“Is it unusual for an anesthesiologist to suggest a modification to the person who is doing compressions?”

“Not at all,” Dr. Hager says. “It’s a system of checks and balances. We’re all watching each other during a code. I might just as well have been watching to see if both sides of the chest were rising, and if they weren’t, I would have told Marie Malone to bag harder.”

“How long was Ruth overly aggressive?”

“Objection!” Kennedy says. “She’s putting words in the witness’s mouth.”

“I’ll rephrase. How long was the defendant aggressive with her chest compressions?”

“It was only slightly aggressive, and for less than a minute.”

“In your expert medical opinion, Doctor,” Odette asks, “could the defendant’s actions have caused harm to the patient?”

“The act of saving a life can look pretty violent, Ms. Lawton. We slice open skin, we crack ribs, we shock with extreme voltage.” Then he turns to me. “We do what we have to do, and when we are lucky, it works.”

“Nothing further,” the prosecutor says.

Kennedy approaches Dr. Hager. “Emotions were running very high in that nursery, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Those compressions that Ruth was doing—were they adversely affecting the infant’s life?”

“On the contrary. They were keeping him alive while we attempted medical intervention.”

“Were they contributory to the infant’s death?”

“No.”

Kennedy leans on the railing of the jury box. “Is it fair to say that in that nursery, everyone was trying to save that baby’s life?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even Ruth?”

Dr. Hager looks right at me. “Yes,” he says.

—

THERE IS A recess after the anesthesiologist’s testimony. The judge leaves, and the jury is removed from their box. Kennedy spirits me away to a conference room, where I am supposed to stay, so that I remain safely sequestered from the media.

I want to talk to Edison. I want a hug from Adisa. But instead I sit at a small table in a room with hissing fluorescent lights, trying to untangle this chess game in my head.

“You ever wonder?” I ask. “What you’d do, if you weren’t a lawyer?”

Kennedy glances at me. “Is this your way of telling me I’m doing a shitty job?”

“No, I’m just thinking. About…starting over.”

She unwraps a piece of gum and passes me the rest of the packet. “Don’t laugh, but I wanted to be a pastry chef once.”

“Really?”

“I went to culinary school for three weeks. I was eventually conquered by phyllo. I just don’t have the patience for it.”

A smile dances over my face. “Go figure.”

“What about you?” Kennedy asks.

I look up at her. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve wanted to be a nurse since I was five. I feel like I’m too old to start over, and even if I had to, I wouldn’t know where else to go.”

“That’s the problem with having a calling,” Kennedy says. “It doesn’t just pay the rent.”

A calling. Is that why I unwrapped Davis Bauer’s blanket when he wasn’t breathing? “Kennedy,” I begin, “there’s something—”

But she interrupts. “You could go back to school. Get a medical degree or become a PA,” she suggests. “Or work as a private caregiver.”

Neither of us says the truth that squeezes into the small room with us: convicted felon doesn’t look good on a résumé.

When she sees my face, her eyes soften. “It’s going to work out, Ruth. There’s a grand plan.”

“What if?” I say softly. “What if the grand plan doesn’t come to pass?”

She sets her jaw. “Then I will do whatever I can to get your sentence minimized.”

“I’d have to go to prison?”

“Right now the State’s leveled several charges against you. At any time if they decide they don’t have the evidence to support them, they might drop a greater charge in favor of conviction on a lesser one. So if they can’t prove murder, but they think they have negligent homicide locked up, Odette may play it safe.” She meets my gaze. “Murder has a minimum sentence of twenty-five years. But negligent homicide? Less than a year. And to be honest, they’re going to have a very hard time proving intent. Odette’s going to have to tiptoe through her questioning of Turk Bauer or the jury’s going to hate him.”

“You mean as much as I do?”

Kennedy’s eyes sharpen. “Ruth,” she warns, “I never want to hear you say those words out loud again. Do you understand?”

In an instant, I realize Kennedy is not the only one thinking six moves ahead. So is Odette. She wants the jury to hate Turk Bauer. She wants them outraged, offended, morally disgusted.

And that’s exactly how she will prove motive.

—