A Good Mother

by Lara Bazelon

  “I’m thinking about Luz on the witness stand,” she says finally. “We can dirty up Travis. We can hammer away at the government’s witnesses. But Luz is our case. At the end of the day, nothing else matters if the jury doesn’t believe her. If the jury can see what she was up against—if you can embody that because you’re a man and I can’t because I’m not, or because Luz has contempt for me, for my choices—” She breaks off.

  Will waits, understanding that he might actually get what he wants.

  Abby is nodding now, more to herself than him. “We have to get this right. This decision, more than all the others, is the one we have to get right.” Will watches as Abby reaches for her locket, moving it back and forth on the gold chain. He waits, and just when he has gotten impatient, is about to say something to prod her, she looks directly at him. “Okay. Go for it.”

  Will nods back, doing his best not to look triumphant, and settles back in his seat, able to relax at last. But almost immediately, Abby jerks him toward her, cupping his chin and turning his face forcibly toward her own. Her fingers are cold, her grip unexpectedly strong.

  “You need to understand something, though.” Their faces are inches apart, her eyes fixed on his. The sudden intensity of her gaze takes him aback and he has to fight the urge to pull away.

  “Listen to me,” she says quietly. “Luz is a liar.”

  He looks at her in disbelief.

  “Luz is a liar,” Abby repeats. “And if you don’t remember that, it’ll be her that takes you down.”

  2006

  Wednesday, January 18, 2006

  1:13 p.m.

  Willowick, Ohio

  From: sexxygirljax@yahoo.com

  To: travman@hotmail.com

  Wassup cutie im starting to show. wearing a big T shirt for now but pretty soon everyone iz gonna know. Lance thinks its his and gonna take responsibility even tho i dumped his ass. don’t worry my lips are sealed as long as you treat me right. dont prove me wrong or u will be fucking sorry.

  Friday, January 20, 2006

  10:31 p.m.

  Ramstein Air Base

  Ramstein-Miesenbach, Germany

  From: travman@hotmail.com

  To: sexxygirljax@yahoo.com

  How do I know its mine???

  2007

  Wednesday, February 14, 2007

  2:00 p.m.

  TOT

  Little Toyko

  Antoine Jones’s legs extend in opposite directions far beyond the confines of the table, which, like most tables at restaurants in Little Tokyo, seems child-sized. Will wonders if this is a Japanese thing or just a calculated decision to cram as many people as possible into an already cramped space. TOT isn’t crowded today; they’ve missed the lunch rush hour, luckily for the patrons who would have to navigate around Antoine. The guy is nearly seven feet tall and was apparently a big shot basketball player in college, then in Europe somewhere, before switching his focus to a different kind of court.

  Abby is there already, on Antoine’s side of the table, her pale face and his dark one staring intently at the screen of his laptop. They both look up and Will smiles, extending his hand.

  “Hey, man.” Antoine’s voice is deep and smooth, like a DJ on a jazz station. According to Abby, he’s the best investigator in their office. They had been assigned to someone else, a younger woman named Kim. But Abby had not stood for that, despite Paul saying that he didn’t want to meddle, and, in any event, that all of the investigators in the federal public defender’s office were very good. “Actually, most of them suck and you know it,” Abby had told him. “I want Antoine.”

  Rayshon Marbury was the unspoken name in the room; Antoine had been on that case, too. And so Abby had gotten her way, generating a solid dose of ill will in the process. No unit likes to be told what to do when it comes to its own people. But generating ill will did not seem to be a concern for Abby, and Will supposed it would be up to him to make nice later. Let’s hope you’re worth it, he thinks, staring at Antoine’s smooth, impassive face, taking in the black tracksuit, the large blue signet ring on his left hand.

  The waitress comes to take their order and Antoine closes the laptop. Antoine and Abby order the chicken teriyaki bowls; Will, who has not even picked up the menu, says he’ll have the same.

  “Shauna sent over the juvenile file,” Abby says to Will.

