After

by Amy Efaw

  “Had you met Ms. Davenport prior to this conversation outside her door?”

  “Well, during the course of our conversation outside her door, she reminded us that she had first spoken to me briefly in the alley earlier that morning. She’d said then that she had just stepped off the bus, coming home from work, and noticed all the police activity outside her apartment complex and had asked me a few questions about the incident. So, at that point in our conversation outside her door, yes, I did recognize that I had spoken with her earlier.”

  “And during this conversation, did Ms. Davenport appear to be cooperative?”

  “Very much so. She seemed . . . um, how can I put it? Very eager to help us out, I guess is how I’d describe her. Very friendly and open.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Well, I was interested in speaking with her daughter, so I asked Ms. Davenport if I could talk to her for a moment.”

  The scene replays slowly in Devon’s mind now. It’s all there: Devon’s mom leans closer to the man with the blond hair. Whispers something in his ear. Looks back over her shoulder, back at Devon lying on the couch. Turns again to the man. Giggles.

  The man says something to her in return. Her mom moves aside, little tiptoey steps, rearranges her hair.

  “Why did you want to speak to Ms. Davenport’s daughter?”

  “As an investigator, I am trained to go with my gut feeling. Given the fact that an unsupervised teenaged girl had stayed home from school because she was sick, combined with her residence being in such close proximity to where a baby had been found inside a trash can that very same morning, well, my gut was sending up a little red flag. But at the very least, I was hopeful that she may have seen or heard something that could help us with our search.”

  “Did Ms. Davenport give you permission to enter her apartment and speak to her daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  Her mom has that look on her face, that definite flash in her eye. That slight lift of the eyebrow, that smile playing her lips. She’s in the midst of the game. He’s the prey, and she’s the predator, and she will catch him.

  The man smiles at her, lets his eyes linger on her face for a moment, then quickly steps past her and into the apartment.

  Her mom follows behind him, her eyes dropping briefly as she watches him move away from her.

  Was that giving permission? Her mom wasn’t thinking about permission then. No, she was thinking about him.

  Devon looks over at Dom. Her brows furrowed behind her wire frames. Would Dom think that her mom had given him permission at that moment?

  “What did you do then, Detective Woods?”

  “I entered the apartment and approached the girl. She was lying on the couch under some kind of blanket.”

  Devon feels that prick, like when she’s in class and has some unique insight to share. She feels the adrenaline pumping through her arms. Should she say something to Dom?

  “How did the girl appear to you?”

  Unsure of what to do, Devon only half-listens as the detective describes how he first found Devon—listless on the couch with damp hair and pale skin. How he’d introduced himself to her, crouching down so he could offer her his hand. How she’d seemed unresponsive to his questions.

  “Did she appear to have understood you?” the prosecutor is asking now.

  “I wasn’t sure at the time. This is all detailed in my report.”

  “Did she seem like she wanted to get away?”

  “No. She seemed barely conscious. Barely hanging on.”

  Devon looks over at Dom once more. Her hands are clasped over her legal pad. Devon pulls her own toward herself. Quickly scribbles: My mom didn’t really give permission to come inside. She was actually hitting on him. Devon pushes the pad toward Dom, taps her on the elbow.

  Dom turns toward Devon abruptly, annoyed. Then she notices the note, glances down, her eyes darting behind her wire frames. Suddenly her eyebrows jump up. She turns back to Devon, then back to the pad. Scribbles underneath Devon’s own writing: You remember this? Then looks back at Devon.

  Devon nods.

  Writes, You’re sure?

  Devon nods again.

  The prosecutor continues to question the detective. They discuss what happened after Devon’s mom had pulled the blanket away. How Police Sergeant Fowler entered the apartment to get Devon’s mom under control, how she’d kicked and screamed. They discuss how Devon had, in the end, passed out. How he’d radioed for an ambulance.

  After the prosecutor returns to his seat, the judge looks over at Dom. “Defense?”

