Small Great Things Read online

  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