Small Great Things (49 page)

I snort. “That's semantics. We both win, or we both lose.”

“But she has more at stake than you do,” Micah says gently. “Her reputation. Her career. Her life. This is the first trial that really matters to you, Kennedy. But it's the only one that matters to Ruth.”

I scrub a hand through my hair. “What's radical thought number two?”

“What if the best thing for Ruth
isn't
winning this case?” Micah replies. “What if the reason this is so important to her isn't because of
what
she's going to say…but rather the fact that she is finally being given the chance to say it?”

Is it worth being able to say what you need to say, if it means you land in prison? If it nets you a conviction? That goes against everything I've ever been taught, everything I've ever believed.

But I'm not the one on trial.

I press my fingers against my temples. Micah's words circle in my mind.

He takes his glass and empties it into mine. “You need it more than I do,” he says, and he kisses me on the forehead. “Don't stay up too late.”

O
N
F
RIDAY MORNING,
as I am hurrying to meet Ruth in the parking lot, I pass the memorial on the green near City Hall. It commemorates Sengbe Pieh, who was one of the slaves involved in the
Amistad
mutiny. In 1839 a ship carried a group of Africans taken from their home to be slaves in the Caribbean. The Africans revolted, killed the captain and cook, and forced other sailors on board to head back toward Africa. The sailors, though, tricked the Africans, and headed north—where the ship was boarded by U.S. authorities. The Africans were imprisoned in a warehouse in New Haven, pending trial.

The Africans revolted because a mulatto cook had heard that the white crew planned to kill the blacks and eat the meat themselves. The whites on board believed the Africans were cannibals.

Neither side was right.

When I reach the parking lot, Ruth won't even make eye contact with me. She starts walking quickly toward the courthouse, Edison by her side, until I grab her by the arm. “Are you still determined to do this?”

“Did you think if I slept on it I'd change my mind?” she asks.

“I had
hoped,
” I admit. “I'm begging you, Ruth.”

“Mama?” Edison looks at her face, and then mine, confused.

I raise my brows as if to say,
Think of what you're doing to him.

She slips her arm through her son's elbow. “Let's go,” she replies, and she starts walking again.

The crowds have swelled in front of the courthouse; now that the media have reported that the prosecution's side of the case is finished, the taste for blood is getting stronger. I see Wallace Mercy and his crew from the corner of my eye, maintaining their vigil. Maybe I should have sicced Wallace on Ruth; maybe he could have convinced her to duck her head and let justice be served in her favor. But then again, knowing Wallace, he would not turn down an opportunity to speak his mind. He'd probably have offered to coach Ruth in whatever it is she feels the need to say.

Howard is pacing in front of the courtroom. “So,” he says nervously. “Are we resting? Or…”

“Yes,” I say bluntly. “Or.”

“Just in case you wanted to know, the Bauers are back. They're in the gallery.”

“Thanks, Howard,” I say with sarcasm. “Now I feel even better.”

I speak to Ruth just once more, moments before we are asked to rise at the judge's arrival. “I will give you just one piece of advice,” I whisper. “Be as cool and calm as possible. The minute you raise your voice, the prosecution is going to be all over you. And the way you answer me should be exactly the same way you respond when Odette's cross-examining you.”

She looks at me. It's quick, how our eyes meet, but it's enough for me to see the flicker in them, the fear. I open my mouth, sensing the weakness, intending to reel her back in, but then I remember what Micah said. “Good luck,” I say.

I rise, and call Ruth Jefferson to the stand.

She looks smaller in the box, somehow. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, as usual. Have I noticed before how severe that looks? Her hands are folded in her lap tightly. I know it's because she's trying to keep herself from shaking, but the jury doesn't. To them, it just looks like she's excessively formal, prim. She repeats the oath quietly, without betraying any emotion. I know it's because she feels like she is on display. But shyness can be mistaken for haughtiness, and that could be a fatal flaw.

“Ruth,” I begin, “how old are you?”

“Forty-four,” she says.

