Chapter 21
Twenty-One
EASTON
Four Weeks Later
The memory of Harley and I riding her bright pink Barbie bike for the first time together has carried me through more nights than I can count. And now, shackled in a courtroom, it presses against my ribs like armor.
On mornings like this, in rooms like this, I unroll it under my feet and try to remember what it felt like when my life moved because I wanted it to, not because someone in a robe told it to.
“Defendant seated,” the deputy mutters. The room smells like paper, dust, and the stale breath of other people’s fear. It’s always colder in here than anywhere else.
“All rise.”
The judge moves like a rising tide coming in; inevitable, slow enough you don’t know you’re under until your knees are wet. Everyone sits. The clerk says my name like it’s a docket number first and a human second.
“State versus Easton Ryder Diggs. Pre-trial motion hearing.”
Rick leans in. “Stay calm,” he murmurs without looking at me .
He has three fresh tabs sticking out of the manila folder today.
That’s either good or bad, but his hair is laying flat and he hasn’t chewed his pen, which for Rick is either a sign of the apocalypse or extreme confidence.
I decide to call it confidence and pin my breathing to it.
I look for her. I always do. It takes me a second in the gallery because the second row is full.
Kennedy sits on the aisle, sharp as glass, a body-block of protection, while my mother and father tuck in next to her like they’re not sure where their elbows should go in a place like this.
And then there’s Harley. She’s in the middle, hands over her stomach, looking like an angel in the pits of hell.
I can see it now, even from here. Six months changes a body. Her cardigan can’t hide the curve, and she doesn’t seem to be trying to hide it anymore. She finds my eyes, and everything in me that wants to knot unclenches for one heartbeat.
The prosecutor stands first. She always does.
Her voice sounds like she’s reading headlines.
“Your Honor, the State remains prepared to proceed to trial on the charged counts. We oppose the defense motion in full. The alleged victim sustained a concussion. The defendant has a prior felony conviction. The legal standard for dismissal is not met.”
Rick rises. He smooths a palm down his tie like he’s pressing creases out of the air between us.
“Your Honor, the defense moves to reconsider the charges pursuant to the newly obtained witness statements indicating that Mr. Diggs acted in self-defense. Multiple witnesses place the complainant as the initial aggressor, shoving Mr. Diggs and tampering with Ms. Starr’s drink.
These accounts bolster Ms. Starr’s sworn testimony and undercut the narrative of an unprovoked assault. ”
Tampering with a drink. That phrase sits ugly in the pristine room.
I want to spit after it. I want to stand and say the words are true.
I saw his hand; I smelled the sweet-chemical wrongness a beat before I yanked the cup.
But my role here is as furniture unless someone points at me and says speak . My hands flex. The cuffs clink.
The prosecutor doesn’t even glance at me. “Hearsay,” she says. “Anonymous bar chatter. The defense is laundering rumor as evidence.”
“Your Honor,” Rick says, tone still measured, “we have names and contact information. These are not anonymous. We are prepared to subpoena.”
My father leans forward, forearms on his knees, his attention like a gift. My mother has both hands wrapped around Harley’s left and Kennedy’s gaze could cut steel. I’m thankful and ashamed, both flavors at once, that these three are close enough to touch her when I can’t.
The judge steeples his fingers. “I’ve read the motion and the State’s response.
I’m not dismissing the case today.” He lets the pause hang like a body from a rope, and then swings it gently with his next breath.
“The defense, however, is entitled to test the State’s case at trial.
The witness list will be expanded as indicated.
Discovery deadlines remain in place. The motion to reconsider is denied. ”
It's a double door of no. Not a surprise, not a shock. But the air still tilts, and my stomach does that elevator-drop thing like the floor just forgot about me standing on it.
Rick doesn’t let the moment calcify. “Your Honor, with the Court’s acknowledgment that the testimonial context is in dispute, we renew our request for bail reconsideration.
Mr. Diggs has deep community ties, a stable support system, and a child due later this year.
He is not a flight risk and is not a danger to the community. ”
The prosecutor is ready with the hammer. “Opposed. Prior felony. Pattern of violence.”
I swallow blood I haven’t earned. The judge doesn’t look at me when he speaks. He never does. The word drops and skitters under the benches like a metal marble. A sound comes out of Harley that only I hear because it lands against my bones. It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud.
“Trial is set for—” The clerk rattles off a date by month and day that immediately turns into math in my head.
How many sleeps, how many letters, how many times I will have to stand in a line and open my mouth so that a flashlight can poke around my teeth and gums because that’s a rule here.
How many weeks pregnant she will be when I stand to say not guilty in a voice that I will try to keep even.
The gavel taps.
They tug me up. The chain rattles and my ankles shuffle.
Harley stands without meaning to, like her body is a magnet and mine is metal.
My mother’s hand snags her sleeve and keeps her from moving to where the bailiff would bark and point.
I fix my eyes on Harley’s hoping only a look across a court room can convey what she needs to know.
I mouth what I always mouth when I cannot fix it.
I’m sorry.
They put me in the small room with the bolted table that pretends to be private because it has a door.
It is not private. The camera in the corner clicks to remind you who you belong to.
Rick is already sitting, files spread, pen in his teeth until he sees my face.
He takes it out and sets it down like he’s disarming a weapon.
“Trial is set,” he says. And then, in a softer voice like he’s switching instruments mid-song, “Harley looks good.”
