“Yes, Your Honor,” I say, turning to him.

“The State recognizes the insidious and unpalatable nature of this crime,” Odette says. She is staring right at Ruth. The dichotomy between these two black women is arresting: the prosecutor’s sleek suit and spike heels and crisp tailored shirt standing in counterpoint to Ruth’s rumpled nightgown and head scarf. It feels like more than a snapshot. It feels like a statement, like a case study for a course I don’t remember enrolling in. “Given the magnitude of the charges, the State requests that the defendant be held without bail.”

I can feel all the air rush out of Ruth’s lungs.

“Your Honor,” I say, and then I stop.

I have nothing to work with. I don’t know what Ruth Jefferson does for a living. I don’t know if she owns a house or if she moved to Connecticut yesterday. I don’t know if she held a pillow over that baby’s face until it stopped breathing or if she is rightfully angry about a trumped-up charge.

“Your Honor,” I repeat, “the State has offered no proof for their specious claims. This is a very serious charge with virtually no evidence. In light of this I’d ask the court to set reasonable bail in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars surety.”

It’s the best I can do, given the lack of information she’s provided. My job is to get Ruth Jefferson through her arraignment, as efficiently and as fairly as possible. I glance up at the clock. There are probably about ten more clients after her.

Suddenly there is a tug on my sleeve. “You see that boy?” Ruth murmurs, and she looks at the gallery. Her gaze locks on a young man in the rear of the courtroom, who gets to his feet as if he is being drawn upright by a magnet. “That’s my son,” Ruth says, and then she turns to me. “Do you have kids?”

I think of Violet. I think of what it would be like if the biggest problem in your life was not watching your child getting frustrated but watching your child getting handcuffed.

“Your Honor,” I say, “I’d like to retract what I just said.”

“I beg your pardon, Counselor?”

“Before we discuss bail, I would like an opportunity to speak with my client.”

The judge frowns. “You just had one.”

“I would like an opportunity to speak with my client for more than ten seconds,” I amend.

He rubs his hand over his face. “Fine,” he concedes. “You can speak to your client at the recess and we’ll revisit this matter at second call.”

The bailiffs grab Ruth’s arms. I can tell she has no idea what’s going on. “I’m coming,” I manage to tell her, and then she’s dragged out of the courtroom, and before I know it, I’m speaking on behalf of a twenty-year-old who calls himself the symbol # (“Like Prince, but not,” he tells me), who has spray-painted graffiti of a giant penis on a highway bridge and cannot understand why it’s criminal mischief, and not art.

—

I HAVE TEN more arraignments, and during all of them, I’m thinking about Ruth Jefferson. Thank God for the stenographers’ union contract, which mandates a fifteen-minute pee break, during which I find my way into the dank, dirty guts of the courthouse to the holding cell where they’ve taken my client.

She looks up from the metal bunk where she’s sitting, rubbing her wrists. She’s no longer wearing the chains that she had in the courtroom, like any other defendant accused of murder would have, but it’s almost as if she doesn’t notice they’re gone. “Where have you been?” she asks, her voice sharp.

“Doing my job,” I reply.

Ruth meets my eye. “That’s all I was doing, too,” she says. “I’m a nurse.”

I start to piece together the puzzle: something must have gone south during Ruth’s care of the infant, something that the prosecution believes was not an accident. “I need to get some information from you. If you don’t want to be locked up pending trial, you and I need to work together.”

For a long moment Ruth is silent, and it surprises me. Most people in her situation would grab on to the lifeline offered by a public defender. This woman, however, feels like she’s trying to determine if I’m going to measure up.

It’s a pretty disturbing feeling, I must admit. My clients don’t tend to be judgmental; they’re people who are used to being judged…and found lacking.

Finally she nods.

“Okay,” I say, letting out a breath I did not realize I’d been holding. “How old are you?”

“Forty-four.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” Ruth says. “My husband died in Afghanistan, during his second deployment. An IED went off. It was ten years ago.”

“Your son—is he your only child?” I ask.

“Yes. Edison’s in high school,” she says. “He’s applying to college right now. Those animals came into my house and handcuffed a straight-A student.”

“We’ll get to that in a second,” I promise. “You have a nursing degree?”

“I went to SUNY Plattsburgh and then to Yale Nursing School.”

“Are you employed?”