Thanks Mrs. Costello for coming early. Kisses John’s perfect ear. Gets on the road.
Twice almost turns the car around.
She hasn’t been inside a courtroom since law school. This one is sultry with rain drippings raised to a boil by the heaters. At the front table sit Edward and Gin Percival. The wife can’t see their faces. Fluorescent light bounces off Edward’s shaved head. No sign of Mrs. Fivey, but Mr. is in the front row, checking his watch. Eight forty-five a.m.
The wife takes a seat against the back wall. In the jury box are seven women, five men, middle-aged and elderly, all white. Edward should have asked for a bench trial. Temple’s niece won’t make a good impression on any jury around here.
“Gin Percival,” says the gnomish judge, “you will stand while the charges against you are read.”
She gets to her feet. Dark hair in a bun, orange jumpsuit loose at her waist. She’s gotten thinner since the wife last saw her, on the low metal stool at the library.
The bailiff intones:
“One misdemeanor count of Medical Malpractice by Commission against Sarah Dolores Fivey.
“One felony count of Conspiracy to Commit Murder in acceding to terminate the pregnancy of Sarah Dolores Fivey.”
How much time could she get? The wife can’t recall anything about sentence lengths.
She can recall reading aloud “manslaughter” as “man’s laughter,” and Edward being the only person in class to agree it was funny.
Unable to see Mr. Fivey’s face, she pictures its mortification. Everyone knows his business now. The principal’s wife and her backwoods abortion. No matter how this case turns out, the Fiveys will leave tarnished.
From the prosecution table rises a slender red-haired attorney in a pin-striped suit. She takes her time strolling to the jury box, palms together at her throat as though in prayer. She looks younger than the wife.
“Fellow Oregonians, you’ve heard the charges against Gin Percival. Your job is simple: to decide whether there is sufficient evidence to convict Ms. Percival of these crimes. During the course of this trial, you’ll be shown a vast array of facts that establish her guilt on both counts. Listen to the facts. Base your verdict on the facts. I know that the facts will lead you to conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that Gin Percival is guilty of the crimes she’s been charged with.”
“Vast array”—lazy phrase. Repetition of “crimes,” “charge,” “guilt,” and “facts”—predictable move. Edward can take her.
He clears his throat. “Thank you, Judge Stoughton, and thank you, members of the jury—you’re performing an important civic duty.” He pauses to scratch the back of his neck, under the collar. “Mmh. My counterpart has told you that your job is simple, and I would agree. But I beg to differ with her assertion that the evidence will clearly show you much of anything. Because there is virtually no evidence. You will be presented with hearsay, speculation, and circumstantial evidence, but no direct evidence. And your job, which is, indeed, simple, is to see that there is not enough evidence to convict my client beyond a reasonable doubt of these spurious charges.”
His sentences are too long. He should have said “bogus” instead of “spurious.” This is rural Oregon.
“Thank you, and I look forward to working with you over the coming days.” He sits, wipes his face with a handkerchief.
Gin Percival keeps staring at the wall. Will Edward dare to put her on the stand? By all accounts—and from what the wife has smelled at the library—she’s a bit unhinged.
Has the wife become a person who believes all accounts?
Sort of, yes, she has.
She has been too tired to care.
The Personhood Amendment, the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the calls for abortion providers to face the death penalty—the person she planned to be would care about this mess, would bother to be furious.
Too tired to be furious.
The past future Susan MacInnes could have been a battling litigator who brought milestone cases to the higher courts. Edward is battling; he has marched into the mess. The wife can hardly bring herself to read about the case.
Bring yourself.
At the library, Gin Percival’s hair sometimes had twigs in it, and she gave off an oniony scent. The wife felt repelled by her animal dishevelment; yet she is coming to see the value in being repellent.
Bryan was a pitiful diversion, an excuse. This is an inside job.
Whatever frees Gin Percival to leave her hair twiggy and wear shapeless sack dresses and smell unwashed—the wife wants that.
Two days, two nights every week to herself.
Tell Didier you are leaving.
Before having kids, she envisioned motherhood as a jubilant merging. She never thought she would long to spend time away from them. It is hideous to admit she can’t bear the merging 24‑7. Same guilt that’s kept her from putting John in daycare: she doesn’t want it to be true that she wants to be apart.
The judge says, “Prosecution may call its first witness.”
Mrs. Costello, never one to put much faith in science, believes Gin Percival cursed the waters, charmed the tides, and brought the seaweed back. Half of these jurors may think the same. And if a witch can charm the tides, what else is she capable of?
The pin-striped suit stands up. “Your Honor, we call Dolores Fivey.”
In law school, the wife excelled at trial performance. She used to get rounds of applause. But here in the gallery, watching the judicial choreography, she feels no desire to go back to law school. If she puts John in daycare it will be for other reasons, as yet unknown.