A Good Mother by Lara Bazelon (classic books to read .TXT) 📕

At the time of death, his blood alcohol level was .26, more than three times the legal limit. My client is five feet tall and weighs less than a hundred pounds. She had given birth two months before the crime.”

Abby pauses for a moment to let the contrasting images sink in. “Now imagine for a moment that you are in Mrs. Rivera Hollis’s shoes, forced to confront a very angry, very drunk, very menacing Sergeant Hollis under those circumstances, with a baby to protect.” Abby can see Shauna rising and holds up her hand. “We are not here to try this case today,” she acknowledges, “but I would be remiss if I stood by and let Ms. Gooden paint my client as a cold-blooded killer without bringing to the court’s attention what she was dealing with that night.

“Whether Mrs. Rivera Hollis is guilty of first-degree murder beyond a reasonable doubt is for the jury to decide after considering all of the evidence, a tiny fraction of which the government has provided. Today, there are two narrow issues before this court—” Abby holds up two fingers “—and the standard of proof is far lower. One, would my client likely flee the jurisdiction or two, endanger the community if she were let out on bail? The answer to both questions is no. Mrs. Rivera Hollis has surrendered her passport. She’s a churchgoing mother, devoted to the care of her daughter, Cristina, whose christening is next week. To deprive Cristina of her mother so soon after losing her father could be devastating to her emotional development and even her physical health. She is still nursing—”

Judge Richards interrupts, “Is that the child behind you, in the baby carrier?”

“Yes. She is in the custody of Mrs. Rivera Hollis’s grandmother, Maria Elena Rivera, who is willing to put up her house as collateral to secure the bond.”

“And the house is worth?” Judge Richards is scribbling notes.

“There is roughly $100,000 in equity.”

Shauna gets up. “Your Honor,” she says, “Sergeant Hollis’s mother, who is present in the courtroom today, has filed a petition in family court seeking to terminate the defendant’s parental rights and assume sole custody of Cristina—”

Judge Richards continues writing, saying, without looking up, “A petition that I imagine will not be decided until after this case is over.”

“Well—yes. But in all likelihood, the defendant will be convicted and Mrs. Hollis will obtain custody. The only other option is, as Ms. Rosenberg said, the baby’s great-grandmother, who is elderly, speaks no English, and cannot be expected to properly provide for an infant.” Luz’s head comes up again, turned once more in Shauna’s direction. Abby shoots her a withering look and Luz retrains her gaze on the plush maroon carpet. “And how Ms. Rosenberg has the nerve to stand up here and prey upon this court’s sympathy by arguing trauma to the child from the loss of both parents knowing full well that the death of Cristina’s father is directly attributable to—”

“Yes, the irony has not escaped me.”

“Your Honor, this is a first-degree murder case, the most serious charge the government can bring. The defendant lay in wait for her husband to come home. She premeditated, she planned. If we were in state court there would be no bond. There would be nothing to discuss.”

“We’re not in state court, Ms. Gooden.”

“Apologies, Your Honor.” Shauna inclines her head and Abby allows herself a small smile at this unforced error. Even lower-level magistrate judges like Richards—tasked primarily with jobs like determining bail and mediating discovery disputes—don’t like to be compared with their counterparts across the street. State court and federal court are two entirely separate realms: one grimy and chaotic, the courtrooms constantly churning, its justice often slapdash and haphazard. The other, with a docket a fraction of the size, is stately, even austere, its courtrooms marbled, the pace sedate. Federal judges pride themselves on decisions that are deliberative and deliberate, the reasoning often set out at some length in writing.

Judge Richards looks out at the people filling the benches, his eyes resting for a moment on the priest before coming back to Abby. “What church does your client attend?”

Luz answers for herself. “Immaculate Heart.”

He nods, makes another notation. “What’s the age of the child?”

“She is just over two months old.”

Judge Richards stops writing momentarily. Without looking up he says, “Priors?”

“None.”

Shauna interjects, “That’s incorrect, Your Honor. The defendant has a juvenile case.”

Abby does her best to stare placidly at Judge Richards as if she, too, isn’t hearing this for the first time.

“What juvenile case?” Richards asks.

“It’s from 2003, when the defendant was sixteen. We are in the process of retrieving the file.”

Richards says, “Because the defendant was underage, the records are sealed, is that what you are saying?”

“Yes—”

Abby interrupts her, “The government knows nothing about this juvenile matter or how, if at all, it might relate to this bail application.”

“We intend to find out,” Shauna says evenly.

Richards looks at Shauna. “I’m sure you do. And I have to say, it troubles me.”

“Your Honor—”

He holds up his hand, and Abby stops talking. “It troubles me,” he repeats. “Ms. Rosenberg, anything else?”

Abby nods. She had been debating whether to risk it, but now the choice is clear. “With the court’s permission, my client’s priest, Father Abelard, would like to address the court.” Legally speaking, the priest is irrelevant; the only questions Judge Richards has to decide are whether Luz will hightail it out of town or kill someone else if he releases her. The priest can assuage neither of these concerns because his church is putting up no money and taking no risks on Luz’s behalf. A few questions on Shauna’s part will suss this out soon enough, but Abby is determined not to give her the opportunity. Not after Shauna just dropped the juvenile delinquent stink bomb.

“The witness will come forward and be placed under oath.”

Father Abelard, a small, brittle man, makes his way to the podium. When the formalities are over, the priest begins uncertainly, in a thickly accented