Small Great Things

  She smiles at me. I try to read into it. You are a woman too, I think, hoping for telepathy. You are Asian American. You've been in my seat metaphorically, if not literally.

  "Can I get you some water, Mrs. Jefferson?" asks Detective Leong.

  "That would be nice," I say.

  While she goes to get me water, Detective MacDougall explains to me that I don't have to talk to them, but if I do, what I say might be used against me in court. Then again, he points out, if I have nothing to hide, maybe I'd like to give them my side of the story.

  "Yes," I say, although I have watched enough cop shows to know that I am supposed to shut up. But that is fiction; this is real life. I didn't do anything illegal. And if I don't explain, how will anyone ever know that? If I don't explain, doesn't that just make me look like I'm guilty?

  He asks if it's all right to turn on the tape recorder.

  "Of course," I say. "And thank you. Thank you so much for being willing to hear me out. This is all a very big misunderstanding, I'm afraid."

  By now Detective Leong is back. She hands me the water and I drink it all, a full eight-ounce glass. I did not know until I started how thirsty I was.

  "Be that as it may, Ms. Jefferson," says MacDougall, "we have some pretty strong evidence to contradict what you're saying. You don't deny that you were present when Davis Bauer died?"

  "No," I reply. "I was there. It was awful."

  "What were you doing at the time?"

  "I was part of the crash team. The baby became very ill, very fast. We did the best we could."

  "Yet I just finished looking at photos from the medical examiner that suggest the child was physically abused--"

  "Well, there you are," I blurt out. "I didn't touch that baby."

  "You just said you were part of the crash team," MacDougall points out.

  "But I didn't touch the baby until he started to code."

  "At which point you started hammering on the baby's chest--"

  My face flushes with heat. "What? No. I was doing CPR--"

  "A bit too enthusiastically, according to eyewitnesses," the detective adds.

  Who? I think, running through my brain to list all the people who were there with me. Who would have seen what I was doing and not recognized it for what it was: emergency medical care?

  "Mrs. Jefferson," Detective Leong asks, "did you have any discussions with anyone in the hospital about your feelings for this baby and his family?"

  "No. I was taken off the case, and that was that."

  MacDougall narrows his eyes. "You didn't have a problem with Turk Bauer?"

  I force myself to take a deep breath. "We didn't see eye to eye."

  "Do you feel that way about all white people?"

  "Some of my best friends are white." I meet his gaze squarely.

  MacDougall stares at me for so long I can see his pupils shrink. I know he is waiting to see if I'll turn away first. Instead, I notch up my chin.

  He pushes back from the table and stands up. "I have to make a call," he says, and he walks out of the room.

  I take this as a victory, too.

  Detective Leong sits on the edge of the table. Her badge is at her hip; it's shiny, like a new toy. "You must be so tired," she says, and I can hear in her voice the same game I was trying to play with the young cop in the holding cell.

  "Nurses get used to working on very little sleep," I say evenly.

  "And you've been a nurse for a while, right?"

  "Twenty years."

  She laughs. "God, I've been on the job for nine months. I can't imagine doing anything for that long. I guess it's not work if you love it, right?"

  I nod, still wary. But if I have any chance of making these detectives understand that I'm being railroaded, it's going to be with her. "That's true. And I love what I do."

  "You must have felt awful when you were told by your supervisor you couldn't take care of that baby anymore," she says. "Especially given your level of expertise."

  "It wasn't the best day I've ever had, no."

  "My first day on the job? I totaled a police car. Drove it into a highway barrier at a construction site. Seriously. I scored highest on the detective exam, but in the field, I was a joke. The other guys in my class still call me Crash. I mean, let's be honest, a female detective has to work twice as hard as the guys, but the only thing they remember me for is a simple mistake. I was so upset. I still am."

  I look at her, the truth balanced on my tongue like a hard candy. I wasn't supposed to touch the baby. But I did, even though I could have gotten in trouble. And it still wasn't enough.

  "Look, Ruth," the detective adds, "if this was an accident, now would be the time to say so. Maybe the hurt you were feeling got the best of you. It would be totally understandable, given the circumstances. Just tell me, and I'll do what I can to make this go down easier."

