“I worked at Mercy–West Haven Hospital for twenty years, on the birthing pavilion. But yesterday, they took my job away from me.”
I make a note on a legal pad. “What source of income do you have now?”
She shakes her head. “My husband’s military death benefits, I suppose.”
“Do you own your own home?”
“A townhouse in East End.”
That’s the area where Micah and I live. It’s an affluent white neighborhood. The black faces I see there are usually passing through in their cars. Violence is rare, and when a mugging or a carjacking does happen, the online comments section of theNew Haven Independentis full of East End folks lamenting how the “elements” from poor neighborhoods like Dixwell and Newhallville are finding their way into our perfect hamlet.
By “elements,” of course, they mean black people.
“You look surprised,” Ruth remarks.
“No,” I reply quickly. “It just happens to be where I live, too, and I’ve never seen you around.”
“I keep a pretty low profile,” she says dryly.
I clear my throat. “Do you have relatives in Connecticut?”
“My sister, Adisa. She’s the one who’s sitting with Edison. She lives in Church Street South.”
It’s a low-income apartment complex in the Hill neighborhood, between Union Station and the Yale medical district. Something like 97 percent of the kids live in poverty, and I’ve had my share of clients from there. It’s only a handful of miles away from East End, and yet it’s another world: kids selling drugs for their older brothers, older brothers selling drugs because there aren’t any jobs, girls turning tricks, gang shootings every night. I wonder how Ruth wound up living so differently from her sister.
“Are your parents still alive?”
“My mother works on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.” Ruth’s eyes slide away from mine. “You remember Sam Hallowell?”
“The TV network guy? Didn’t he die?”
“Yes. But she’s still the family maid.”
I open the folder with Ruth’s name on it, which has the indictment that was handed down by the grand jury and that precipitated her arrest. I hadn’t had time to scan anything more than the charges before this moment, but now I skim with that superpower that PDs have, where certain words leap off the page and lodge into our consciousness. “Who’s Davis Bauer?”
Ruth’s voice gets softer. “A baby,” she says, “who died.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Ruth begins to weave a story. For every thick black fact she spins, there’s a silver flicker of shame. She tells me about the parents and the supervisor’s sticky note and the circumcision and the emergency C-section and the newborn’s seizure. She says that the man with the swastika tattoo who spit at her in the courtroom was the baby’s father. Threads knot around us, like the silk from a cocoon.
“…and the next thing I knew,” Ruth says, “the baby was dead.”
I glance down at the police statement. “You never touched him?” I clarify.
She stares at me for a long moment, as if she is trying to figure out if I can be trusted. Then she shakes her head. “Not until the charge nurse told me to start compressions.”
I lean forward. “If I can get you out of here, so you can go home to your son, you’ll have to post a percentage of the bail amount. Do you have any money saved up?”
Her shoulders square. “Edison’s college fund, but I won’t touch that.”
“Would you be willing to put your home up?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You let the State put a lien on it,” I explain.
“And then what? If I lose the trial does that mean Edison won’t have anywhere to live?”
