As Dom stands, Devon feels the nervous pregame jitters spiking in her stomach. Not from dread for once, but excitement. She wonders what Dom is going to do.

Dom moves slowly around to the front of the defense table, leans against it. Crosses her arms. She faces Detective Woods, already seated back on the witness stand. "Detective Woods, during the previous examination, you stated that Ms. Davenport, the respondent's mother, had granted permission for you to enter her apartment and question her daughter, Devon Davenport, the respondent. Is this true?"

He makes a small sneer to the question. "Yes, it is. I swore an oath to tell the complete truth."

"Well, that's admirable," Dom says. "So then, Detective, Ms. Davenport gave you verbal permission to enter?"

"Ms. Barcellona," Judge Saynisch says. "Watch the sarcasm. And move things along."

Dom nods. "Yes, Your Honor."

"You may answer the question, Detective," the judge says.

Detective Woods shifts in his seat, crosses his legs. "I wouldn't have entered otherwise."

"I see. So, how did this go down, exactly?"

Detective Woods frowns. "Excuse me?"

"What I'm asking, Detective Woods, is do you recall what Ms. Davenport said that led you to believe that you had permission to enter her apartment?"

"As I've already stated, Ms. Davenport had mentioned to me that her daughter had been home alone all morning from school because she was sick. So, I asked her something like, 'Do you mind if I talk to her?' By 'her' I meant Ms. Davenport's daughter, the respondent."

"Yes, but again, did Ms. Davenport say that you could enter into her apartment and speak to her daughter?"

"Objection!" The prosecutor is on his feet. "Relevance, Your Honor. This is not a suppression hearing, but a declination hearing."

"Good point, Counsel," the judge says. "But I'm going to let Ms. Barcellona spread her wings a little on this one." He looks over at Dom then. "I'm giving you some lat.i.tude, Ms. Barcellona. Don't abuse it."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"You may answer the question, Detective Woods."

Detective Woods clears his throat. "Ms. Davenport allowed me to enter the apartment, yes."

"Allowed you to enter the apartment. But you don't recall her exact words." Dom walks from one end of the table to the other, her finger trailing along its edge. Then, "Detective, you mentioned earlier"-Dom leans across the defense table, pulls her notebook toward herself. She flips through it, then looks up at the detective. "You said that Ms. Davenport was very cooperative with you and Police Sergeant Fowler. You said, and I quote, 'she seemed very eager to help us out. Very friendly and open.'" She pauses. "Would you also say that she was flirtatious?"

Detective Woods shifts around again. "I guess that could be accurate, but that's a matter of interpretation, whether someone regards another as being flirtatious or not."

"So, Detective Woods, would you say that she was. .h.i.tting on you?"

He clears his throat. "Some might say that."

"But would you say it?"

"I suppose . . . yes."

"And you used that interpretation of her behavior toward you, her hitting on you, to your advantage. Didn't you, Detective? You didn't wait-did you?-for her to formally invite you inside the-"

"She stepped aside to let me pa.s.s."

"Also a matter of interpretation, Detective? Because didn't you make a statement to a Tacoma News Tribune reporter, a statement that was quoted in an article dated a day after the incident occurred?" Dom reaches behind her, s.n.a.t.c.hes up a newspaper clipping lying on the defense table, an article that Devon recognizes as one that Dom had given her that first day they'd met together. "A statement referencing that once you and Police Sergeant Fowler learned-"

"Objection! Hearsay."

"I'll allow it," the judge says wearily. "Carry on, Ms. Barcellona. But quickly."

"Detective, once you had learned from Ms. Davenport that her daughter had stayed home from school, didn't you say, and I quote from the article"-Dom peers down at the article in her hands-"'That set off huge bells in my head,' Woods said. 'So, Fowler and I, we just went with it.'"

Dom looks up at the detective, waits for his reply.

Though she can't see Dom's face from her seat, Devon can imagine that eyebrow of hers, arched over her wire-framed gla.s.ses.

"Look!" The detective leans forward in his chair, his tanned face turning darker, the muscles in his neck strained. "She didn't bar my way. She didn't ask for a warrant. In fact, she followed me inside. Okay? Still talking, apologizing that . . . that her house was such a mess. I didn't construe any objection on her part to my entry. Not at all. She consented with her behavior. Is that clear?"

Dom smiles. "Just like when a rape victim hadn't screamed No!, then she must have actually consented. And therefore wasn't really raped. Hmm, Detective?"

"Objection! Argumentative, hara.s.sing the witness!"

"Ms. Barcellona," the judge says, "you've now crossed the line. Don't do it again. This is a warning."

Devon leans forward. Yes! Dom's first yellow card!

Dom walks toward the defense table, then turns back around. "And when was it, Detective Woods, that you actually got around to reading Devon Davenport, the respondent, her rights?"

