Slowly, Ruth turns around. She is haloed by the afternoon sunlight, otherworldly. "I didn't get angry. I am angry. I have been angry for years. I just didn't let it show. What you don't understand is that three hundred and sixty-five days a year, I have to think about not looking or sounding too black, so I play a role. I put on a game face, like a layer of plaster. It's exhausting. It's so goddamned exhausting. But I do it, because I don't have bail money. I do it because I have a son. I do it because if I don't, I could lose my job. My house. Myself. So instead, I work and smile and nod and pay my bills and stay silent and pretend to be satisfied, because that is what you people want--no--need me to be. And the great, sad shame is that for too many years of my sorry life, I have bought into that farce. I thought if I did all those things, I could be one of you."
She walks toward me. "Look at you," Ruth sneers. "You're so proud of being a public defender and working with people of color who need help. But did you ever think our misfortune is directly related to your good fortune? Maybe the house your parents bought was on the market because the sellers didn't want my mama in the neighborhood. Maybe the good grades that eventually led you to law school were possible because your mama didn't have to work eighteen hours a day, and was there to read to you at night, or make sure you did your homework. How often do you remind yourself how lucky you are that you own your house, because you were able to build up equity through generations in a way families of color can't? How often do you open your mouth at work and think how awesome it is that no one's thinking you're speaking for everyone with the same skin color you have? How hard is it for you to find a greeting card for your baby's birthday with a picture of a child that has the same color skin as her? How many times have you seen a painting of Jesus that looks like you?" She stops, breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed. "Prejudice goes both ways, you know. There are people who suffer from it, and there are people who profit from it. Who died and made you Robin Hood? Who said I ever needed saving? Here you are on your high horse, telling me I screwed up this case that you worked so hard on; patting yourself on the back for being an advocate for a poor, struggling black woman like me...but you're part of the reason I was down on the ground to begin with."
We are inches apart. I can feel the heat of her skin; I can see myself reflected in her pupils as she starts to speak again. "You told me you could represent me, Kennedy. You can't represent me. You don't know me. You never even tried." Her eyes lock on mine. "You're fired," Ruth says, and she walks out of the room.
--
FOR A FEW minutes, I stand alone in the conference room, fighting an army of emotions. So this is why it's called a trial. I have never felt so furious, ashamed, humiliated. In all the years I've practiced law, I have had clients who hated me, but no one ever sacked me.
This is how Ruth feels.
Okay, I get it: she has been wronged by a lot of white people. But that doesn't mean she can so effortlessly lump me with them, judge one individual by the rest.
This is how Ruth feels.
How dare she accuse me of not being able to represent her, just because I'm not black? How dare she say I didn't try to get to know her? How dare she put words in my mouth? How dare she tell me what I'm thinking?
This is how Ruth feels.
Groaning, I throw myself toward the door. The judge is expecting us in chambers.
Howard is framed in the doorway as soon as it opens. Jesus Christ, I'd forgotten about him. "She fired you?" he says and then sheepishly adds, "I was kind of eavesdropping."
I start striding down the hall. "She can't fire me. The judge will never let her do that this late in the trial." The legal claim Ruth will make is ineffective assistance of counsel, but if anyone was ineffective here, it was the client. She tanked her own acquittal.
"So what happens now?"
I stop walking and turn to him. "Your guess is as good as mine," I say.
--
TOWARD THE END of a case, a defense attorney will raise a motion for judgment of acquittal. But this time, when I step before Judge Thunder with Odette, he looks at me like I have some nerve to even be raising this issue. "There's no proof that Davis Bauer's death resulted from Ruth's actions. Or inactions," I add feebly, because at this point, even I'm not sure what to believe.
"Your Honor," Odette says. "It's clear that this is a last-ditch effort of desperation for the defense, given what we all just heard during that testimony. In fact I would humbly ask the court to reverse the decision on your previous motion to throw out the charge of murder. Clearly, Ruth Jefferson just gave proof of malice."
