She always looked into the eyes of her clients to see if the hope was still there. She wanted to believe that, for some of these children, a legal victory was the road to a better life. She needed to believe, at the very least, that she was giving them a chance.
Shelly took the boy’s hand by the wrist. She would not pat it reassuringly or offer empty words of comfort. There was no need to condescend. It was a serious situation and everyone knew it. The teenager sitting next to her in the courtroom looked younger than his years, a quiet boy with coffee-colored skin, an elongated neck and small flat nose, with long eyelashes covering the wide, awed stare of his dark eyes.
It had been a three-week hearing, on and off. Over a dozen witnesses had testified, primarily for the city board of education. The school was trying to expel Rondell based on a pattern of violations of school policy. The acts alleged included acts of defiance-such as violations of the school dress code and misbehavior in class-as well as violent altercations on school grounds. Shelly, as the advocate for Rondell, had a two-tiered trial strategy. First, she tried to dismantle each of the acts in the “pattern” as not being adequately proven. Second, and in her mind more pointedly, she argued that Rondell shouldn’t be expelled but transferred to one of the city’s “alternative” schools, set up years ago to take in troubled students.
A chance. In the end, that’s all she wanted for Rondell. A chance. If they kicked him out of school, he would retreat to the drug- and gang-infested streets. School was the only option for this boy. The school had expelled him without much of a hearing-in these post-Columbine days, schools were increasingly embracing the “zero tolerance” policy-and by the time Shelly caught the case, the act was completed. She had run to court and now sought a preliminary injunction against the school board, forcing them to keep Rondell in school until the issue was sorted out. Some would say she was buying time. What she was really doing was seeking leverage. If the judge leaned her way, the school might decide to give Rondell the alternative school option, which Shelly would take in a heartbeat. Her client was no saint. He probably didn’t belong in a traditional school. He just needed a chance.
Shelly had cross-examined school officials, students, and school security personnel. She could do it in her sleep by now. She had lost count, but in her time as an attorney representing students, she had tried over forty cases, including civil hearings such as these and about a dozen cases in juvenile court, which essentially meant criminal court for children. She felt good about her defense of Rondell, but the problem was numbers. One or two witnesses might not be credible, but over a dozen? Sheer numbers would seem to tip the balance against her client.
“All rise.”
The judge, the Honorable Alfred Halston, assumed the bench. His Honor was battle-worn, a weary man with snow-white hair, a lined face and gravelly voice. Shelly considered Halston a tough draw. He was presumably next in line for presiding judge, a politician’s politician who took the bench fifteen years ago after leaving the state’s House of Representatives. As an elected judge, he was no longer subject to popular election-a judge only had to run for “retention” once a decade, and no judge had been ousted in recent memory-but that didn’t erase political considerations. Everything was political in the city, and a judge hoping for elevation soon was always thinking two steps ahead of every ruling. Returning a violent boy to school was all he needed. If this kid turned around and shot someone, everyone would look back at the judge for blame.
Shelly had become adept at knowing the verdict before it was rendered. Look at the jurors’ eyes, look at the judge’s demeanor. Judge Halston looked first at Shelly’s client, and she knew the answer.
“What we have here, young man,” he began, “are allegations of a very serious nature. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
That confirmed it. The judge wouldn’t begin in such a testy manner if he were going to rule against Rondell. If he were going to uphold the expulsion, he wouldn’t need to scold Rondell-the ruling would be punishment enough. Shelly nodded along, because she was never arguing that her client was a prince. Plus, when you’re ahead, you let the judge feel like Solomon himself could not have divined a more exquisite outcome. The judge continued on for several minutes, castigating Rondell Moten for taking the gift of education for granted, for vanquishing this opportunity to learn, improve, find a constructive place in this world.
The judge sighed. “Nevertheless,” he began.
Not a complete victory, though. The judge was only finding that Shelly had established a likelihood that she would win at a final trial-the judge was simply issuing an injunction keeping the boy in school until the matter was finally resolved.
Shelly knew what would come next. The attorney for the board of education would offer Rondell alternative school to drop the matter, to prevent the further draining of resources directed against a single student in litigation that could go to the state’s highest court. The attorney knew Shelly well, knew her resolve.
Rondell’s mother hugged her son. Shelly watched the mother nervously gather her child in her arms. Perhaps she was in need of a fix, or maybe she was simply fearful of what might have happened. Shelly didn’t know which, and she didn’t know whether keeping Rondell in some form of school would miraculously transform his life, currently straying down the wrong path. She certainly wasn’t in the guarantee business. She just gave them a chance.
After parting with Rondell and his mother, she reached into her bag for her cell phone and turned it on. She almost dropped the phone, which was ringing. She answered it and heard the voice of Rena Schroeder, her boss at the Children’s Advocacy Project.
“Shelly, do you know someone named Alex Baniewicz?”
She closed her eyes, standing in the hallway outside the courtroom. “Yeah.”
“You remember that police officer who was shot last night?” Rena asked.
Of course, Shelly remembered. It was the headline of the Daily Watch today, covered as the lead story last night on television. A city police officer had been shot in the face while in pursuit of a drug dealer. The city always noticed when one of its finest went down.
Shelly dropped her head.
“He’s asking for you,” said Rena.
2
Just a dream. Go back to sleep.
A memory that is hardly a memory at all. A memory of dreams, of racing, wild, intoxicated dreams. Men running and shouting. Winter. Screaming. Crying. Stabbing. Grunting. Hands, cold hands. A voice, Shelly’s voice. Don’t. Stop. What are you doing? What’s-what’s this-? A man’s voice. Relax. The cold hands, again. She is flying through the chilly air, so cold, so very cold. She is suffocating. A weight on her, pressing down on her chest, her abdomen. Tobacco and alcohol and winter-
“Relax.”
Darkness. Where is she? She has forgotten. She feels the bed. She is spinning. She is nauseous. The bile rising to her throat. He is on her. Her shirt is open. Her-her bra is off. His face, whiskers scraping against her cheek. The smell. Alcohol, not like the kind Daddy drinks, cigarettes on his breath, his body odor, the flannel rubbing against her chest-
“Don’t.”
“Shut up and relax.” His voice. Her legs are spread and this is what it is. This is what she’s heard about. He is inside her, his penis is inside her, ripping into her, back and forth, in and out, and she’s not dreaming because she can feel his sweat on her face and his awful breath and he’s so heavy. She raises her hands but can’t make fists. She concentrates on what she can control. Her name. Her age. My name is Shelly. I am sixteen years old. I took the train from Haley. My parents are out of town and don’t know. I don’t know where I am.