  Will tries not to look irritated that she’s obviously shared this fact with Antoine before telling him. “What’s in there?”

  “It was a fight at school,” Antoine says. “Luz and another girl. She pulled a knife.”

  “The other girl?”

  “Luz.”

  “Over what?” Will feels like he’s waiting for a diagnosis from a maddeningly terse doctor.

  “Confrontation in the bathroom,” Antoine says. “The other girl said that Luz was sleeping with her boyfriend. She was real mad about it. Slapped Luz, pulled her hair, and tried to scratch her face. Luz pulled a knife out of her purse, slashed the girl’s arm.”

  “Self-defense?”

  “That’s what she told the police officer. But he didn’t buy it and neither did the DA. Not justified by the threat posed is what they said.”

  “It probably didn’t help that the victim needed sixteen stitches,” Abby adds.

  Antoine shrugs. “Another problem was that she had a knife in her purse to begin with.”

  Will says, “Our situation is different.”

  “I know,” Abby says, “but the ultimate question is the same. Travis Hollis might have been drunk and overbearing, even threatened her life, but was he such an immediate overwhelming danger that she had no choice but to slice him open?”

  The question hangs there a moment and then Will says to Antoine, “Did she go to trial for the school fight?”

  “No. Original charge was assault with a deadly weapon. Pled down to simple assault. She got probation, had to pick up some trash on the freeway, did community service at her church. Great result, considering. She must’ve had a good attorney.”

  “It was Jorge Estrada, wasn’t it?”

  Antoine looks surprised. “That’s right.”

  Will looks at Abby. They had discussed Will’s visit and agreed not to probe further. “He’s not going to talk to us, and anyway, we may be better off in the dark,” Abby had pointed out. “Because let’s say we do find out from Estrada that Luz plotted to murder her husband? Then we aren’t going to be able to tell the jury that she didn’t.” Will thought it was unlikely—what lawyer would participate in that kind of plot? But taking the chance seemed too risky and so he had reluctantly agreed. It makes him uneasy, that Estrada had not volunteered this additional information—that his relationship with Luz went back not months, but years.

  “She was a minor,” Will says. “Her juvenile case is sealed.”

  “I’m sure Shauna will make a motion to try to convince Dars to admit it,” Abby says. “But she’ll lose, the law is clear. The government can’t use juvie records at trial.” She pauses. “Unless Luz somehow opens the door by bringing it up herself, directly or indirectly.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Will says.

  “No,” Abby says, “because you’re not going to let it happen, are you?”

  This question, too, hangs in the air. Will stares back at her frostily.

  Antoine clears his throat. “We were talking about the hard drive from Travis’s computer. We got a copy today from the government. I was telling Abby I think we should do our own analysis.”

  Will keeps his eyes on Abby. “To find out what? We know Luz got Jackie’s email about Travis. We know what time she opened it.”

  “The government analyzed Luz’s emails,” Antoine says. “They didn’t look at Travis’s. There might be something.”

  “What? Another woman?” Will tries to think how a s
econd affair could be helpful and concludes it would not. “And anyway, even if we do find something good in Travis’s emails, why would the judge let it in? A dead man can’t testify that he was the one who wrote it. There’s no foundation, no way to authenticate it.”

  “I’m thinking we might have a shot with Dars. Maybe he’ll go out of his way to be fair because I’m there.” Abby smiles sweetly at Will before turning to Antoine. “Will doesn’t think so, though. He and I had a spirited discussion the other day about how Dars’s and my relationship will play out at trial.”

  Antoine smiles. “My money’s on you, Abby. My money is always on you.”

  “Quit it with the flattery.” But Will can tell by the way that Abby is looking at Antoine that she’s pleased. It’s obvious that Antoine’s opinion matters to her. Will wishes his did.

  Will says to Antoine, “That kind of forensic analysis is not going to be cheap.”