  That is when I realize that she still thinks I'm at fault.

  That she's not being nice to me by sharing her own story. She's being manipulative.

  That those TV shows are right.

  I swallow hard, so that honesty sits in the pit of my belly. Instead, I speak four short words in a voice I do not recognize. "I want a lawyer," I say.

  The piano keys are black and white but they sound like a million colors in your mind.

  --MARIA CRISTINA MENA

  WHEN I ARRIVE AT THE office, Ed Gourakis--one of my colleagues--is spouting off about the new hire. One of our junior public defenders left to have a baby and informed HR that she wasn't returning. I knew that Harry, our boss, had been interviewing, but it isn't until Ed corners me at my cubicle that I realize a decision's been made.

  "Did you meet him yet?" Ed asks.

  "Meet who?"

  "Howard. The newbie."

  Ed is the kind of guy who went into public defense because he could. In other words--he has a trust fund so large it doesn't matter how shitty our salaries are. And yet, in spite of the fact that he's grown up with every privilege possible, nothing is ever quite good enough. The Starbucks across the street serves coffee that's too hot. There was an accident on I-95N that made him twenty minutes late. The vending machine at the courthouse stopped carrying Skittles.

  "I literally walked in here four seconds ago. How could I have a chance to meet anyone?"

  "Well, he's clearly here to meet a diversity target. Just look for the puddles on the floor. This guy is so wet behind the ears he's leaving a trail."

  "First, that metaphor didn't work. No one drips from their ears. Second, so what if he's young? I realize that it's hard for someone of your advanced age to remember...but you were young once too."

  "There were," Ed says, lowering his voice, "more deserving candidates."

  I rummage through the piles on my desk for the files I need. There is a stack of pink phone messages waiting for me that I patently ignore. "Sorry to hear your nephew wasn't picked," I murmur.

  "Very funny, McQuarrie."

  "Look, Ed, I've got a job to do. I don't have time for office gossip." I lean toward my screen and pretend to be incredibly absorbed by my first email, which happens to be a solicitation from Nordstrom Rack.

  Eventually Ed realizes I'm not going to engage with him anymore, and he stomps into the break room, where, no doubt, the coffee will not be up to par and we will be out of his favorite flavor of creamer. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair.

  Suddenly I hear a rustle on the other side of my cubicle and a tall, slim young black man stands up. He is wearing a cheap suit with a bow tie, and hipster glasses. He is very clearly the new hire for this office, and he has been sitting there, all along, listening to Ed's comments.

  "Hashtag awkward," he says. "I'm Howard, in case there's any doubt in your mind."

  I stretch my face so far into a smile that I imagine the puppets Violet watches on Sesame Street, whose jaws can drop on a hinge when they are overcome by emotion. "Howard," I repeat, jumping to my feet and immediately offering my hand to shake. "I'
m Kennedy. It's really nice to meet you."

  "Kennedy," he says. "Like John F.?"

  I get asked that all the time. "Or Robert!" I say, although Howard was actually right. I might prefer to be named for the politician who did so much for civil rights, but in reality, my mother just had a crush on his ill-fated brother and the Camelot mythology.

  I will do whatever it takes to make this poor kid realize that at least one person in this office is glad he's here. "So. Welcome!" I say brightly. "If you need anything, have any questions about the way we do things here--feel free to ask me."

  "Great. Thanks."

  "And maybe we can grab lunch?"

  Howard nods. "I'd like that."

  "Well. I have to get to court." I hesitate, and then address the elephant in the room. "Also, don't listen to Ed. Not everyone around here thinks the way he does." I smile at him. "For example, I think it's pretty amazing that you're giving back to your community."

  Howard smiles back at me. "Thanks, but...I grew up in Darien."

  Darien. One of the wealthiest towns in the state.

  Then he sits down, invisible behind the partition that's between us.

