CHAPTER ONE: THE GOOD FAMILY Eleven days into my new job I get my first shaken-baby case.

Babies should not be shaken. Their neck muscles are not strong enough to handle it. Their brains slam up against the inside of their skulls leaving them brain-dead or dead. All babies can do is cry and hope someone guesses what they need. People forget how hard it is to be a baby and get frustrated trying to deal with them. Situations escalate. A baby could get shaken. In every household, a baby needs an advocate a good parent or, failing that, a good attorney. Anyway, its late on Friday. The judge is keeping us after hours because she has been having a hard time getting through her cases. We are down to our last case, twins, one of them now brain-dead. The diagnosis is shaken-baby syndrome. The air conditioning in the rest of the courthouse groans off. Are we going to settle it or try it? says the judge. Of everyone, the judge wants to go home most of all. She has her own new baby at home and all day long her breasts ache with milk. Ask the County, says the fathers attorney. I realize he is talking about me. I am the County. I have no idea. It depends, I say. Everyone groans. Lets take a recess, the judge says and leaves the room. The men have already loosened their ties. Sweat soaks into their wrinkled shirts. The women kick off their high heels.

The attorneys for the father and the mother flank me. The attorney for the father is a tall sandy haired man with a congenial smile. His name is Dick. In a few years he will run for the local Congressional seat and win. Do you want my advice? he says. Your advice? Arent we opposing counsel? I say. Ive tried thousands of these cases. You want my advice or not? I want his advice. I do not want to ask for it. Tell me what it would be if I did want it, I say. Okay look, Dick says. You are never going to be able to prove who shook the baby. It could have been the mother, the father, the babysitter. It could have been a friend, a relative. It could have been the milkman, interjects the mothers attorney, trying to be funny. Dick shoots him a look. Abashed, the mothers attorney downs the last of his coffee and crumples the stained paper cup. Dick turns to me. This baby is lucky, says Dick. It has both parents, the parents are married, and both parents have jobs. And it is never alone, never neglected. It has a lot of people who care. This baby has neighbors, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, a priest and some parishioners, even a babysitter. They are in the hallway speaking with each other in their native Slavic language. I cannot understand what they are saying but they sound sincere and concerned. They have trooped down to court to show their moral support of the parents, these good parents with the broken baby. One of them almost killed it, I say. I notice that in our speaking the baby has no gender.

But the point is we dont know who, he says. And whoever it was, is never going to do it again. The family is all broke up about it. Dont I have to try and find out who it was? I ask. I had no business asking him this question, but I was new and it was late and hot. You think the judge is going to let you call them to the stand, one by one, so you can try and crack them with your brilliant cross-examination? This is the real world, Janey, he says. It was the first time anyone had called me Janey in open court. It wasnt the last. The name caught on. It made me feel like a little girl. The judge is not going to let you go on a fishing expedition, not with the court calendar in the mess its in, he says. So what would your clients plead to? I ask. I am not sure what the plea would be if no one will admit to shaking the baby. I look past Dick and accidentally make eye contact with the father of the babies. He runs the fingers of one hand through his ash blonde hair. He holds a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a lit cigarette in the other hand. That the baby was injured, that someone did it, Dick says. Someone who? I ask. Dick shrugs. The mothers attorney shrugs. Whats the point then? I ask. You can add that they all knew or should have known that it would happen. That they should have protected the baby, Dick says. Is that true? I say. How could they have known that one of them was going to hurt the baby if no one knows who did it now? My head hurts.

Some people dont know that shaking a baby can hurt it. Maybe they think that shaking a baby is a good way to get it to be quiet, says the mothers attorney. Maybe nobody did it. Shut up, dirt bag, says Dick to his co-counsel. Ive heard guys talk to each other like this at sports bars. Youre an idiot. So hostile, its affectionate. You want to make it so everyone walks away as if nothing happened? Greedy pig. Sorry, says the mothers attorney, shrugging. Dick reaches forward and grabs me by the shoulder. Instead of his hand resting there, his grip is tight. I can feel the testosterone running through him. Janey, you want to take this plea, he says. You dont want the judge to dismiss the case for lack of a perp. He maintains eye contact. I have no idea what to do. I must look like a deer caught in his high beams. Im afraid to blink. Perp is short for perpetrator, he adds. I know, I say. I know now. Think about it, he says. He looks sincere. I turn and look at the mothers attorney who nods in agreement. He also looks sincere. Hey, this is a good family. How often do we have a case where no one is doing drugs and everyone has an honest job? Dick says. Never, answers the mothers attorney. Never, Janey, says Dick, releasing me. Think it over. Im going out for a smoke.

