Page 39 of Glass Wings

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.