Small Great Things Read online

  Harry grunts. Which is better than a no. "Well, it would be good to have another go-to lawyer for the big cases. But since you're a rookie, I'll have Ed second-chair it with you."

  I'd rather have a Neanderthal sitting at the table with me.

  Oh, wait.

  "I can do it myself," I tell Harry. It isn't until he finally nods that I realize I've been holding my breath.

  --

  I COUNT THE hours and the arraignments I have to slog through before I'm free to drive to the women's prison. As I sit in traffic, I run over opening conversations in my mind that will allow Ruth to have confidence in me as her attorney. I may not have tried a murder before, but I've done dozens of drug and assault and domestic jury trials. "This isn't my first rodeo," I say out loud to the rearview mirror, and then roll my eyes.

  "It's an honor to represent you."

  Nope. Sounds like a publicist meeting Meryl Streep.

  I take a deep breath. "Hello," I try. "I'm Kennedy."

  Ten minutes later, I park, shrug on a mantle of false confidence, and stride into the building. A CO with a belly that makes him look ten months pregnant sizes me up. "Visiting hours are over," he says.

  "I'm here to see my client. Ruth Jefferson?"

  The officer scans his computer. "Well, you're out of luck."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "She was released two days ago," he says.

  My cheeks flame. I can only imagine how stupid I look, losing track of my own client. "Yes! Of course!" I pretend that I knew this all along, that I was only testing him.

  I can still hear him snickering as the door of the prison closes behind me.

  --

  A COUPLE OF days after I send a formal letter to Ruth's house--the address of which I have from the bail posting--she comes to the office. I am headed to the copy machine when the door opens and she walks in, nervous and hesitant, as if this cannot possibly be the right place. With the bare bones and the stacks of boxes and paper, we look more like a company that is either setting up shop or closing its doors than a functional legal office.

  "Ruth! Hello!" I hold out my hand. "Kennedy McQuarrie," I say.

  "I remember."

  She is taller than I am, and stands with remarkable posture. I think, absently, that my mother would be impressed.

  "You got my letter," I say, the obvious. "I'm glad you're here, because we've got a lot to talk about." I look around, wondering where I am going to put her. My cubicle is barely big enough for me. The break room is too informal. There's Harry's office, but he's in it. Ed is using the one client meeting room we have to take a deposition. "Would you like to grab a bite? There's a Panera around the corner. Do you eat..."

  "Food?" she finishes. "Yes."

  I pay for her soup and salad, and pick a booth in the back. We talk about the rain, and how we needed it, and when the weather might turn. "Please," I say, gesturing to her food. "Go ahead."

  I pick up my sandwich and take a bite just as Ruth bows her head and says, "Lord, we thank you for our food, furnishing our bodies for Christ's sake."

  My mouth is still full as I say Amen.

  "So you're a churchgoer," I add, after I swallow.

  Ruth looks up at me. "Is that a problem?"

  "Not at all. In fact, it's good to know, because it's something that can help a jury like you."

  For the first time, I really look at Ruth carefully. The last time I saw her, after all, her hair was wrapped and she was wearing a nightgown. Now, she is dressed conservatively in a striped blouse and navy skirt, with shiny patent flats that are rubbed raw in one small spot each at the heels. Her hair is straight, pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. Her skin is lighter than I remember, almost the same color as the coffee milk that my mother used to let me drink when I was little.

  Nerves manifest differently in different people. Me, I get talkative. Micah gets pensive. My mother gets snobbish. And Ruth, apparently, gets stiff. Which is something else I file away, because jurors who see that can misinterpret it as anger or haughtiness.

  "I know it's hard," I say, lowering my voice for privacy, "but I need you to be a hundred percent honest with me. Even though I'm a stranger. I mean, hopefully, I won't be one for long. But it's important to realize that nothing you say to me can be used against you. It's completely client-privileged."

  Ruth puts her fork down carefully, and nods. "All right."

  I take a small notebook out of my purse. "Well, first, do you prefer the term black or African American or people of color?"

  Ruth stares at me. "People of color," she says after a moment.

  I write this down. Underline it. "I just want you to feel comfortable. Frankly, I don't even see color. I mean, the only race that matters is the human one, right?"

  Her lips press together tightly.

  I clear my throat, breaking the knot of silence. "Remind me again where you went to school?"

  "SUNY Plattsburgh, and then Yale Nursing School."

  "Impressive," I murmur, scribbling this down.

  "Ms. McQuarrie," she says.

  "Kennedy."

  "Kennedy...I can't go back to prison." Ruth looks into my eyes, and for a moment, I can see right down into the heart of her. "I've got my boy, and there's no one else who can raise him to be the man I know he's going to be."

  "I know. Listen, I'm going to do my best. I have a lot of experience in cases with people like you."

  That mask freezes her features again. "People like me?"

  "People accused of serious crimes," I explain.

  "But I didn't do anything."

  "I believe you. However, we still have to convince a jury. So we have to go back to the basics to figure out why you've been charged."

  "I'd think that's pretty obvious," Ruth says quietly. "That baby's father didn't want me near his son."

  "The white supremacist? He has nothing to do with your case."

  Ruth blinks. "I don't understand how that's possible."

  "He isn't the one who indicted you. None of that matters."

  She looks at me as if I'm crazy. "But I'm the only nurse of color on the birthing pavilion."

  "To the State, it doesn't matter if you're black or white or blue or green. To them, you had a legal duty to take care of an infant under your charge. Just because your boss said don't touch the baby doesn't mean you get a free pass to stand there and do nothing." I lean forward. "The State doesn't even have to specify what the degree of murder is. They can argue multiple theories--contradictory theories. It's like shooting fish in a bucket--if they hit any of them, you're in trouble. If the State can show implied malice because you were so mad at being taken off the baby's case, and suggest that you premeditated the death, the jury can convict you of murder. Even if we told the jury it was an accident, you'd be admitting to a breach in duty of care and criminal negligence with reckless and wanton disregard for the safety of the baby--you'd basically be giving them negligent homicide on a silver platter. In either of those scenarios, you're going to prison. And in either of those scenarios it doesn't matter what color your skin is."

  She draws in her breath. "Do you really believe that if I was white, I'd be sitting here with you right now?"

  There is no way you can look at a case that has, at its core, a nurse who is the only employee of color in the department, a white supremacist father, and a knee-jerk decision by a hospital administrator...and not assume that race played a factor.

  But.

  Any public defender who tells you justice is blind is telling you a big fat lie. Watch the news coverage of trials that have racial overtones, and what will stick out profoundly is the way attorneys and judges and juries go out of their way to say this isn't about race, even though it clearly is. Any public defender will also tell you that even though the majority of our clients are people of color, you can't play the race card during a trial.

  That's because it's sure suicide in a courtroom to bring up race. You don't know what your jury is thinking.