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 wordknickersand 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 aBatsonsituation 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 JUDGEdismisses 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 togetme.”
“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?”