“Where were you born?”

“Harlem, in New York City.”

“Did you go to school there?”

“Only for a couple of years. Then I transferred to Dalton on a scholarship.”

“Did you complete college?” I ask.

“Yes, I went to SUNY Plattsburgh as an undergrad, and then got my nursing degree at Yale.”

“Can you tell us how long that program was?”

“Three years.”

“When you graduate as a nurse, do you take an oath?”

She nods. “It's called the Florence Nightingale pledge,” Ruth says.

I enter a piece of paper into evidence and present it to her. “Is this the pledge?”

“Yes.”

“Will you read it aloud?”

“ ‘Before God and those assembled here, I solemnly pledge to adhere to the code of ethics of the nursing profession; to cooperate faithfully with the other members of the nursing team and to carry out faithfully and to the best of my ability the instructions of the physician or the nurse' ”—she falters here—“ ‘who may be assigned to supervise my work.' ” Ruth takes a deep breath, forging ahead. “ ‘I will not do anything evil or malicious and I will not knowingly give any harmful drug or assist in malpractice. I will not reveal any confidential information that may come to my knowledge in the course of my work. And I pledge myself to do all in my power to raise the standards and prestige of practical nursing. May my life be devoted to service and to the high ideals of the nursing profession.' ” She looks up at me.

“Is that oath fundamental to you as a nurse?”

“We take it very seriously,” Ruth confirms. “It's like the equivalent of the Hippocratic oath for doctors.”

“How long have you been employed at Mercy–West Haven Hospital?”

“Just over twenty years,” Ruth says. “My whole career.”

“What are your responsibilities?”

“I am a neonatal nurse. I help deliver babies, I am in the OR during C-sections, I care for the mothers and then postdelivery, for the newborns.”

“How many hours a week did you work?”

“Forty-plus,” she replies. “We often were asked to pull some overtime.”

“Ruth, are you married?”

“I'm a widow,” she says. “My husband was a soldier who died in Afghanistan. It happened about ten years ago.”

“Do you have any children?”

“Yes, my son, Edison. He's seventeen.” Her eyes shine, and she searches Edison out in the gallery.

“Do you recall coming to work the morning of October second, 2015?”

“Yes,” Ruth says. “I came in at seven
A.M.
for a twelve-hour shift.”

“Were you assigned to watch Davis Bauer?”

“Yes. His mother had delivered early that morning. I was assigned to do typical postpartum care of Brittany Bauer, and a nurse's newborn exam.”

She describes the exam, and says she conducted it in the hospital room.

“So Brittany Bauer was present?”

“Yes,” Ruth says. “So was her husband.”

“Was there any significant finding during this exam?”

“I noted a heart murmur in the file. It wasn't something I felt that we needed to be alarmed about—it's a very common condition for newborns. But it was definitely something for the pediatrician to check out the next time she came back, which was why I wrote it down.”

“Did you know Mr. and Mrs. Bauer prior to the birth of their son?”

“No,” Ruth replies. “I met them when I came into the room. I congratulated them on their beautiful baby boy, and explained I was there to do a routine check.”

“How long were you in the room with them?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes.”

“Did you have any verbal exchange with the parents at that time?”

“I mentioned the murmur, and that it wasn't any reason for concern. And I told them his sugar levels had improved since birth. Then after I cleaned the baby up, I suggested we try to have him nurse.”

“What response did you get?”

“Mr. Bauer told me to get away from his wife. Then he said he wanted to speak to my supervisor.”

“How did that make you feel, Ruth?”

“I was shocked,” she admits. “I didn't know what I'd done to upset them.”

“What happened next?”

“My boss, Marie Malone, put a note in the baby's file, stating that no African American staff should come in contact with the infant. I questioned her about it, and she said it was done at the request of the parents, and that I would be reassigned.”

“When did you next see the baby?”

“Saturday morning. I was in the nursery when Corinne—the baby's new nurse—brought him in for a circ.”

“What were your responsibilities that morning?”