My blood freezes. I knew Odette would come out swinging, but I hadn't anticipated this. "Your Honor, the ruling has to stand. You already dismissed the murder charge. Double jeopardy applies; Ruth can't be charged twice with the same crime."
"In this one instance," Judge Thunder says grudgingly, "Ms. McQuarrie is correct. You've already had your bite at the apple, Ms. Lawton, and I already rejected the murder charge. I will, however, reserve my right to rule on the defense's renewed motion for judgment of acquittal." He looks at us each in turn. "Closing arguments start Monday morning, Counselors. Let's try not to make this any more of a shit show than it's already been, all right?"
I tell Howard to take the rest of the day off, and I drive home. My head feels cluttered, my mind too tight in my skull, as if I'm fighting a cold. When I get to my house, it smells of vanilla. I step into the kitchen to find my mother wearing a Wonder Woman apron while Violet kneels on one of the kitchen stools, her hand in a bowl of cookie dough. "Mommy!" she cries, raising sticky fists. "We're making you a surprise so pretend you can't see."
There's something about her phrase that sticks in my throat. Pretend you can't see.
Out of the mouths of babes.
My mother takes one look at me and frowns over Violet's head. "You okay?" she mouths silently.
In response, I sit down next to Violet and take a scoop of the cookie dough with my fingers and start eating.
My daughter is a lefty, in spite of the fact that Micah and I are not. We even have an ultrasound picture of her sucking her left thumb in utero. "What if it's that simple?" I murmur.
"What if what's that simple?"
I look at my mom. "Do you think the world is biased toward righties?"
"Um, I can't say I've ever thought about it."
"That's because," I point out, "you're a righty. But think about it. Can openers, scissors, even desks at college that fold out from the side--they're all meant for right-handed people."
Violet lifts up the hand that is holding her spoon, frowning at it. "Baby girl," my mother says, "why don't you go wash up so you can taste the first batch that comes out of the oven?"
She slithers off the stool, her hands held up like Micah's before he enters an operating room.
"Do you want to give the child nightmares?" my mother scolds. "Honestly, Kennedy! Where is this even coming from? Does this have to do with your case?"
"I've read that lefties die young because they're more accident prone. When you were growing up, didn't nuns slap the kids who wrote with their left hands?"
My mother puts a hand on her hip. "One man's curse is another's boon, you know. Lefties are supposed to be more creative. Weren't Michelangelo and da Vinci and Bach all left-handed? And back in medieval times you were lucky to be a lefty, because the majority of men fought with a sword in their right hand and a shield in their left, which meant you could pull off a sneak attack"--she reaches toward me with a spatula, poking me on the right side of my chest--"like this."
I laugh. "Why do you even know that?"
"I read romance novels, sugar," she says. "Don't worry about Violet. If she really wants to, you know, she can always teach herself to be ambidextrous. Your father, he was just as good with his right hand as with his left one--writing, hammering, even getting to second base." She grins. "And I am not talking about batting practice."
"Ew," I say. "Stop." But meanwhile, my brain is
spinning: What if the puzzle of the world was a shape you didn't fit into? And the only way to survive was to mutilate yourself, carve away your corners, sand yourself down, modify yourself to fit?
How come we haven't been able to change the puzzle instead?
"Mom?" I ask. "Can you stay with Vi for a few more hours?"
--
I REMEMBER READING a novel once that said the native Alaskans who came in contact with white missionaries thought, at first, they were ghosts. And why shouldn't they have thought that? Like ghosts, white people move effortlessly through boundaries and borders. Like ghosts, we can be anywhere we want to be.
I decide it's time to feel the walls around me.
The first thing I do is leave my car in the driveway and walk a mile to a bus stop. Chilled to the bone, I duck into a CVS to warm up. I stop in front of a display I've never paused at before and take down a purple box. Dark and Lovely Healthy-Gloss relaxer. I look at the pretty woman in the picture. For medium hair textures, I read. Straight, sleek, and shiny hair. I scan the instructions, the multiple-step process needed to get hair that looks like mine after I blow it dry.
