“Manslaughter. That’s all they gave her. A fucking slap on the wrist. You know what’s another word for manslaughter? A mistake. An accident. That’s what they said happened to my little girl. They didn’t see her. They didn’t see the bruises all over her. She had a black eye, like she was in a fucking bar fight! She was just a baby! There was no fucking mistake about it! My little girl was murdered! I wanted that little bitch in jail for life!”
“Why are we here?” I whisper, since the halls in the courthouse echo at the littlest sound.
“The judge wants to hear oral arguments based on the motion,” Ms. Cora says without looking up from her papers. We are sitting on a bench in front of a giant window. You can see the thick snow clouds hovering low in the sky, threatening to soak my sneakers and freeze off my toes.
“But . . . why am I here?”
She gives me a serious look.
“Because I want you to see what we’re up against for yourself.”
I swallow, straightening my blue dress under Ms. Claire’s coat. Ms. Cora stares off, not in a daydreaming type of way, more like she’s concentrating, so I keep quiet. Her hair is in a tight bun, not like it was at the Christmas party. I feel special, knowing I’ve seen it that way.
I turn my head a little to sniff the coat collar. Smells like her; oranges and cocoa butter. Yesterday, I stopped at the dollar store to buy some cocoa butter. Five dollars and eighty-five cents. I remembered Mrs. Richardson used to rub it on her stomach when Alyssa was still in her belly. Momma said it was so she wouldn’t get stretch marks. Momma knows a lot about being pregnant. I wish I could talk to her about it; I really don’t know what I’m doing. And why hasn’t she come by? I hope she’s taking her pills.
As soon as he steps in front of us, I remember him. He has gained a couple of pounds in the face that evens out the rest of his hefty body and he still wears silver shiny suits that make him look like a nickel but his blond hair is exactly the same.
“Boy, you sure grew up fast,” he says, glaring down at my stomach with a sly smile.
I don’t move. I’m afraid if I move even an inch, I’ll try to kill him. He reaches his hand out to Ms. Cora and I almost slap it away. I don’t want him to touch her, not even a handshake.
“Michel Rabinovitch. I don’t believe we’ve met, young lady.”
She stands, raising an eyebrow.
“Cora Fisher. And I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He laughs. I remember his laugh too. A disgusting loud cackle, mouth all open, spit flying out.
“I’m sure all good things.”
He takes another look at me and smiles.
“Well, guess we should get this show on the road,” he says, winking at Ms. Cora. “See you in there.”
Mr. Jerk Face, or Michel Rabinovitch, is the man who put me away.
Now I know why judges wear those long black robes; because it’s mad cold in this courtroom, like the seats were left outside overnight. I didn’t want to take off my coat; it makes me feel safe. But no one else had one on, so I figured it’d be weird if I didn’t. I count nine people in the room. Last time I was here, they took me straight to baby jail. Ms. Cora says they can’t do that today, and I’m trying real hard to believe her. I can’t go back to the cell with the cement blocks and no windows. I can’t have Bean on a prison floor. But there is nowhere to run if today goes bad.
The old redheaded lady sitting above us in her black robe and thin red glasses looks like a mean grandma. Papers and folders exchange between her and an officer, discussions and the same questions asked over and over in three different ways. Ms. Cora presents, then Mr. Jerk Face. Back and forth and back and forth . . . Judge Conklin doesn’t look at me once. No one does.
And Ms. Cora and Mr. Jerk Face are talking about me like I’m not even in the room.
“Your Honor,” Mr. Jerk Face says. “Alyssa’s family wants to be left at peace. Why on earth would we want to put them through this again based on a story with no real evidence?”
Ms. Cora, standing with her hands folded in front of her like a church steeple, is real calm. Unlike Terry, who is sitting on the other side of me, fidgeting, flipping through files, and taking notes. Don’t know why he’s nervous. He doesn’t have to go back to baby jail, I do.
“New evidence and testimony confirms findings from the original investigation. Further, Mary wasn’t allowed a fair trial, especially when her mother, a possible suspect, had power of attorney and accepted a plea on behalf of her daughter to save herself.”
