winter light, allowing herself the Saturday luxury of easing slowly into the day. A pot of coffee, toasted cheese bread from Eddieâs, the comforting tones of NPRâs Scott Simon rumbling in the background. She didnât necessarily hear what he said, but she liked his voice, felt soothed by it. There was a page-one article on her Eagle Scout, Buddy Harrington, and Gloria was savvy enough about the press to realize this meant the Beacon-Light considered the story too weak to front the Sunday paper. It was what newspaper types called a thumb-suckerâit didnât have any real news. Instead, the reporter had placed the murders within a national context, using statistics to demonstrate how rare it was for children to kill their parents. Ah well, that should make everyone feel better, sitting down to Saturday breakfast with their families. Statistically, patricide and matricide were rare. Letâs go to the mall and buy some stuff in celebration, then stop at McDonaldâs on the way home.
But what were childrenâs odds of being killed by their parents? Much better. Gloria had been researching those cases in the event she had to defend her Eagle Scout à la Menendez. Parents were more likely to kill children than the other way around, although there were admittedly few cases of them turning on their teenagers. No, it was young children who died at their parentsâ hands. And when a child under a year old was murdered, the killer was almost always a mother, and the mother was almost certainly poor and probably mentally ill.
Like Calliope Jenkins. Who, Gloria would be quick to remind a reporterânot that she ever spoke of Callie to anyone, much less reportersâofficially was not a murderer. Nor was she officially insane. She had sat in jail for seven years, as much time as she might have been given for homicide, if not more, but she could not be called a murderer.
Gloria had been an associate at Howard & Howard when the case was brought to the firm. Pro bono, which the Howards did occasionally. But homicide wasnât the sort of thing that Andre Howard did and his brother, Julius, still thought he might be mayor or governor someday, although no one else did. So they had thrown this pro bono bone to a hungry associate.
And Gloria, ambitious late bloomer that she was, had been silly enough to think she was being rewarded, or at the very least tested.
She was already in her thirties, coming to the law after losing most of her twenties to Baltimoreâs public school system. She had been a high school English teacher, and even that had seemed an amazing achievement for the illegitimate daughter of a janitress. Baltimore gossip had long held that Gloriaâs father was a former mayor or city councilman, but that legend had been created in hindsight, an origin myth that sought to explain what had formed this tough-minded attorney. Gloria had no idea who her father was, but she knew this much: Her success as a lawyer wasnât in her blood, it wasnât something she was born to. It was something she had willed when she realized how much others doubted her.
She still remembered the first time she met Calliope. She hadnât been locked up, not yet, and although she had been stupid enough to agree to a police interview without a lawyer, she hadnât been stupid enough to say anything. As Gloria understood it, the police had requested a warrant to search her home, and the judge who had signed the warrant had apparently tipped off someone who brought the case to the Howard brothers. Gloria had accepted the assignment happily. Billing at the rate allowed pro bono cases, she would no longer be one of the top earners among associates, but this was clearly important to theHowards. Could she possibly be on the partner track? No white woman had made partner at the firm in those days; it was hard enough for white men.
She drove to the rowhouse on Lemmon Street, arriving long after the police
But what were childrenâs odds of being killed by their parents? Much better. Gloria had been researching those cases in the event she had to defend her Eagle Scout à la Menendez. Parents were more likely to kill children than the other way around, although there were admittedly few cases of them turning on their teenagers. No, it was young children who died at their parentsâ hands. And when a child under a year old was murdered, the killer was almost always a mother, and the mother was almost certainly poor and probably mentally ill.
Like Calliope Jenkins. Who, Gloria would be quick to remind a reporterânot that she ever spoke of Callie to anyone, much less reportersâofficially was not a murderer. Nor was she officially insane. She had sat in jail for seven years, as much time as she might have been given for homicide, if not more, but she could not be called a murderer.
Gloria had been an associate at Howard & Howard when the case was brought to the firm. Pro bono, which the Howards did occasionally. But homicide wasnât the sort of thing that Andre Howard did and his brother, Julius, still thought he might be mayor or governor someday, although no one else did. So they had thrown this pro bono bone to a hungry associate.
And Gloria, ambitious late bloomer that she was, had been silly enough to think she was being rewarded, or at the very least tested.
She was already in her thirties, coming to the law after losing most of her twenties to Baltimoreâs public school system. She had been a high school English teacher, and even that had seemed an amazing achievement for the illegitimate daughter of a janitress. Baltimore gossip had long held that Gloriaâs father was a former mayor or city councilman, but that legend had been created in hindsight, an origin myth that sought to explain what had formed this tough-minded attorney. Gloria had no idea who her father was, but she knew this much: Her success as a lawyer wasnât in her blood, it wasnât something she was born to. It was something she had willed when she realized how much others doubted her.
She still remembered the first time she met Calliope. She hadnât been locked up, not yet, and although she had been stupid enough to agree to a police interview without a lawyer, she hadnât been stupid enough to say anything. As Gloria understood it, the police had requested a warrant to search her home, and the judge who had signed the warrant had apparently tipped off someone who brought the case to the Howard brothers. Gloria had accepted the assignment happily. Billing at the rate allowed pro bono cases, she would no longer be one of the top earners among associates, but this was clearly important to theHowards. Could she possibly be on the partner track? No white woman had made partner at the firm in those days; it was hard enough for white men.
She drove to the rowhouse on Lemmon Street, arriving long after the police
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