  Dom stands. “Your Honor, I would request a short recess to conference with my client.”

  Judge Saynisch checks his watch, glances at the prosecutor. “Okay. Court adjourned for a ten-minute recess. Return to the courtroom at ten forty-five.” He hammers his gavel, and as he departs the courtroom, the people within snap to their feet.

  chapter twenty

  Dom pulls Devon into the conference room outside the courtroom. Drops her notebook on the round table, pulls out the folding chair farthest from the door and facing it. “Sit down, Devon. We don’t have much time.”

  Devon takes the chair opposite Dom.

  “Spill,” Dom says. “Tell me everything you remember.”

  Devon looks down at her gnawed nails. Nothing left to pick at. She stashes her hands under her thighs. “Well, my mom’s always looking for the next guy,” she says finally. “That guy, that detective, was a potential candidate, I guess. When she was talking to him at the door, I remember thinking, ‘Why doesn’t she just take his number and make him go away?’”

  Dom listens as Devon pieces together what she’s remembered, how she’d watched her mom flirt with the two guys, how her mom had played with the door, opening and closing it with her foot. How she’d, most likely, only used Devon being home that morning as an excuse to get the blond guy into her apartment so she could try to work her magic on him. “I know her,” Devon says softly. “She’s done stuff like that so many times.”

  “Your mom didn’t mention any of this to me.” Dom’s tone is doubtful.

  “So, she told you stuff?” Then Devon clamps her mouth shut.

  She has other questions ready to burst, like, Where was she? Why didn’t she ever come? What does she think about me? But doesn’t ask any of them.

  “Of course,” Dom snaps. “What do you think? We talked for a couple of hours. I don’t call witnesses blind.”

  Devon nods, swallows. “Well, my mom didn’t mention it because she probably didn’t even realize what was going on herself. She’s that clueless.”

  “But, apparently, you did. You see, this is why you tell me everything, Devon. I hate surprises, especially on the day I go to court.” Dom sighs, takes off her glasses, wipes the lenses with the hem of her skirt.

  “But I didn’t really think about . . . didn’t remember it, until I was in there hearing it.”

  Dom sighs again. “Fine, Devon.” She peers through the lenses to make sure they’re clear, then places them back on her face. “You didn’t remember; I get it.” She flips through a note-scrawled notebook then looks back up at Devon. “This is very important, the facts about this, what you’re claiming. If we can prove that your mother had not clearly granted the detective formal entry into your apartment, and he entered anyway, then we can argue that any evidence he discovered inside should be suppressed. Which means it won’t be admissible in court. Which means it can’t be used against you. This is good; it may help us. A lot. So you must be absolutely clear and correct with this assertion.” Dom drums her fingers on the table. “Of course, your testimony could be discounted because of your state of mind at the time. You did pass out.”

  Dom has that look on her face now, that thoughtful look.

  At this moment, Devon feels a sudden surge of gratitude—how lucky she is to have Dom here with her. Always turning things over, looking at all sides. She feels tears prick at the corners of he
r eyes. Dom must really care about her. Right?

  “Well,” Dom continues, “this won’t come into play until the actual trial. But I can embark on a little fishing expedition today, see if there’s something to it. Test out my bait to see if it’s tasty. And to discredit the detective as a witness. I can put a few dings in his seemingly flawless armor. I can make him squirm.”

  Dom slaps the tabletop, stands up. Her eyes are bright. “Ready?” Devon stands up, too. Turns her head, quickly wipes at her eyes. “Sure.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get back in there and go stir things up!”

  “All rise!”

  The courtroom is on its feet, and Devon watches as Judge Saynisch makes his way up to his bench. Sits down, scans the room.

  “Be seated.” When the room is settled, he looks over at Dom. “Defense, do you have any questions for the witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Then proceed. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  As Dom stands, Devon feels the nervous pregame jitters spiking in her stomach. Not from dread for once, but excitement. She wonders what Dom is going to do.

