INDEFENSIBLE: One Lawyer's Journey Into the Inferno of American Justice (21 page)

      
Emma, though, was different. In the six or seven years that I was involved in hiring public defenders, she did one of the best interviews I’ve ever seen. In a room full of grizzled public defenders firing skeptical, even derisive questions at her, Emma was astonishingly poised, tempered, and articulate as we took her to task for not doing more pro bono work, grilled her about her commitment to clients, and even suggested that she was a sellout for having worked at the firm at all. Through it all, she was utterly composed, her long, elegant fingers gesturing gently, her stylish but understated suit suggesting competence without asserting privilege. She left convinced we hated her. In fact we loved her. We figured that if she could take what we had just dished out she’d have no trouble at all dealing with angry clients and intemperate judges.

      
I glance up at Emma. “I gotta grab some lunch --can we do this tonight or tomorrow?” I ask her.

      
“Oh, sure,” she says, turning gently toward her cubicle, lighter on her feet than physics should have dictated. “It’s no big deal.”

      
Jason follows her out.

      
“Thanks, Feige,” he says.

      
Grabbing my keys from the desktop, just in case we’re driving, I head back around the corner to pick up Robin. Together, we trot through our library / lunchroom, toward the reception area.

      
“Alvin’s on the phone,” Lorraine calls after me, with a smile that says she understands. Waving my hands like a football ref calling an incomplete pass, I shake my head.

      
“Sorry, sweetie,” I hear her say as I push through the door. “He’s at lunch, but you can call him again later.”

      
Aboard Robin’s well-worn Volvo, we head for the gas station, just a few blocks from a halal slaughterhouse advertising live animals and bearing a bright sign with the memorable slogan “We roast goats.” We park past the pumps and walk in --the cooler and food counter are on the left; wiper fluid, oil, and candy on the right.

      
Unlike Jason and Emma, who always seem perfectly put together, I am a mess. My suit is already rumpled from the morning’s sprinting around, my tie is a bit askew, and my hair could use a trim. I have, as we sometimes joke, the appearance of impropriety.

      
Unfortunately, in our world of quick decisions, appearances can often become reality --a sweet kid decked out in a bloodred do-rag can find himself in jail for looking like a menace, while a badass con man in a creaseless suit can strut out the front door. Though I initially resisted this idea (for years I sported a long mane of unkempt hair and wore the same pajamalike suit nearly every day), I have reluctantly come to accept it.

      
“You know,” a client will sometimes say when I’m in a particularly nice suit or have just made a particularly strong argument, “you could be a private lawyer.” They always say this in a conspiratorial fashion, as if they want to share a really important secret just with me. At first I’d get offended when they’d say it, as if their limited ambitions for me were dismissive, but over the years I’ve come to see the remark as the compliment it is. Their lives are filled with angry caseworkers, suspicious child welfare agents, distrustful probation officers, and, occasionally, uncaring public defenders. When someone breaks that mold, whether it be at probation, welfare, or the criminal courthouse, the natural reaction is “You’re so good --why are you here helping me?”

      
“But I like you,” I’ll say.

      
“Yeah, but you could be making money, brother.”

      
“But I like you --and I want to be your lawyer.”

      
This almost always provokes a perplexed but somehow satisfied silence.

- - - -
 

      
It’s a few minutes before 2:00 when we get back from the gas station. In the Bronx, most courts don’t get going in the afternoon until 2:15 or 2:30, so I have some breathing room. Back in my office, I settle into my chair to bang out another lunchtime project: a quick letter to Fred, an old client who is incarcerated in Arizona.

      
Generally, I’m not much for inmate correspondence. Given how much time inmates have on their hands and how little I’ve got, writing is usually a losing proposition for me. Anyone who is incarcerated has extraordinary needs that can be a full-time job to fulfill, and short of trying, the nicest thing I can do is send a thirty-dollar money order here and there to help with commissary.

      
Before starting on the letter, I call the judge back. “Yes,” I say, “I’ll take the finger-fucking case.” Next, I buzz Emma on the intercom and answer her question, and in the succeeding ten minutes I manage four more “yes everything is fine with your case” calls before banging out a quick ten-line “hope you’re well” letter to Fred. It’s almost 2:20 as I wearily grab my suit jacket and head back to criminal court.

      
Weaving my way out of the office, I dart through the alcove that passes as our library --mostly several long shelves of annotated New York State statutes, set off against titles like
Practical Homicide Investigation, Criminal Interrogation and Confessions,
and
Forensic Evidence: Science and the Criminal Law
. There’s hip-hop coming from one of the rooms where the Bronx Defenders runs programs for neighborhood kids, and over the din I can hear one of the participants taking another to task. “Yo, that argument is totally wrong --you need to work on your facts, B.”

      
Just across the hall from the kids is the trial suit closet --the site of one of my most memorable breakdowns. Nearly everyone I’ve ever worked with has been reduced to tears by the job at some point or another. I’m no exception.