“She’s showing,” I say, and my voice cracks on the last word.
I press the heel of my hand into my sternum where the crack is, but it doesn’t help.
“She sent the ultrasound. They put the picture in the envelope and the paper smelled like that cold gel somehow. I don’t know how that works, but it did. ”
Rick nods because he’s decided that being my lawyer means respecting my poetry when it breaks through.
“Okay.” He taps the folder. “Here’s where we are.
The judge won’t toss it, but I got him to say out loud what I wanted.
This is a credibility case. That means we get to hit the complainant hard.
The bar list helps. Your … source … gave us two names independently and one bartender who will say he’s seen similar behavior before. ”
“My source has a name.” I don’t put heat on it because I don’t have any to spare. “Gray.”
Rick lifts a palm. “I know. I used his paper. I didn’t write his name in any motion since the less we give the State to chew, the better.
But Easton,” he sits back, “you need to be ready for the DA to float pleas now that a trial date is set. They know their witness is not sterling. They’ll want to lock a win. ”
“Define win .”
“A misdemeanor with time served and probation would be my ask. They’ll come in higher, felony, short stint, longer paper.
I won’t take anything you don’t want to take.
” He’s looking me in the face, steady, honest. I hate that I love him for it.
“I also need to say this, if we go to trial and the jury buys the prosecutor’s frame, you’re looking at more than months. ”
I’ve done the same math at night, over and over, until the ceiling turns into a chart.
There is no version of this where I don’t lose time.
There is no version where I lose less or lose more or lose pieces of myself I won’t be able to buy back later.
Harley’s belly is a calendar I can’t simply hang on the wall in here. So I wear it under my ribs instead.
“I didn’t start it,” I say, because it’s the truth and sometimes saying it out loud is all that keeps it from eroding. “He shoved me. He touched her drink. I reacted. I hit him, and I meant it, but that doesn’t make it wrong.”
“It makes it complicated,” Rick says. “Juries hate complicated if the State gives them a clean picture. My job is to mess their picture. Your job is to breathe, not explode, and let me do my job.”
“I can breathe.”
He studies me for the lie and doesn’t find it.
“Good.” He flips a page. “I’ll subpoena the bartender and one of the coworkers who heard the brag.
Kennedy is already on our list. I’m going to send an investigator to the bar, sometimes a face at a table gets people talking in ways a phone call doesn’t.
And I’m going to call the hospital again about the tox screen on the victim.
” He gives me a look. “I don’t expect magic there. ”
“No,” I say. “He’s not that stupid.”
Rick’s mouth tightens. “Stupid isn’t the metric. Luck is. Don’t waste energy wishing the world produced better paperwork.” He closes the folder. “Do you want me to talk to the DA about a conditional plea if their case doesn’t improve? Something we can hold in a back pocket if we need it?”
I want to throw up. I want to say no so hard the room shakes. I also want to be home when my kid takes its first breath. Both truths stand and stare at each other, neither willing to leave.
“Ask,” I say. “Don’t promise. Don’t sign. Ask.”
He nods once. “Okay.”
Rick picks up his file, already arguing with the air, building the thing he’ll say next time in front of the person who gets to clap at the end.
Back in the block, the noise is its own weather. Cards slap. A guy two doors down sings off-key about a woman he’s never going to see again.
Harris, the guard who sometimes pretends rules are interpretive when it comes to paper, slides an envelope under my door at mail time. I recognize the way she writes my name from all the way across the room. I recognize the sag in the paper where a photo inside pulls it down.
I tear carefully. The ultrasound printout is grainy and perfect. A profile like a moon. A leg like a twig kicking. I hold it to the light so that depth is created. My throat hurts so bad I have to breathe through my nose to keep from making a sound that would embarrass me later.
I lie on the bunk with the picture on my chest and read the letter until the paper shines where my thumb has rubbed the ink. The hum of the lights stitches with the memory of the bikes until my head is a place where both can live without canceling each other out.
When the range goes quiet enough that the snorer next door hasn’t started yet and the poker table is out of cigarettes, I sit up and pull the legal pad Harris “forgot” was extra out from under my mattress. I put the ultrasound on the steel desk so it can see me write.
August 28th
Little Bird,
Rick says the judge won’t throw the case, but he said the word “credibility” and I think that’s a crack we can wedge the truth into.
He asked about a plea. I told him to ask and not promise.
I don’t want to sign my name to a lie to get home faster, but I also want to be there for you because I know you need me.
I don’t know the right answer yet. Maybe there isn’t one.
Harley, you look like an angel even from forty feet away.
When the deputy tugged me, I watched your hands go to your belly, and I wanted to crawl out of my skin and build you a chair with pillows and keep you from ever having to sit on those benches again.
I can’t do that yet. I can only breathe and behave and let Rick swing at the right pitches.
I thought about the bikes today. The way time felt infinite and everything was perfect.
Tell Kennedy thank you, and let her help you with the nursery, you need to start preparing like I won’t be there … I hate to be the one to say it but at least I know you have a team of people there to support you in my absence.
I love you.
Always,
Easton.
When Harris makes his last pass, I slide the letter out.
Lights drop to night level. The hum softens. I lie on my back and map the cracks on the ceiling again. Tonight, they don’t look like lightning. They look like roads. I pick one that runs straight and true and ride it until sleep puts my mind at ease and takes mercy on me.