“How else are you going to get a car?” she asked.

“Does your Dad know? Is he going to be pissed it’s not his?”

“I’ll tell him,” she said.

I felt badly about how happy and excited I was. This was my last day with her and I had prepared myself for the numb tragedy of it. Of driving to the courthouse in Ray’s car. Of waiting for her appearance. Of handing her over. I didn’t know what would pass over her face when the bailiff first put his hands on her and her body became not her own. It was the kind of terrible thing that was difficult to put into words, but I had watched it happen to my mother, and I knew what it was. I had prepared for bureaucracy and tragedy and tears, but I had not prepared for someone to give me a car. I kept trying not to smile, but pushing it down made it hurt.

“I’m sorry I was so mean about Eric,” I said. “You can do whatever you want. It’s your life. I don’t know why…I—”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went. It was boring and stupid, but I just—I wanted so badly to feel like someone loved me. I always had this fantasy that—I have this tiny freckle, here,” she said. “And here.” She tilted her head so that I could see her neck. “See I have three tiny freckles in a row. And I have always had this fantasy of lying in bed with a man, and him noticing them and loving these three tiny little freckles. That only I have. That are me. And I thought—maybe he would see them.”

“I’ve always loved those freckles,” I said. They looked like the beginning of a dotted line. Like someone had marked where to start the knife when they cut off her head. I don’t know why they always portended such violence to me, but they did.

“I don’t know why I wanted him to see them.”

“Did he?”

“Of course not. I mean, and obviously we were in a dark car, I didn’t literally expect him to see them, it wasn’t the freckles, it was the whole thing.”

“You wanted to be seen.”

“Yes.”

Why did we want so desperately to be seen? I saw her. My eyes were full of her. But it wasn’t enough, and I was no longer hurt by it. The way she loved me wasn’t enough for me either. Maybe love would never be enough. Maybe it would never do what we wanted it to do.

* * *

—

The court was a buzzing, bustling place, and though our sentencing hearing was scheduled for eleven, Ray and Swanson and Bunny and I had gotten to the courtroom an hour early just in case. Our hearing was in Department 31 on the third floor, and even the hallway outside was crowded with people making deals or preparing or reviewing notes, lawyers and clients, street cops and detectives. There was a group of EMTs eating sunflower seeds and laughing. Swanson steered us to a cold granite bench, and we sat. “So once we go in, we can’t talk. You guys want to chill out here, and I’ll go see what case number they’re on?”

We nodded dumbly. Even though there was no reason for me to be personally nervous—I would not even have to speak in the courtroom—I found I was so physically freaked out that my eyes didn’t seem to be working correctly, as though my pupils were letting in too much light or not enough. I was incredibly distracted by this security guard who, while talking casually with an EMT who seemed to be his friend, had his hand on his gun and was gently fiddling with it. There were green tiles in a pattern with beige tiles, and I thought: Who designed this? What architect is tasked with determining the stagecraft of justice?

Swanson had returned to us. “They’re ahead of schedule, so let’s just go in. You need to go to the bathroom?” he asked Bunny. She shook her head. “Last chance,” he said, which even in my stunted state I found to be a frightening thing to say.

But I was glad Swanson had us go inside, because the courtroom was like a bath and it was better to have time to adapt to its strange temperature. It was a large room with a curved ceiling like an airplane hangar, and at the front of the room the judge sat at the bench, the American flag and the California flag hanging limp behind him, flanking the seal of the State of California. These were the totems. These were the details that made this a real courtroom and not a dream. The judge seemed to be some kind of ancient mouse king, swallowed in his black robes, with a pointy face and bifocals. He still had all his hair and it was an unremarkable brown color, gray at the temples. His voice was a nasal, pointy instrument he used to poke holes in things. We watched a gun charge get dismissed, and the young man bounced out of there like he could barely keep his feet on the ground. His friend was wearing a crucifix so covered in diamonds it must have cost as much as a car. The bailiff was constantly hunting people secretly looking at their cell phones, the use of which was prohibited as many notices in the courtroom advertised, and whenever he would catch someone silently scrolling or texting, there would be titters as he confronted the person and confiscated their phone. The first time it happened, I didn’t know what was going on, and he moved from the bailiff’s box with such speed and emergency that I thought someone had drawn a gun.

Bunny and I held hands. Ray sat on her other side, and next to him Swanson sat, although Swan kept getting up, going outside, coming back in, and generally being in constant, agitated motion. We were watching a setting hearing where they were arguing over the date of a preliminary hearing, and the public defender explained she would be occupied for at least a month on a murder trial, and then would be taking a two-week vacation.

“Would you like to cancel your vacation?” the judge asked her.

“Excuse me?” the public defender asked.

“Would you like to cancel your vacation?” he asked again.

“No, thank you,” the public defender said, very smoothly, but I could hear, we all could hear, the quaver in her voice.

“Very well,” the judge said, and set the date of the preliminary hearing.

Watching all of this was absorbing and boring at the same time, much like a piece of theater. The case right before Bunny’s, we were all on edge with the knowledge that we were next. The defendant was in custody, and when the bailiff brought him out, there was an anguished twist to his face, and it was plain he was on the verge of tears. He slumped as far down into the chair as he could.

A man got up and said that the defendant’s lawyer had had a family emergency and he would be stepping in for her for the day.

“Sit up,” the judge yelled at the defendant. “Sit up like a man at your own hearing.”

The boy sat up more in the chair, but I could see his shoulders were shaking. I understood then what the man representing him was saying. The boy’s lawyer had not shown up. She had a family emergency. And now this young man was at his murder prelim alone, and he was angry and terrified and crying very much against his will in front of the judge. I guess it was then that I understood how unsafe we really were. The judge did not have any tenderness or even any inclination toward civility for this young man. The fact that we would all be crying if our lawyer bailed on us during a hearing when we were accused of murder was not of consequence.