“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?
“But then,” Ruth muses, “maybe I’m wrong.”
I lift my glass, clink it against hers. “To baby steps,” I toast.
—
AFTER ONE MORE day of jury selection, we have our twelve plus two alternates. I spend the weekend holed up in my home office preparing for Monday’s opening arguments of the trial, taking off only Sunday afternoon to meet the neonatologist. Micah met Ivan Kelly-Garcia in his freshman orgo class, when—during the midterm—Ivan rushed in with only a half hour left during the exam, dressed like a giant hot dog, grabbed an exam booklet, and aced the test. The previous night was Halloween, and he’d passed out drunk in a sorority house, and woke up to realize he was about to forgo his entire future as a doctor. Ivan not only went on to become Micah’s study partner in orgo but also to go to Harvard Med and become one of the best neonatologists in the tristate area.
He’s thrilled to hear from Micah after so many years, and he’s even outwardly thrilled to host his insane lawyer wife and one very crabby four-year-old who should not have been awakened from her car seat nap. Ivan lives in Westport, Connecticut, in a sedate colonial, with his wife—a woman who managed to make homemade guacamole and salsa for us after her fifteen-mile morning marathon training run. They don’t have any kids yet, but they do have a giant Bernese mountain dog, which is currently either babysitting Violet or licking her to death.
“Look at us, bro,” Ivan says. “Married. Employed. Sober. Remember that time we dropped acid and I decided to climb a tree but forgot I’m scared of heights?”
I look at Micah. “You dropped acid?”