“They say she might die.”

My stomach turns at the thought of the pain that has been inflicted on this child. If she does die, Gina will be facing a murder charge. And why not? No frustration, no matter how great, can justify an adult’s torturing a child.

Even if it were an accident (and doctors can form an opinion by the pattern of the burns), the guilt she is surely feeling must be overwhelming. Even sixteen years later I remember the night I pinched Sarah’s leg because I could not get her to stop crying. I lied to Rosa when she came in from work, telling her Sarah had run into the edge of the living room coffee table.

“Were you alone?” I ask, hoping she wasn’t. Sometimes, it is a boyfriend or babysitter who does these things.

“Yes,” she says, her voice trembling.

“I was giving her a bath and went downstairs to get a towel. I heard her scream. By the time I got back up to her, she was already burned. I pulled her out right away, but it was too late.”

She seems believable. The stress in her voice gives it the tinny quality of an old woman’s; however, her anxiety could be the result of fear and guilt, a combination guaranteed to add years to even the most baby-faced suspect.

Creasing my tie, I fold my arms across my chest, not willing to make this explanation any easier for her. This case, if I take it, will be a lot simpler if she admits to hurting the child deliberately. She adds, her voice seemingly puzzled, when I do not reply, “She must of turned on the hot water. There was only a couple of inches of barely warm water in the tub when I went downstairs.”

In silent rage I squeeze my arms, wanting to rail at her.

If she isn’t a criminal, she is criminally stupid. Still, I could easily have burned Sarah when she was a baby. The phone rings; someone knocks at the door; lapses of attention occur with even the best parent. Yet, somebody hasn’t believed her, and despite the incompetence of many of the caseworkers, the medical support the state agency receives from St. Thomas is first-rate.