“That’s standard procedure for officer safety. We didn’t know that was Ms. Jefferson’s son. We saw a large, angry Black youth who was visibly upset.”

“Really?” Kennedy says. “Was he wearing a hoodie too?”

—

JUDGE THUNDER STRIKES that comment from the record, and when Kennedy sits down, she looks just as surprised by her outburst as I am. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “That just slipped out.” The judge, though, is furious. He calls counsel up for a sidebar. There is a noise machine again that prevents me from hearing what he says, but from the color of his face, and the full-throttle anger as he laces into my lawyer, I know he didn’t ask her up there to praise her.

“That,” Kennedy tells me, a little white around the gills when she returns, “is why you don’t bring up race in a courtroom.”

Judge Thunder decides that his back spasm merits adjournment for the rest of the day.

Because of the snow, it takes us longer to get home. When Edison and I turn the corner on our block, we are damp and exhausted. A man is trying to dig out his car using only his gloved hands. Two neighborhood boys are in the thick of a snowball fight; one missile smacks against Edison’s back.

There is a car sitting in front of our house. It’s a black sedan with a driver, which isn’t something you see very often around here, at least not once you get off the Yale campus. As I approach, the rear door opens and a woman stands up. She is wearing a ski parka and furry boots and is buried under a layer of wool—a hat, a scarf. It takes me a moment to realize that this is Christina.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, truly surprised. In all the years I’ve been in East End, Christina has not come to visit. In all the years, I haven’t invited her.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of my home. I love where I live, how I live. It’s that I did not think I could handle the excessive way she’d exclaim about how cute the space was, how cozy, how me.

“I’ve been in court for the last two days,” she admits, and I’m shocked. I’ve scanned that gallery. I haven’t noticed her there, and Christina is very hard to overlook.

She unzips her coat, revealing a ratty flannel shirt and baggy jeans, as far away from her couture sheaths as possible. “I wore camouflage,” she says, smiling shyly. She looks over my shoulder, to Edison. “Edison! My God, I haven’t seen you since you were shorter than your mother…”

He jerks his chin, an awkward hello.

“Edison, why don’t you go inside?” I suggest, and when he does, I meet Christina’s gaze. “I don’t understand. If the press found out that you were here—”

“Then I’d tell them to go screw themselves,” she says firmly. “The hell with Congress. I told Larry I was coming, and that it wasn’t negotiable. If anyone from the press asks, I’m just going to tell them the truth: that you and I go way back.”

“Christina,” I ask again, “what are you doing here?”

She could have texted. She could have called. She could have simply sat in the courtroom to lend moral support. But instead, she has been waiting in front of my door for God knows how long.

“I’m your friend,” she says quietly. “Believe it or not, Ruth, this is what friends do.” She looks up at me, and I realize she has tears in her eyes. “What they said happened to you—the police breaking in. The handcuffs. The way they attacked Edison. I never imagined…” She falters, then gathers up the weeds of her thoughts and offers me the saddest, truest bouquet. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” I reply—not angry, not hurt, just stating a fact. “You’ll never have to.”