  Dom moves slowly around to the front of the defense table, leans against it. Crosses her arms. She faces Detective Woods, already seated back on the witness stand. “Detective Woods, during the previous examination, you stated that Ms. Davenport, the respondent’s mother, had granted permission for you to enter her apartment and question her daughter, Devon Davenport, the respondent. Is this true?”

  He makes a small sneer to the question. “Yes, it is. I swore an oath to tell the complete truth.”

  “Well, that’s admirable,” Dom says. “So then, Detective, Ms. Davenport gave you verbal permission to enter?”

  “Ms. Barcellona,” Judge Saynisch says. “Watch the sarcasm. And move things along.”

  Dom nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You may answer the question, Detective,” the judge says.

  Detective Woods shifts in his seat, crosses his legs. “I wouldn’t have entered otherwise.”

  “I see. So, how did this go down, exactly?”

  Detective Woods frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “What I’m asking, Detective Woods, is do you recall what Ms. Davenport said that led you to believe that you had permission to enter her apartment?”

  “As I’ve already stated, Ms. Davenport had mentioned to me that her daughter had been home alone all morning from school because she was sick. So, I asked her something like, ‘Do you mind if I talk to her?’ By ‘her’ I meant Ms. Davenport’s daughter, the respondent.”

  “Yes, but again, did Ms. Davenport say that you could enter into her apartment and speak to her daughter?”

  “Objection!” The prosecutor is on his feet. “Relevance, Your Honor. This is not a suppression hearing, but a declination hearing.”

  “Good point, Counsel,” the judge says. “But I’m going to let Ms. Barcellona spread her wings a little on this one.” He looks over at Dom then. “I’m giving you some latitude, Ms. Barcellona. Don’t abuse it.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You may answer the question, Detective Woods.”

  Detective Woods clears his throat. “Ms. Davenport allowed me to enter the apartment, yes.”

  “Allowed you to enter the apartment. But you don’t recall her exact words.” Dom walks from one end of the table to the other, her finger trailing along its edge. Then, “Detective, you mentioned earlier”—Dom leans across the defense table, pulls her notebook toward herself. She flips through it, then looks up at the detective. “You said that Ms. Davenport was very cooperative with you and Police Sergeant Fowler. You said, and I quote, ‘she seemed very eager to help us out. Very friendly and open.’” She pauses. “Would you also say that she was flirtatious?”

  Detective Woods shifts around again. “I guess that could be accurate, but that’s a matter of interpretation, whether someone regards another as being flirtatious or not.”

  “So, Detective Woods, would you say that she was hitting on you?”

  He clears his throat. “Some might say that.”

  “But would you say it?”

  “I suppose . . . yes.”

  “And you used that interpretation of her behavior toward you, her hitting on you, to your advantage. Didn’t you, Detective? You didn’t wait—did you?—for her to formally invite you inside the—”

  “She stepped aside to let me pass.”

  “Also a matter of interpretation, Detective? Because didn’t you make a statement to a Tacoma News Tribune reporter, a statement that was quoted in an article dated a day after the incident occurred?” Dom reaches behind her, snatches up a newspaper clipping lying on the defense table, an article that Devon recognizes as one that Dom had given her that first day they’d met together. “A statement referencing that once you and Police Sergeant Fowler learned—”

  “Objection! Hearsay.”

  “I’ll allow it,” the judge says wearily. “Carry on, Ms. Barcellona. But quickly.”

  “Detective, once you had learned from Ms. Davenport that her daughter had stayed home from school, didn’t you say, and I quote from the article”—Dom peers down at the article in her hands—“‘That set off huge bells in my head,’ Woods said. ‘So, Fowler and I, we just went with it.’”

  Dom looks up at the detective, waits for his reply.

  Though she can’t see Dom’s face from her seat, Devon can imagine that eyebrow of hers, arched over her wire-framed glasses.

