They left through the rear courthouse entrance to avoid the cluster of cameras at the front steps. Winter sunlight lay pale across the parking garage, and the traffic outside moved with the ordinary impatience of people trying to reach home before dinner. Jackson drove without speaking for several minutes. Beatrice watched the city through the passenger window and tried to understand why a verdict could feel both enormous and insufficient.
"He will go to prison, won't he?" she asked. Jackson answered that sentencing had not yet happened and that the judge would consider the law, the evidence, and the parties' arguments. He did not promise a particular number of years because he had learned from Patricia how many things could change before the process was complete. Beatrice nodded and kept watching the streetlights come on.
After a while she said that she did not want Stanton harmed in prison. Jackson glanced at her and said he understood. She explained that her purpose had never been to make another person suffer as she had suffered. She wanted Stanton to know that the uniform he wore did not give him ownership of another person's body, and she wanted the next officer who met a frightened elderly driver to remember that lesson.
Jackson reached across the center console and rested one hand briefly over hers. He said that the verdict had made the truth part of the public record, though he knew the record could not restore everything that had been taken. Beatrice told him she did not expect it to. She wanted to learn how to drive her own car again without feeling sick every time a police vehicle appeared behind her.
By the time they reached Willow Street, Beatrice had fallen asleep against the passenger window. Jackson slowed near the house, watching the familiar pecan trees and the porch light that Henry had repaired. He considered waking her, then decided she deserved another minute. The Tahoe idled quietly at the curb while he lowered the radio to a soft instrumental jazz station William used to play on Saturday mornings.
When she woke, she looked around in confusion and asked whether they were home already. Jackson said they were, and she smiled with the sleepy satisfaction of someone who had arrived safely without having to manage the journey. He helped her inside, where Ada had arranged for a pot of soup and fresh bread to be waiting. They ate at the kitchen table without speaking about the verdict until Beatrice finished her second bowl.
The first night after the trial was harder than she expected. She had imagined that a guilty verdict might make the memories less vivid, but she woke from a dream in which she was still trying to open the glove compartment. Her left shoulder ached, and for several seconds she could not remember whether the traffic stop was happening again or only returning in her sleep. She turned on the bedside lamp and sat upright until the present became unmistakable.
Jackson heard her moving and came to the doorway. He asked whether she needed anything, and Beatrice told him that she wanted him to go back to sleep. When he hesitated, she asked him to sit for five minutes rather than pace the hallway all night. They talked about the church choir, his daughter-like nieces, and the pecan tree that still needed pruning, then he left when she said she was ready.