Ive got to call home, says the mothers attorney, and leaves. Dick pulls his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers me one. I shake my head no. I do not smoke. He lingers, fishing for his matches. Finding them, he leans in close. You know, were all friends here. You dont want to get off on the wrong foot. You dont want to play hardball on the wrong case. I think, is that a threat? And if so, what is he going to do, break my kneecaps? But I know he is right. I need to prove I can get along with others. I need the job. Wanda, the social worker assigned to the courtroom, a tall, slender, coffee and cream black woman, takes a cigarette from Dicks pack as she walks by. Any time, gorgeous, he says, glad to get a close-up of her cleavage. She nods to him, grateful, and heads toward the hallway, fumbling in her purse for a lighter. I chase after her and catch her at the threshold. What do you think I should do? She shrugs and says, Youre the attorney. I step back into the courtroom as she steps past me, out into the hallway. Dick passes me and joins her. I see them come together, standing close, chatting and laughing. She holds the cigarette she took from him to her lips while he lights it. The more experienced attorneys from my office are already gone for the day. To save money, there is no attorney for the babies except me. I am alone in this. I represent the social worker, the babies, and my perplexed feelings about the case. My sense of it is that we are fucked, all of us. No confession. No witnesses. No evidence except a braindead baby.

I duck out to the bathroom to throw water on my face. I stop at the row of sinks and look at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a mess. It is hard to imagine an adult hurting a child. It is hard to imagine an adult shaking a baby until his skull fills with blood. Later I will realize that it does not matter whether you can picture it. Picture it or not, it happens. Things are never as they should be. Things are never as they seem. It is easier on the nervous system not to try and picture it, to instead take it for granted. But I dont know all of that yet. I turn on the faucet. The water feels cold and good. I pull the last paper towel out of the dispenser. The toilet in one of the stalls flushes. I dry my face and hands. The wastebasket overflows, the floor littered with used paper towels. The stall opens and the judge comes out and joins me. Am I going crazy? she asks. I dont know what to say. It is a no-win kind of question. I crumple up my towel in my hands, not knowing what to do with it. I cannot just throw it on the floor with the other used paper towels, not with the judge standing there. She opens her purse and pulls out her lipstick, a red that looks great with her black robes. What do you mean? I say. When in doubt, answer a question with a question. Our voices echo. They bounce off the tiled floors and walls. I feel like I can hear my baby cry, she says. Thats natural, I say. I can say that, I have two kids. They were babies once. I want to unburden myself on her and ask her advice, but I cant. Shes the judge. I hear him cry all day long, she says. From the moment I take the bench in the morning. When the attorneys state their appearances for the record. When the social workers make their reports. When the parents deny all charges. She tells me that she

hears it cry no matter what is going on in the courtroom. She does not hear the cases. She hears the baby who is miles away with a nanny. She is coming unglued. I know enough not to say anything else. A judge could say, Hey, Im going home and beating my wife tonight, and his attorneys would just nod. Judges are as alone in the world as anyone. I understand, I say, which is the same as saying nothing. She sighs and pads out of the bathroom in her bare feet. I stuff my used paper towel into one side of the wastebasket. A few other used paper towels fall out the other side but I ignore them. I have to get back. When I go back into the courtroom, Dick and the mothers attorney leap up and circle me, ready to settle the case. Just something we can take to our clients and get a plea so the judge can go home and feed her crying baby, they say. Nobody wants to kill babies for a living. We are all good people. If anything, we are worried about the judges baby and her aching udders. We are trying not to piss her off, to make her days any worse than they already were. If it was a sex abuse or a death case, my office would have mandated a ten-day trial with exhibits and experts, and supervising attorneys popping in every ten minutes, breathing down my neck, looking over my shoulder. As a matter of sound politics, the judge would have been obligated to point a finger at someone, anyone. Neither baby would have gone home. But the baby is, both babies are, still breathing. And their private parts are still intact. The emergency room doctor checked. If only the perpetrator, whoever they were,

