A Good Mother by Lara Bazelon (different ereaders txt) 📗

sits beside her, fielding congratulatory calls on her cell phone and trying to tamp down her impatience at the fact that they are temporarily trapped in the building. The media, as it turns out, has tremendous staying power, doing man-on-the-street interviews and buttonholing anyone who looks like they might at some point have had something to do with the case while they wait for the stars to arrive.

There is a television in one of the law clerk’s offices, and Jared keeps it on low. It’s a slow day for national news and Luz’s case leads every broadcast. The same pictures are shown again and again: of the three of them harried, heads down, walking to court before the verdict, professional photographs of Abby and Will taken before they started at the federal public defender’s office—Abby regretting that she’d forgotten to smile in hers while Will, of course, looks as movie-star perfect as ever—snaps of Luz pulled from her Facebook page, including some that had been shown at trial. Mainly it was those pictures that dominated: Luz on Travis’s lap with her protruding belly, Luz and Travis on their wedding day, a beaming Luz holding Cristina in the hospital.

“You’re famous,” Jared says to Abby. His voice is flat, almost accusatory. “They’re calling you and him—” he jerks his head toward the office next door, where Abby has exiled Will “—the best lawyers money can’t buy.”

Abby looks up warily. “I can’t get Nic to text me back,” she says. “Have you talked to him?”

Jared looks away. “No.”

Abby tries calling. “We won!” she says into his voice mail. “I’m so excited to come home.” She pauses, lowering her voice. “I know it’s been hard and—and—I’m sorry for everything. I love you, Nicky. Give Cal a kiss for me.”

But there is still no word from Nic an hour later when they are finally allowed to leave, taking the judges’ elevator to the basement. From there, Jared drives the four blocks back to the federal public defender’s office in a van marked POLICE US MARSHAL, Will seated up front, Luz and Abby in the back. Abby has had to wake Luz up and she is groggy, her head lolling against the seat, eyes half-open. No one speaks.

At the deserted elevator bank, Abby says quietly to Will, “Walk away.” He starts, a shocked, pained expression on his face. She says it again, her voice low and warning, and he turns away, heading back to the lobby.

Father Abelard is waiting in Abby’s office with Cristina, still in her car seat and sucking peacefully on a pacifier. Jorge Estrada is there, too, sitting in one of the client chairs opposite Abby’s desk in a gray suit and silver tie with blue stripes—the same suit he was wearing the day Dars sent him to jail. Luz goes immediately to Cristina, picking her up and speaking to her softly as she undoes the buttons on her blouse, then settles in the corner while Cristina nurses.

Father Abelard looks at Luz and Cristina, then at Abby. His eyes are wet. “A miracle,” he says.

Estrada shakes Abby’s hand. “Congratulations, counselor.”

Abby looks him in the eye. “To you, too. We are grateful.”

Estrada releases her hand and steps back, looking her over. “Everything okay?”

The cut on Abby’s lip is already starting to scab. Almost guiltily, she puts her hand to her mouth to touch the crusted edge.

“Everything’s fine,” she says. “And you?”

“Never better.” Estrada smiles, a broad genuine grin. “I’ll get everything filed on Monday.” He nods at Luz. “We’ll go to court together.”

Luz stiffens visibly. “No. I don’t want to go back there.”

“Luz, honey, it’s county courthouse in Riverside, no big thing. When Ms. Rosenberg visited me in the jail, she and I worked out the details, and she tells me you already signed the papers. The judge needs to see us, but it’s just a formality.”

Abby says quietly, “Court on Monday is about you and Cristina. Keeping everyone safe. The criminal case against you is over. No one can bring it back.” Luz nods, turning her attention back to Cristina as Abby exchanges a few more pleasantries with Estrada and Father Abelard. When Luz has finished feeding Cristina and has changed her diaper in the ladies’ room, they depart, Father Abelard with his hand on Luz’s elbow, Estrada following behind carrying the baby in the car seat.

At the door, Luz turns back to look at Abby, her black eyes enormous. She has scrubbed off the smudged makeup and brushed the tangles from her hair. Her face is naked, impossibly young. “Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome.”

Luz looks at Estrada. “You were right about her,” she says to him.

“You were right,” Abby says to Luz. “And you—” she pauses “—you made me understand what this case was about.”

Luz looks at Cristina for a long moment, then lifts her gaze again. “She’s my everything, you know?”

Abby nods. “I know.”

Friday, March 23, 2007

6:30 p.m.

Weilands Bar & Grill

First Street, Los Angeles

When Paul, Antoine, and some of Abby’s other coworkers—a few of whom had driven back to the office after hearing the news on the radio—appear in the doorway minutes later cheering loudly and demanding to take her out to Weilands for drinks, she hesitates. She should go home now. But Nic was being such a jerk. Yes, she’d messed up, but she had apologized and given the circumstances—that, against all odds, she had gotten an acquittal and given her client her life back—Nic should find it in his heart to be magnanimous. At the very least, he should call her back.

“Come on, Abby, I’m buying,” Paul says.

“Well, maybe just one,” she says. “But then I really have to go home.”

She texts Nic again, the fourth time since the verdict. Be home by 7/7:30. Like the others, it goes unanswered.

“You should go home,” Jonathan says on the short walk to the bar when Abby tells him.

“Fuck Nic,” she says angrily. “Father Abelard said it was a miracle. And you know what, Jonathan, it was. Luz has her life