The detective leans back in his seat, the hostility sliding from his face. Crosses his arms confidently. "Shortly after her mother removed the blanket, the one that the respondent had wrapped around herself."

"And, refresh my memory, was that before or after the respondent pa.s.sed out?"

The detective licks his lips. "Before . . . I think . . . I'm sure . . ."

Dom smiles, glances up at the judge. "I have no further questions."

The rest of the morning progresses slowly. Other witnesses come and go, answering the prosecutor's questions. A police officer, Police Sergeant Keith Cruz, the first to arrive at the scene. He spoke about securing the crime scene, and Dom didn't ask him any questions. Then the prosecutor called Police Officer Bruce Fowler, who had accompanied Detective Woods in his door-to-door search. His testimony was similar to the detective's, but not as long and involved. Dom questioned him about his role in entering the apartment, but he insisted that he had stayed outside and entered only after Devon's mother had started lashing out at Detective Woods.

The prosecutor then called the pediatrician, Dr. Jyoti More, who had received the baby at the hospital; she explained that the baby's core temperature was eighty-nine degrees, that the baby arrived with the umbilical cord still attached, that the cut was ragged, not clean-an indication that the instrument used to sever the cord was blunt. That she observed the baby had sustained a small bruise on the left side of her head behind the ear, probably also the site of a mild concussion. All this testimony, she recited carefully and concisely, like she was a talking encyclopedia of medical terms. Her heavy Indian accent and funny turns of phrase were kind of cute and reminded Devon of a female version of Apu, the Kwik-E-Mart owner of The Simpsons.

When the prosecutor had returned to his seat, Judge Saynisch looks over at Dom. "Defense, do you have any questions for the witness?"

"Yes, Your Honor." Dom steps out from behind her chair, walks within arm's reach of the witness stand, smiles at the doctor sitting there. "Dr. More, I'd first like to concentrate on the portion of your testimony concerning the baby's bruising and concussion."

"Yes." Dr. More returns Dom's smile, her eyes bright and eager.

She seems so nice, Devon thinks. I hope Dom isn't too mean to her.

"Dr. More, you've stated here today that the baby had sustained an approximate three-centimeter-by-one-centimeter bruise on the left side of her head, behind the ear. Is this correct?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"And, according to your testimony today, you stated that the site of this bruise is also where the concussion was sustained. Correct?"

"Yes. I believe that the bruise and the concussion have occurred on the same time."

"And, please forgive me for being redundant, Dr. More, but you've testified today that you believe this bruising and concussion occurred after the baby was born, and that these injuries are consistent with head trauma due to blows to the head. Am I still on track?"

"Yes, you are. Thank you."

"And how did you come to so definitive a conclusion, Dr. More?"

"I do not think I understand the wording of this question."

"I'm sorry, Dr. More. Let me ask it a different way. You state that the bruise and concussion were consistent with head trauma due to blows to the head. But could they-the bruise and the concussion-also be consistent with an injury sustained by means other than blows to the head? Like, during the actual birth process, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. Yes."

"Could you please give me a for instance, Dr. More?"

"Objection! Calls for speculation."

"Denied," Judge Saynisch says. "She's an expert. She's speaking hypothetically here. Nothing wrong with that. You may answer the question, Dr. More."

"Yes, I am happy to. I must please think for a moment." Dr. More pauses. She frowns, places an index finger between her eyebrows, on the red dot there.

"Yes," she says after a short hesitation. "A bruise like this may be resulting from the forceps or the other birth implements. Very rare the placement, though. Usually those instruments cause bruising, sometimes even indentions, near the temples. But that is also occurring behind the ear if the doctor makes the mistake and they slip." She waves her index finger and shakes her head. "But not for the concussion. Force is required for concussion. You understand this? Also, very important, but the birth did not occur at hospital. The mother gave birth at her home, and is most certain to have not used the forceps. So, my best surmise is blows to the head by the hand of the mother. Unfortunately, this I have seen before, in my practice."

"But, Dr. More, you just said your best surmise, your best guess, is that the bruise was sustained due to blows to the head. So, then, you do not know that this is actually what happened?"

The doctor smiles. "This is true. I do not know. I was not there with her."

Dom turns around for a moment, looks down at the floor. Devon sees Dom press her lips together, take a breath. Just like she's done when she's been frustrated with Devon.

When Dom turns back around, she begins questioning the doctor about the other possibilities. The baby could have hit its head on the floor during the birth. The baby was found under two trash bags filled with garbage. Something within those bags, when tossed into the trash can, could have caused the bruise. Or the man who had discovered the baby, Mr. Bingham, could have done something unintentionally while lifting her out of the bag.

