Chapter 4

The morning of the hearing came gray and drizzling.

I dressed Libby in her favorite pink dress.

I combed her hair until every strand lay smooth, and held the folder of documents tight against my chest.

The moment we reached the courthouse doors, I saw Aaron. He stood under an umbrella, waiting, his face pinched with worry.

He rushed at me the second he spotted us.

"Irene! It's not too late to change your mind!"

"I spent all morning outside Mr. Whitney's building, begging him. He's willing to soften."

"All you have to do is go in there, drop the suit, admit you were wrong in public, apologize, pay the money — and I keep my job!"

He reached out to grab Libby, meaning to drag her over and make her bow her head to Mrs. Whitney.

Smack.

I knocked his hand away, hard.

"Get away from her. Don't put your filthy hands on my daughter."

Aaron cradled the back of his hand, staring at me like he couldn't believe it.

"Have you lost your mind? You really want to walk in there and die?"

"Lawyer Finch is the best in Riverton. Going up against him in court is throwing an egg at a rock!"

I didn't answer. I took Libby's hand and climbed the steps.

Inside the courthouse lobby.

Mrs. Whitney and Lawyer Finch were already there.

And around them, of all things, a whole cluster of parents had come to sit in on the hearing — two of them bloggers with cameras.

Mrs. Whitney had gone out of her way with her makeup today, drawn haggard and worn, the very picture of a poor mother whose heart had been broken over her son.

When she saw me, the corner of her mouth curved into a mocking smile.

"Well. You actually had the nerve to show."

"I figured you'd have grabbed that little delinquent of yours and run back to the sticks in the dead of night."

Lawyer Finch smoothed his suit and looked down at me from on high.

"Ms. Pruitt, this is your last chance."

"Once you're through that door and the gavel comes down, that eight hundred thousand becomes a court-enforced million."

"And by then, they'll take the very roof over your head."

I didn't spare them so much as a glance. I walked straight into the courtroom.

The gallery filled quickly.

All of them parents who'd come to watch me make a fool of myself, whispering to each other, pointing at my daughter and me.

Aaron slipped in too, sank into the last row of the gallery, head down, looking like he wished he could bury it between his knees.

The bailiff brought the room to order, and the presiding judge struck the gavel.

"Court is now in session."

Lawyer Finch rose and began reading the complaint, his voice rising and falling, all of it built to stir the room.

"The defendant, Libby Dickerson, has formed cliques at school and ruled over the other children through intimidation."

"On the afternoon of last Wednesday, she subjected the plaintiff, Herbert Whitney, to vicious verbal abuse."

"She then gathered others to beat the plaintiff, inflicting serious injury. Her conduct was of the most vicious kind."

"It caused the plaintiff grave physical and psychological trauma. We now demand the defendant compensate for all losses, a total of eight hundred thousand dollars!"

"And that the defendant issue a public apology in the state's newspapers!"

The instant the complaint was read, the gallery erupted.

The parents burned with indignation, one after another chiming in.

"She has to be punished! Lock her up in juvenile detention!"

"Exactly. Wicked little thing, this cruel at her age!"

Right on cue, Mrs. Whitney dabbed at her eyes and put on her pitiful face.

The judge listened to the end without expression, then turned his gaze to me.

"Guardian of the defendant, do you plead guilty to the charges brought by the plaintiff?"

I rose slowly.

I met the whole room's scorn, anger, and hunger to see me fall.

I kept my back perfectly straight.

"Your Honor, I do not plead guilty. Before any defense, I request that the defendant speak for herself."

The words were barely out.

Lawyer Finch let out a snort and shook his head.

"Your Honor, the defendant is a child of seven. Her statement carries no legal weight whatsoever. The guardian is stalling, plain and simple."

A ripple of laughter ran through the gallery too.

The judge frowned, but held to the principle of fairness.

"The court will permit the defendant to make a statement."

I took Libby's hand and led her out from the defense table, up to the front of the courtroom.

Every eye in the room fixed on the two of us.

Mrs. Whitney watched coldly, her whole face set for a show.

I crouched down, level with Libby's eyes, empty and clear.

Then I raised both hands.

Under the room's puzzled stares, I began to sign, easily and surely.

My movements were slow, every gesture pressed hard.

Libby watched me, blank.

Then she turned her head and looked up at the judge on his high bench.

She opened her small mouth, straining from deep in her throat, and out came a flat, hoarse, rasping sound:

"Ah… ba… ah ba…"

That wasn't her speaking.

That was her fighting to make a sound, and only air came out.