A Good Mother

by Lara Bazelon

  Shauna nods sorrowfully as she looks at the jury.

  “What does mi culpa mean?”

  Luz’s eyes get hard. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I am asking you about what you said. To these twelve people. Twenty-four hours ago. What do the words mean, in English?”

  Will gets to his feet, putting his hands on the table to steady himself. “Objection, this is badgering. She’s answered the question.”

  “No,” Dars says, “she hasn’t.” He says, slowly and deliberately, “Mrs. Rivera Hollis, what do the words mi culpa mean?”

  Luz stares stonily back. “My fault.”

  When it is finally, horribly, and irrevocably over, Abby turns to Will. Having tried and failed to get her to look at him throughout, to connect with her in any way, he now finds he can barely meet her eyes.

  “You did this to her,” she says.

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  12:30 p.m.

  United States District Court

  for the Central District of California

  When the clerk calls the case after the lunch break, Will is already standing at the lectern. Abby keeps her eyes on Dars as he strides up to the bench, black robe flowing.

  “Alright,” Dars says when he has taken his seat, “we are in court outside the presence of the jury, but apparently in the presence of half of Los Angeles.” He smirks at the packed gallery. “All of you media people stayed here for the spellbinding experience of listening to us settle the jury instructions.” He shakes his head at their collective stupidity and shifts his attention to Will and Shauna. “I’ve got the twelve of them back there waiting on us—” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the deliberation room “—and I don’t intend for this to take long. I will instruct them, you will give your closing arguments, and they will start their deliberations this afternoon.

  “Now, my practice is to give the standard Ninth Circuit jury instructions. Ms. Gooden has been kind enough to submit the instructions that apply to this case; I’ve looked them over and they seem appropriate. I take it the defense has had a chance to look through them, as well?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Will looks at him steadily.

  “Do you have any objections to the instructions proposed by the government?”

  “We do, Your Honor.”

  Dars raises his eyebrows at this unpleasant surprise. “And what is your objection?”

  “We would ask that the instructions on the lesser included offenses be removed. The government charged Mrs. Rivera Hollis with first-degree murder. That has been the government’s theory—their only theory. They aren’t entitled to have the jury instructed on anything else—not second-degree murder, not manslaughter, not criminally negligent homicide. They haven’t offered any evidence to prove those crimes.”

  Abby watches as Shauna’s eyes widen. She stands. “Your Honor, it is standard practice to give these instructions. The law is clear. The government needs to show only a scintilla of evidence for these lesser crimes to apply.” She holds up her hand, forefinger and thumb less than an inch apart. “And furthermore, it is beneficial to the defendant because—”

  “They can’t even meet the scintilla standard,” Will interrupts. He turns to Shauna. “And with all due respect, the government has no business telling me what is in the best interests of my client.”

  Abby’s eyes move to Dars. “Well,” he says to the packed gallery, “I guess you are getting a show after all.” He turns to Shauna. “Madame Prosecutor, are you intending to argue any theory to the jury other than first-degree murder?”

  Shauna shakes her head. “Mr. Ellet isn’t entitled to a preview of the government’s closing argument and neither is the court.”

  “That’s the wrong answer.” Dars winces slightly, as if in sympathy for Shauna’s misstep. “Luckily for you, I am a big believer in second chances. So let’s try this again. Are you going to argue any theory to the jury other than first-degree murder, yes or no?”

  There is a pause and then Shauna says, “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  Shauna says, “Your Honor, this is sandbagging. And it is reversible error to grant their request. I am asking for the rest of the day to research this issue so that I have a chance to submit a brief arguing—”

  “There will be no delay of this trial,” Dars says. “I know the law.”

  “Your Honor, if I may,” Will begins.

