ONE NIGHT, WHEN Ruth and I were preparing for the trial, we’d been working in my kitchen and Violet had been high on life, running in circles around the house in her underwear and pretending to be a unicorn. Her shrieks punctuated our discussions, and then suddenly the sound wasn’t joy but pain. A moment later, Violet started sobbing, and we both ran to the living room, where Violet was lying on the floor bleeding profusely from the temple.

I felt my knees wobble, but before I could even reach for my daughter, Ruth had her cradled in her arms, and had pressed the bottom of her shirt up to the wound. “Hey now,” she soothed. “What happened?”

“I slipped,” Vi hiccuped, as her blood soaked Ruth’s shirt.

“And I see you’ve got a little cut here,” Ruth said calmly. “One I’m gonna take care of.” She started ordering me around my own house, efficiently getting me to fetch a damp washcloth, antibiotic ointment, and a butterfly bandage from a first aid kit. She never let go of Violet, and she never stopped talking to her. Even when she suggested that we drive to Yale–New Haven to see if maybe a stitch was in order, Ruth was steely, measured, while I continued to freak out, wondering if Violet would have a scar, if I would be flagged by CPS for not watching my kid more closely or letting her run in socks on a slippery wooden floor. When Violet needed two stitches, it wasn’t me she clung to but Ruth, who promised her that if we sang really loud, she wouldn’t feel anything. And so the three of us belted “Let It Go” at the top of our lungs, and Violet never cried. Later that night, when she had a clean bandage on her forehead and was asleep in her bed, I thanked Ruth.

You’re good at what you do, I told her.

I know, she said.

That’s all she wants. To let people know she was treated unfairly because of her race, and for her reputation as a caregiver to remain intact, even if it means it will be tarnished by a guilty verdict.

“Drinking alone,” Micah says, when he comes home from the hospital and finds me in the dark, in the kitchen, with a bottle of Syrah. “That’s the first sign, you know.”

I lift up my glass, and take a long swallow. “Of what?”

“Adulthood, probably,” he admits. “Hard day at the office?”

“It started out great. Legendary, even. And then went to hell very quickly.”

Micah sits down next to me and loosens his tie. “Do you want to talk about it? Or should I get my own bottle?”

I push the Syrah toward him. “I thought I had an acquittal in the bag,” I sigh. “And then Ruth went and decided to ruin it all.”

While he pours himself a glass of wine, I tell him everything. From the way Turk Bauer spouted his rhetoric of hate to the look in his eyes when he came after me; from the rush of adrenaline I got when my motion for judgment of acquittal was granted to Ruth’s admission about resuscitating the baby to the dizzy realization that I had to put Ruth on the stand if she demanded it. Even if it was going to tank my chances of winning my first murder case.

“What am I supposed to do tomorrow?” I ask. “No matter what I ask Ruth on the stand, she’s going to be incriminating herself. And that doesn’t even begin to consider what the prosecutor’s going to do to her on cross.” I shudder, thinking about Odette, who doesn’t even know that this boon is about to be granted. “I can’t believe I was so close,” I say softly. “I can’t believe she’s going to ruin it.”

Micah clears his throat. “Radical thought number one: maybe you need to take yourself out of this equation.”

I’ve drunk enough that he’s a little fuzzy at the edges, so maybe I’ve just misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“You weren’t close. Ruth was.”

I snort. “That’s semantics. We both win, or we both lose.”

“But she has more at stake than you do,” Micah says gently. “Her reputation. Her career. Her life. This is the first trial that really matters to you, Kennedy. But it’s the only one that matters to Ruth.”

I scrub a hand through my hair. “What’s radical thought number two?”

“What if the best thing for Ruth isn’t winning this case?” Micah replies. “What if the reason this is so important to her isn’t because of what she’s going to say…but rather the fact that she is finally being given the chance to say it?”

Is it worth being able to say what you need to say, if it means you land in prison? If it nets you a conviction? That goes against everything I’ve ever been taught, everything I’ve ever believed.

But I’m not the one on trial.

I press my fingers against my temples. Micah’s words circle in my mind.

He takes his glass and empties it into mine. “You need it more than I do,” he says, and he kisses me on the forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”

—