Mr. Jerk Face laughs, that nasty cackle, reminding me of Ray. Speaking of Ray, I wonder why no one ever brings him up. He played as much a part in this as I did when it comes to Momma being crazy. I guess because he’s dead. I know how, I just don’t feel like talking about it.
“New evidence has emerged? You mean a new story has emerged. If Mary lied before, how do we know she’s not lying now?”
“Mary never lied. She never said she murdered Alyssa. Conclusions were deduced based on the testimony provided by her mother. Mary told the truth. She didn’t know what happened to Alyssa.”
“She didn’t know what happened then, but knows what happened now?”
“Mary was a child at the time. It was understandably difficult for her to articulate the events that transpired.”
Mr. Jerk Face shakes his head. His two assistants, an older blond woman and a young black guy, pass him notes.
“Okay. Let’s all cool our heads and think about this logically here. You’re talking about opening up a case so a teenage convict can keep her baby? Am I the only one looking at the bigger picture here? What kind of life could she provide for the infant? No source of income, no education, no adequate living arrangements. She can’t possibly raise her child in a group home.”
“Women do it. All the time. But her current situation is not on trial here. Her parental rights should not be stripped because of a crime she did not commit.”
Even though she said it, I hope she doesn’t really think Bean and I can stay at the group home. I’d rather live on the streets with the rats and pigeons.
Mr. Jerk Face is confused and baffled. It’s an SAT word I think, bemused.
“Dozens of psychologists confirmed she is unbalanced and needs lifelong psychiatric treatment. Her current situation is exactly what we need to focus on to determine her current mental state.”
“Their findings were inconclusive. You have a dozen that say she’s unbalanced, but there’s another dozen that found her mentally sound and capable to stand trial, even as a child.”
Mr. Jerk Face flips through his notes, punishing the papers.
“One of these psychologists concluded, and I quote, ‘Mary could quite unfathomably suffer from an undiagnosed bipolar disorder, resulting in her manic break.’ Then goes on to list the multiple medications, still prescribed to her this very day.”
Ms. Cora swallows, face stiffening. We never talked about my pills. We never talked about my time at the hospital. I’m too embarrassed to. I hate anyone knowing I was like that.
“They also said she had ADHD,” she snaps. “But none of the standardized approved evaluations proved that to be the case. On top of that, three doctors confirmed she was highly intelligent.”
Mr. Jerk Face’s eye bulges. He’s really mad now.
“Eight months she went without talking. Eight months!”
“Which was the result of her traumatic experience! Every doctor, including the one that you so eloquently quoted, confirmed she suffered from an acute case of post-traumatic stress. She witnessed a murder, committed by her own mother—her sole provider and protector—and was then instructed to cover up the evidence, making her an unwilling and unknowing accomplice. At nine years old, she did not have the capacity to make her own decisions, especially in a frantic situation, involving a death. She was, as described in her testimony, doing what she was told by an authoritative figure.”
Judge Conklin doesn’t say a word. She just sits there, her
lips in a thin red line, watching their Ping-Pong game.
“So what do you suggest, counselor?” Mr. Jerk Face asks. “How do you plan to prove this new version of events?”
Ms. Cora exhales. Maybe for the first time since they started.
“Based on the new testimony, evidence needs to be reexamined to confirm the findings. We need to exhume the body.”
Mr. Jerk Face jumps like he’s been hit by lightning.
“You can’t possibly be serious!” Mr. Jerk Face yells. “Your Honor!”
Exhume is another SAT word. It means to dig something out of the ground. Usually a body.
Wait, she’s the one who wants to dig up Alyssa?
The whole room spins faster. No no no no . . . I can’t see Alyssa like that! Skin rotting, a pile of bones covered in dirt . . . my stomach heaves just thinking about it. I touch Ms. Cora’s leg. She looks down at me, annoyed, mouthing, “Not now.”
“Okay. I think I’ve heard enough,” Judge Conklin says, organizing some papers in front of her. The room takes a deep breath. Mr. Jerk Face’s black assistant is looking at me, sort of the way Sales Guy at the Duane Reade did before Ted threatened him. Mr. Jerk Face catches him and glares. Judge Conklin passively rearranges some more papers on her desk, sipping water.
