Patrick laces his fingers with mine on the table. He looks at me, hard, as if he is going to be quizzed on the details of my face. Then, with what seems to be a great effort, he turns away. "The truth is there shouldn't be any justice for motherfuckers like him. People like that, they ought to be shot."
Clasped together, our hands look like a heart. Patrick squeezes, I squeeze back. It is all the communication we need, this pulse between us, my reply.
The most pressing issue the next morning involves what we are supposed to do with Nathaniel. It hasn't occurred to either Caleb or myself before this; only when the courthouse looms into view do I realize that Nathaniel cannot be at this arraignment . . . and cannot be left alone. In the hallway, he stands between us, holding both of our hands-a living bridge.
"I could sit with him in the lobby," Caleb volunteers, but I immediately reject that solution. Caleb looks down at Nathaniel. "Don't you have a secretary who could watch him for a while?"
"This isn't my district," I point out. "And I'm not leaving him with someone I don't know."
Of course not, never again. Although, as it turns out, it is not the strangers we have to be wary of.
We are leaning hard against this impasse when a guardian angel arrives. Nathaniel sees her first, and tears down the hallway. "Monica!" he shrieks, and she lifts him into the air, swinging him around.
"That is the most fabulous word I've ever heard," Monica laughs.
Nathaniel beams. "I can talk now."
"That's what Dr. Robichaud told me. She said she can't get a word in edgewise anymore when you come to her office." She switches Nathaniel onto her other hip and turns to us. "How are you holding up?"
As if there is an answer to that question, today.
"Well," Monica says, as if we've responded. "We're just going to head down to the playroom near the family court. Sound good, Nathaniel?" She raises her brows. "Or do you have alternate plans for him?"
"No . . . not at all," I murmur.
"That's what I figured. Child care this morning ... it probably wasn't your top priority."
Caleb touches Nathaniel's golden hair. "Be good," he says, and kisses his cheek.
"He's always good." Monica sets him on his feet, and begins to lead him away. "Nina, you know where to find us when you're done."
I watch them walk for a moment. Two weeks ago I could not stand Monica LaFlamme; now I am indebted to her. "Monica," I call out, and she turns. "Why don't you have children?"
Shrugging, she smiles faintly. "To date, no one's asked me."
Our eyes meet, and that is all it takes to erase the history between us. "Their loss," I say, and I smile.
Thomas LaCroix is two inches shorter than I am, and going bald. It makes no difference whatsoever, of course, but I find myself shooting glances at Wally during this meeting, wondering why he could not find the most perfect specimen of a prosecutor, one polished on the outside as well as the inside, so that no jury could possibly find fault.
"We're turning this entirely over to Tom," my boss says. "You know we support you and Caleb, we're a hundred percent behind you . . . but we don't want there to be any problems on appeal. And if we're in the courtroom, it might look like we're stacking the decks against this guy."
"I understand, Wally," I say. "No offense taken."
"Well!" Wally stands, having done his job here for the day. "We'll all be waiting to hear what transpires."
He pats my shoulder as he exits. When he leaves, it is just the three of us left-Caleb, myself, and Thomas LaCroix. Like a good prosecutor-like me-he jumps right into business. "They're not going to arraign him until after lunch because of all the publicity," Tom says. "Did you see the media when you came in?"
See it? We had to run the gauntlet. If I hadn't known a service entrance into the court, I never would have gotten Nathaniel inside.
"Anyway, I've already talked to the bailiffs. They're going to clear the other prisoners off the docket before they bring in Szyszynski." He checks his watch. "We're scheduled for one o'clock right now, so you've got some time."
I flatten my hands on the table. "You will not be putting my son on the stand," I announce.
"Nina, you know this is just an arraignment. A rubber stamp process. Let's just-"
"I want you to know this, and to know it now. Nathaniel isn't going to be testifying."
He sighs. "I've done this for fifteen years. And we're just going to have to see what comes to pass.
