by Lara Bazelon
Will thinks of the billing records, the calls in the months and days leading up to Travis Hollis’s death. “Did you think she was going to kill him?”
“You know better than to ask a question like that.”
Will says, too eagerly, “I believe her. I’ve always believed her when she told me it was self-defense.” As he says the words, it occurs to Will that Luz has never told him that, has never told him anything about what she was thinking the night that Travis died other than to reject Will’s various attempts to explain it for her. But the man sitting across from him knows what happened, or at least enough of what happened that he went to jail over it, and maybe, it occurs to Will now, not only to protect Luz.
They sit in silence for a moment, Will with his hands clasped together trying to regroup, reminding himself of his goal. Estrada has picked up another paper clip, is fiddling with it. Will keeps waiting for him to say something, but Estrada seems content with the silence and finally Will breaks it. He tries again for the aw-shucks grin, the one that until recently he had slipped on comfortably on so many occasions over the course of his life and to such great effect. “Look, sir, I just need to see her. Just—I need to see for myself that she’s okay.”
Estrada stretches the paper clip, pressing it flat on the table. “Is that why?” he says.
Will feels his face flush. “I just want—She’s my client. You said it yourself, the attorney-client relationship never really ends.”
“I have reason to believe,” Estrada says, “that your relationship with Luz went beyond attorney and client.”
Will tries to hold his gaze, looks away.
“Luz has a history of problematic relationships with men,” Estrada says quietly, “Sergeant Hollis being the most extreme example. It’s not surprising, given how she grew up, with no father, no real parenting. I’m trying to be that for her now. A parent. Technically, she’s an adult but she’s still a teenager, you know. She and Cristina are alone in the world.”
“What makes you think you’ll have any better luck with Luz than her grandmother did?”
“Maria Elena was a good person and she did her best, but she was overwhelmed and outmatched. Back then, Luz was at a different stage in her life, less open to thinking differently about her own behavior, particularly around romantic relationships. Part of it is breaking these cycles, don’t you think? These relationships aren’t healthy—for either party.”
“So you’re the hero in this story, is that it?” Will says bitterly. “What a bunch of bullshit. You’re just exercising another form of control over her and congratulating yourself all the way to a $400,000 payday.”
“That money is in a trust for Cristina,” Estrada says sharply, “not that it is any of your business. And no, I don’t see myself as a savior. Far from it.” He looks at the picture of the girl behind him on the credenza with the long dark hair, smiling against the sky blue background. “My motivations are selfish. I’m long divorced. My own daughter is dead. It’s a lucky, lucky second chance for me. To be part of a family again.” Estrada leans forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped, the paper clip momentarily forgotten.
“But I’m not the only one who has a second chance here.” Estrada inclines his chin toward the platinum band on Will’s left hand. “Go home to your wife. Move away with her, maybe somewhere closer to her parents or yours. Forget all of this. It’s over now.”
Will closes his eyes against the hot and sudden tears.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
12:30 p.m.
Elysian Park
Los Angeles, California
“Thank you for meeting me.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” Paul dusts off the park bench carefully with his palm before sitting down beside Abby and Cal. As usual, he is immaculate: dark suit, white shirt, red tie. Not a crease or a wrinkle, not even a stray piece of lint. “It’s good to get out of the office every once in a while and be out in nature. Or,” he says, and smiles wryly, “what passes for nature.”
Elysian Park has its own dry, dusty beauty. There are wide dirt trails etched into steep hills that surround it, offering spectacular views for those willing to make the trek. A two-lane asphalt road runs through the park’s valley with picnic areas on both sides just like the one they are occupying. On the weekends, they are thick with families, some white, some Black, but mostly brown. The fathers tend to the barbecue, filling the air with the rich smell of roasting meat; the mothers tend to their smaller children while the older ones run around whooping and screaming as the ice-cream truck drives slowly back and forth, playing its endless jingle.