“I’ll consider your arguments while reviewing the motions and evidence before making a decision on how to proceed.” She looks at Ms. Cora. “Counselor, I’m ordering another psych evaluation for Miss Addison. I’d also like to see all evaluations from the past six years and subsequent reentry treatment reports.”
“Your Honor, the reports submitted include all that was documented,” Ms. Cora says.
Conklin looks down, then back up quickly. Her frown makes a deep V on her small face.
“There are only seven reports here,” she says.
Ms. Cora nods. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“You mean to tell me that in the last six years, she has only been evaluated seven times?”
Mr. Jerk Face jumps in.
“Your Honor, reports state that she refused to communicate with officials and—”
“That is no excuse, counselor,” Conklin snaps. “Whether she talks or not, the final judgment was very clear that she should receive thorough treatment.”
“Your Honor, we’re waiting for any additional evaluations from social services and the group home therapist that were not ready in time for today’s hearing.”
She chuckles. “You mean, you’re waiting for them to magically make up reports that should have been filed years ago?”
Ms. Cora smirks while Conklin picks up another file, reading it over again. Mr. Jerk Face glances at me, looking stressed and almost frustrated. Nothing like he was before. I almost feel sorry for him, for chasing a lie for so many years. He meets my stare and we share a moment. We’re the only two people in this room that share a history.
“Young lady?”
Oh God, she’s talking to me!
“No,” I whimper, clutching my seat, and my whole body starts to tremble hard.
Ms. Cora snatches me up by the arm. Feeling too heavy for my legs, I sway forward. This is the part where she sends me away, back to baby jail, back to my cell. No no no no no!
Ms. Cora holds me steady while I try to pull away, whimpering and begging. She promised, she swore they wouldn’t take me! She shakes her head and mouths, “It’s okay.”
“Relax, Mary,” she whispers, rubbing my arms. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Deep breaths.”
Conklin flips through her files, eyeing me.
“Miss Addison, did you ever talk to a . . . Dr. Yarsmin Kendrick?”
I shake my head, eyes on the floor.
“Dr. Kendrick is your state-appointed psychiatrist. Have you met with Ms. Natasha Charles?”
I shake my head.
“Ms. Charles is your state-appointed legal counsel. Were you at all in contact with Ms. Charles before hiring your present legal counsel?”
Huh? What is she talking about?
“What about April Madison? Maria Straves? Ira Howard? Or Anne Marie L’Faunt?”
None of these names sound familiar except Anne Marie. That sounds like Annie. She gave me a big book on space and National Geographic magazines. She was really nice.
“Annie,” I mumble.
She sighs and closes the file.
“Annie was your first social worker. The rest are all the social workers after her that you have no recollection of meeting, yet your files have vague logs of their visitations.”
Mr. Jerk Face is quiet. Ms. Cora smiles at me, as if to say “good job.”
“Prosecutor, I want your office to do a thorough investigation into this matter,” Ms. Conklin says to Mr. Jerk Face. “I’m interested in knowing why a direct court ruling was blatantly ignored. Per her records, she has been seeing teachers and psychologists every other week for the past six years, but I only see seven status reports. If you ask me, it appears that these visitation logs are either completely inaccurate or forged. I would hate to think the latter.”
Mr. Jerk Face is red, steam blowing out of his ears.
“Also, prosecutor, I’d like to hear the mother’s side of things.”
I stop breathing and fall back into my chair.
Shit. They’re going to talk to Momma?
“Don’t forget, when yuh don’ know the answer, eliminate at least two choices then guess,” Ms. Claire says, putting some books away. She asked me to stop by her office to pick up some paperwork so I went right after court since it was close. Now that I’m here, I think all she wanted to do was talk, but my hands are shaking.
“And don’ tink about di time. Just move like yuh have somewhere to be. Get a good night’s rest so yuh nah yawning and so forth. And don’ be late!”
“Will you be there?” I ask, a tremble in my voice.