  --

  I HAVEN'T EVEN had my second cup of coffee yet and I've already hustled through far too much traffic and a tangle of reporters, leaving me to wonder what is going on in superior court in the courtroom where I'm not, since the only reason a TV crew might cover arraignments is to provide a sleep aid for insomniacs. So far we have gotten through three cases: a criminal violation of a restraining order with a defendant who did not speak English; a repeat offender with bleached hair and bags under her eyes who allegedly issued a bad check for twelve hundred dollars to buy a designer purse; and a man who was dumb enough to not just steal someone's identity and start using the credit cards and bank account but actually pick someone named Cathy and not think he was going to be caught.

  Then again, as I often tell myself, if my clients were all smarter, my job would be obsolete.

  The way it works in New Haven Superior Court on arraignment day is that one of us from the PD's office stands in for anyone who is brought before a judge and doesn't have a lawyer but needs one. It's like being trapped in a rotating door, and every time you step into the building, there's a whole new decor and layout and you're expected to know where you're headed and how to navigate there. Most of the time I meet my new clients at the defense table, at which point I have the span of a heartbeat to assimilate the facts of their arrest and try to get them out on bail.

  Did I mention I hate arraignment day? It basically requires me to be Perry Mason with ESP, and even if I do a stellar job and manage to get personal recognizance bail for a defendant who otherwise would be locked up pending trial, chances are pretty good that I will not be the attorney litigating his case. The juicy ones that I'd want to take to trial will either be plucked out of my grasp by someone with more seniority at the office or transfer to a private (read: paid) lawyer.

  That is surely going to be the trajectory for the next defendant.

  "Next: the State versus Joseph Dawes Hawkins the Third," the clerk reads.

  Joseph Dawes Hawkins is still so young that he has acne. He looks absolutely terrified, which is what a night in a jail will do to you when your experience with criminal behavior is limited to binge-watching The Wire. "Mr. Hawkins," the judge asks, "will you please identify yourself for the record?"

  "Um. Joe Hawkins," the boy replies. His voice cracks.

  "Where do you live?"

  "One thirty-nine Grand Street, Westville."

  The clerk reads the charge: drug trafficking.

  I'm going to guess, based on the kid's expensive haircut and his wide-eyed response to the legal system, he was pushing something like Oxy, not meth or heroin. The judge enters an automatic plea of not guilty. "Joe, you've been charged with drug trafficking. Do you understand what that charge means?" The boy nods. "Do you have counsel present today?"

  He glances over his shoulder at the gallery, goes a little paler, and then says, "No."

  "Would you like to speak to the public defender?"

  "Yeah, Your Honor," he says, and that's my cue.

  Privacy is limited to the so-called cone of silence at the defense table. "I'm Kennedy McQuarrie," I say. "How old are you?"

  "Eighteen. I'm a senior at Hopkins."

  The private school. Of course he is. "How long have you lived in Connecticut?"

  "Since I was two?"

  "Is that a question or an answer?" I ask.

  "Answer," he says, and he swallows. His Adam's apple is the size of a monkey's fist knot, which makes me think of sailing, which makes me think of Violet swearing.

  "Are you working?"

  He hesitates. "You mean besides selling the Oxy?"

  "I didn't hear that," I reply immediately.

  "Oh, I said--"

  "I didn't hear that."

  He glances up, nods. "Got it. No. No, I don't work."

  "Who do you live with?"

  "My parents."

  I am ticking off a checklist in my mind, peppering him with a barrage of questions. "Do your parents have the means to hire an attorney?" I ask finally.

  He glances at my suit, which is from Target, and which has a stain on it from the milk that Violet upended in her cereal bowl this morning. "Yeah."

  "Shut up and let me do the talking," I coach, and I turn to the bench. "Your Honor," I say, "young Joseph here is only just eighteen and this is his first offense. He's a senior in high school who lives with his mom and dad--a nursery school teacher and a bank president. His parents own their own home. We ask for Joseph to be released on his own recognizance."

  The judge turns to my counterpart in this dance, the prosecutor who stands at the mirror image of the defense table. Her name is Odette Lawton, and she is about as jolly as the death penalty. Where most prosecutors and public defenders recognize that we are flip sides of the same shitty-state-pay-grade coin and can leave the animosity in the courtroom and socialize outside it, Odette keeps to herself. "What is the State looking for, Counselor?"