But today is a Tuesday and school has not yet let out. The park is deserted, save for a few nannies and stay-at-home moms who push their toddlers in strollers and baby buggies. Now Abby is one of them.
“You look well. And this guy, do you mind if I—” Paul smiles and reaches out, and Abby holds up Cal for him to take. “Wow, he’s gotten so big.”
Initially, Cal squawks, but he quiets down, even rewarding Paul with a gummy smile after Paul tickles his stomach and makes goo-goo noises that sound impossible coming out of his mouth. He sees Abby staring and says, “I did this with my twins, too, when they were younger.”
Cal grasps at Paul’s watch and Paul takes it off and dangles it. Cal grabs the clasp and puts it in his mouth. When Abby reaches over and gently removes it, he starts to gnaw on her finger.
“He’s teething,” she says.
“So I see.”
For a moment, they sit quietly watching Cal, but he soon tires of the gnawing and lets out another squawk, looking expectantly at Abby. Paul hands him back and averts his gaze while she lifts up her tee shirt and undoes her bra to nurse him. It is a warm day, nearly eighty degrees. Cal is wearing a pale blue onesie; Abby is in shorts and flip-flops. For the first time in years, her legs are tan.
When Cal is settled again, Paul says quietly, “He’s a beautiful baby, Abby. You’re doing a great job.”
She blinks in surprise, then tries her best to look as if the compliments are stray pleasantries. “Thank you,” she says primly.
“How is everything?”
“It’s okay,” she says. “We’re doing okay.”
“Funny, I ran into Nic as I was leaving court to meet you,” Paul says. “Just talking shop. I was asking him about his weekend and he mentioned that the three of you had gone on a short trip.”
“Jonathan and Quinn just bought a place in Seal Beach. They’re planning to use it as a rental property but they want to redo the kitchen and downstairs bathroom, so in the meantime...” She shrugs, then says quietly, “It was just the weekend. We’re not—we’re not reconciled.”
Paul nods. “But maybe,” he says.
“Maybe.” She says the word carefully, testing it out, and then concludes, “But maybe not.” She isn’t sure if it is possible or even if it is what she wants. More important, far more important, was the improvement in the custody situation. She has the seal of approval from Child Protective Services and the judge’s written sign-off. No more supervised visitation. Fifty-fifty custody, which given Nic’s work schedule and her lack of one, has turned into more like eighty-twenty.
“So,” Paul says, “this is your meeting. You want to talk about work?”
She nods.
“You’re welcome back anytime, Abby, but you know you have at least a month left if you want it. More, I’m guessing, because you never take vacation.”
“I should have come to you,” she says abruptly, “during the trial. I should have told you what was happening. You think that, right?”
Paul turns to stare out into the street. They sit silently again, listening to the occasional passing car. Finally, he says, “I said at the outset that you and Will were a team. The team. I didn’t put myself on it. I decided to trust you. Both of you.”
“Which you
think now was a mistake.”
“You made some decisions. You both did. Decisions that were not wise.” Paul continues to look out onto the street, his face expressionless. “Will and Meredith are moving back to Oklahoma. He gave his two weeks’ notice. He’s got a visiting professor gig to teach military law at U of O, starting in August. Did you know that?”
“No,” Abby says. A pause and then she adds, “but that’s good. For him, I mean. And Meredith.” One of her arms is starting to ache under Cal’s weight and she shifts position slightly, just enough to relieve the pressure without unsettling him.
“You want to know what I think about the trial.” Paul leans forward, elbows on his knees. “If I had known even the bit that I do, which is far from the full story, would I have intervened? Yeah. Would things have been different? Yeah. But maybe things being different would mean that Luz would be in prison right now. The bottom line is that because of what you did, because of what Will did, and because of what Luz did, she walked. She walked away.”
“A miracle,” Abby says flatly.
Paul shakes his head. “That’s not what it was.”
Once again, Abby is caught off guard. She responds, lightly, “Mr. Estrada called me a holy terror.”
Paul chuckles. “That’s good. I like that.”