had not just shaken the baby, but also shoved a few fingers up its anus, caused some bleeding, left some tell-tale scars. I cannot find my supervisor, Sam. My boss, Myles, is already shooting pool, sharing a pizza and a pitcher with a buddy, and checking the odds on the ball game before he calls his bookie. Jane, its the weekend, he says, when I finally reach him on his cell, just before he hangs up. See if you can settle it. Before I can say anything else, he is gone. We are all tired, hot, and as thirsty as the judges baby, but most of all we feel helpless there is not a damn thing we can do. At least, that is what we say later. We agree that the baby is brain dead, that no one knows who did it, but we also agree that none of the parents or anyone else should ever be left alone with another baby, one who still has a brain and who will be able to put two and two together come kindergarten. And we agree that the babysitter is too young. We insist that she be fired. Everyone congratulates me on settling my first big case on my own. And then we all go home to what waits for us air conditioning, crying babies, whatever. When I step out of the courthouse, the whole damn city is pouring out of office buildings, like fat to fry on the sidewalks of Indian summer. The melting asphalt seems to groan under the swelter and weight of the cars pouring out of parking lots. A few blocks way, I find the lot where I left my car in the morning, slip in behind the wheel, and edge into the traffic, driving into blazing late afternoon sun. I think about how grateful I am that I never shook my own babies who are now teenagers. Babies cry a lot, but they are also so small and fragile. We enter the world breakable.

Whoever it was, if anyone hurt the baby, they didnt mean it, the mothers attorney had said. They didnt know what they were doing. Or maybe no one did it, Dick had said. Not everyone in the scientific community believes in shaken baby syndrome. Maybe hes right. Maybe no one did it. I do believe that this family is a good family. But it dawns on me that I am a child abuse lawyer and maybe it is my job to believe in a world of hurt and pain where a baby is more likely to be shaken than not, and where adults lurk in the shadows of their worst intentions. Someone has to believe in evil. Otherwise there may be no one there to believe at a time when believing is the only thing that could save a childs life. Believe boldly in the bad and the wrong, like a knight protected in a tin can of shining armor unwavering on a quest, and let the judge sort it out? Or waffle and show compassion for a family struggling on their own quest to raise two babies in a world without pity? By the time these thoughts fully materialize, shimmering up off the too bright road ahead of me to the conscious part of my tired brain, I am worn out from thinking. Even the visor cant shut out the last rays of the sun. Believing is out of the question. I believed all day long today and did what I could but now I am off work and I can do what I want. I slip on my sunglasses and try not to think anymore. Its easier than it should be. I need more practice believing, I think. I need to build up my endurance. But right now, I need to be home. I call my husband, Daniel, from the car. How was work? he asks. I settled my first big case, I say. It was hard but I did it.

Hey thats great! Congratulations! he says. Yep, everyone was glad. People are over from my office, he says. Oh, I say. Be happy? he says. Okay, I agree. I am happy, pretty much, in my own way. The rest of the way home I try to find something to listen to on the car radio, but cant settle on a station. No one is playing anything good. CHAPTER TWO: WHITE RABBITS I pull up and park at the curb. Our house looks the same as the day Daniel and I first saw it so many years ago. Same cracks in the stucco, leaky red tile roof, and freaky elephant ear cactus out front where other people put roses. The house we fell in love with before the kids were born. We love it with all its faults. I put the key in the lock and step inside. The house feels empty. I notice my footsteps echo against the plaster walls. The housekeeper, hugging her coat and purse, passes me in a hurry. Goodbye, Mrs. Jane, she says. I start to open my mouth to say goodbye but the front door slams shut behind her. She has found a job looking after the empty nest of a Beverly Hills widow. High pay, low stress. Were not hiring anyone new. I try to be happy for her, but had been holding onto a fantasy that we had a bonded a little, but apparently not. I hear voices coming from the backyard and follow the sound. In the kitchen, the ingredients for white rabbits are out on the counter vodka, vanilla liquor, milk, and ice. I put the milk back in the fridge, and rinse the blender, upending it so it can dry.

