Small Great Things(25)
“Warden,” I reply, “they let you go inside with keys. What do you think I’m going to do? Bust someone out of jail with a foundation garment?”
The deputy warden cannot meet my gaze. He clears his throat. “I went to Target and looked at the bras they have for sale there—”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and I turn to Al. “You sent him to do field research?”
Before he can answer, Arthur leans back in his chair. “You know, it does beg the question of whether the entire clothing policy should be under review,” he muses. “Last year I was trying to see a client last-minute, before I headed out for vacation. I was wearing sandals, and was told I couldn’t enter the prison with them. But the only other shoes I had were golf cleats, which were perfectly acceptable.”
“Cleats,” I repeat. “The shoes with actual spikes on the bottom? Why would you send someone in with cleats but not flip-flops?”
The warden and the deputy exchange a glance. “Well, because of the toe-lickers,” says the deputy.
“You’re afraid that someone is going to suck our toes?”
“Yes,” the deputy says, deadpan. “Trust me, it’s for your own protection. It’s like a conjugal visit with your foot.”
For just a heartbeat I picture the life I could have had if I’d joined a sterile corporate law firm, on the partner track. I imagine meeting my clients in paneled wood conference rooms, instead of repurposed storage closets that smell like bleach and pee. I imagine shaking the hand of a client whose hand isn’t trembling—from meth withdrawal or abject terror at a justice system he doesn’t trust.
But there are always trade-offs. When I met Micah, he was a fellow in ophthalmology at Yale–New Haven. He examined me and said I had the most beautiful colobomas he’d ever seen. On our first date I told him I really did believe justice was blind, and he said that was only because he hadn’t had a chance to operate yet. If I hadn’t married Micah, I would have probably followed the rest of the law review staff to sleek chrome offices in big cities. Instead, he went into practice, and I stopped clerking to give birth to Violet. When I was ready to go back to work, Micah was the one who reminded me of the sort of law I used to champion. Thanks to his salary, I was able to practice it. I’ll make the money, Micah used to tell me. You make the difference. As a public defender I was never going to get rich, but I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror.
And since we live in a country where justice is supposed to be meted out equally, no matter how much money you have or what age you are or what your race or gender or ethnicity is, shouldn’t public defenders be just as smart and aggressive and creative as any attorney for hire?
So I flatten my hands on the table. “You know, Warden, I don’t play golf. But I do wear a bra. You know who else does? My friend Harriet Strong, who’s a staff attorney for the ACLU. We went to law school together, and we try to have lunch once a month. I think she’d be fascinated to hear about this meeting, considering Connecticut prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity, and given that only female lawyers or those lawyers identifying as female would even be wearing bras when visiting clients in this facility. Which means that your policy is infringing on attorneys’ rights and is preventing us from providing counsel. I’m also pretty sure Harriet would love to talk to the Women’s Bar Association of Connecticut to see how many other female lawyers have complained. In other words, this falls smack into the category of You are f*cked if this gets out in the press. So the next time I come to see a client, I am going to take my thirty-four C Le Mystère demi-cup with me, and—pardon the metaphor—I am going to assume there will not be any fallout. Would I be assuming correctly?”
The warden’s mouth tightens. “I’m confident we can revisit the underwire ban.”
“Good,” I say, gathering my briefcase. “Thanks for your time, but I have to get to court.”
I sail out of the little room, Arthur at my heels. As soon as we are outside the prison, in the blinding sunlight, he grins. “Remind me not to wind up opposite you in court.”
I shake my head. “Do you really play golf?”
“I do when it means sucking up to a judge,” he says. “Are you really a thirty-four C?”
“You’ll never know, Arthur,” I laugh, and we head to our separate cars in the parking lot, off to minister to two very different worlds.
—
MY HUSBAND AND I do not sext. Instead our phone conversations consist of a roll call of nationalities: Vietnamese. Ethiopian. Mexican. Greek. As in “Where should we get takeout from tonight?” But when I get out of my meeting at the jail, there is a message waiting for me from Micah: Sorry I was an * this morning.
I grin, and text him back. No wonder our kid curses.
Date 2nite? Micah writes.
My thumbs fly over my phone. U had me at *, I type. Indian?
I vindalook forward to it, Micah responds.
See, this is why I can’t ever stay mad at him.
—
MY MOTHER, WHO grew up in North Carolina on the debutante circuit, believes there is nothing a little cuticle softener and eye cream can’t fix. To this end, she is always trying to get me to take care of myself, which is code for try to make an effort to look nice, which is completely ridiculous, given that I have a small child and about a hundred needy clients at any given moment, all of whom deserve my time more than the hairdresser who could put highlights in my hair.