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  James Batson was an African American man who was tried for burglary in Kentucky by an all-white jury. During the voir dire phase of the trial, when the jurors were being selected, the prosecutor used peremptory strikes against six potential jurors--four of whom were black. The defense tried to discharge the jury on the grounds that Batson was not being tried by a representative sample of the community, but the judge denied it, and Batson wound up being convicted. In 1986, the Supreme Court ruled in Batson's favor, stating that a prosecutor's use of peremptory strikes in a criminal case could not be based solely on race.

  Since then, any time a black person gets bounced from a jury, any defense attorney worth his or her salt will cry Batson.

  "Your Honor," I continue, "the Sixth Amendment guarantees the right of a defendant to be tried by a jury of his or her peers."

  "Thank you, Ms. McQuarrie, I know very well what the Sixth Amendment says."

  "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. New Haven is a very diverse county, and the jury needs to reflect that diversity, and right now this gentleman is the only black juror in this pool of fourteen."

  "You have got to be kidding," Odette says. "You're saying I'm racist?"

  "No, I'm saying that it's a lot easier for you to stack a jury in the State's favor without being called on it because of your race."

  The judge turns to Odette. "What's your reason for exercising your peremptory strike, Counselor?"

  "I found him argumentative," she says.

  "This is the first group of jurors," Judge Thunder warns me. "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

  Maybe it's the fact that he is so blatantly favoring the prosecution right now. Maybe it is that I want to show Ruth I am going to bat for her. Maybe it's just because he used the word knickers and it made me remember my steroid rant against him. For whatever reason, or maybe all of them, I straighten my spine and take this opportunity to unbalance Odette before we even get started. "I want a hearing on this," I demand. "I want Odette to produce her notes. We had other argumentative people on this panel, and I want to know if she documented that characteristic for the other jurors."

  Rolling her eyes, Odette climbs into the witness box. I have to admit, there's enough public defender pride in me to love seeing a prosecutor in there, effectively caged. She glares at me as I approach. "You indicated that juror number two was argumentative. Did you listen to the responses of juror number seven?"

  "Of course I did."

  "How did you find his demeanor?" I ask.

  "I found him friendly."

  I look down at Howard's excellent notes. "Even when you asked him about African Americans and crime and he came out of his seat and said you were implying he was a racist? Is that not argumentative?"

  Odette shrugs. "His tone was different than juror number two's."

  "Coincidentally, so was his skin color," I say. "Tell me, did you make any notes about juror number eleven being argumentative?"

  She glances down at her chart. "We were moving quickly. I didn't write down everything I was thinking, because it wasn't important."

  "Because it wasn't important," I clarify, "or because that juror was white?" I turn to the judge. "Thank you, Your Honor."

  Judge Thunder turns to the prosecutor. "I'm not going to allow the peremptory challenge. You're not getting me into a Batson situation this early in the game, Ms. Lawton. Juror number two remains on the panel."

  I slide into my seat beside Ruth, pretty damn pumped. Howard is blinking at me like I'm a goddess. It's not every day you get to school a prosecutor. Suddenly Ruth passes a note to me. I unfold it, read the two simple words: Thank you.

  --

  WHEN THE JUDGE dismisses us for the day, I tell Howard to go home and get some sleep. Ruth and I leave the courthouse together; I peek outside first to make sure that the coast is clear of media. It is--but I know that will change as soon as we start the trial.

  When we reach the parking lot, however, neither one of us seems to be in a great hurry to leave. Ruth keeps her head ducked, and I know her well enough by now to know that something's on her mind. "You want to go grab a glass of wine? Or do you have to get back to Edison?"

  She shakes her head. "He's out more than I am these days."

  "You don't sound thrilled about that."

  "Right now I'm not exactly his role model," Ruth says.

  We walk around the corner to a bar that I've been to many times before, celebrating victory or drowning defeat. It's full of lawyers I know, so I squirrel us into a booth way in the back. We both order pinot noir, and when the glasses arrive, I toast. "Here's to an acquittal."

  I notice that Ruth doesn't lift her glass.

  "Ruth," I say gently, "I know this was the first time you've been in court. But trust me--today went really, really well."

  She swirls the wine in her glass. "My mama used to tell a story about how, once, she was pushing me in a stroller in our neighborhood in Harlem, and two black ladies passed her. One of them said to the other, She walkin' around like that her baby. That ain't her baby. I hate when nannies do that. I was light-skinned, compared to Mama. She laughed it off, because she knew the truth--I was hers, through and through. But the thing is, growing up, it wasn't the white kids who made me feel worst about myself. It was the black kids." Ruth looks up at me. "That prosecutor made it all come flooding back today. Like, she was out to get me."

  "I don't know if it's all that personal for Odette. She just likes to win."

  It strikes me that this is a conversation I have never had with someone who is African American. Usually I am so conscious of not being seen as prejudiced that I would be paralyzed by the fear of saying something that would be offensive. I've had African American clients before, but in those cases I was very clearly setting myself up to be the one with all the answers. Ruth has seen that mask slip.

  With Ruth, I know I can ask a stupid white girl question, and that she will answer me without judging my ignorance. Likewise, if I step on her toes, she'll tell me so. I think about the time she explained to me the difference between weaves and extensions; or how she asked me about sunburn, and how long it takes for blistered skin to start peeling. It's the difference between dancing along the eggshell crust of acquaintance and diving into the messy center of a relationship. It's not always perfect; it's not always pleasant--but because it is rooted in respect, it is unshakable.

  "You surprised me today," Ruth admits.

  I laugh. "Because I'm actually good at what I do?"

  "No. Because half the questions you asked were based on race." She meets my gaze. "After all this time telling me that doesn't happen in a courtroom."

  "It doesn't," I say bluntly. "Come Monday, when the trial starts, everything changes."

  "You'll still let me speak?" Ruth confirms. "Because I need to say my piece."

  "I promise." I set my wineglass down. "Ruth, you know, just because we pretend racism has nothing to do with a case doesn't mean we aren't aware of it."

  "Then why pretend?"

  "Because it's what lawyers do. I lie for a living. If I thought it was going to get you acquitted, I could tell the jury that Davis Bauer was a werewolf. And if they believe it, shame on them."

  Ruth's eyes meet mine. "It's a distraction. It's a clown waving in your face, so you don't notice the sleight of hand going on behind him."

  It's strange to hear my work described that way, but it's not entirely untrue. "Then I guess all we can do is drink to forget." I lift my glass.

  Ruth finally takes a sip of her wine. "There isn't enough pinot noir in the world."

  I run my thumb around the edge of my cocktail napkin. "Do you think there will ever be a time when racism doesn't exist?"

  "No, because that means white people would have to buy into being equal. Who'd choose to dismantle the system that makes them special?"

  Heat floods my neck. Is she talking about me? Is she suggesting that the reason I won't buck the system is because I, personally, have something to lose