It doesn’t escape me that I’m whispering the same word I used to calm her when she was delivering Davis—but now I’m repeating it to help her stop seeing the image of our dead son.

Suddenly the door to the conference room opens and the prosecutor walks in. “That was a nice touch. The jury loves a mother who’s acting so distraught that she can’t control herself. But the threat in open court? Not the wisest move.”

Brit bristles. She pushes away from me and gets up in the lawyer’s face. “I am not acting,” she says, her voice dangerously soft. “And you don’t get to tell me what’s a good idea and what’s not, bitch.”

I grasp her arm. “Baby, why don’t you go wash up? I’ll take care of this.”

Brit doesn’t even blink. Just keeps herself like a wall in front of Odette Lawton, like an alpha dog standing over another mutt until it has the good sense to cower. Then, abruptly, she walks away and slams the door behind her.

I know it is already a big deal that Brit and I are allowed in the courtroom, even though we are going to testify. There was a hearing about it and everything, before the trial began. That goddamned public defender thought she could keep us away by asking for all witnesses to be sequestered, but the judge said we deserved to be there because we were Davis’s parents. I’m sure the prosecutor doesn’t want to give him any good reason to rethink his decision.

“Mr. Bauer,” the lawyer says, “you and I need to talk.”

I fold my arms. “Why don’t you just do what you’re supposed to do? Win this case?”

“It’s a little hard when your wife is acting like an intimidating thug and not a grieving mother.” She stares at me. “I can’t call her as a witness.”

“What?” I say. “But we did all that practicing—”

“Yes, but I don’t trust Brittany,” she says flatly. “Your wife is a wild card. And you do not put a wild card in the witness box.”

“The jury needs to hear from Davis’s mother.”

“Not if I can’t be certain she won’t start screaming racist slurs at the defendant.” She eyes me coolly. “You and your wife may detest me and everyone who looks like me, Mr. Bauer. And frankly I don’t care. But I am the best chance—the only chance—you have to get justice for your son. So not only will I tell you what is a good idea and a bad idea, I will also be calling all the shots. And that means your wife is not testifying.”

“The judge and the jury will think something’s off if she isn’t a witness.”

“The judge and the jury will think she’s distraught. And you will be a solid witness in your own right.”

Does this mean that I loved Davis less? Because my grief isn’t enough to keep me from censoring myself, like Brit?

“Yesterday you heard the defense introduce the theory that your son had an undiagnosed metabolic disease?”

It was when the pediatrician was on the stand. There was a lot of medical jargon I did not understand, but I got the gist of it. “Yeah, yeah. I get it,” I say. “It was a Hail Mary pass.”

“Not quite. While you were gone, the medical examiner verified the results. Davis screened positive for MCADD. I did my best to get the jury to discount his testimony, but the bottom line is the defense planted a seed that’s already taken root: that your baby was tested for a potentially fatal disorder and the results arrived too late. And if none of that had happened, he might still be alive.”

I feel my knees giving out, and I sit heavily on the tabletop. My baby boy was actually sick, and we didn’t know? How could a hospital overlook that?

It’s so…random. So pointless.

The prosecutor touches my arm, and I can’t help it, I flinch. “Don’t do it. Don’t get lost in your own head. I’m telling you this so you can’t be surprised during a cross-examination. But all Kennedy McQuarrie has done is find a possible diagnosis. It was never confirmed. Davis wasn’t treated. She could have just as well said that your son would develop heart disease as an adult, because that’s what his genetic predisposition is. That doesn’t mean it would ever happen.”

I think of my grandfather, dropping dead of a heart attack.

“I am telling you this because when we go back in there,” Odette says, “I’m going to call you to the stand. And you’re going to answer just the way we rehearsed in my office. All you need to remember is that there is no room for maybe in this trial. There is no this might have happened. It already did happen. Your son is dead.”

I nod. There is a body. And someone has to pay.

—

Do you swear to tell the truth?

My hand flexes on the leather Bible. I don’t read it a lot anymore. But swearing on it makes me remember Big Ike, from back when I was in jail. And Twinkie.