Next I reach for a bottle, Luster's Pink oil moisturizer hair lotion. A black tub of Ampro Pro Styl. A satin bonnet that claims to minimize frizz and breakage at night.
These products are foreign to me. I have no idea what they do, why they're necessary for black people, or how to use them. But I bet Ruth could name five shampoos white people use, just off the top of her head, thanks to ubiquitous television commercials.
I walk downtown, where for a little while I sit on a bench for another bus and watch two homeless people soliciting strangers on the street. They target mostly well-dressed white people in business suits, or college students plugged into their headphones, and maybe one in six or seven reaches into his or her pocket for change. Of the two homeless people, one routinely gets a donation more often than the other. She's elderly, and white. The other one--a young black man--is given a wider berth.
The Hill neighborhood of New Haven is among the most notorious in the city. I've had dozens of clients from there--mostly involved in selling drugs near the Church Street South low-income housing. That's also where Adisa, Ruth's sister, lives.
I wander the streets. There are kids running, chasing each other. Girls huddled together, speaking a flurry of Spanish. Men stand on street corners, arms folded, silent sentries. I am the only white face in the vicinity. It is already starting to get dark out when I duck into a bodega. The cashier at the counter stares at me as I walk through the aisles. I can feel her gaze like lightning between my shoulder blades. "Can I help you?" she asks finally, and I shake my head and walk out.
It's unsettling, not seeing someone who looks like me. People I pass don't make eye contact. I am the stranger in their midst, the sore thumb, the one that is not like the others. And yet, at the very same instant, I have become invisible.
When I get to Church Street South, I walk around the buildings. Some of the apartments, I know, have been condemned for mold, for structural damage. It is like a ghost town: curtains pulled tight, residents holed up inside. Beneath a stairwell, I see two young men, passing cash. An old lady tries to haul her oxygen tank up the stairs above them. "Excuse me," I call out. "Can I give you a hand?"
All three of them stare at me, frozen. The men glance up, and one puts a hand on the waistband of his jeans, from which I think I see the hilt of a gun protruding. My legs are jelly. Before I can back away, the old woman says, "No hablo ingles," and climbs the steps double time.
I had wanted to live like Ruth did, just for an afternoon, but not if it meant I'd be in danger. Yet danger, it's relative. I have a husband with a good job and a house that's paid off, and I don't have to worry that something I say or do is going to threaten my ability to put food on the table or pay my bills. For me, danger looks different: it's whatever can separate me from Violet, from Micah. But no matter what face you put on your own personal bogeyman, it gives you nightmares. It has the power to terrify, and to make you do things you wouldn't normally think you'd do, all in an effort to stay safe.
For me, that means running through a night that's tunneling tighter around me, until I can be sure I'm not being followed. Several blocks away, I slow down at an intersection. By now, my pulse isn't racing, the sweat has cooled beneath my arms. A man about my age approaches, pushing the same pedestrian walk button, waiting. His dark skin is pocked on the cheeks, a road map of his life. His hands hold a thick book, but I cannot make out the title.
I decide to try one more time. I nod down toward the book. "Is it good? I'm looking for something to read."
He glances at me, and lets his gaze slide away. He doesn't respond.
I feel my cheeks burning as the walk signal illuminates. We cross the street side by side in silence, and then he turns away, ducking down a street.
I wonder if he was really intending to go down that street, or if he just wanted to put distance between us. My feet hurt, my whole body is shaking with the cold, and I'm feeling utterly defeated. I realize it was a short-lived experiment, but at least I tried to understand what Ruth was saying. I tried.
I.
As I trudge up to the hospital where Micah works, I think about that pronoun. I consider the hundreds of years that a black man could have gotten into trouble for talking to a white woman. In some places in this country, it's still the case, and the repercussions are vigilante justice. For me, the dire consequence of that stoplight conversation was feeling snubbed. For him, it was something else entirely. It was two centuries of history.
