2-in-1 Yada Yada (38 page)

Behind me I heard Florida mutter, “Oh God, if you ain't God all by Yourself. Glory!”

I couldn't say anything; the lump in my throat was too big. But Denny just wrapped his arms around me, and we cried together as Avis and Florida and Nony and the others started praising and shouting and crying and thanking God.

Don't know who put on the CD—probably Florida—but suddenly the song she'd made me listen to yesterday filled the room . . .

We fall down, but we get up . . .

For a saint is just a sinner who fell down . . . and got up.

41

I
awoke Monday morning to sunshine trying to stick its fingers through the cracks in the miniblinds. The digital clock read only 5:32. But I knew I couldn't go back to sleep.

Today was the day of the preliminary hearing.

Denny was still asleep, rolled over on his side, just a sheet covering the foothills of his hip and shoulder. I reached out beneath the sheet to touch him, to rest my hand on the curve of his hip, then pulled back my hand. I didn't want to wake him—not just yet.

I lay quietly on my back, thinking about Yada Yada last night . . .

After Denny and I had quit crying on each other's shoulder, the group insisted that Denny stay. He'd settled down on the floor beside the footstool, his back leaning against my chair. Avis asked us straight out what was going to happen at the preliminary hearing the next day. Denny laid it all out, everything we knew.

“You scared, Jodi?”
Yo-Yo never waited for niceties.

Nothing like ripping open my emotional walls.
“Terrified.”
To my surprise, it felt so good to admit it.
“If I'm convicted even of a
misdemeanor, it could still mean—”
I'd swallowed hard.
“—jail
time.”

“Yeah?”
said Yo-Yo.
“Well, you won't be the first person in this
group who's spent time in jail, will ya? And . . . here I am.”
She'd spread her arms out.
“Still in one piece. And wiser, too.”

“But . . . my kids.”
I was close to weeping again.

“Uh-uh.”
Avis had shaken her head emphatically.
“We are not
going to go straight to the worst that could happen. What are we going
to pray for, Hoshi?”

Hoshi had been very quiet, as usual. But she'd perked up at Avis's question.
“A miracle.”

“Delores?”

“I pray that Jodi and Denny have God's peace, no matter what.”

“Adele?”

Adele had shrugged.
“Might as well go for the gold . . . and pray
that the charges would be dropped.”

Avis had seemed satisfied.
“All right. That's what we're going to
pray for—a miracle, God's absolute peace, and that the charges will be
dropped.”

“And that God will get all the glory,”
Nony had added.

And so they'd prayed, and toward the end it seemed like everybody was praying at the same time, just thanking God for His salvation, His mercy, His grace . . . and I realized after a while that it was no longer about
me.
Florida, Avis, Delores . . . each one was thanking God for His mercy and grace
toward herself . . .

Willie Wonka's nails clicked on the floor as the dog came into the room and nuzzled Denny's hand hanging over the side of the bed.
Time to let me outside, people!
his eyes seemed to say.

Denny rolled over on his back then turned his head and looked at me. “You awake already, Jodi?”

“Um-hm.”

“You okay?”

“Um-hm.”

He rolled over onto his other side, facing me, and stroked my face, tracing the still tender scar under my bangs where my head had hit the side window. “What are you thinking?”

I was quiet a moment, relishing the gentle touch of his hand on my face. “I'm thinking I want to go to the hearing.”

“What?” Denny sat up so fast he whipped the sheet off my prone body. “Jodi, you don't have to go—not till you've healed more. The lawyer said he could ask for a continuance.”

“I know. But why wait? Maybe it's more important to face my demons.”

“Your . . . demons.”

“My demons . . . my fears. If I stay home, I'll just be hiding. Not wanting anyone to know it's Jodi Baxter who killed that boy. Not wanting to face the accusations against me.”

Denny stared at me as if I were a stranger who'd crawled into bed with him. “But, Jodi. What if Jamal's family is there?”

I nodded slowly. “That, too. I . . . hope they are.” The look on Denny's face was so odd, it was almost funny. But I didn't laugh. “Will you go with me?”