She frowns. “I had two—no, three patients. It had been a crazy night; I'd worked a shift I wasn't supposed to work because another nurse was out sick. I had gone into the nursery to grab clean linens, and to scarf down a PowerBar, because I hadn't eaten at all during my shift.”

“What happened after the baby was circumcised?”

“I wasn't in the room, but I assumed it all went normally. Then Corinne grabbed me and asked me to watch over him because another one of her patients had to be rushed to the OR, and protocol required that a postcirc baby be monitored.”

“Did you agree?”

“I didn't really have a choice. There was literally no one else to do it. I knew Corinne or Marie, my charge nurse, would be back quickly to take over.”

“When you first saw the baby, how did he look?”

“Beautiful,” Ruth says. “He was swaddled and fast asleep. But a few moments later I looked down and saw that his skin was ashen. He was making grunting noises. I could see he was having trouble breathing.”

I walk toward the witness box, and set my hand on the rail. “What did you do in that instant, Ruth?”

She takes a deep breath. “I unwrapped the swaddling. I started touching the baby, tapping his feet, trying to get him to respond.”

The jury looks puzzled. Odette sits back in her chair, arms crossed, a smile breaking over her face.

“Why did you do that? When you'd been told by your supervisor to
not
touch that baby?”

“I had to,” Ruth confesses. I can see it, the way she breaks free, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Her voice is lighter, the lines bracketing her mouth soften. “It's what any good nurse would do in that situation.”

“Then what?”

“The next step would have been to call a code, to get a whole team in to resuscitate. But I heard footsteps. I knew someone was coming and I didn't know what to do. I thought I'd get in trouble if someone saw me interacting with the baby, when I had been told not to. So I wrapped him up again, and stepped back, and Marie walked into the nursery.” Ruth looks down at her lap. “She asked me what I was doing.”

“What did you say, Ruth?”

When she glances up, her eyes are wide with shame. “I said I was doing nothing.”

“You lied?”

“Yes.”

“More than once, apparently—when you were later questioned by the police, you stated that you did not engage in any resuscitative efforts for that baby. Why?”

“I was afraid I was going to lose my job.” She turns to the jury, pleading her case. “Every fiber of my being told me I had to help that infant…but I also knew I'd be reprimanded if I went against my supervisor's orders. And if I lost my job, who would take care of my son?”

“So you basically faced either assisting in malpractice, or violating your supervisor's order?”

She nods. “It was a lose-lose situation.”

“What happened next?”

“The code team was called in. My job was to do compressions. I did my best, we all did, but in the end it wasn't enough.” She looks up. “When the time of death was called, and when Mr. Bauer took the Ambu bag out of the trash and tried to continue efforts himself, I could barely hold it together.” Like an arrow searching for its mark, her eyes hone in on Turk Bauer, in the gallery. “I thought:
What did I miss? Could I have done anything different?
” She hesitates. “And then I thought:
Would I have been allowed to?
”

“Two weeks later you received a letter,” I say. “Can you tell us about it?”

“It was from the Board of Health. Suspending my license to practice as a nurse.”

“What went through your mind when you received it?”

“I realized that I was being held responsible for the death of Davis Bauer. I knew I'd be suspended from my job, and that's what happened.”

“Have you been employed since?”

“I went on public assistance, briefly,” Ruth says. “Then I got a job at McDonald's.”

“Ruth, how has your life changed in the aftermath of this incident?”

She takes a deep breath. “I don't have any savings anymore. We live from week to week. I'm worried about my son's future. I can't use my car because I can't afford to register it.”

I turn my back, but Ruth isn't finished speaking.

“It's funny,” she says softly. “You think you're a respected member of a community—the hospital where you work, the town where you live. I had a wonderful job. I had colleagues who were friends. I lived in a home I was proud of. But it was just an optical illusion. I was never a member of any of those communities. I was tolerated, but not welcomed. I was, and will always be, different from them.” She looks up. “And because of the color of my skin, I will be the one who's blamed.”