ON FRIDAY MORNING, as I am hurrying to meet Ruth in the parking lot, I pass the memorial on the green near City Hall. It commemorates Sengbe Pieh, who was one of the slaves involved in the Amistad mutiny. In 1839 a ship carried a group of Africans taken from their home to be slaves in the Caribbean. The Africans revolted, killed the captain and cook, and forced other sailors on board to head back toward Africa. The sailors, though, tricked the Africans, and headed north—where the ship was boarded by U.S. authorities. The Africans were imprisoned in a warehouse in New Haven, pending trial.

The Africans revolted because a mulatto cook had heard that the white crew planned to kill the blacks and eat the meat themselves. The whites on board believed the Africans were cannibals.

Neither side was right.

When I reach the parking lot, Ruth won’t even make eye contact with me. She starts walking quickly toward the courthouse, Edison by her side, until I grab her by the arm. “Are you still determined to do this?”

“Did you think if I slept on it I’d change my mind?” she asks.

“I had hoped,” I admit. “I’m begging you, Ruth.”

“Mama?” Edison looks at her face, and then mine, confused.

I raise my brows as if to say, Think of what you’re doing to him.

She slips her arm through her son’s elbow. “Let’s go,” she replies, and she starts walking again.

The crowds have swelled in front of the courthouse; now that the media have reported that the prosecution’s side of the case is finished, the taste for blood is getting stronger. I see Wallace Mercy and his crew from the corner of my eye, maintaining their vigil. Maybe I should have sicced Wallace on Ruth; maybe he could have convinced her to duck her head and let justice be served in her favor. But then again, knowing Wallace, he would not turn down an opportunity to speak his mind. He’d probably have offered to coach Ruth in whatever it is she feels the need to say.

Howard is pacing in front of the courtroom. “So,” he says nervously. “Are we resting? Or…”

“Yes,” I say bluntly. “Or.”

“Just in case you wanted to know, the Bauers are back. They’re in the gallery.”

“Thanks, Howard,” I say with sarcasm. “Now I feel even better.”

I speak to Ruth just once more, moments before we are asked to rise at the judge’s arrival. “I will give you just one piece of advice,” I whisper. “Be as cool and calm as possible. The minute you raise your voice, the prosecution is going to be all over you. And the way you answer me should be exactly the same way you respond when Odette’s cross-examining you.”

She looks at me. It’s quick, how our eyes meet, but it’s enough for me to see the flicker in them, the fear. I open my mouth, sensing the weakness, intending to reel her back in, but then I remember what Micah said. “Good luck,” I say.

I rise, and call Ruth Jefferson to the stand.

She looks smaller in the box, somehow. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, as usual. Have I noticed before how severe that looks? Her hands are folded in her lap tightly. I know it’s because she’s trying to keep herself from shaking, but the jury doesn’t. To them, it just looks like she’s excessively formal, prim. She repeats the oath quietly, without betraying any emotion. I know it’s because she feels like she is on display. But shyness can be mistaken for haughtiness, and that could be a fatal flaw.

“Ruth,” I begin, “how old are you?”

“Forty-four,” she says.

“Where were you born?”

“Harlem, in New York City.”

“Did you go to school there?”

“Only for a couple of years. Then I transferred to Dalton on a scholarship.”

“Did you complete college?” I ask.

“Yes, I went to SUNY Plattsburgh as an undergrad, and then got my nursing degree at Yale.”

“Can you tell us how long that program was?”

“Three years.”

“When you graduate as a nurse, do you take an oath?”

She nods. “It’s called the Florence Nightingale pledge,” Ruth says.

I enter a piece of paper into evidence and present it to her. “Is this the pledge?”

“Yes.”

“Will you read it aloud?”

“?‘Before God and those assembled here, I solemnly pledge to adhere to the code of ethics of the nursing profession; to cooperate faithfully with the other members of the nursing team and to carry out faithfully and to the best of my ability the instructions of the physician or the nurse’?”—she falters here—“?‘who may be assigned to supervise my work.’?” Ruth takes a deep breath, forging ahead. “?‘I will not do anything evil or malicious and I will not knowingly give any harmful drug or assist in malpractice. I will not reveal any confidential information that may come to my knowledge in the course of my work. And I pledge myself to do all in my power to raise the standards and prestige of practical nursing. May my life be devoted to service and to the high ideals of the nursing profession.’?” She looks up at me.

“Is that oath fundamental to you as a nurse?”

“We take it very seriously,” Ruth confirms. “It’s like the equivalent of the Hippocratic oath for doctors.”

“How long have you been employed at Mercy–West Haven Hospital?”

“Just over twenty years,” Ruth says. “My whole career.”

“What are your responsibilities?”

“I am a neonatal nurse. I help deliver babies, I am in the OR during C-sections, I care for the mothers and then postdelivery, for the newborns.”

“How many hours a week did you work?”

“Forty-plus,” she replies. “We often were asked to pull some overtime.”