“Go with—?” Then he did laugh. “How else would you get there, you goose—hitchhike?”

THE HEARING WAS SCHEDULED for ten o'clock at the Second District Circuit Court of Cook County in Skokie. I'd been surprised it wasn't at the big county courthouse on the South Side, but Mr. Farrell had told us the Skokie court handled all the North Side Chicago cases.

Denny let me out as close as possible to the entry of the sprawling two-story red-brick building at nine-thirty then disappeared into the parking garage. The courthouse was surrounded by one of the local forest preserves, almost parklike . . . except for the police cars driving in and out. I wondered how I was going to get through the revolving door with my crutches, but a security guard on the inside waved me over to a regular glass door marked with the blue handicapped logo.

As soon as Denny came through the revolving door, we got in line to go through security, but I set off the metal detector when I hobbled through it, and a security guard made me pass through again. The third time he made me hand over the crutches and I hopped through. The alarm still went off.

Exasperated, Denny barely kept his cool. “Look, she broke her leg, and it's got a metal rod in it. Can't you just wand her and let her go?”Which they did, but they made Denny empty his pockets
and
pull off his belt. They kept his penknife and said he could pick it up on the way out.

We finally headed up the escalator to the second floor and found Courtroom 206 about ten minutes to ten.

I don't know what I expected, but the beige-colored room wasn't that large. The judge, a balding black man with grandfatherly jowls who amply filled out his black robe, was already hearing a case. Our lawyer, William Farrell, was sitting in the empty, cushioned, jury seats, waiting our turn, I supposed. His sunburned face, topped with a thick head of auburn hair, looked up, surprised, and he hustled our way as Denny and I slid into the first of three pewlike benches at the back of the room. “Denny. Jodi,” he murmured, shaking our hands. “You didn't have to come, you know. I was going to ask for a continuance, citing recovery time for your injuries, Jodi.”

“I know.” How could I explain that I needed to do this—now?

Two cases were dispatched in fairly quick order as we waited— one involving a man in drab, Department of Corrections garb, flanked by two Chicago police officers, who pled guilty to abuse of a controlled substance. The judge gave him a one-year sentence on the spot, minus thirty-three days he'd already served.

I stared at the man's back as the police officers led him out, suddenly feeling claustrophobic, like I might never leave this room a free person. I grabbed Denny's hand and held on tight.

A door marked “Conference Room” opened along the right side of the room, and a middle-aged white man in a rumpled tan suit came in followed by an African-American woman with closecropped hair, small glasses, and gold hoop earrings framing a thin, tense face. She was accompanied by two boys—one nine or ten, the other an older teen—wearing T-shirts, baggy jeans with crotches to their knees, and big gym shoes with floppy laces, who stared at me as they sat at the far end of the pews. Mr. Farrell murmured something to Denny, who turned to me. “That's the assistant state's attorney,” he whispered.

Must be Jamal's mother with him,
I thought, looking straight ahead.
Are those his brothers?
My hands felt clammy.
Why did I
think I was brave enough to do this?

Someone slipped into the row behind us. I turned slightly. Avis! What was she doing here?

She leaned forward. “Thought you weren't coming,” she murmured. .

“So why are
you
here?” I whispered back.

“Somebody
needs to pray over this hearing.”

I faced forward again, but at that moment, my heart ached with love for Avis, who came all by herself just to pray, not even knowing we were going to be there.

God, when I “grow up,” I want to think like Avis . . . be obedient
like Avis . . . pray like Avis.

I cringed when the clerk read, “In the matter of the State of Illinois versus Jodi Baxter . . .” Mr. Farrell motioned for me to join him at the defense attorney's desk, which I did, feeling like every eye in the room was boring a hole in my back as I awkwardly made my way around chairs and railings. I tried to listen as the indictment was read but was distracted by the assistant state's attorney whispering to an aide, who hustled quickly out of the room. But all I heard was, “ . . . resulting in the death of Jamal Wilkins, male, age thirteen” and “vehicular manslaughter.”

