“Or maybe you were thinking:This baby doesn’t deserve my help. His parents don’t want me touching him because I’m black, and they’re gonna get their wish.”
“That’s not true—”
“I see. You were thinking:I hate his racist parents?”
“No!” Ruth holds her hands to her head, trying to drown out Odette’s voice.
“Oh, so maybe it was:I hate thisbabybecause I hate his racist parents?”
“No,” Ruth explodes, so loud that it feels like the walls of the courtroom are shaking. “I was thinking that baby was better off dead than raised byhim.”
She points directly at Turk Bauer, as a curtain of silence falls over the jury and the gallery and, yes, me. Ruth holds her hand over her mouth.Too fucking late,I think.
“O-objection!” Howard sputters. “Move to strike!”
At the same exact moment, Edison runs out of the courtroom.
—
IGRABRUTH’Swrist as soon as we are dismissed and drag her to the conference room. Howard is smart enough to know to stay away. Once the door is closed, I turn on her. “Congratulations. You didexactlywhat you weren’t supposed to do, Ruth.”
She walks to the window, her back to me.
“Have you made your point? Are you happy you got up on the stand to testify? All the jury is going to see now is an angry black woman. One who was so pissed off and vengeful that I wouldn’t be surprised if the judge regrets dismissing the count of murder. You just gave those fourteen jurors every reason to believe you were mad enough to let that baby die before your eyes.”
Slowly, Ruth turns around. She is haloed by the afternoon sunlight, otherworldly. “I didn’tgetangry. Iamangry. 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 soundingtoo 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—needme 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 wantmymama 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’tknowme. You never even tried.” Her eyes lock on mine. “You’re fired,” Ruth says, and she walks out of the room.
—
FOR A FEWminutes, I stand alone in the conference room, fighting an army of emotions. So this is why it’s called atrial.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 ENDof 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, evenI’mnot sure what to believe.
