I’d rather have a Neanderthal sitting at the table with me.
Oh, wait.
“I can do it myself,” I tell Harry. It isn’t until he finally nods that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
—
ICOUNT THEhours and the arraignments I have to slog through before I’m free to drive to the women’s prison. As I sit in traffic, I run over opening conversations in my mind that will allow Ruth to have confidence in me as her attorney. I may not have tried a murder before, but I’ve done dozens of drug and assault and domestic jury trials. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” I say out loud to the rearview mirror, and then roll my eyes.
“It’s an honor to represent you.”
Nope. Sounds like a publicist meeting Meryl Streep.
I take a deep breath. “Hello,” I try. “I’m Kennedy.”
Ten minutes later, I park, shrug on a mantle of false confidence, and stride into the building. A CO with a belly that makes him look ten months pregnant sizes me up. “Visiting hours are over,” he says.
“I’m here to see my client. Ruth Jefferson?”
The officer scans his computer. “Well, you’re out of luck.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She was released two days ago,” he says.
My cheeks flame. I can only imagine how stupid I look, losing track of my own client. “Yes! Of course!” I pretend that I knew this all along, that I was only testing him.
I can still hear him snickering as the door of the prison closes behind me.
—
ACOUPLE OFdays after I send a formal letter to Ruth’s house—the address of which I have from the bail posting—she comes to the office. I am headed to the copy machine when the door opens and she walks in, nervous and hesitant, as if this cannot possibly be the right place. With the bare bones and the stacks of boxes and paper, we look more like a company that is either setting up shop or closing its doors than a functional legal office.
“Ruth! Hello!” I hold out my hand. “Kennedy McQuarrie,” I say.
“I remember.”
She is taller than I am, and stands with remarkable posture. I think, absently, that my mother would be impressed.
“You got my letter,” I say, the obvious. “I’m glad you’re here, because we’ve got a lot to talk about.” I look around, wondering where I am going to put her. My cubicle is barely big enough for me. The break room is too informal. There’s Harry’s office, but he’s in it. Ed is using the one client meeting room we have to take a deposition. “Would you like to grab a bite? There’s a Panera around the corner. Do you eat…”
“Food?” she finishes. “Yes.”
I pay for her soup and salad, and pick a booth in the back. We talk about the rain, and how we needed it, and when the weather might turn. “Please,” I say, gesturing to her food. “Go ahead.”
I pick up my sandwich and take a bite just as Ruth bows her head and says, “Lord, we thank you for our food, furnishing our bodies for Christ’s sake.”
My mouth is still full as I sayAmen.
“So you’re a churchgoer,” I add, after I swallow.
Ruth looks up at me. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. In fact, it’s good to know, because it’s something that can help a jury like you.”
For the first time, I really look at Ruth carefully. The last time I saw her, after all, her hair was wrapped and she was wearing a nightgown. Now, she is dressed conservatively in a striped blouse and navy skirt, with shiny patent flats that are rubbed raw in one small spot each at the heels. Her hair is straight, pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. Her skin is lighter than I remember, almost the same color as the coffee milk that my mother used to let me drink when I was little.
Nerves manifest differently in different people. Me, I get talkative. Micah gets pensive. My mother gets snobbish. And Ruth, apparently, gets stiff. Which is something else I file away, because jurors who see that can misinterpret it as anger or haughtiness.
