Daughter's Keeper (29 page)

The woman sat on the phone with Olivia for a long time, listening to her cry. She didn't hang up, even when Olivia's sobs came so hard and fast that she couldn't speak. Only once Olivia had calmed down did she let her go. She made Olivia promise to call again if there was anything else she needed to know.

Olivia looked at her mother steadily and said, “I wouldn't be giving the baby to Jorge. I'd be giving it to his parents. I know they'll take care of it. They're good people. It'll have a good life with them. What's really important is that I know they'll give it back to me when it's time. They'll want the best for it. They'll want it to come to America.”

“How can you be so sure? How do you know that they won't keep the baby, or give it to Jorge? If you do go to jail, you could be there longer than he will. How can you be sure that he won't go to Mexico and take the baby before you even get there?”

“I can't be sure. But I trust his parents. I have to trust them. They're the only option I've got.”

Olivia thought of Jorge's mother, Araceli Rodriguez. Every time Olivia had seen the small woman, there was at least one grandchild on her hip or sitting in her ample lap. She would carry on a conversation, all the while tickling and kissing the child, tempting it with tidbits of food, wiping its nose and mouth. On Olivia's last day in San Miguel, Araceli and Juan Carlos had made her an elaborate going-away party. They'd invited their entire family—aunts, uncles, cousins. They had all eaten until they were stuffed and lazy, then they'd played music and drank beer and tequila. After she'd served a homemade peanut butter flan that Olivia had devoured with something akin to ecstasy, Araceli had pulled a massive bag of pink and white marshmallows out of a cupboard. She began distributing them to the children, pushing the soft candy into their mouths as if they were baby birds. Olivia could still so clearly see her small brown hands and the pink
O
s of the children's delighted mouths, sticky with the candy, solemn with love for their
abuela
.

At the end of the evening, Jorge's parents had presented her with a dreadful painting of the city—all pink sunsets and oddly malformed donkeys walking next to peasants who looked like little more than sombreros with legs. When she'd wondered aloud how she would carry it on the plane, Juan Carlos had pulled a long, evil-looking blade out of his pocket, and sliced it from the frame. He'd rolled the painting and tied it with a bit of blue nylon string. He'd handed it to her and kissed her firmly on the forehead. She'd carried the painting under her arm all the way to Oakland. It was still tucked away in the back of a closet in the apartment for which she still paid rent, but to which she knew that, no matter what happened, she would not return.

“His parents are great people, Mom. They're warm and loving. They would take good care of the baby. I'm sure of it. And I have no other choice. If the baby goes into foster care, they'll terminate my parental rights within six months and give it away for adoption to whomever they choose.”

“Is that true?” Elaine gasped. “Are you sure?”

Olivia nodded.

“Look, probably none of this will end up being necessary. I'm going to be acquitted. I know I am. But I need to have a plan. Just in case something goes wrong.”

“Just in case,” Elaine repeated and poured more tea into Olivia's cup.

***

On their way into the courtroom, Izaya explained to Olivia and Elaine that he would try to pack as many black people onto the jury as he could. That was marginally easier to do in Oakland than in San Francisco, although since the East Bay federal court drew its juries from both Alameda and Contra Costa counties, the pool was still heavily white, weighed down with military retirees and Walnut Creek matrons. Izaya liked his own people on the jury because he knew that they were more willing to cast a cynical eye on police testimony; they were all too familiar with the ways of lying cops. Izaya warned, however, that the prosecutor would be working just as hard to keep black jurors
off
the panel. Legally, neither side was allowed to consider race in exercising their preemptory challenges; in reality, it was one of their primary concerns.

In federal court,
voir dire
, Izaya explained
,
was the purview of the judge—he asked the questions. What someone looked like was truly all Izaya and his opponent had time to pay attention to as the judge hurriedly grilled the members of the jury pool about their capacity for impartiality. Race, the element the Constitution precluded them from considering, was one of the few things they actually
could
rely on in selecting a jury.

