right-hand corner. It had been seized, along with many other d
ocuments, during the search of the Hollis residence in Germany. The bill had ten entries dating from early December 2005 to the final call late in the evening on October 10, 2006, less than four days before Travis died. All of the billing entries were identical. A long distance phone number accompanied by the words Tel. conv. w/ client. The last call was ninety-seven minutes.

  Estrada sits still, waiting, so Will plows ahead. “About a legal matter,” he finishes lamely. “So, of course, I’m hoping to discuss that matter with you and get the file today, if possible.”

  Estrada rocks back slightly in his chair. “I assume you have written consent.”

  Will tries not to look startled. “From Mrs. Rivera Hollis? We—I—didn’t think we had to.” In fact, it had never occurred to him. Yet another foundering assumption. Will imagines how pissed off Abby will be when he comes back empty-handed on this technical foul and slips on his easy, open-faced grin. “Maybe there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m her defense attorney. We’re all on the same team here.”

  Estrada nods. “We’re all on the same team, no doubt about that.”

  “So then—” Will wants to say, what’s the friggin’ problem, man? Instead he tries “—maybe I can shoot you the consent by fax as soon as I get back to the office.”

  Estrada leans forward, plucks a paper clip from a tray on his desk and taps it against his teeth. “Will, can I ask you something?”

  Will leans back, spreads his hands. “Sure, anything.”

  “Does Luz know you’re here?”

  “That I’m here right now?” Will is stalling for time, trying to figure out how his play has gone so far south. He can hear the air conditioner, practically feel it turning his sweat to ice.

  Estrada watches him, waiting.

  “Not—not specifically, no.”

  “Does she know that you’ve contacted me? Did you tell her you were coming to get her file?”

  In fact, no. “Look, Mrs. Rivera Hollis has the documents the government turned over after they searched the house, including your invoice. It’s not exactly a—a state secret.” Irritation is giving way to confusion. What the hell is going on?

  Estrada nods, as if expecting this answer. “But what Luz called me about and what she told me, those matters are a state secret.”

  Clever. Will tries out his grin again. “Yes, exactly, the attorney-client privilege, work product, of course.”

  “Privileges and protections which she would have to waive in writing even for you.” Estrada pulls the inside of the paper clip out in the opposite direction, so that it’s twice as long now, laid flat.

  “She doesn’t need to be protected from me.” No way this guy’s law school was accredited. He’d bet $100 on it. “Like I said, I’m her lawyer.”

  Estrada returns the inside of the paper clip to its old position, but it looks misshapen now, bumpy. “A little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing, son.”

  Will blinks. “Sir?”

  Estrada balances the reconstructed paper clip between his two index fingers. “Sometimes, a little knowledge can affect the way you see things. Sometimes, in my experience, it’s better not to know. Can throw you off your game.”

  “I’m pretty tough, sir. Hard to throw.”

  Estrada doesn’t look up from his paper clip. “You might want to ask yourself whether you need to see that file, son. And ask your client if she wants you to.”

  Will stands, straightening his jacket as best he can in an attempt to retain some sense of dignity. “I can be back tomorrow with a signed consent form if that’s what you’re insisting on.”

  Estrada looks up then, gives a slight nod. “You could,” he says, “but you won’t.”

  Monday, January 8, 2007

  9:15 a.m.

  United States District Court

  Los Angeles

  “The judge denied the motion to recuse. Ruled right from the bench.”

  Abby stares out her office window, then back at the speakerphone, impatiently waiting, but now Will is talking to Paul. She hears, “Yes, sir,” and, “See you tomorrow,” and something muffled from Paul before Will is back on the line.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “What did he say, exactly?” Abby makes a hurry-up gesture toward the phone, as if that would help.

  “Paul?”

  “No. Dars. The judge, Will.”

  “Right. I should be back in the office in about five minutes. I’ll come up to your office.”

  Abby adjusts the cone-shaped cups built into the elastic band around her middle to make sure they are firmly suctioned to her breasts. She turns the dial on the machine. Immediately, the whirring starts and with it, dots of milk appear, gathering, then sliding down the clear plastic tubes that connect the cone-cups to the waiting bottles on her desk.

  “What’s that sound?”

  “Nothing. Just stop somewhere quiet and read me your notes.”