Another silence falls. Cal finishes and Abby cradles him with one arm while taking a white cloth from her diaper bag, then puts his body against her chest so that his chin is resting on her shoulder. She rubs his back, smells his delicious baby smell, and waits for him to spit up.
Paul shakes his head. “Mr. Estrada. The man is impressive. Not many attorneys would sit in jail like that for a client.”
“No,” Abby agrees.
“But you would,” Paul says. “You would sit in jail for as long as it took. Until the last dog died. You almost had to.” Paul nods, as if to himself. “That was some very good lawyering, under tremendous pressure. You can’t teach that.”
“I got lucky,” she says. Hearing the familiar sounds from Cal, she takes him off her shoulder, carefully wipes his mouth with the bottom of her tee shirt, and cradles him again. Cal’s eyelids flutter, then close.
Paul shakes his head. “It’s got nothing to do with luck. You are a fine trial lawyer, Abby. Exceptional, even.”
Abby’s vision blurs. She blinks hard several times and tries to say “thank you,” but the words strangle in her throat. She looks down as Cal, awake after all, opens his eyes and looks up.
* * *
Acknowledgments
This book was years in the writing and benefited tremendously from the editorial advice, expertise, love, care, and encouragement of many people.
To my Los Angeles writer’s group: Reyna Grande, Jessica Garrison, Ann Marsh, Sonia Nazario, and Lisa Richardson: you were there with Abby from the beginning. I am thankful and honored that I got to be part of this group. Your generosity and support over the years made me believe I was a writer. You inspired me to keep going even during the hardest times.
To my colleagues and friends at the Office of the Federal Public Defender in Los Angeles: I am grateful for my seven years with you. Maria Elena Stratton and Sean Kennedy: the fearless client-centered bosses who always had my back. To Dennis Landin, who generously supervised me during that very intense first year, in addition to all of his other responsibilities, and to the intrepid and unflappable Callie Glanton Steele, who taught me to stand up at crucial moments. To my trial partners over the years: Michael Proctor, Michael Schafler, Jill Ginstling, and Myra Sun. To Reuven Cohen, who made me laugh until I cried—and who never got to finish smoking that cigarette. And, especially, to Guy Casey Iversen, the greatest trial lawyer I have ever seen, including on TV. Guy, your ability to see the world in four dimensions and exceptionally high level of emotional intelligence gave me so much: courtroom skills, confidence in myself, and even a freshly laundered tee shirt to blow my nose into when I was crying uncontrollably. Michael Garcia, on that same note, thank you for your huge heart and clean white handkerchief. I know it was never the same afterward. To Alonso Garcia, an exceptional investigator.
To all the hardworking public defender mothers out there who inspire me every day, including and especially Eda Katherine Tinto—there has been no string of acquittals like yours, not before and not after.
This book benefited immeasurably from early and careful readers. John Jay Osborn, Chris Flood, and Reyna Grande, your exhaustive edits made it so much better than it was. Payton Lyon, for educating me about military life, David Frankel, for educating me about medical matters of the heart—all mistakes are mine. To Jenny Estevez, Jessica Garrison, and Melissa Segura for telling me the truth. To Alafair Burke, for lifting up an aspiring novelist, and to Cathi Hanauer—it was high praise coming from you. Jane Dirkes, you are a generous reader and an even more generous grandmother and friend.
I am lucky to have a loving and indefatigable champion in my agent, Emma Patterson, who has known Abby for many years and was the driving force in bringing her to life. I am thankful my novel found a home at Hanover Square Press, and for a wise, insightful editor, Peter Joseph, who understood immediately what I was trying to do. Peter, Grace Towery, and everyone on the Hanover Square team got me from Mile 18 to the end of the marathon.
Finally, to Matt Dirkes, for our beautiful children, Carter and Ella, and our imperfect but lifelong partnership, and to my parents, who led by example and always told me to shoot for the moon.
ISBN-13: 9780369703149
A Good Mother
Copyright © 2021 by Lara Bazelon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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