A Good Mother Read online

  Lara Bazelon is a professor at the University of San Francisco School of Law, where she holds the Barnett chair in Trial Advocacy. She spent seven years as a deputy federal public defender in Los Angeles.

  Praise for A Good Mother

  “A Good Mother is a high-stakes legal thriller packed with intense courtroom drama, but it’s also a story about the complicated sacrifices and compromises that mothers face. In this impressive debut, Lara Bazelon’s talent for both storytelling and the law are on sharp display.”

  —Alafair Burke, New York Times bestselling author of The Better Sister

  “Lara Bazelon combines a riveting courtroom thriller with a nuanced and thought-provoking examination of gender, race, and justice. Helmed by an intelligent, complex, and flawed protagonist, A Good Mother is a beautifully written debut that kept me turning the pages late into the night.”

  —Angie Kim, author of Miracle Creek

  “Sexy, shrewd, and wholly contemporary, A Good Mother takes pitch-perfect characters, a page-whipping plot, and themes about marriage, lust, betrayal, and the juggling of new motherhood plus a hard-driving career and mixes it all into a deeply perceptive legal thriller that made me drop everything else and just READ. Trial lawyer Abby Rosenberg is a flawed and riveting character you won’t soon forget.”

  —Cathi Hanauer, New York Times bestselling author of Gone, The Bitch in the House and The Bitch Is Back

  A Good Mother

  A Novel

  Lara Bazelon

  This book is for my father, trial-whisperer and fervent believer in the underdog, who always told me I could do it.

  Contents

  2006

  Saturday, October 14, 2006

  Tuesday, October 17, 2006

  Thursday, November 2, 2006

  Sunday, December 10, 2006

  Monday, December 11, 2006

  2005

  Tuesday, October 11, 2005

  2007

  Friday, January 5, 2007

  Monday, January 8, 2007

  Monday, January 8, 2007

  2005

  Monday, December 26, 2005

  2007

  Friday, February 2, 2007

  2006

  Wednesday, January 18, 2006

  2007

  Wednesday, February 14, 2007

  2006

  Friday, January 20, 2006

  2007

  Sunday, February 18, 2007

  Monday, March 12, 2007

  Wednesday, March 14, 2007

  2006

  Tuesday, May 2, 2006

  2007

  Monday, March 19, 2007

  Monday, March 19, 2007

  Tuesday, March 20, 2007

  Tuesday, March 20, 2007

  Tuesday, March 20, 2007

  Wednesday, March 21, 2007

  Wednesday, March 21, 2007

  2006

  Wednesday, July 19, 2006

  2007

  Wednesday, March 21, 2007

  Wednesday, March 21, 2007

  Thursday, March 22, 2007

  Thursday, March 22, 2007

  Thursday, March 22, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Friday, March 23, 2007

  Tuesday, April 10, 2007

  Tuesday, June 19, 2007

  Acknowledgments

  2006

  Saturday, October 14, 2006

  2:51 a.m.

  Ramstein Air Base

  Ramstein-Miesenbach, Germany

  “Front desk, Sergeant Jamison.”

  “He was too big. I couldn’t get him off me. He told me I was going to die—[unintelligible]”

  “Ma’am?”

  “[unintelligible]”

  “Ma’am, where are you?”

  “1074-B Arizona Circle. Call an ambulance. I need—”

  “Okay, okay. I’ve got the EMT on the other line and the ambulance en route. Where are you hurt?”

  “Not me—”

  “Ma’am, is that—is that a baby crying? Is that your baby?”

  “[unintelligible]”

  “Did he hurt the baby?”

  “She’s—[unintelligible]—the other room. He was going to [unintelligible]”

  “Okay, I reported the break-in. We are dispatching—security forces have been dispatched. Where is he now?”

  “[unintelligible]”

  “Ma’am, where is the intruder now?”

  “He was stabbed. Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus—[unintelligible]”

  “What is the nature of the injury?”