“Mr. Prendergast. Are you ready to present the state's evidence?” The judge peered over the top of his glasses at the prosecuting attorney. The man shuffled some papers then made his way to one of the two podiums facing the judge.

“Uh, my witness has not arrived yet.”

The judge raised his eyebrows. “Your
witness
has not arrived yet? Witness . . . singular?”

“Yes sir.”

The judge paged through the papers in front of him. “It was my understanding, Mr. Prendergast, that the court would hear three witnesses at this preliminary hearing—two young men who were with the victim at the time of the accident, and a bystander, with sufficient evidence to take this case to trial.”

“That's true, Your Honor. But . . . ah . . . the bystander is now uncertain she can verify the information she first gave to the police, and one of the boys with Jamal that day has declined to testify. I did not have time to serve a subpoena before this morning.”

I heard William Farrell snort beside me, scribbling something with his pen.

The judge made his fingers into a tent, tapping his lips with the tips. “And your other witness?”

“Uh, we're waiting for him to arrive, sir.”

The judge shook his head. “Counsel, approach the bench.”

William Farrell patted my shoulder and joined the assistant state's attorney before the judge's bench. They bent their heads together, but I was close enough to hear the other attorney say something about “running a red light . . . exceeding the speed limit . . . talking on a cell phone.”

I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. Running a red light? Exceeding the speed limit? I didn't . . . I hadn't . . . had I? But how could we ever prove it? It was going to be their word against mine. But the cell phone—that I
knew
wasn't true!

I glanced toward Denny. Behind him I could see Avis's eyes closed, her mouth moving . . . she was praying.

William Farrell was leaning on the front of the judge's bench, looking completely relaxed. He had told us that only the state's evidence would be presented at the “pre-lim”; the defense could cross-examine their witnesses, but any defense witnesses did not have to appear until trial.
What witnesses?
Just me?

The other attorney pointed toward Jamal Wilkins's family, obviously asking for more time for his witness to arrive. My heart was pounding in my ears. Would there be a continuance after all? We'd come today for nothing?

But the judged eyed the clock, leaned back in his chair, and shook his head. The two attorneys returned to their seats.

“Ms. Wilkins, I presume?” The judge addressed the woman sitting behind the prosecuting attorney. She gave a slight nod, her thin face a mask of controlled emotion. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Ms. Wilkins. It is a terrible thing to lose a child in an accident such as this, and we do not want to discount the pain that you and your family are going through. But . . .” The tented fingers tapped his lips again. “. . . without witnesses, the state has failed to show any evidence that would sustain taking this case to trial. I have no option here but to drop the charges against Mrs. Baxter.” He banged his gavel. “Case dismissed . . . Next case.”

Denny was out of his seat in half a second. “Thank you!” I heard him say to Mr. Farrell, pumping his hand. “Thank you!” Then, “That's it? It's over?”

“Yes—though the state's attorney could subpoena the witnesses and ask for a grand jury indictment. But don't worry—even if it went to trial, Jodi would walk . . .”

Even as Mr. Farrell started bragging about the defense witnesses he'd lined up, I could see Jamal Wilkins's mother sitting perfectly still on the other side of the room, staring straight ahead. Mr. Farrell's voice sounded far away, as if I had water in my ears . . .

“The driver of the car that slammed into your minivan is prepared
to testify that you both had the green light . . . evidence technicians who
examined the skid marks at the scene of the accident found nothing consistent
with excessive speed . . . not to mention that no cell phone was
found in the minivan at the time of the accident . . .”

Taking my crutches, I hobbled toward the other mother. Swallowing past the huge lump forming in my throat, I spoke.

“Ms. Wilkins? I'm Jodi Baxter. It was . . . my car that struck your son.”

The woman's face turned slightly, her eyes cold. “I know.”

“I just want to say how terribly sorry I am. I can only imagine the pain you must be going through. I would . . . give anything if it hadn't happened. Even exchange my life for Jamal's—if I could.”