True to his word, every time the AUSA tried to dismiss an African-American, Izaya would rise to his feet and proclaim, “I'm making a
Batson
objection.” He had explained that he wasn't allowed to shout, “She's a racist pig and she's trying to keep the black folks off the jury.” Instead, he was limited to intoning the name,
Batson,
after the case in which the Supreme Court had ruled that an attorney could not exclude jurors based on their race, and hoping the judge would see things his way.

The morning passed slowly, with Izaya doing his best to make sure there were no middle-aged Asians selected—too “law-and-order,” he explained—and the prosecutor making a preemptory challenge every time an older man came off the least bit fatherly.

One woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties, with chinlength curly hair dyed an orange-red and an expression at once compassionate and intelligent, caught Olivia's eye. She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly, and Olivia was taken aback by the sheer normalcy of the moment they shared. When the woman announced her profession as a former defense attorney, now stay-at-home mother, the prosecutor used a preemptory challenge to dismiss her. Olivia noticed the swell of her belly as she made her ungainly way down the steps and out of the jury box.

A middle-aged African-American man seemed to cause both Izaya and the prosecutor a moment's hesitation. The man informed the judge that he had a nephew in prison for assault stemming from a failed drug transaction. Amanda Steele was quite obviously about to dismiss him when he disclosed his service as a military police officer. She nodded once, and Olivia looked at Izaya. He tapped his pencil against his teeth and narrowed his eyes at the man. Finally, he too nodded, and the ex-military cop took his place on the jury.

Finally, it all came down to one pinched spinster with a sour expression, wearing a dingy white blouse buttoned high on her neck. She held a misshapen pink purse on her lap; it was too sweet a color for a woman who looked so bitter.

“Shit,” Izaya whispered.

“What?” Olivia whispered back, leaning towards him. They were sitting together at the defense table. Olivia wore one of the outfits her mother had given her. The black skirt ended at her knee and the top was cut in a generous A-line. She had tied a black-and-white-checked scarf around her neck. Her swollen feet were crammed into a pair of the sensible flat pumps that Elaine wore to work, and the puffy flesh of her feet bulged out from the tops of the shoes. Elaine, dressed in a conservative navy blue suit and a pale blue blouse, sat in the first observers' row.

“I used up my last challenge getting rid of that guy whose sister-in-law was engaged to an FBI agent.”

“But you want to dismiss this one, too?”

He nodded. “Shh. Your honor?”

“Mr. Feingold-Upchurch?” the judge said.

“I'd like to have this juror dismissed. For cause.”

The judge, in his early seventies with a shock of bright white hair over each ear and an otherwise entirely bald head, shook his head. “And why would that be, Mr. Feingold-Upchurch?”

“Side bar, your honor?” Izaya asked.

The judge shrugged. “By all means, counsel.” He raised one pinkish hand and waved Amanda Steele over. She rose to her feet and made her unhurried way towards the bench.

“What are you going to say?” whispered Olivia, as Izaya gathered up the pad on which he'd been making his notes.

“I'm going to beg,” he replied, and winked at her. It was obvious to Olivia that her attorney was enjoying himself. She wondered why she didn't resent his high spirits. She supposed it was because she knew that he cared what happened to her. If the drama of the courtroom gave him a visceral pleasure, so much the better. His obvious comfort and confidence behind the defense table and up at the podium could only help her. The jury would think he was sure of her innocence and secure in the inevitability of acquittal. They couldn't help but take their cues from him. She certainly couldn't.

Olivia watched as Izaya whispered to the judge. Judge Horowitz gripped one hand over his microphone. Olivia could hear nothing, but she could read the disgust in Amanda Steele's face as she whispered in reply to whatever it was that Izaya was saying. Finally, after a few minutes, the judge waved the attorneys back to their seats.

“Motion denied,” he said.

Later, after the judge had dismissed the impanelled jury for lunch and had left the courtroom, Elaine joined Izaya and Olivia at counsel table. They waited until Amanda Steele had left the room, which she did without glancing in their direction. Then Elaine and Olivia looked expectantly at Izaya.