  “Why? I said—”

  “Because I’m topless with plastic cones suctioned to my nipples, okay?”

  “I—Okay, I didn’t know that.”

  Abby allows herself a small smile as she watches the milk collecting in the bottles. She is a champion pumper, but to keep up with Cal’s insatiable appetite and avoid the embarrassment of leaking through the front of her blouse, she has to do it every three hours—four if she’s lucky.

  Over the speakerphone she hears a door open, the swell of voices, and then another door opening and shutting. Silence.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “In the Starbucks bathroom. Too loud out there. Good lord, it smells.” She hears the crinkle of unfolding paper, then Will’s voice, reading aloud.

  “Judge Ducey thanked both sides for their excellent briefing. Reminded us of the legal standard. The issue isn’t whether he would be unfair but only whether a reasonable person looking at the situation from the outside would think that he might be.”

  Abby stares at the phone, mouths blah blah blah. The standard sounds good in theory, but is meaningless in reality. It gives Dars a fig leaf, but it’s a skimpy one. To recuse himself, he would have to admit the reality of how he is perceived by others, which, in a way, is even worse than privately acknowledging his own bias. And the bigger problem, as she had known all along, is that Dars would not be able to pass up the chance to dig into her.

  “He said the recusal motion had given him occasion to revisit the past and think carefully about Rayshon Marbury’s case. Said that, yes, he had used harsh words about you—Ms. Rosenberg—but that it was in the heat of the moment. Says you handed him his hat, outlawyered him. It was a hard loss to accept, particularly since he wasn’t used to losing. But the facts were the facts. In the case of Rayshon Marcus Marbury, misconduct by one rogue police officer who tampered with evidence meant that Judge Alvarez—now his esteemed colleague—had to dismiss the charges. Says he believes the ruling was correct, a belief evidenced by the fact that the government did not appeal. Says regardless of what he thinks about Mr. Marbury’s guilt or innocence, the case is over and, in any event, Mr. Marbury is dead.”

  Not any event. One event. An event that no law enforcement agency had done much to investigate, probably because they were all too busy celebrating. “What about Dars’s decision to refer me to the state bar to ask that they take away my law license?”

  Abby hears a banging in the background and Will calls out, “One second,” and then to Abby, “so I argued that point and Judge Ducey said, yes, he asked that your conduct be investigated, but that was a decision warranted by the inexplicable circumstances by which you had come into possession of exculpatory evidence. ‘So-called exculpatory evidence’ was actually what he called it. Said the investigation had apparently concluded with no findings against you. Based on everything he knows, having opposed you in court and by your general reputation, he is of
the opinion that, while your methods may be somewhat unorthodox, there is no proof that they are unethical. Says you are a brilliant lawyer, that Mrs. Rivera Hollis could not hope for better representation, that he looks forward to the truth coming out through the adversarial process over which he has been assigned to preside and will preside with fairness to all involved.”

  Abby had been expecting as much, though it’s hard not to be impressed with the way that Dars had so elegantly dressed his lies. He must have really been enjoying himself. Abby hears another knocking sound, louder this time, and Will says, somewhat exasperated, “Okay, I’m coming out.”

  Abby stares at the whirring machine, the white liquid zipping along now. Time for plan B. “We’ll file a motion for reconsideration.”

  “On what grounds?” She can hear Will trying, unsuccessfully, to control the frustration in his voice. “The record he made is ironclad. For crissakes, Abby, the man went out of his way to say how much he admires and respects you.”

  “We’ll come up with something.”

  A pause and then Will’s voice, resigned, “I can go back and put in an order for the transcript.”

  “No. There’s no time for that. We’ll get something on file tomorrow.”

  “What? What exactly are we going to file tomorrow?”

  She almost says, “It doesn’t matter,” and catches herself. “Just something quick and dirty.” That is an accurate way to describe it—not the motion, but what she has planned to do all along, knowing they would lose. “Look, Dars may change his mind and he needs a legal out. We just need to give him one.”

  A deep sigh on the other end of the phone. “He’s not going to change his mind. You weren’t there, you don’t know. It’s hopeless. Paul thinks so, too. Look, I think—” Will breaks off, calls out one more time that he is coming, really he is coming out this time, then says, “I think we have to at least consider the possibility of you playing a less prominent role in this case or maybe—”