  “You may not, Mr. Ellet. Sit down. We all know who’s running the show here.” Dars turns to Abby. “This has your fingerprints all over it. The whole trial, you’ve been the puppet master pulling on the strings, but not every puppet performed the way she was supposed to, did she?” He looks meaningfully at Luz, whose hand is on the cross at her throat, then back at Abby, his eyebrows raised. “So here you are, with this eleventh-hour stunt.” He leans as far over the bench as he can, his eyes fixed on her. “After I bent over backward to give your client a fair trial.” He smiles toothily. “But therein lies the problem, doesn’t it, Ms. Rosenberg? I have been so fair that you don’t have a single appellate issue and you know it. So now you are trying to create one.”

  Abby has gone cold inside. She glances briefly at Will, who now looks as alarmed as Shauna. He says, “Your Honor, that’s not—”

  “Shut up, Mr. Ellet.” Dars looks at Abby. “I want you at the lectern with your client. Now.” He snaps his fingers as if she’s a misbehaving terrier. “Get up.”

  Abby and Luz get to their feet and walk to the podium, Luz first, her back straight, her arms stiff at her sides. At the lectern, Abby puts her hand on Luz’s arm to turn her toward Dars.

  “Ms. Rosenberg, have you told your client to pursue this legal strategy?”

  Stunned, Abby realizes that she has become the new Estrada. For a brief moment, she and Shauna lock eyes. “You are asking about a conversation that is protected by the attorney-client privilege,” Abby tells Dars. “I can’t answer.”

  “Don’t you dare play games with me.” Dars has gone scarlet. “Answer my question or I will hold you in contempt.”

  “No.” Adrenaline is coursing through Abby’s body as her mind sends opposing messages. Tell the truth. But she can’t. Don’t say anything. But she’ll doom Luz.

  When Dars speaks his voice is low, dangerously so. “You will tell me and you will tell me right now or I will hold you in contempt. You can have the cell next to Mr. Estrada.” He motions to Jared. “Mr. Marshal, stand up.” Jared rises, an incredulous look on his face. Beside her, Luz reaches for Abby’s hand.

  The idea of being jailed, of being away for Cal for even one night, possibly days, has an immediate impact on her body. Abby’s breasts ache and then suddenly she feels the wetness seeping through the blouse she is wearing under her jacket. As her panic rises—jail, leaking, Cal—she forces herself to keep her eyes fixed on Dars. Luz’s hand, hot and dry, grips hers.

  “Your Honor.” Abby’s words separate and stretch, like a recorded voice on the wrong speed as she tries to think her way out. “If you send me to jail, you’ll deprive my client of her attorney. That’s grounds for a mistrial.”

  “That’s a baseless motion.” Dars inclines his head in Will’s direction. “She still has him.”

  “You just said yourself—” Abby shuts her eyes, trying to summon the exact words “—that I run the show and Mr. Ellet is a puppet. A puppet can’t be effective without a puppet master. The Constitution guarantees my client an effective lawyer, not just any lawyer.”

  “He is perfectly capable of giving a closing argument,” Dars retorts. “A law student can give a closing argument.”

  “He’s not prepared to give this closing argument. I’m giving it,” Abby says. “It isn’t a moot court competition—my client’s life is on the line. Mr. Ellet is not prepared and you have made it clear, repeatedly, that you will not delay this
trial—not for any reason, not grave illness, not death. If you prevent me from representing Mrs. Rivera Hollis, she will suffer extreme prejudice as a result. Any guilty verdict will be reversed on appeal.” Abby looks quickly at Will, who has, amazingly, managed not to visibly react. Because what she has just told Dars is a lie. Will is giving the closing argument—or was. He had practiced it not twenty minutes ago for Abby, Antoine, and Luz in the witness room.

  Dars looks at Jared. “Mr. Marshal, please approach Ms. Rosenberg.”

  Abby wants to fall down but she keeps her voice loud and strong. “The defense moves for a mistrial. Because the grounds for the mistrial were created by the actions of the trial judge, the government cannot retry my client without subjecting her to double jeopardy.”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you, Abigail?” It is all Abby can do, after everything that has happened, not to gasp at this lapse. Momentarily, Dars has forgotten his place high above her on the dais. He has said her name, an intimacy that calls up their past relationship as courtroom equals, a relationship that now exists only when they’ve been alone. Dars looks at Jared for a moment, then shakes his head slightly. Then he turns back to Abby. “You may come to find out, though, that you’ve been too clever by half.”

