“But the beauty of this is you don’t have to,” I point out. “The jury hands back the verdict, and then you go get your job back. You get to pretend this never happened.”

Ruth’s voice is soft, but steel. “You think I can pretend this never happened?” she asks. “I see this every day, everywhere I go. You think I’m going to just walk in and get my job back? You think I’m not always going to be that black nurse who caused trouble?”

“Ruth,” I say, incredulous. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure this jury is going to find you not guilty. What more could you possibly want?”

She tilts her head. “You still have to ask?”

I know what she is talking about.

Namely, everything I refused to talk about, in court: what it is like to know that you are a target, because of the color of your skin. What it means to work hard, to be an impeccable employee, and have none of that make a difference in the face of prejudice.

True, I had said she could have a moment to tell the jury her side of the story. But what’s the point, if we’ve already given them a peg on which to hang their exoneration?

“Think of Edison,” I say.

“I am thinking of my son!” Ruth replies, heated. “I’m thinking of what he’ll make of a mother who didn’t speak for herself.” She narrows her eyes. “I know how the law works, Kennedy. I know the State has the burden of proof. I also know that you have to put me on the stand if I ask you to. So I suppose the question is: Are you going to do your job? Or are you going to be just one more white person who lied to me?”

I turn to Howard, who is watching our volley like we’re the Women’s Singles Final at the U.S. Open. “Howard,” I say evenly, “would you step out for a moment so I can speak to our client alone?”

He jerks his chin and slips outside. I turn on Ruth. “What the hell? Now is not the time to stand on principle. You have to trust me on this. If you get on the stand and start talking about race, you’ll erase the lead we currently have in the jury’s favor. You’ll be talking about issues that will alienate them and make them uncomfortable. Plus, the fact that you’re upset and angry will come through loud and clear and negate any sympathy they have for you right now. I’ve already said everything the jury needs to hear.”

“Except the truth,” Ruth says.

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried to resuscitate that baby. I told you I didn’t touch him at first. I told everyone that. But I did.”

I feel sick to my stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“At first I lied because I thought I was going to lose my job. Then I lied because I didn’t know if I could trust you. And then, every time I tried to tell you the truth, I was so embarrassed that I’d hidden it for this long it got harder and harder.” She takes a deep breath. “This is what I should have told you, the first day we met: I wasn’t supposed to touch the baby; it was in the medical file. But when he went blue, I unwrapped him. I moved him around. I tapped his feet and turned him on his side, all the things you do when you’re trying to get a baby responsive again. Then I heard footsteps and I wrapped him up tight again. I didn’t want anyone seeing me do what I wasn’t supposed to be doing.”

“Why rewrite history, Ruth?” I ask, after a moment. “The jury could hear that and think you tried your hardest. But they could also think you screwed up, and did something that made him die.”

“I want them to know that I did my job,” she says. “You keep telling me this doesn’t have anything to do with the color of my skin—that it’s about my competence. Well, in addition to everything else, I want them to know that I am a good nurse. I tried to save that baby.”

“You have this idea that if you get on the stand, you’ll be able to tell your story and be in control—and that’s not how it works. Odette is going to shred you. She’ll do everything she can to point out that this means you’re a liar.”

Ruth looks at me. “I’d rather they think I’m a liar than a murderer.”

“If you get up there and give a different version than the one we’ve already presented,” I explain carefully, “you lose your credibility. I lose my credibility. I know what’s best for you. There’s a reason we’re called counsel—you’re supposed to listen to me.”

“I’m tired of following orders. Last time I followed orders, I got into this mess.” Ruth folds her arms. “You are putting me on that stand tomorrow,” she says flatly. “Or I’m going to tell the judge that you won’t let me testify.”

And just like that, I know I’m going to lose this case.

—