  “Look!” The detective leans forward in his chair, his tanned face turning darker, the muscles in his neck strained. “She didn’t bar my way. She didn’t ask for a warrant. In fact, she followed me inside. Okay? Still talking, apologizing that . . . that her house was such a mess. I didn’t construe any objection on her part to my entry. Not at all. She consented with her behavior. Is that clear?”

  Dom smiles. “Just like when a rape victim hadn’t screamed No!, then she must have actually consented. And therefore wasn’t really raped. Hmm, Detective?”

  “Objection! Argumentative, harassing the witness!”

  “Ms. Barcellona,” the judge says, “you’ve now crossed the line. Don’t do it again. This is a warning.”

  Devon leans forward. Yes! Dom’s first yellow card!

  Dom walks toward the defense table, then turns back around. “And when was it, Detective Woods, that you actually got around to reading Devon Davenport, the respondent, her rights?”

  The detective leans back in his seat, the hostility sliding from his face. Crosses his arms confidently. “Shortly after her mother removed the blanket, the one that the respondent had wrapped around herself.”

  “And, refresh my memory, was that before or after the respondent passed out?”

  The detective licks his lips. “Before . . . I think . . . I’m sure . . .”

  Dom smiles, glances up at the judge. “I have no further questions.”

  The rest of the morning progresses slowly. Other witnesses come and go, answering the prosecutor’s questions. A police officer, Police Sergeant Keith Cruz, the first to arrive at the scene. He spoke about securing the crime scene, and Dom didn’t ask him any questions. Then the prosecutor called Police Officer Bruce Fowler, who had accompanied Detective Woods in his door-to-door search. His testimony was similar to the detective’s, but not as long and involved. Dom questioned him about his role in entering the apartment, but he insisted that he had stayed outside and entered only after Devon’s mother had started lashing out at Detective Woods.

  The prosecutor then called the pediatrician, Dr. Jyoti More, who had received the baby at the hospital; she explained that the baby’s core temperature was eighty-nine degrees, that the baby arrived with the umbilical cord still attached, that the cut was ragged, not clean—an indication that the instrument used to sever the cord was blunt. That she observed the baby had sustained a small bruise on the left side of her head behind the ear, probably also the site of a mild con
cussion. All this testimony, she recited carefully and concisely, like she was a talking encyclopedia of medical terms. Her heavy Indian accent and funny turns of phrase were kind of cute and reminded Devon of a female version of Apu, the Kwik-E-Mart owner of The Simpsons.

  When the prosecutor had returned to his seat, Judge Saynisch looks over at Dom. “Defense, do you have any questions for the witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Dom steps out from behind her chair, walks within arm’s reach of the witness stand, smiles at the doctor sitting there. “Dr. More, I’d first like to concentrate on the portion of your testimony concerning the baby’s bruising and concussion.”

  “Yes.” Dr. More returns Dom’s smile, her eyes bright and eager.

  She seems so nice, Devon thinks. I hope Dom isn’t too mean to her.

  “Dr. More, you’ve stated here today that the baby had sustained an approximate three-centimeter-by-one-centimeter bruise on the left side of her head, behind the ear. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “And, according to your testimony today, you stated that the site of this bruise is also where the concussion was sustained. Correct?”

  “Yes. I believe that the bruise and the concussion have occurred on the same time.”

  “And, please forgive me for being redundant, Dr. More, but you’ve testified today that you believe this bruising and concussion occurred after the baby was born, and that these injuries are consistent with head trauma due to blows to the head. Am I still on track?”

  “Yes, you are. Thank you.”

  “And how did you come to so definitive a conclusion, Dr. More?”

  “I do not think I understand the wording of this question.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. More. Let me ask it a different way. You state that the bruise and concussion were consistent with head trauma due to blows to the head. But could they—the bruise and the concussion—also be consistent with an injury sustained by means other than blows to the head? Like, during the actual birth process, perhaps?”