      
I am not quite sure how I wound up in the trial suit closet. I remember storming out of Robin’s office. I remember heading for the door. I also remember thinking that no matter how pissed off I was, I couldn’t really leave my boss and friend alone in the South Bronx at 2:00 a.m.

      
The closet was small, filled with musty suits, worn shoes that no longer fit, and boxes of blouses. Most of the clothes, all of which are donated by staff and friends, had been hanging there for months or years. They were “trial suits” --shirts and shoes waiting to dress up a poor person about to face trial.

      
Climbing in, feeling the womblike comfort of the small space, I pulled my knees up to my chin, wrapped my arms around my shins, and put my head down to muffle the sobs.
There has got to be a better way
, I thought to myself over and over, rocking gently back and forth in the cramped alcove. “I can’t do this another day,” I muttered to my thighs, glancing up at a decade of donated suits, several of which bore witness to my own ever-expanding girth.

- - - -
 

      
It takes a strange mix of isolation and immersion for me to get over those moments when I actually want to hang it up. Part of me wants to climb into bed and never come out, and often, after a really rough few days, I’ll do that --just pull the covers over my head and vow to change my life. I’ll promise to never go back to those hellish courtrooms, never again risk as much, never again get kicked around by insulting, idiotic judges. But after a day or two, or sometimes just a night of heavy drinking, the faces and the voices of the clients I love start filtering back --Alvin’s endless neediness; Cassandra’s empty, expressionless face; Clarence’s constant cockamamy theories; and Gary’s never-ending bewilderment at being arrested yet again. Besides, every once and again, I do make a difference --sometimes by fighting harder, occasionally by thinking better, but usually just by showing up and being willing to care. Often, at least for my clients, that’s more than they expect and all it takes. Do they need me? They do. Do I need them? I suppose I do too.

      
Of course, the trial suit closet isn’t meant to shelter shattered public defenders; it exists to clothe clients who can’t afford, or simply don’t have, decent court clothing. Left to their own devices, many of my clients will show up for trial in the same jailhouse do-rag they’ve been sporting for months. Many of them don’t have family to take care of them, and the few clothing items they own have been winnowed by jail regulations or frayed by constant wear. Even for those who have nice clothing, for some reason it doesn’t occur to many of them that looking good might make a difference. They seem to forget that a jury is about to inspect every inch of them, studying their every move for some hint of guilt or innocence. The closet addresses this information gap, making them just that little bit more presentable during the week in which their lives are on the line.

      
When the closet is bare we generally reserve the clothes for trial situations, but when it’s full --as it has been for a while --it’s a free-for-all.

      
Several months ago I got a call from Luther. I’ve represented Luther for years --ever since he was arrested for carrying a loaded handgun. He called, as he often does, without warning. “Hi, Dad,” he said, with his mischievous lilt, “I gotta come see you.”

      
“I’m running out, Lu, I gotta get to court. What do you need?” “What time you back?” Luther asked.

      
“Six,” I said, hanging up.

      
When Luther actually showed up at 6:00, I knew something was up.

      
Though articulate and extremely smart, Luther, like a lot of my clients, has a self-destructive streak. Making appointments is tough, and staying in touch in between appointments almost unheard of. When absent, Luther is usually doing something pretty good --like going to school or looking for work --but whenever anything seems to go too smoothly, or expectations are raised even slightly, Luther will find a way to disappoint.

      
At ten after six, sitting on a couch in my office, he let it fly: “I need a suit, Dad,” he said.

      
A suit? Luther is usually dressed nicely, and he doesn’t have the ghetto obsession with shiny white sneakers that swallows most of my other clients’ minimal disposable income. But still . . . a suit? I was trying to imagine what he might need it for.

      
“That’s great, Lu, but, uh, how come? You got a date or something?”

      
Luther just grinned: “A job, Dad, a job,” he said. “And a sweet one too. Victoria’s Secret.”

      
“Oy.”

      
Luther loves women, and they, almost invariably, love him, and the thought of him set free to ogle and coo to his heart’s content in a store full of women browsing for high-end lingerie was almost comical. I couldn’t imagine he’d make it through the first day without sidling up behind a shopper to say something approving but a bit too provocative. But, hey, Luther had a face-to-face interview, and the job required a suit.

      
“Okay, buddy, let’s get moving,” I said, heading toward the trial suit closet.

      
A nice blazer from Saks was too tight in the shoulders; a dark-blue suit was way too short. The camel-colored three-piece was rejected for its color --Victoria’s Secret had been very clear, a black suit, or if not black, then very dark. Colleagues drifted out of their offices, offering their help.

      
By the time we were pawing through the big basket for a pair of shoes, I thought we were set --with a nice navy suit and a bright-red tie.

      
“So, was this yours?” Luther asked.

      
“No, buddy, I’m not sure who this one came from,” I told him.

      
“Well, let’s see your stuff, Dad.”

      
“It won’t fit you, Lu. Let’s go with what we’ve got here.”