Jury of One Read Free Page A

litigation that could go to the state’s highest court. The attorney knew Shelly well, knew her resolve.
    Rondell’s mother hugged her son. Shelly watched the mother nervously gather her child in her arms. Perhaps she was in need of a fix, or maybe she was simply fearful of what might have happened. Shelly didn’t know which, and she didn’t know whether keeping Rondell in some form of school would miraculously transform his life, currently straying down the wrong path. She certainly wasn’t in the guarantee business. She just gave them a chance.
    After parting with Rondell and his mother, she reached into her bag for her cell phone and turned it on. She almost dropped the phone, which was ringing. She answered it and heard the voice of Rena Schroeder, her boss at the Children’s Advocacy Project.
    “Shelly, do you know someone named Alex Baniewicz?”
    She closed her eyes, standing in the hallway outside the courtroom. “Yeah.”
    “You remember that police officer who was shot last night?” Rena asked.
    Of course, Shelly remembered. It was the headline of the
Daily Watch
today, covered as the lead story last night on television. A city police officer had been shot in the face while in pursuit of a drug dealer. The city always noticed when one of its finest went down.
    Shelly dropped her head.
    “He’s asking for you,” said Rena.

2
Dreams
    J UST A DREAM.
Go back to sleep.
    A memory that is hardly a memory at all. A memory of dreams, of racing, wild, intoxicated dreams. Men running and shouting. Winter. Screaming. Crying. Stabbing. Grunting. Hands, cold hands. A voice, Shelly’s voice. Don’t. Stop. What are you doing? What’s—what’s this—? A man’s voice. Relax. The cold hands, again. She is flying through the chilly air, so cold, so very cold. She is suffocating. A weight on her, pressing down on her chest, her abdomen. Tobacco and alcohol and winter—
    “Relax.”
    Darkness. Where is she? She has forgotten. She feels the bed. She is spinning. She is nauseous. The bile rising to her throat. He is on her. Her shirt is open. Her—her bra is off. His face, whiskers scraping against her cheek. The smell. Alcohol, not like the kind Daddy drinks, cigarettes on his breath, his body odor, the flannel rubbing against her chest—
    “Don’t.”
    “Shut up and relax.” His voice. Her legs are spread and this is what it is. This is what she’s heard about. He is inside her, his penis is inside her, ripping into her, back and forth, in and out, and she’s not dreaming because she can feel his sweat on her face and his awful breath and he’s so heavy. She raises her hands but can’t make fists. She concentrates on what she can control. Her name. Her age. My name is Shelly. I am sixteenyears old. I took the train from Haley. My parents are out of town and don’t know. I don’t know where I am.
    “Don’t,” she hears herself repeat.
    Light, coming from her right. A voice, a man’s voice, then a female, then she hears the voice of the man on top of her. “We’re in the middle of something here.” Laughter, muted laughter as the door closes part of the way, reducing the light, then opens again.
    She remembers the name Andrea. She remembers Mary and Dina and—
    She remembers now. She remembers coming in here, thinking this might be the bathroom, but it was a bedroom and she was overtaken, simply overcome with drowsiness and she thought if she just sat for a second on the bed, just for a second, she might get the energy to get up and find the bathroom because she needed to go—
    She looks into the blinding light and opens her mouth but the words don’t come. Laughter from the light, then darkness again. Harder now, and quicker, driving inside her. He is going to come. The phrase, she didn’t know what it meant when Brandon Ainsley asked her at lunch, sixth grade, in front of a table full of boys—“Do you come when you’re called?” and she said “Of course” and oh, how they laughed and