“So,” Elaine said, “what do you think of the jury?”

Izaya nodded his head. “Overall, I think we did okay. The best we could. We scored with that acupuncturist from Berkeley.”

“Why do you say that?” Elaine asked. “She seemed pretty adamant about never having tried drugs. They all did.”

“Yeah, well, did you notice the pin she was wearing on her blouse? It's an AA medallion. She might not be a drug user, but she's certainly a recovering alcoholic. I'm pretty sure Steele didn't notice that.”

“Do you think that's good for us?” Elaine asked. “She might be really negative about drugs.”

“Yeah, but she's also liable to understand how people get themselves into situations despite their best intentions. She'll be sympathetic to Olivia. I'm sure. Also, I'm willing to bet she's a lesbian. She won't have any sympathy for a lying boyfriend.”

“And the others?” Olivia interrupted.

“They're a mixed bag. I like the brother—the one who works for PeopleSoft. That young Asian girl who just graduated from Cal seems okay. The rest are the usual crowd of retirees and housewives—what you get on most juries.”

“What do we do now?” Elaine asked.

“We get some lunch. I wish I could join you, but I want to work on my opening statement while I eat,” Izaya said.

Elaine and Olivia wandered through the streets of downtown Oakland, passing greasy coffee shops and the ubiquitous McDonald's. Finally, they settled on a Vietnamese pho shop.

“Do you think the jury noticed I was pregnant?” Olivia asked as they sat waiting for their food.

Elaine smiled. “It's kind of hard to miss, honey.”

“I thought some of the women looked sort of sorry for me.”

Elaine nodded. “I think so. Especially the two older women on the far left. The one from Sonoma and the other one with the denim shoulder bag.”

“The acupuncturist, too. I think it was smart to keep her on the jury. She seems nice.”

Elaine nodded. “I hope she won't be too upset about missing work. I was sort of surprised she didn't ask to be excused, what with running her own business and all.”

“Is that okay for you, Mom? To miss work?”

“It's fine. Warren's glad of the extra hours. He sends his regards. And Ralph says to tell you he wishes he could be here.”

Olivia smiled. “I wish he were here, too. He could hand me a milk shake whenever I got hungry.”

Elaine smiled and then looked down at her hands as if she were ashamed of allowing herself the moment of levity.

“You'll be acquitted, honey. I know you will.” The waitress came by and plopped bowls of broth and noodles in front of them. They were both relieved at the interruption. For a while they slurped in silence. Then Elaine said, “Arthur's sorry he couldn't be here.”

“Okay,” Olivia said, noncommittally.

“It's just that Tuesday is one of his work days. Since he's only part-time, he doesn't like to miss the days he's supposed to be there. He'll come tomorrow. He promised.”

“It's fine. I don't mind. I'm glad
you're
here, though.”

Elaine looked up, gratefully. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. I'm really glad you're here.”

“I'm…I'm so sorry.” Elaine's face was red and she blinked rapidly.

“Sorry?”

“If I had lent you the money when you asked…”

Olivia shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“If I'd lent you money that day in the restaurant. Then Jorge wouldn't have been so desperate. None of this would have ­happened.”

“It's not your fault he did the drug deal.”

“But it
is
. I could have lent you the money. I should have.”

Olivia patted her mother's hand. “Jorge didn't like taking money from you or from me for that matter. He would have done the deal anyway. I'm sure of it. None of this is your fault.”

Elaine smiled gratefully and turned back to her soup. Olivia stared into her own bowl, feeling a strange satisfaction in having offered up to her mother such a hopeful lie.

***

The aroma of roasting lamb greeted Elaine and Olivia as they walked into the house that evening. The dining room table was set for three with the Umbrian pottery Elaine and Arthur had brought back from their trip to the Italian countryside. Candles flickered in the silver-plated candlesticks Elaine had received as a wedding present long ago and used only on the rarest of occasions. Arthur bustled out of the kitchen, an apron wrapped around his waist and a smear of flour on his cheek.