She smiles. “No. Meh only run di practice test. Don’ worry! Yuh be fine.”
But I won’t be fine. Not without Ms. Claire. Not without Ted. Doing this was all for us. And now, I don’t know if it’s even worth it anymore.
“Eh eh, what’s wrong wit yuh?”
I don’t say nothing. I’m not ready to tell her the truth yet but Ms. Claire is the type of lady that gets stuff out of you with a stare.
“There’s this . . . guy,” I sigh, feeling mad foolish.
She frowns and waves me off.
“Yuh see me ’ere, don’ even think about anything else but dis test! Dis ’ere is all that matter. Take yuh further than any ras-clat boi.”
I smile. She sounds so funny when she’s mad. She shakes her head with a grin.
“Swell belly gyal, yuh have more important tings to worry about than some boi.”
My hands are still shaking as I walk into the house, but I’m not back in baby jail so that’s all that really matters. Ready for check-in, I head to the back and see Ms. Carmen standing in Ms. Stein’s office with some lady I’ve never seen before. She looks like she could be Kelly’s older sister but dressed like Ms. Cora. Real official-like; must be another social worker or something. They talk in hushed whispers, none of them seeming happy about seeing each other. I stand off to the side, trying to stay out of sight. Ms. Stein squirms in her sweaty skin, two seconds away from puking. Why is she nervous? I’m so caught up that I don’t even notice Joi standing behind me.
“Damn, psycho, you brought the heat on you now,” she whispers, looking over my shoulder. “That’s Leah. She’s, like, the big boss at ACS. Used to visit the last group home I was in. And if she’s here, you definitely in trouble. She sends kids to Crossroads mad quick.”
I’ve heard stories about Crossroads. It’s a juvenile detention center in Brownsville, the last stop before hell, purgatory. It’s the place they return you to when you act up in group or foster homes. One night there and a kid can come out with cracked ribs, a broken jaw, and a hundred stitches. Ted stayed there. His hands were proof all those stories were true.
“Well, things have be
en . . . busy here,” Ms. Stein says, all defensive, lips in a tight line. Ms. Leah shakes her head.
“You know, after everything you’ve been through, I figured you wanted nothing to do with kids,” Ms. Leah says.
Ms. Stein shifts, squinting at her like she’s the sun. “This is a little . . . easier than fieldwork.”
“Is it?” Ms. Leah says, almost like a laugh. “You complained about your caseload, but you can’t even handle one girl!”
Ms. Stein fidgets, at a loss for what to say.
“I heard Ms. Stein used to work with her back in the day,” Joi whispers. “But then Ms. Stein got fired ’cause one of the kids she was supposed to be checking for got beat by his daddy and died. Said she had too many cases and couldn’t keep up.”
My mouth drops. She used to be a social worker? Damn, no wonder she hates me. No wonder she don’t want me to keep Bean!
“What? You didn’t know?” Joi grins and walks away before I notice Ms. Leah nod in my direction.
“Is that her?”
Ms. Stein spins around and glares at me. “Yeah. That’s her.”
“You sure you can handle this?” Ms. Leah says to Ms. Stein, voice laced with a warning.
Ms. Stein’s back straightens. “We got everything under control.”
Something about the way she said that crunches fear right into my bones.
chapter fourteen
One wallet with picture ID, check. Three number two pencils, check. One pen, blue ink, check. One graphing calculator, check. One bottle of water, one bag of peanuts, one apple, one pack of graham crackers from the nursing home (in case I get hungry), check.
I’m ready.
I packed my book bag before dinner since I’m on kitchen duty this week and would be too tired to do it afterward. I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. so I could get there early, like Ms. Claire told me to.
This is it. This is my chance to go to college. To get a degree so I can get a good job and find a safe place for me and Bean. The place I was supposed to have with Ted. Wonder if he thinks about me as much as I try not to think about him. In the shower, the cold water rides over my stomach. It’s growing fast, a big ball attached to a thin stick. Bean, my baby boy. Baby Benson. I’d do anything for him and he doesn’t even know it. I should start thinking of a middle name. Maybe after the test.
Allegedly Page 20