  “There’s so much blood—[unintelligible]”

  “Ma’am, I can’t—I’m having trouble understanding you. I need for you to calm down so I can tell these guys what’s going on.”

  “[unintelligible]”

  “Where is he stabbed?”

  “In his chest. He’s losing all of his blood.”

  “The EMT is en route now.”

  “[unintelligible]”

  “Ma’am, could the intruder hurt you or the baby? Are you still in danger?”

  “He’s not—[unintelligible]”

  “Ma’am—”

  “—an intruder. He’s—It’s Staff Sergeant—[unintelligible]”

  “I’m having a hard time understanding you, ma’am. Take a breath. Take a breath.”

  “Staff Sergeant Travis Hollis—”

  “The intruder is—he’s—he’s military?”

  “He’s my husband. He was stabbed. I stabbed him—[unintelligible]”

  “Ma’am, ma’am, are you still there?”

  “Travis, baby, don’t die on me. Please, don’t die.”

  Tuesday, October 17, 2006

  1:30 p.m.

  United States District Court for the

  Central District of California

  Los Angeles

  Climbing the steps to the courthouse at 312 North Spring Street in downtown Los Angeles, Abby Rosenberg surveys the local TV news vans and the small collection of reporters milling about: three women in bright-colored, short-skirted suits, their hair—ash blond, dark blond, caramel blond—perfectly blown out. In consultation with their cameramen, they are setting up for the shoot. Until the hearing is over, there is nothing else for them to do. No cameras are allowed beyond the iron-heavy doors, no exceptions. Inside, the print reporters are lined up, divesting themselves of jackets, shoes, and cell phones as they wait to go through security.

  It is seventeen stairs to the top and Abby has to stop and catch her breath. She lists slightly, reaches for the railing, and feels a firm hand on her upper arm. Turning, she sees Shauna Gooden, the prosecutor she’ll be up against in court. Tall, early fifties, Shauna is one of those women who gives no sense that she is invested in her appearance but manages to look good anyway. Her pantsuits are at least a decade out of date but still fit nicely, her jewelry is minimal—diamond studs, a thin gold chain around her neck—but adds just the tiniest amount of sparkle.

  “I’m okay,” Abby says, and Shauna releases her arm.

  They both step back, Shauna surveying her from head to toe with her hands on her hips. “Thirty pounds of extra weight will do that. And what on earth are you still doing in stilettos?”

&
nbsp; “Denying reality.” Still winded, Abby does not want to risk the embarrassment of a full sentence interrupted by a gulp for air.

  “Hide that belly behind a shopping bag and no one would even know.” Shauna smiles. “No fat ankles for you.”

  Abby looks down, but she is long past the point of seeing her feet. Her stomach protrudes, stretched tight as a water balloon under her maternity blouse. She had tried and failed to give it some cover with her jacket, but the days of closing the buttons are long gone. As Shauna has rightly pointed out, the weight is concentrated almost entirely in the balloon, leaving Abby slightly off balance. In moments like these, in public and on display, she is afraid of being pulled inexorably downward until her face is flat against the pavement.

  “Thanks,” she says warily. “And congratulations on the BWLA award. I heard it was a very fancy lunch at Shutters.”

  Shauna smiles. “They went all out. Black Women Lawyers of LA, you know, a small but mighty sisterhood.” She takes another look at Abby and shakes her head. “There is no way you got this case by accident. And weren’t you supposed to pop the little sucker out last week?”

  Abby grins. She genuinely likes Shauna, which is saying something. Abby doesn’t care for many of the prosecutors in the United States Attorney’s Office, particularly the young self-righteous ones who come straight off the assembly line from Stanford or one of the fancier East Coast law schools: conservative suits, conservative haircuts, conservative sense of humor. Which is to say none at all, as far as Abby can tell. Shauna, though, has been doing the job for more than twenty years and has a reputation for being honest and fair. But in court she takes no prisoners.