  “Got a friend. Used to be in military intelligence, now he has his own business. He’ll do it for a couple thousand.”

  “We can use the money we saved on Dr. Cartwright,” Abby says. “Paul already allocated it.”

  Not for a fishing expedition with a completely different expert on a completely different topic, Will thinks. Like Abby dissing the investigator staff, it is just another headache he’ll have to deal with when the trial is over.

  Antoine says, “No harm in having the information. Not like we have to turn it over to the prosecutor if we don’t like it.”

  Will shakes his head. Antoine is right—they would be committing malpractice if they gave Shauna damaging information on Luz. Still. He doesn’t know why he is resisting so strongly, but his gut is telling him this is a bad idea. But it’s obvious that the decision has been made and his opinion is irrelevant.

  Antoine says, breaking an awkward silence, “Would be good if we could get Mike Ravel to talk to us.”

  Ravel was Travis’s best friend in the military and the government is almost certain to call him. It’s Ravel’s signature as the witness on the life insurance policy—the one that removed Travis’s parents as the beneficiaries and replaced them with Luz several weeks before he died.

  “It would,” Abby says. “What have you found out about him?”

  “Dishonorably discharged a couple of months back. He’s in a sober living facility outside Tucson. Some kind of diversion program run by the state court after he was caught breaking into a pharmacy to steal oxy.”

  “Drugs got him kicked out of the military?” Will asks.

  “Yeah. First it was legally prescribed. He was wounded in Iraq, same tour as Travis. Back injury. But then he got addicted, started stealing.”

  Will considers these facts, how they might play. If Ravel is hostile to Luz, and there is reason to think he might be, they can use his addiction and theft to undermine his credibility. Still, being an addict and a thief doesn’t necessarily make him a liar, especially not if his problems are combat-induced and likely to stir the jury’s sympathy. “What do you think he can tell us?”

  Antoine shrugs. “Don’t know till we ask.”

  The waitress arrives with their bowls. Antoine and Abby slide their chopsticks out of the paper wrapper and break them apart. Will calls the waitress back, and asks sheepishly for a knife and fork.

  They eat in silence for a while, Abby ravenously, draining her water glass repeatedly and asking for refills.

  Antoine says to Abby, “How’s Nic? He cool with you doing this trial?”

  Will stops sawing at his chicken with the plastic utensils. Abby is looking steadily at Antoine. “No,” she says, “he’s not cool with it. But my doing this trial isn’t up to him.”

  Antoine shakes his head. “Bumped into him the other day when he came by with the baby. Didn’t know the marshals got paternity leave.”

  Abby reddens slightly. “He’s using his vacation time and sick leave.” When Antoine’s eyebrows go up, she adds quickly, “It’s just until after the trial and then I’ll be the one taking care of Cal.”

  Antoine grins. “Sure you will.”

  Abby drains her water glass. “If I were a man, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. It’s 2007, and you would think—” she looks pointedly at Will “—that I’m committing some kind of child abuse. I’m just doing my job. A job, by the way, that pays more than Nic’s. Having a baby is a partnership. Both parents have to sacrifice.”

  “Well, Happy Valentine’s Day to you and your sacrificing partner.” Antoine is still grinning.

  Will starts. “Damn, I forgot about that.”

  “Can’t forget Valentine’s Day, man. Buy the lady some flowers on your way home.”

  Abby rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually celebrate that fake buy-me-an-overpriced-dinner-and-I’ll-give-you-a-blow-job bullshit.”

  Every Valentine’s Day, Meredith makes Will his favorite dinner: lasagna with lamb meat instead of regular hamburger. He buys her a bottle of wine that costs more than $6 and a dozen roses. It’s been a tradition for going on ten years. Will returns his attention to his chicken.

  As Abby signals the waitress for the check, Antoine says, “First-degree murder seems like a stretch to me. Always has. The kind of women that get a verdict like that, they hire a hit man. Or they get a young kid to do it and they’re fucking him, like in that movie about the news anchor lady. But Luz, she’s basically still a kid herself, and you can argue she was protecting her baby.”