Micah's office is on the third floor. It's remarkable how, the minute I walk through the doors of that hospital, I am in my element again. I know the healthcare system; I know how I will be treated; I know the rituals and the responses. I can stride past the information desk without anyone questioning where I'm going or why I am there. I can wave to the staff in Micah's department and let myself into his office.
Today is a surgery day for him. I sit in his desk chair, my coat unbuttoned, my shoes off. I stare at the model of the human eye on his desk, a three-dimensional puzzle, as my thoughts speed like a cyclone. Every time I close my eyes, I see the old woman at Church Street South, shrinking away from my offer of help. I hear Ruth's voice, telling me I am fired.
Maybe I deserve to be.
Maybe I'm wrong.
I've spent months so focused on getting an acquittal for Ruth, but if I'm really going to be honest, the acquittal was for me. For my first murder trial.
I've spent months telling Ruth that a criminal lawsuit is no place to bring up race. If you do, you can't win. But if you don't, there are still costs--because you are perpetuating a flawed system, instead of trying to change it.
That's what Ruth has been trying to say, but I haven't listened. She's brave enough to risk losing her job, her livelihood, her freedom to tell the truth, and I'm the liar. I'd told her race isn't welcome in the courtroom, when deep down I know it's already there. It always has been. And just because I close my eyes doesn't mean it's gone away.
Witnesses swear on Bibles in court to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But lies of omission are just as damning as any other falsehood. And to finish out Ruth Jefferson's case without stating, overtly, that what happened to her happened because of the color of her skin might be an even bigger loss than a conviction.
Maybe if there were lawyers more courageous than I am, we wouldn't be so scared to talk about race in places where it matters the most.
Maybe if there were lawyers more courageous than I am, there would not be another Ruth somewhere down the line, being indicted as the result of another racially motivated incident that no one wants to admit is a racially motivated incident.
Maybe if there were lawyers more courageous than I am, fixing the system would be as important as acquitting the client.
Maybe I should be more courageous.
Ruth accused me of wanting to save her
, and perhaps that was a fair assessment. But she doesn't need saving. She doesn't need my advice, because really, who am I to give it, when I haven't lived her life? She just needs a chance to speak. To be heard.
I am really not sure how much time passes before Micah enters. He is wearing scrubs, which I've always thought were sexy, and Crocs, which totally aren't. His face lights up when he sees me. "This is a nice surprise."
"I was in the neighborhood," I tell him. "Can you give me a ride home?"
"Where's your car?"
I shake my head. "Long story."
He gathers up some files and checks a stack of messages, then reaches for his coat. "Everything all right? You were a million miles away when I walked in."
I lift the eye model and turn it over in my hands. "I feel like I've been standing underneath an open window, just as a baby gets tossed out. I grab the baby, right, because who wouldn't? But then another baby gets tossed out, so I pass the baby to someone else, and I make the catch. This keeps happening. And before you know it there are a whole bunch of people who are getting really good at passing along babies, just like I'm good at catching them, but no one ever asks who the fuck is throwing the babies out the window in the first place."
"Um." Micah tilts his head. "What baby are we talking about?"
"It's not a baby, it's a metaphor," I say, irritated. "I've been doing my job, but who cares, if the system keeps on creating situations where my job is necessary? Shouldn't we focus on the big picture, instead of just catching whatever falls out the window at any given moment?"
Micah's staring at me like I've lost my mind. Behind his shoulder a poster hangs on the wall: the anatomy of the human eye. There is the optic nerve, the aqueous humor, the conjunctiva. The ciliary body, the retina, the choroid. "For a living," I murmur, "you make people see."
"Well," he says. "Yeah."
I look directly at him. "That's what I need to do too."
EDISON ISN'T AT HOME, AND my car is gone.
I wait for him, text him, call him, pray, but there is no response. I imagine him walking the streets, hearing my voice ring out in his ears. He is wondering if he has it in him, too, the capacity for rage. If nature or nurture matters more; if he is doubly damned.