  “I’m due in five days,” Abby says. “And yes, random assignment.”

  Shauna raises an eyebrow. “More like a blatant ploy to get Judge Richards’s sympathy. I know Paul.” She shakes her head. “The man is shameless.”

  At this reference to her ever-canny supervisor, Abby grins but says nothing.

  “I can just see you now, having contractions at the lectern.” Shauna starts laughing, and the heads turn to look.

  “Not to worry,” Abby says, “I haven’t had my bloody show yet.”

  “Your what?”

  Abby smiles. “The red clump of mucus that shows up in your underwear the day before you go into labor? C’mon now, you remember.”

  Shauna, still laughing, offers to hold Abby’s briefcase as they walk inside, an offer she declines. As they wave through security with their badges, one of security guards calls out to Abby. “Ms. Rosenberg, you need a hand with anything?”

  It’s Rex James, one of Abby’s favorites, a middle-aged, heavyset guy with a modified salt-and-pepper Afro. Abby smiles, placing a hand gently on her belly. “No, but thank you,” she says.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Shauna says, rolling her eyes as she strides off toward the elevator. But when it arrives, she makes sure to hold the door.

  * * *

  “All rise.”

  They stand as Judge Richards ascends the bench, Abby feeling rushed. She had hoped to have a few minutes alone with her client. Since Luz Rivera Hollis was arrested seventy-two hours ago on a US Air Force base in Germany and sent back to Los Angeles, Abby has seen her twice in a grimy, glassed-off attorney-client visiting room at the Metropolitan Detention Center. On both visits, they had spoken of nothing but the bail hearing, purposefully myopic conversations trained at the immediate crisis at hand: freeing Luz to take care of her infant daughter while the case trundles forward.

  Both times, Luz answered Abby’s questions steadily, providing the basic facts requested: the estimated market value of her grandmother’s house, the status of the custody dispute that had been launched immediately by her dead husband’s mother, the absence in her life of any other act of violence toward another human being. Swimming in her too-large prison scrubs, long dark hair a tangled mess, eyes rimmed with purple half-moons, she looked like a frightened child, which Abby supposes she is. Luz Rivera Hollis is nineteen years old.

  There had been no crying, no asking of any of the questions that Abby would expect from someone in her situation. What is the evidence against me? What are my chances? There had been no pleading, either. Please, please help me. Do everything you can. There had been, Abby realizes now, no curiosity about the legal machine that had been set in motion. Luz’s terror showed only in her eyes, which were dark and depthless. Midconversation, midsentence even, they would go vacant, causing Abby to have to repeat Luz’s name, loudly, several times. The only thing Luz had wanted to know was when she could see her baby, Cristina. That question she had asked over and over.

  You’ll see her when I get you out on bail, Abby had told her. At those words, Luz’s face had lit up. But it is not at all clear that Abby could get Luz out on bail. The charge against her is first-degree murder. Abby turns to Luz now, puts a hand on her back as they retake their seats next to each other. Luz looks no better today than she had at the jail the day before. Through the worn material of her jail-issue jumpsuit, Abby can feel her trembling.

  Magistrate judges assigned to hear bail motions get the smaller courtrooms on the upper floors. Judge Richards’s is packed. There are the usual suspects with their press credentials on lanyards around their necks. The Hollis family is there, too, in force, the victim’s mother, gray-blonde, grim, and gray-faced, braced by her two daughters, all of them wearing American flag pins. But most of the spectators are members of Luz’s church, more than two dozen, dressed formally, wearing sober expressions. Abby smiles at them, relieved, but not surprised that they had agreed to come. Abby, knowing Travis’s family would be there, had intended to pack the other side of the courtroom. That they had turned out in those numbers will signal to the judge—especially this judge—that Luz has an important constituency of supporters.

  Judge Richards, fortysomething and wholesome-looking with a still thick, still brown head of hair, looks down at them under straight dark brows. Devout Catholic and the father of eight children. Abby glances over at Luz, who is nervously fiddling at the gold cross on the slender chain around her neck.

