A Good Mother

it would be Abby’s first and last appearance on the case. Murder cases in federal court were rare—Rayshon’s was an outlier. One with stakes like these—a beautiful young woman, a potential life sentence, an untested law, and the media attention that came with it—rarer still. Paul’s plan was pass it off to the new Ken Doll guy they’d hired out of the Army JAG Corps, figuring that even though it wasn’t a military law case, it was military enough that his experience counted for something.
But what if Paul couldn’t pass it off? The rule in the office was vertical representation—the same lawyer from start to finish—except in the rare instance where that became impossible: a health emergency, a death in the family, maternity leave. If the plea negotiations dragged on long enough and went nowhere, Abby could be back in time to try it. She hasn’t been to trial since Rayshon’s case almost exactly one year ago. Since she started turning—literally—into a different person with a body and a life that has become in some ways unrecognizable. Pregnant, coupled, domesticated. For the last several months, she has been visited by the same nightmare: she’s been buried alive, slowly deprived of oxygen. Each time, she wakes up gasping to the baby’s furious kicks, only to realize she had been holding her breath. Now for the first time in months she feels a rush of anticipation, a gust of cool air. She feels herself start to smile—a real one, this time—and bites down hard on her lower lip.
“Ms. Rosenberg?” Richards is looking at her expectantly.
“No objection.”
“How much time, Ms. Gooden?”
“Six weeks.”
“Ten,” Abby says. The federal public defender’s office paid for four months of parental leave and she’d promised Nic she’d take all of it, bonding with the baby and saving them the money they would otherwise have to spend on childcare. Well, plans change. This is her case, she can feel it.
“You’ll have eight. The defendant will be arraigned on the indictment on Monday, December 11. This court is in recess.”
As the rows of people in the gallery rise, there is a thrum of excited chatter in multiple languages, the rustle of gathered papers, the snapping of briefcases and hefting of purses, the flood of murmured excuse mes as people in a hurry brush past other slower-moving bodies toward the double doors.
Abby walks back to Luz, remembering the unpleasant surprise about her juvenile record and getting angry all over again. She leans down, her lips to the girl’s ear. “I asked you about criminal convictions. I specifically asked you.”
“My lawyer told me no one would ever see it.” Luz stares sullenly at the floor. “That’s what sealed means.”
Gently, Abby puts her finger under Luz’s chin, lifting her face until they are eye to eye. “Don’t you ever fucking lie to me again.”

Thursday, November 2, 2006
1:55 p.m.
Office of the Federal Public Defender
Los Angeles, California
Luz Rivera Hollis arrives in Will Ellet’s office twenty-five minutes late, in black skinny jeans and a sleeveless blouse printed with tiny black polka dots, her black hair breaking in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back. She’s wearing lipstick that isn’t quite orange and isn’t quite red, a crimson color that few women could pull off, Will thinks. Luz, though, is among those few. Her fingernails are painted the same color.
It is hard to believe this Luz is the same person Will met last week at her grandmother’s house. That Luz had met him at the door in a white high-necked shirt with ruffles at the neck and sleeves, and a long sweeping white skirt, the baby in her arms. It was a look that practically screamed Lady Madonna, particularly given that their brief conversation had taken place in the living room where one of the only decorative features was a wooden cross on the wall.
Will hadn’t stayed long that time, though the meeting had been planned in advance to go over the government’s written plea offer and the stack of additional documents Shauna had provided to Abby, and Will had driven a good ninety minutes to get to the nondescript ranch-style house, which was situated in a dusty cul-de-sac a few twisting miles off the freeway. Luz had taken her time settling the baby in a wicker basket on the couch before turning to accept the paperwork.
“This is the evidence they have against me?” she had asked, and he felt compelled to answer, “So far.”
Then the grandmother had come in, firing indignant questions at Will in Spanish. How could the prosecutors possibly believe that Luz would do such an evil thing? Why hadn’t Will gotten the charges dismissed? When would all of this be over? Will waited for Luz to translate, then answered with halting evasions, trying to say as little as possible while not appearing rude. Then Cristina had started wailing and Luz had excused herself. After several minutes of increasingly uncomfortable silence with the grandmother, who was now clearly displeased with him, Will had taken his leave, having learned exactly zero about his client or what she thought should be done with her case.
Today they are on Will’s turf, no grandma, no baby. He is firmly in control over the situation. Still, he’s irritated by Luz’s lateness, which is both unapologetic and nonchalant, as if she’s here to discuss a contested parking ticket, not a murder charge that could send her to prison for the rest of her life.
Will says, more heartily than he’d intended, “You can go ahead and close the door. Come over and sit down, please.”
Luz closes the door but she doesn’t sit, choosing to walk slowly around the room, a shiny black handbag slung over one shoulder, examining his row of framed diplomas, hung perfectly straight and equidistant in a line on the wall. “You have a lot of these,” she says. “West Point. Judge Advocate General’s Corps.” She turns. “You used to be in JAG, defending soldiers?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods. “That’s why they picked you to take over from