“Twenty years.”
She laughs. “God, I’ve been on the job for nine months. I can’t imagine doing anything for that long. I guess it’s not work if you love it, right?”
I nod, still wary. But if I have any chance of making these detectives understand that I’m being railroaded, it’s going to be with her. “That’s true. And I love what I do.”
“You must have felt awful when you were told by your supervisor you couldn’t take care of that baby anymore,” she says. “Especially given your level of expertise.”
“It wasn’t the best day I’ve ever had, no.”
“My first day on the job? I totaled a police car. Drove it into a highway barrier at a construction site. Seriously. I scored highest on the detective exam, but in the field, I was a joke. The other guys in my class still call me Crash. I mean, let’s be honest, a female detective has to work twice as hard as the guys, but the only thing they remember me for is a simple mistake. I was so upset. I still am.”
I look at her, the truth balanced on my tongue like a hard candy. I wasn’t supposed to touch the baby. But I did, even though I could have gotten in trouble. And it still wasn’t enough.
“Look, Ruth,” the detective adds, “if this was an accident, now would be the time to say so. Maybe the hurt you were feeling got the best of you. It would be totally understandable, given the circumstances. Just tell me, and I’ll do what I can to make this go down easier.”
That is when I realize that she still thinks I’m at fault.
That she’s not being nice to me by sharing her own story. She’s being manipulative.
That those TV shows are right.
I swallow hard, so that honesty sits in the pit of my belly. Instead, I speak four short words in a voice I do not recognize. “I want a lawyer,” I say.
The piano keys are black and white but they sound like a million colors in your mind.
—MARíA CRISTINA MENA
WHEN I ARRIVE AT THE office, Ed Gourakis—one of my colleagues—is spouting off about the new hire. One of our junior public defenders left to have a baby and informed HR that she wasn’t returning. I knew that Harry, our boss, had been interviewing, but it isn’t until Ed corners me at my cubicle that I realize a decision’s been made.
“Did you meet him yet?” Ed asks.
“Meet who?”
“Howard. The newbie.”
Ed is the kind of guy who went into public defense because he could. In other words—he has a trust fund so large it doesn’t matter how shitty our salaries are. And yet, in spite of the fact that he’s grown up with every privilege possible, nothing is ever quite good enough. The Starbucks across the street serves coffee that’s too hot. There was an accident on I-95N that made him twenty minutes late. The vending machine at the courthouse stopped carrying Skittles.
“I literally walked in here four seconds ago. How could I have a chance to meet anyone?”
“Well, he’s clearly here to meet a diversity target. Just look for the puddles on the floor. This guy is so wet behind the ears he’s leaving a trail.”
“First, that metaphor didn’t work. No one drips from their ears. Second, so what if he’s young? I realize that it’s hard for someone of your advanced age to remember…but you were young once too.”
“There were,” Ed says, lowering his voice, “more deserving candidates.”
I rummage through the piles on my desk for the files I need. There is a stack of pink phone messages waiting for me that I patently ignore. “Sorry to hear your nephew wasn’t picked,” I murmur.
“Very funny, McQuarrie.”
“Look, Ed, I’ve got a job to do. I don’t have time for office gossip.” I lean toward my screen and pretend to be incredibly absorbed by my first email, which happens to be a solicitation from Nordstrom Rack.
Eventually Ed realizes I’m not going to engage with him anymore, and he stomps into the break room, where, no doubt, the coffee will not be up to par and we will be out of his favorite flavor of creamer. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair.
Suddenly I hear a rustle on the other side of my cubicle and a tall, slim young black man stands up. He is wearing a cheap suit with a bow tie, and hipster glasses. He is very clearly the new hire for this office, and he has been sitting there, all along, listening to Ed’s comments.
“Hashtag awkward,” he says. “I’m Howard, in case there’s any doubt in your mind.”
I stretch my face so far into a smile that I imagine the puppets Violet watches on Sesame Street, whose jaws can drop on a hinge when they are overcome by emotion. “Howard,” I repeat, jumping to my feet and immediately offering my hand to shake. “I’m Kennedy. It’s really nice to meet you.”
“Kennedy,” he says. “Like John F.?”