  Shauna stands up. “Your Honor, respectfully, the government believes that a contempt charge is unnecessary. The court should simply reject the defense’s objection. Lesser included offense instructions are appropriate in this case, it’s that simple.”

  “Not so fast, Ms. Gooden.” Dars’s eyes are on Luz now. “The defendant will address the court.” Dars leans forward again, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if attuned to an inner signal. Abby moves away from the microphone and Luz steps forward.

  “How old are you, Mrs. Rivera Hollis?”

  “Nineteen.” Luz’s voice, too, is clear and strong. She meets his gaze and holds it.

  “How much schooling have you had?”

  “I have a GED.”

  Dars nods. “We’ve been using a lot of fancy lawyer terms here today. Lesser included offense, double jeopardy, scintilla of evidence. Do you understand what has been said here by the lawyers and by me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright. Tell me in your own words what you understand to be happening.” Dars settles back in his chair like the most patient of examiners.

  “The prosecutor wants the jury to be able to convict me for other kinds of murders that aren’t first-degree. My attorney says, no, it’s first-degree or nothing. You are the one who decides because you are the judge.”

  “That’s right,” Dars says approvingly. “But here is what you also need to understand. Your attorney—” he leans forward and points at Abby “—thinks that if the jury is faced with a tough enough choice—all or nothing, as you say—they won’t convict. That’s a risk by someone who likes to gamble. Someone who likes to win. But now what she’s gambling with is your life. Do you understand that?”

  Luz keeps her gaze trained on Dars. “Yes.”

  “Alright.” Dars settles back once again into his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “If Ms. Rosenberg bets right, all glory to her. She gets to humiliate the government, she gets her picture in the paper.” He nods at the rows of reporters, scribbling furiously. “Ms. Rosenberg likes that, as I’m sure you know. But if she bets wrong, you will go to prison for the rest of your life. Under the law, there is nothing I can do about that, even if I wanted to. Because the penalty for first-degree murder in federal court is life in prison and we have abolished parole. What that means is that you will never get out. You will never hold your baby outside a prison visiting room. And Ms. Rosenberg, well, she’ll go home to her baby. Her life, it won’t change much at all. Do you understand?”

  Abby’s ears ring like there is a fire alarm going off in her head.

  Luz says, “But if the jury finds me not guilty, I go home to my daughter and no one can take her away from me.”

  Dars turns his gaze to Abby. “It appears that your client grasps what is at stake here. Is there anything you would like to say before I rule?”

  Abby looks at Dars, then at Luz. “Your Honor, I need a moment to consult with my client.”

  Dars inclines his head.

  Still holding hands, Abby and Luz walk a few steps from the lectern out of earshot of the microphone.

  “Lean in as close as you can.” Abby is watching the gallery, hundreds of stares fastened on them. Luz does as she’s asked, her forehead touching Abby’s so they are eye to eye and the world narrows to the two of them. Abby takes a breath. “Luz, listen to me, I leaked right through my blouse the minute the judge told me I might be separated from my baby. And that would only be for a few days. We are talking about the rest of your life. You know Mr. Estrada and I have made arrangements—”

  Luz shakes her head. “Travis’s mother could still—”

  “But it would be harder. We are creating a legal barrier.”

  “No.” Luz’s gaze is cold and steady. “Not one day. I will not be separated from Cristina for one day.”

  “You are making a terrible mistake.”

  “The judge said you were a gambler.”

  “He’s wrong. If I were in your situation I would never, ever do this.”

  Luz looks at her for a long moment. “You wouldn’t be in my situation.” She lets go of Abby’s hand. “This is my decision.”

  Back at the lectern, Dars again asks Abby if there is anything else she would like to say. Abby looks back at him for a long, shimmering moment. “No.”