My husband Daniel is a pediatrician. He missed a diagnosis and was told to take a leave of absence. His patient came out of it fine, so the malpractice suit is bound to be resolved soon for lack of recoverable damages, but its still pending. The lawyers, ghoulish enough to bet on a childs life, must have been disappointed when he pulled through. What if one of my patients does die, Jane? What will I do then? he says. It hasnt happened to him yet, but its inevitable. Its a matter of statistics. Youd go on being a great doctor, Danny, I say. Maybe Id go to Africa and give vaccinations, he says. Wed miss you, Danny, I say. Daniel is on the back steps with Jeremy and Trish, two other pediatricians. Hi,

I say, making sure to smile, and the three of them turn around and look up at me. They practice medicine together in Brentwood, a nice office, lots of movie stars kids. Oh thats too bad, says Trish. You just missed Amanda. Oh, I say. The office manager, Danny says. Oh yes, Amanda, I say. It is good politics to pretend I know who Amanda is. I have been to Dannys office a hundred times and I cant even remember her face. Hey, says Jeremy. Hows the new job? Not sure yet, I say. Daniel offers me his white rabbit. And shes happy to be rid of her old boss. I wont miss Eddie, I say, taking a sip.

You get to help children even though youre a lawyer. Yes. I take a sip of Daniels drink. Dan says you just settled your first big case. Yes. I take another sip. Jeremy salutes me with his glass again, before he tips it and finishes off his white rabbit. Nothing like your old job, I bet. The moneys not as good, if thats what you mean, I say. No one knows what to say next. I have that effect on Daniels friends. I think Daniel found that refreshing at first but it wore off quick. Trish and Jeremy just nod their heads. Daniel glares at me so I say, Its not as nice a job but Im doing research for a novel. Jeremy and Trish perk up again. I didnt know you wrote, says Trish. I dont write and Im not doing research for a novel, but I dont say anything. I just nod and smile, fight back my feelings of inadequacy, hand Daniel back his drink and thread down the steps, stepping around the pediatricians and onto the lawn in our backyard. I walk past my crazy quilt patch of Indian summers pumpkins and sunflowers competing with squash and tomato plants plucked bare by god knows what, rats? We do live in the city. Its not like Peter Cottontail has been out nibbling in my garden. The kids are in the tree. Natasha sketches into her drawing pad. Her downcast eyes and long fair hair wafting in the breeze make her look like Ophelia in the water. Joey eats cornflakes from the box by the handful. They look down at me. I know they are my kids but I still have to say, they are so beautiful in the fading light. My kingdom for a horse, says Joey. We had made him go to Shakespeare Camp where he became obsessed with the hunchback king Richard the III who murdered his

family members to satisfy his ambition to become king. Richards reign lasted for about ten minutes. My horse, my horse, my kingdom for a horse, Richard begged the once loyal henchmen circling him. Instead of giving him a horse, they closed in and knifed him to death. Every kid should go to camp. He wont shut up, says Nat. I guess you didnt want to say goodbye to Maria? I ask. She wanted us out of the house so she could do the floors, says Nat. Shes gone, I say. Oh, they say and drop to the ground. What are they doing here? Joey asks me, meaning the pediatricians. Theyre visiting, says Nat. No kidding, says Joey. I turn back to Daniel and his friends. I want to ask them about shaken baby syndrome, about the baby that didnt die but was brain dead, and find out everything that means -- but I dont. I want Daniels colleagues to keep coming over and seeing Daniel and drinking white rabbits while the sun goes down. I am worried about him, about him not going into work, and what will come of us if he never does. Even though I know hell work again. He worked too long and hard for his degree. The kids weave through them up the back steps and go into the house. I follow them. Later when its cold and the pediatricians come inside, I come out of the den to ask, Can I make anyone something to eat? Trish answers, No, weve got to get home.