  “My worry is that the jury will want to compromise,” Will says. “Not let her go, but not convict on the most extreme charge, either.”

  “What then, second-degree murder?”

  “Second-degree is almost as bad as first. Twenty years, give or take.”

  “It’s not life,” Abby says. “Dars might have mercy, and even if he doesn’t, Luz could still get out before she’s forty.”

  “It’s Cristina’s life,” Will says pointedly, and sees Abby flinch, then look past him, signaling to the waitress. “I worry,” he says, raising his voice slightly to regain her attention, “that the jury will compromise on manslaughter, the plea Shauna offered.”

  Antoine nods. “She killed him in the heat of passion. Fits a stereotype—hot-blooded little Latina stabs her lying, cheating man in a fit of jealous rage. Through the heart no less.”

  Abby looks at Antoine, the corners of her mouth tilting upward. “Could have been worse. She could have done it on Valentine’s Day.”

  Antoine smiles. “Always best to focus on the positive.”

  How could they possibly joke about something so effing serious? Gallows humor, Will understood, was a staple of their office—of any public defender’s office—but he finds it difficult to stomach and in particularly poor taste here. A manslaughter conviction, in Will’s mind, is what they have to fear the most. Shauna wouldn’t traffic in racist stereotypes—no doubt she’s been on the receiving end of plenty herself—but the jurors will take one look at Luz, then at the pictures of Travis’s ravaged body, and come to their own conclusions.

  Antoine stirs the remaining rice around in his bowl. “We’ve got to show self-defense, meaning Luz stabbed him through the heart believing she was about to die with no way out of a situation that was not her fault.”

  Abby nods.

  “Tall order. She’s got motive, she’s got time, and she’s got no real injuries.” Antoine looks at Will. “So that’s your job. With her.”

  “That is my job with her.” Will stares back hard at both of them.

  The waitress returns, clears their plates, mops at the tabletop, and reaches into the pocket of her uniform to hand Will the check. Abby takes it from him and does the math. “Eleven dollars each.”

  As they dig through their wallets, Antoine says, almost as an aside, “Luz is gonna need to change her look for the trial. And her attitude.”

  �
�Yes,” Abby says. “I’m sure Will’s on top of that.”

  Will nods, trying to look as if this were true instead of wishful thinking. He needs to bring back Lady Madonna, the doe-eyed young mother he saw that first and only time under the wooden cross in her grandmother’s living room.

  “Alright, well, we were talking,” Antoine says, nodding to Abby, “about how maybe you might want to use some of this 3D technology.” He opens his laptop and turns it toward Will. “I’ve been looking into software that can draw up the crime scene and create the two people, you know, her and him, so the jury can see the way it was on-screen. On the stand, Luz would describe an action and you would use the computer to demonstrate to the jury what it actually looked like.”

  “Or a good simulation of what it looked like,” Abby says.

  “Check it out,” Antoine says.

  Will stares at the laptop screen, clicks on the arrow and sees the hallway of the apartment in Ramstein. There are two bodies: one short, one tall, looming. In short, jerky bursts, the tall figure strikes out at the shorter one, who backtracks, arms outstretched to block her face. He keeps clicking, watching a chase, a collision, a run to another room. Will hits the stop button, looks up.

  “What do you think?” Abby asks, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “It’s kind of like what I was saying in the car the other day—about making it physical.”

  Will closes the laptop. “It’s too removed,” he says. “Too clinical.” The realization hits him suddenly. “We need to use real bodies.”

  “Whose bodies?” Antoine says.

  “Luz’s,” Will says. “And mine.” He looks at Abby.

  “I love that idea.” She is actually smiling at him—the first real smile she’s ever turned in his direction and it’s like a thousand flashbulbs going off in his face. He hadn’t realized until that moment that his dislike of Abby lives side by side with a craving for her approval.

  2006