  A silence falls. Abby focuses on keeping her breathing under control. Beside her, Luz is utterly still, her eyes on the judge. Dars’s gaze sweeps the courtroom, taking in the journalists, Travis’s mother and sisters, the rows of spectators, Shauna, Will, and Abby before finally coming to rest on Luz. Everyone is silent, waiting.

  “The court finds that the defendant understands the strategic legal decision made by her attorney and is in agreement with that decision. The government’s request that the jury be instructed on any charge less than the charge of first-degree murder is denied. The court will take a twenty-minute recess before the reading of instructions and closing argument. We are adjourned.”

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  2:00 p.m.

  United States District Court

  for the Central District of California

  It is the stuff of nightmares. The final exam administered without warning or any time to prepare. Except here a failing grade is a life sentence.

  Abby has always excelled by putting her nose to the grindstone, outworking everyone else. She turned in her papers early, found herself with spare time on tests, sought out every extra credit. Never once had she left anything to chance. It was that relentless preparedness that had gotten her into UCLA, then Harvard Law School.

  She is wholly unprepared to give this closing argument. All along, it had been Will’s job. Abby had listened, offered comments, but never done the work of learning it. Hearing Shauna’s seamlessly interwoven story of law and fact had been terrifying. There is enough evidence, more than enough. Emails from Jackie, calls to Estrada, changes to the life insurance policy. The incident where Luz had wielded a knife just a few short years ago. Her chilling switch in demeanor on the witness stand.

  In the end, that argument had hit hardest. “The defendant was a completely different person when it was my turn to ask her questions,” Shauna reminded them. “It wasn’t just that she was rude and inappropriate. That’s a problem, for sure, but it wasn’t the problem.” Shauna took a beat here to look each juror meaningfully in the eye. “The problem was that she lied to you. Over and over and over again. And she was mean. I submit to you that the person you saw in those moments was the real Luz Rivera Hollis, a cold-blooded killer who will stop at nothing to get what she thinks she’s entitled to. All
on her own, she drove a knife through her husband’s skin and bone to tear open his heart. She’s guilty and she knows it.” Shauna had leaned in, her hands on the jury rail. “She said it herself. Mi culpa. My fault.” She paused, letting the words sink in.

  Facing the jurors now, Abby is focused on all the wrong things. The chill of her still-clammy skin. The wasting of the short time she’d had to prepare. In the bathroom stall, she’d removed her soaked nursing bra, wrung it out, patted herself down with paper towels, and blotted the stains on her blouse as best she could. Then she’d sat on the toilet shaking uncontrollably, her arms wrapped around her body, her teeth chattering. Finally, she had stood, put the wet bra and blouse back on, buttoned up her jacket, and checked her reflection briefly in the mirror. Passable, but barely.

  She is thinking of Cal’s face, his eyes fixed on hers, tiny fingers resting on her breast, the sound of rushing water filling the bathtub as they sat alone together in the dead of night. What would it be like, never to hold him again outside a clamoring visiting room that smelled like buttered popcorn from a vending machine? To see, over the years, that pure look of adoration cloud and cool as the visits became less frequent, then stopped altogether? To know that Nic had moved on and was raising her son with another woman? She closes her eyes. Put it away. Then it clicks as she realizes, no, don’t.

  “Some of us are mothers.” Abby makes sure to make eye contact with the jurors who are. “All of us—” she scans the other faces “—have a mother. All of us have an opinion about what it means to be a good mother.”

  She takes a breath. “Our definitions may differ. Some of us may think that a good mother should stay home with her baby if she can afford to. Then again—” Abby tilts her head, raises her eyebrows appraisingly as she adopts an inquisitorial tone “—those moms get questioned, too. ‘You haven’t gone back to work yet?’

  “Breast-feed-or-bottle-feed-cry-it-out-or-co-sleep?” Abby runs the words together and shrugs her shoulders wearily. “There is nothing like the judgment we visit on mothers.” She waits a beat, looking at each juror in turn, then walks back to the defense counsel table and stands behind Luz. This time, when she puts her hands on Luz’s shoulders, there is no resistance.