I think about Edison texting me at work, things like Reading Lolita 4 AP Eng. Where dinner is not a conversation but take-out Chinese with the television blaring.
I think about my sister’s home, where her boys talk back to their dad when he tells them to take out the trash. I’m sure your sister will keep an eye on him.”Ī sob swells like a song in my throat. She talks about mortgage deeds and percentages, numbers that swim in my head. I don’t know how much time passes before Kennedy comes. I think about that spider of a tattoo on Turk Bauer’s head, and how I hadn’t believed he could possibly be worse than he already was, but I was wrong. I count all the cinder blocks in the wall: 360. I wait in the same cell I was taken to during the recess in court. Then a beefy guard has my arm and firmly pushes me back to the rabbit warren of holding cells in the basement of this godforsaken building. There must be paperwork, which I can then lock away to prove that this was all a misunderstanding. “What happens now?” I ask, as the people in the courtroom hear the decision, and become a living, breathing thing. Just like that, I want to hug this woman, thank her. I wonder if this is because she feels nothing but contempt for me, an alleged criminal…or because she knows if she wants to be taken seriously, she has to widen the canyon between us. The prosecutor, who’s a woman of color, does not even make eye contact with me. I listen to this lawyer-Kennedy something, I have already forgotten her last name-volley back and forth with another lawyer. And because I didn’t trust this stranger sitting across from me, when I was nothing more to her than the other twenty clients she would see today.
Not because I thought, at this point, that I still had a job to save, but because I just couldn’t think through fast enough what the right answer would be, the one that might set me free. She had asked me if I touched the baby, and I’d lied to her.
It is more humiliating than being in public in my nightgown, than having to urinate without privacy in the holding cell, than being spit at by Turk Bauer, than having a stranger speak for me in front of a judge. They put me in chains, and my son-who I’ve told, every day since he was born, You are more than the color of your skin-my son watches. As if I can’t feel my great-great-grandmother and her mother standing on an auction block. Just like that, they shackle my hands in front of me, as if that doesn’t send two hundred years of history running through my veins like an electric current.
#The color war jodi picoult series#
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