As she picks up her purse and slides the strap over her shoulder, I take her aside and ask, When can he come back? He can come back anytime. He can? I thought, because of the malpractice suit Jane, hes got years of practice with us. Hes a good doctor. A lawsuit doesnt change that. We all agree we could have done the same thing under the circumstances. But hes got to behave himself, says Trish. I must look surprised because Trish adds, George caught him smoking a blunt in the alley behind the office with a patient. A blunt? It was the kids marijuana but still... With a kid? He didnt tell you? No. Trish grabs my arm. Im sure your new job is going to be great, she says and pecks me on the cheek. Before I can say anything else she and Jeremy are gone, leaving me and Daniel on the doorstop like newlyweds, the buzz from the champagne wearing off, confronted by reality sinking in of our new lives together, but without the excitement and expectation of great sex. What were you thinking? I ask. What? Thinking what? Daniel says. Trish told me. I think Im having a midlife crisis.

Jesus Christ, Danny, you could end up in jail. Joey walks in and opens the fridge. I think he didnt hear anything until he says, Why is Dad going to jail? It was a joke, I say. Im staying home until it passes, says Daniel. Until what passes? asks Joey, pulling out the milk and drinking from the carton. My midlife crisis. Its what happens when youre middle-aged. Oh, says Joey and goes to his room. I want to say to Daniel, Fuck, fuck, fuck, you did what? but I dont want to start a fight and have the kids think their whole world is falling apart because their parents are getting divorced because we arent and because Joey has enough problems of his own. The kids cant know anything about this. Of course not. Youre not going to smoke dope with them, are you? No. Really, you swear? Really. Cause if you do, I say but I dont finish the sentence because I dont know what Id do. He is my husband, the father of my children. Jesus, Danny, I say and leave the kitchen. Behind me, Daniel pulls down a bottle and a shot glass but I pretend I dont notice. CHAPTER THREE: THE VIEW My desk at work at my new job is in an office into which the County manages to

cram four lawyers, their desks and their filing cabinets. The linoleum floor buckles. The white acoustic ceiling sags. Every so often there is an evacuation alert when the asbestos count in the air reaches an unacceptable level. Some workaholics stay at their desks anyway. I stay once or twice, scoring points with my boss, Myles, before I realize it is a waste of time and lung tissue. After that, I say fuck it. He cannot fire me for avoiding hazardous waste. This is before I realize he will never fire me. I will have to quit if I want out. From the sidewalk outside the Courthouse, you can look up at the Jail across the street and admire the grimy Depression era stonework and the underbellies of the rooftop gargoyles. But our office is six floors up and has a view right into the Jail. Late afternoon on a Friday I sit at my desk, studying up on bone fractures for my trial on Monday. An attorney whose desk faces the wall rolls over in his chair. Where else you going to find a view like that, Janey? he says. His name is Rowley. He is right. It would be tough. Pigeons strut on the roof of the Jail. Hawks sweep down, grab their pigeon prey, and perch on the blood-spattered gargoyles while they gnaw off the flesh, dropping the bones onto the street below. At six floors up you can see right into the cells, at the inmates looking back at you. Now and then the hawks glance over as their eyes sweep the sky. The pigeons are oblivious. I am the lucky one with the desk facing out. No one else wants it and I am still the new guy. Nowhere, I answer. He throws a big file on my desk. This is yours, he says. Im gradually taking over the cases in my new courtroom for the attorney before me, the one who had a

nervous breakdown and who isnt in the courtroom anymore. His name was Bill. His name is Bill. I open the file. It is a sex abuse case with five kids involved. The boss wants you to do the trial. Its been sent out for a settlement conference three times. Nothing doing. Tim, the third attorney in the office, chimes in, The guy wont admit to anything. Thinks hes a saint. Its going to trial for sure, the whole dog and pony show. I chew my lip. Everyone wants to be a hero. Not many people want to do what it takes to be a hero. I am not sure that I want to do what it takes to be a hero, day in and day out. I am sure I am not up to doing what it takes to be the hero in this case. What if I lose the case and become the bad guy, allowing this guy to molest more children until a better lawyer for the County comes along and fries his ass? What if I win the case but he is actually a good, loving father and I separate him from his adoring children by being too sincere? Tim and I will help you with it, Rowley says. The good news is that my job is now secure. The bad news is that now I will have to try big, awful cases. Thanks, Rowley. I shoved the file under the pile on my desk. Rowley pulls the file back out. Janey, theres nothing to be afraid of. Im not afraid. Everyones afraid, says Rowley. Im not, says Tim. I eat this stuff for breakfast. Rowley and I look at him. He shrugs. Ill be alright, I say. Ill read the file over the weekend and ask you and Tim about it on Monday.

