“She had a choice to make. Call the police, give her real name, and wait for a killer to track her down and correct his error. Or protect herself and her nine-year-old nephew—a child who had just witnessed his mother’s body on the floor—by disappearing.”
Camille turned to face the prosecutor.
“The People want you to believe Zainab killed her sister. But they have no murder weapon. No witnesses. No forensic evidence tying my client to the shooting. What they have is a woman who made the desperate decision to assume her sister’s identity after finding her dead—and they’re trying to turn that into a murder charge because they can’t find the real killer.”
She turned back to the judge.
“Was taking her sister’s identity illegal? Yes. The defense doesn’t dispute that. But murder? Your Honor, the prosecution is reaching. They’re trying to make my client pay for a crime she didn’t commit simply because they don’t have anyone else to blame.”
Camille turned to gesture toward me.
“Your Honor, the woman before you today is not a flight risk. She is a pillar of her community. She runs Sweet Zin, a successful bakery that employs local residents and has become a beloved fixture in Washington, DC. She is engaged to Prentice Banks, a respected member of one of DC’s most prominent families. She is the primary caregiver for her thirteen-year-old nephew, who has already suffered tremendous trauma and needs the woman who has been a mother to him—the aunt who, alongside her twin sister, raised him from birth—by his side.”
She paused.
“And she is seven months pregnant.”
Judge Whitmore’s eyes flickered to my belly.
“My client is not going to flee, Your Honor. She has too much to lose. Her business. Her fiancé. Her nephew. Her unborn child. Everything she’s built, everything she loves, is in Washington. She has every reason to stay and fight these charges—and no reason to run.”
Camille’s voice softened.
“Zainab Ali has already spent weeks in custody, separated from her family during one of the most vulnerable times of her life. She’s willing to comply with any conditions this court deems appropriate—electronic monitoring, house arrest, surrendering her passport. She simply wants the opportunity to await trial at home, with her family, where she can properly prepare for the birth of her daughter.”
She looked directly at the judge.
“The prosecution wants you to see a monster. But all I see is a woman who made an impossible choice under impossible circumstances—and has spent every day since trying to build a good life for herself and the child in her care. I ask that the court grant bail.”
Camille sat down.
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Judge Whitmore was quiet for a long moment, looking between the prosecution’s table and ours. Then she gathered her papers.
“I’m going to take a brief recess to consider both arguments. Court will resume in fifteen minutes.”
She stood. We all stood. And then she disappeared through the door behind her bench.
Fifteen minutes feltlike fifteen hours.
Camille turned to me, her hand covering mine. “You did great. Just breathe.”
“Did I? I didn’t even say anything.”
“Sometimes that’s the best thing you can do. You looked sympathetic. Human. That matters.”
I couldn’t sit still. My leg was bouncing. My hands were shaking. I needed to see Prime.
I turned around in my seat.
He was already looking at me. Those ocean eyes that had seen me at my worst and my best. That had looked at me with desire and disappointment and everything in between.
He placed his hand over his heart.
I’m right here, the gesture said. I’m not going anywhere.
Yusef was sitting straight, his jaw tight, trying so hard to be strong. My baby. My sweet, traumatized baby who’d been through too much in his short life. He gave me a small nod, and I had to blink back tears.