But Devon has lost track of the back-and-forth, the questions and answers.

She hears, instead, the doctor's words in her head: Force is required for concussion . . . my best surmise is . . . blows to the head by the hand of the mother.

Devon looks down at her own hands in her lap.

Her hands tremble. She tosses the clippers aside. They skitter across the linoleum, collide into the bathroom cabinet, spin once, and finally stop. Devon is breathing, hard and fast. The cord is cut. Sitting on the bathroom floor, a growing puddle of b.l.o.o.d.y fluids beneath her. She sees the cord dangling from her insides, the blood pulsing out of it-whoosh, whoosh, whoosh-matching her own heartbeat.

She pushes the length of cord back up into herself.

IT is there, too. Also between her legs, but on the floor. Pushing with ITS feet, jerking ITS knees into ITS chest, up and down like convulsions. Twisting ITS face, the squinched mouth rubbing at the floor like IT'S searching for something. And screaming.

Screaming, screaming. Like a siren, urgent.

The horrible cramping starts again, stabbing pain rolling across her gut. She bites down on her lip, hard. Clutches her stomach.

"STOP!" Devon drops her forehead to her bent knees, sobs. "STOP IT! STOP IT! JUST STOP IT! PLEASE!"

Finally the pain fades. Devon lifts her face from her knees, panting. Swipes away the sweat that's dripped down her face. Looks around herself, at the frightening mess.

IT is still there on the floor, still screaming. Searching and squirming between her feet in its own b.l.o.o.d.y fluids. Devon reaches for the wrinkled, red thing. Her hands, two pieces of herself, grasp IT. Pull it up by where IT screams, the tiny face between her palms, small like a grapefruit. The legs kicking.

Devon pushes her hands together, ever so slightly. The small face, so fragile. So loud. She could squeeze it silent.

Instead she screams, "JUST SHUT UP!"

The mess-the blood and urine and other liquids, the smeared greenish black gunk, thick and sticky. The smell-the sweet, sickening smell. She can't leave the bathroom like this. Her mom will freak.

Devon looks up, sees the sink then. An idea forms in her mind. She holds IT around the chest and under the arms with both of her hands and scoots across the slick linoleum toward the bathroom counter.

Yes. A secure place to contain IT. She can place IT there, there in the sink's basin, while she quickly cleans things up.

She pulls herself up. Carefully lifts IT over the counter. Lowers IT down toward the basin.

But the intense cramps come again, rip across her abdomen. She cries out.

IT is slick; the slippery body slips from Devon's grasp. The body slides into the sink with a thud. The head, unsupported, snaps back. Slams into the faucet. Drops down, following the body, down into the sink.

Devon shrieks. Yanks the towels from the towel racks, the bath mat from the side of the tub, the hand towel. Throws them all on the floor to soak up the mess.

She limps out to the kitchen for a trash bag.

"Yes," the doctor is saying now, and Devon is suddenly pulled back, shaking, into the courtroom. She swallows. Sees her hands, tight fists, on her lap. "The baby may have hit the head on the floor during the birth. She may have also hit the other garbage. Yes, all of these things and others may have occurred. That is correct. But I do not believe this is what it is."

"All right, Ms. Barcellona," Judge Saynisch breaks in. "I've been very patient thus far, indulging you in this very lengthy examination. Your point is that the bruise and concussion may have been caused by some means other than blows to the head. Correct, Counsel?"

Devon reaches up to her forehead; it's damp with sweat.

"Yes, Your Honor," Devon hears Dom say. "There's a vast difference between alleging that someone had purposefully inflicted harm with malice aforethought and-"

"Yes, yes," the judge interrupts. "I get it. Let's move this along, Counsel."

Purposefully inflicted harm. Devon rubs at her forehead. Had she? Had she purposefully inflicted harm? There's a vast difference between alleging that someone had purposefully inflicted harm and. . . .

And . . . what? Allowing the harm through her own negligence? Her own stupid decision? Her fear?

The scene is still there, lingering in her mind. Between her hands, she'd held IT tightly. But then IT was gone, slipped from her grip. The neck limp, no strength there, can't hold the weight of the unsupported head. The head slams into the faucet, catching the rim of the sink on its way down. The sound, it echoes now in Devon's mind. The sound of something soft hitting something hard.

Devon's head had hit something hard once, too. That rainy day at practice when the dirt in front of the goal had turned to slick mud and she had dove through it.

"There haven't been any lasting effects from this alleged b.u.mp on the head," Devon hears Dom saying now. "Correct, Dr. More? In fact, the baby's doing fine."

Alleged b.u.mp on the head. Devon touches the spot where the back of her head hit the corner post. She can still remember the throb, the constant ache pulsing through her brain. It had lasted for days.

IT had felt that, too. That throb, the ache.