Take a look through it now, Rowley says, While you have me. And me, says Tim. Have me too. Im all yours. He throws open his arms at me, throws back his head, and laughs maniacally. Then he turns back to his desk. We all turn back to our desks and the stacks of files on them. I put off the inevitable by writing subpoenas. The big, awful sex abuse file taunts me. Ill get around to it, I think. I have time. The sun starts to go down. Tim and Rowley want me to come and get a drink with them. Neither of them will have anything stronger than 7-Up, but it is happy hour at the sports bar in Chinatown and that means free egg rolls. No thanks, I say. I still have the big, awful sex abuse file to go through. Tim and Rowley leave, and one by one so does everyone else except me. Instead of opening the big awful sex abuse file, I pick up an article on fractures off of Rowleys desk and start to read it. The halls of the building fall quiet. Spiral fractures of a bone in a childs limb indicate child abuse. They indicate that an adult has used both hands to twist in opposite directions until the bone cracks. It gets dark outside and the lights in the jail go on. I look up. I see the inmates, their faces, the stubble on their cheeks, and the pull of their thin lips. Alone in his cell, an inmate tears apart his mattress with his hands and teeth. I watch him. He stops, wheels his head around as he gets to his feet, and sees me. He shoves a finger up one of his nostrils. I look away to another cell. The inmate, pissing in the corner of his cell, turns toward me as he the last drops of urine off his penis. About to tuck it back in his briefs, he sees me too. He tilts his head to the side and leers. He starts stroking himself. His

cellmate, thumbing through a dog-eared paperback, looks up and sees him, then sees me and nods, a smirk on his face. I grab the cord to the blinds but they jam and will not fall. I try to loosen the slats with my fingers. The inmate with the paperback who is watching me laughs. I pull on the blinds again. The whole thing comes loose from where it is attached above the window and falls with a clatter behind my desk. I stuff the big, awful, sex abuse file in my briefcase and grab my shoulder bag and suit jacket. I shut the light as I bolt out of my office. The corridor is empty. The sound of my heels echoes. The elevator takes so long that I think about taking the stairwell. The stairwell stinks of urine. When prisoners accused of crimes are acquitted in the courthouse, the bailiff reluctantly unlocks their handcuffs and they are free to go. The acquitted men never take the elevator. The tradition is to go to the highest landing and take a long piss down the stairwell. No one ever takes the stairwell unless they are very late for court or there is a mandatory fire drill and the marshals are there, ushering us out. The elevator doors creak open. I step in and hit the down button. The doors creak closed. The elevator rumbles and shakes as it makes its way downstairs. Half of the lights are off in the lobby. There is no guard and the front doors are still unlocked. When I step out of the building, I look up at the lights coming from the top floors of the Jail. From this angle, I cant see into the cell windows and this means, I hope, the inmates cant see me. I take a deep breath and walk to my car. The silhouette of a homeless man sleeping in a dark doorway startles me, but I pull myself together and drive home.

On Monday morning I suggest we tape something up over the windows. Tim says, If you dont like windows, get a job in the morgue. Who should I ask to fix the blinds? I ask. They are still on the floor where I let them fall on Friday night. Havent worked since I got here, says Rowley. Have they, Tim? Shit no, says Tim. What were you doing messing with them, Janey? he says, putting on his jacket. Leave them on the floor. Itll be safer if theres an earthquake. He picks up his briefcase and leaves for court. Rowley shrugs. He does not pick them up and neither do I. Got a trial today, something I can watch? I ask. Yeah, spiral fracture but it ought to settle. The perp is out of the picture. The perp is a perpetrator in this case, the mothers boyfriend, a guy who disappeared back into Mexico when he realized he had fractured her toddlers leg and could end up in jail for it. I rub my forehead with the tips of my fingers. Rowley puts his hand on my shoulder. Dont worry, it gets easier, he says. Hes lying, says Tim. I thought you ate this stuff for breakfast? I ask. I had cornflakes, thanks for asking, says Tim. After that I make a habit of leaving the office before the sun goes down, panicking if something gets in my way. I do not want to push my luck and see something I can never get out of my head. Or be seen like that.