  The clerk calls the case and says, “Counsel, appearances please.”

  “Shauna Gooden, for the government.”

  “Abby Rosenberg, Deputy Federal Public Defender, on behalf of Luz Rivera Hollis.”

  As if on cue, the courtroom door opens, and a priest walks in escorting Luz’s grandmother Maria Elena, who holds Luz’s baby in one of those pop-out car seat carriers on her skinny wrinkled arm. Asleep, thankfully. They all turn, and Abby notices Judge Richards’s clerk, a grandmotherly type herself, giving little Cristina an involuntary pucker of a smile.

  Luz’s eyes go wide and her manacled hands reach out, jerk the chain, and retract to their default position at her waist.

  Shauna looks at Abby and mouths, Are you kidding me? Abby, smiling, gives a slight shrug of her shoulders.

  Judge Richards clears his throat.

  “Mrs. Rivera Hollis, the United States has charged you with the first-degree murder of your husband, Sergeant Travis Hollis. Have you read the complaint detailing those charges and do you understand it?”

  Luz’s yes is barely audible.

  “You are here in federal court in Los Angeles today because of a law, recently passed by Congress, which says that civilians who commit crimes against members of the armed forces while outside of the United States shall be extradited for trial in the jurisdiction where they reside. It’s called the Military Extraterritorial Jurisdiction Act. Because your last known residence was within the Central District of California, you are in this courtroom today. Do you understand?”

  After another barely audible yes, Richards continues, “Alright. It’s the government’s motion here, so I’ll allow you to argue first, Ms. Gooden.”

  Shauna stands and immediately begins speaking in a voice that carries with it a tone of barel
y suppressed outrage. “Sergeant Travis Hollis, a decorated combat veteran who served this country bravely in Iraq, found out too late that his most lethal enemy resided in his own home.”

  Shauna settles her gaze on Luz. “It is hard to think of a more cold-blooded and brutal crime. Upon learning that Sergeant Hollis had been unfaithful through email communications from the—the mistress—Mrs. Rivera Hollis brooded for hours, until her husband came home from a party. Then, wielding a knife, she stabbed him with such extreme force that it pierced through his rib cage and tore open his heart. Despite the heroic efforts of first responders on the army base to save him, Sergeant Hollis bled to death in his own hallway at the age of twenty-three. Mrs. Rivera Hollis robbed Sergeant Hollis’s recently widowed mother of her only son. She robbed her own child of her father.

  “The defendant planned this. She turned a kitchen knife into a deadly weapon. She is extremely dangerous. She needs to remain in jail pending trial where she can’t hurt anyone else.”

  Luz is returning Shauna’s stare, her eyes narrowed in contempt. Abby grabs her just above her shackled wrist and whispers sharply in her ear. “Look down. Look down at the ground.”

  Shauna has moved on to argue that Luz, facing a mandatory death-in-prison sentence, might escape across the border to Mexico, where she has many relatives waiting to welcome her with open arms. Abby half listens, eyes on her client, who has trained her gaze downward but still looks angry.

  When Shauna is finally finished, Judge Richards thanks her politely before turning to Abby. “I’ll hear from you now, Ms. Rosenberg.” He pauses. “Would you—would it be more comfortable for you to remain seated?”

  Abby gives the judge her warmest smile. “No, thank you, Your Honor.” She takes her time extracting herself from her chair and walks carefully to the lectern, making sure to give Luz a friendly squeeze on the shoulder as she passes by. Once there, Abby finds she has to hold both sides of the wooden podium, canting her abdomen forward to remain balanced. Shauna is right, she’s a fool to be wearing high heels. But that is what she always wears, to add precious inches to her height—on her straightest-backed day, she’s barely five foot two. Forgoing the practice isn’t just about vanity, although that is assuredly part of it. Choosing sensible flats feels like giving up.