  She glances up. Her hair is cropped close to her head and her eyes are so dark you can't see the pupils. She looks like she is well rested and has just had a facial; her makeup is flawless.

  I stare down at my hands. The cuticles are bitten and either I have green finger paint underneath the nails or I am rotting from the inside out.

  "This is a serious charge," Odette says. "Not only was a prescription narcotic found on Mr. Hawkins's person, but there was intent to sell. To turn him loose into the community would be a threat and a grievous mistake. The State requests that bail be set at ten thousand dollars with surety."

  "Bail is set at ten thousand dollars," the judge repeats, and Joseph Dawes Hawkins III is lugged out of the courtroom by a bailiff.

  Well, you can't win 'em all. The good news here is that Joseph's family can afford the bail--even if it means he will have to forfeit Christmas in Barbados. The better news is that I will never see Joseph Dawes Hawkins III again. His father may have wanted to teach him a lesson by not having the family attorney present from the get-go so Joey would have to sit in a cell overnight, but I'm sure it is only a matter of time before that same fancy lawyer calls my office and picks up Joey's case.

  "The State versus Ruth Jefferson," I hear.

  I glance up as a woman is led into the courtroom in chains, still wearing her nightgown, a scarf wrapped around her head. Her eyes scan the gallery wildly, and for the first time I realize that it's more crowded than usual for Tuesday arraignments. Packed, even.

  "Would you please identify yourself for the record?" the judge asks.

  "Ruth Jefferson," she says.

  "Murderer," a woman screams. There is a buzz in the crowd that swells into a roar. Just then Ruth flinches. I see her turn her face into her shoulder and I realize that she is wiping off the saliva that someone has spit on her from over the gallery rail.

  The bailiffs are already
hauling the guy off--a hulking brute I can see only from the rear. On his scalp is a tattooed swastika, twined with letters.

  The judge calls for order. Ruth Jefferson stands tall and keeps looking around for someone--or something--that she can't seem to find.

  "Ruth Jefferson," the clerk reads, "you are charged with count one, murder; count two, negligent homicide."

  I am so busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on here that I do not realize everyone is looking at me, and that this defendant has apparently told the judge that she needs a public defender.

  Odette stands up. "This is a heinous criminal act involving a three-day-old infant, Your Honor. The defendant voiced her animosity and animus toward the parents of this child, and the State will show that she acted intentionally and deliberately, with malice aforethought, in reckless disregard of the newborn's safety, and that in fact at her hands the baby suffered trauma that led to death."

  This woman killed a newborn? I'm running through scenarios in my head: Is she a nanny? Is this a shaken baby case? A SIDS death?

  "This is crazy," Ruth Jefferson explodes.

  I elbow her gently. "This is not the time."

  "Let me talk to the judge," she insists.

  "No," I tell her. "Let me talk to the judge for you." I turn to the bench. "Your Honor, may we have a moment?"

  I lead her to the defense table, just a few steps from where we are standing. "I'm Kennedy McQuarrie. We'll talk about the details of your case later, but right now, I need to ask you some questions. How long have you lived here?"

  "They put me in chains," she says, her voice dark and fierce. "These people came to my house in the middle of the night and handcuffed me. They handcuffed my son--"

  "I understand that you're upset," I explain. "But we have about ten seconds for me to get to know you, so I can help you through this arraignment."

  "You think you can know me in ten seconds?" she says.

  I draw back. If this woman wants to sabotage her own arraignment it's not my fault.

  "Ms. McQuarrie," the judge says. "Sometime before I get my AARP card, please..."

  "Yes, Your Honor," I say, turning to him.

  "The State recognizes the insidious and unpalatable nature of this crime," Odette says. She is staring right at Ruth. The dichotomy between these two black women is arresting: the prosecutor's sleek suit and spike heels and crisp tailored shirt standing in counterpoint to Ruth's rumpled nightgown and head scarf. It feels like more than a snapshot. It feels like a statement, like a case study for a course I don't remember enrolling in. "Given the magnitude of the charges, the State requests that the defendant be held without bail."