A bald man seated at one of the tables in front of the judge stands up and turns, walking straight to our row. Sandra stands and they begin whispering. After a few moments, Sandra turns, smiles at me, and exits the courtroom, leaving the bald man to return to his desk. The silent courtroom is soon filled with murmurs, small chatter escalating. The back of my knees itch, sweat accumulating in the crease, and I wish Trevor was sitting next to me, holding my hand the way only a little boy can.
With not more than a swift motion of the judge’s neck raising, the whole room hushes. The judge speaks. “Due to unforeseen alterations to the schedule, we will now begin. Jurors have been chosen and sworn in and we will begin with Ms. Kiara Johnson. All those who are not the DA, the court reporter, Ms. Johnson, or members of the jury will exit the room, myself included.”
Everyone shuffles out of the room, the judge following behind, leaving the bald man, the jurors, the court reporter, and me.
I stare at my feet, first glancing at my breasts squeezed into the black dress, then my belly’s soft bulge, then my knees all gray, finally to my feet stepping one foot in front of the other up toward the stand. Halfway there, I hear the man cough behind me. I remember what Marsha would say, raise my head up, shove my shoulders back so my spine aligns, and lift my eyes to meet the bald man—the DA—standing beside the desk with his hands clasped in front of him. I give him a curt smile, but he does not even make eye contact with me, instead looking down at the papers in front of him. Everyone trying not to look at me.
I step up to the stand, taking a seat in the round oak chair. It’s so different from when I testified at Mama’s trial, when I felt like the victim and not the defendant, even though I know I’m not really, not legally at least. The stand is set up like a podium, except I don’t have anything to read from and I would never voluntarily put myself on a stage, not in front of these people. I’m not Marcus. I look out at the jury, but my vision won’t focus long enough to let me see any of their faces. Just his. The DA stands with a poise that makes me think he’s done this so many times, I’m just another face to him. Just another out-of-place girl stuck in someone else’s dress, speaking someone else’s words.
Now it feels like I’m the only thing he can focus on, eyebrows strung together with a downward dip in the center like he’s evaluating me, assessing what’s about to happen like it ain’t entirely his choice. I chew on the inside of my mouth just to keep my face soft enough that it won’t look like I’m staring him down. Marsha said I need to stay calm, sophisticated, but childlike. I push my lips out enough that it might mimic a smile and wait while he recites a list of proceedings Marsha’s already explained more than enough times.
And, just like that, the DA begins, doesn’t miss a beat. “Ms. Johnson, is it true that you go by an alias?”
“It’s not an alias, it’s a nickname. Some people I grew up with call me Kia.”
“And the last name? Holt, yes?”
I blink. “I didn’t want to give strangers my real name.”
“Why not?” His forehead is a map of lines.
“It’s dangerous?”
He nods, taking a few steps, head down as if he’s pondering something, when we all know this is just for dramatic effect.
I dig my nails into my wrists to see the crescent marks, see anything but his face.
“What do you do for a living, Ms. Johnson?” He walks closer to me, staring up at where I’m seated. I know Marsha drilled me on this, but his face, the way his mouth gapes a little, makes all of it flush out of my head.
“I don’t got a job.”
“However, you do have a steady income?”
My knee starts to shake involuntarily. “No. Used to make a little but it wasn’t no salary.”
“Where did that money come from?”
“Men.” The moment I say it I know I said the wrong thing. One of Marsha’s rules is one-word answers are golden when the response is yes, no, or maybe. Not when that word can be twisted into a target on my head.
He looks surprised by my bluntness, coughing once and taking a moment. His demeanor shifts, from an interrogative scowl to a stare too intimate for our proximity, for these wooden walls. He comes closer. “Would you mind telling me about why these men were paying you?”
In my head I’m speaking, but no words come out. Then I think of Mama, of how we screamed together, the sky cradling us. Of Trevor’s body tremors. Of Marcus sobbing in a cell. All that shit just to end up here without a tongue? I keep making marks with my nails until I find the words.
“They was paying me because I didn’t have no money and I needed it so I could survive and so I did what I needed to do.”
“What would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?” Of course, it don’t matter if I mind or not, but at least he’s trying to be gentle, at least it’s less of an attack than I expected.
“I kept them company.”
“By company, do you mean sexual relations?”
“Not always.” I think of Officer 190 and how he talked on and on for hours, how sometimes he turned into a puddle with his cries. “Wasn’t always like that.”
“And with Officer Jeremy Carlisle? What was it like with him?”
I pause for a minute, close my eyes so I can get a picture of him again, the splotches on his cheeks and that big gray house.
“I didn’t know him by his name, only by his badge number. I saw him a couple times, mostly in groups. He picked me up one night and took me to his house.” I glance at the jury. None of them have any expressions on their faces, like they’re just waiting for me to finish so they can go piss. I wait, like Marsha would tell me to. She says if I leave enough silence, the DA might forget some of the things he wanted to ask me.
“What did you do at his house?”
One of the jurors, a black woman with her braids tied into a bun, makes eye contact with me.
“We had sex.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Nothing.”
The DA stops and looks directly at me, like he’s registering my personhood for the first time. His nose scrunches. “You’re saying that Officer Carlisle never paid you for the time you spent together?”
“He said he would, but when I woke up, he refused. Said he’d already paid me.”
“Had he?”
“He said telling me about an undercover operation was enough of a payment.”
He nods, up and down, spinning to pace closer to the jury, then asks me to explain what I mean by an undercover operation. He faces me again. I tell him about the party, about how Carlisle picked me up in that Prius and took me to his place, how I didn’t mean to stay the night, how it all spiraled. He continues to ask me questions about Carlisle I don’t have the answers to and then pauses.
“During your interview by detectives, you said, ‘I shouldn’t have been there.’ Is that correct?”
“I guess.”
“And would you say you understood after that interview the seriousness of these allegations?”
I don’t know what he’s getting at, so I repeat, “I guess.”
“Yet the next week you attended a party in which you had sex with several members of the Oakland Police Department and did not believe that to be morally questionable?”
“I never said that—”
“You didn’t bring this to anybody. Nor did you refuse to attend said party. Is that correct?”
I stare at him, his eyes still and glaring. I try to think, but the way he says it, I don’t know what the answer really is, how to respond.
“No, I didn’t. But they threatened me, so I didn’t have no choice.” I move my nails up my arm, dig deeper.
He nods. “Who do you live with, Ms. Johnson?”
“Don’t live with nobody.”
“Let me rephrase. Who is your apartment leased to?”
“My brother,” I say, raising my shoulders.
He nods like he was waiting for me to say this. “And where is your brother currently?”
I look around the room, hoping Marsha might appear, but the rows are still empty.
“He’s at Santa Rita.”
“The jail?”
“Yes.”
“What is he there for?”
I close my eyes, squeezing them like it might transport me back outside to where the sky is large and nobody’s eyes are on me.
“Drugs.”
“Is that why you were involved in prostitution?”
“What you talking about?”
“Drugs.” He gestures up into the air. “Did you enter prostitution to pay for drugs?”