Five Uneasy Pieces

“I gots to stay,” she said. “I’m her mother.”

“Tina is my client. I have to discuss the case with her alone.”

“But I’m her mother,” she said.

I suppressed a sigh. In juvenile cases, it’s never easy to explain to parents the need for complete attorney-client confidentiality. From the moment I saw her, I knew Shanae Jackson would be no exception.

“I have an ethical duty to keep client confidences,” I said. “Things Tina and I say in front of you are no longer confidential.”

“But I’m her mother.” She stressed the last word, as if I hadn’t heard it the first two times. Shooting a withering look at Tina, she slapped the girl’s arm. “Put that book down, child!” With a grimace, Tina closed the book and set it on her lap.

“In the eyes of the law, you’re another person. I have to ask you to leave.”

“I’ll find another lawyer,” she said, her eyes filled with accusations of my shortcomings.

“You can ask the Public Defender for the name of another lawyer who’ll do this for a reduced fee, but whoever you get will tell you the same thing.”

Still glaring at me, Shanae kept silent. If she thought that look would force me to change my mind, the woman knew nothing about me. Or maybe she resented the fact that, while she was too well-off to get a public defender, one glance at my dinky sublet office and she could see I was no Gloria Allred. I was just another scrambling solo who took work from the public defender’s short list of private attorneys willing to represent defendants on the financial borderline.

“White people,” she said, for no apparent reason.

I didn’t know if she was smitten with her own voice or blamed white people for her lot in life, the rules of professional conduct or the price of gas. Maybe she was disappointed at my color. For the pittance I stood to earn from this case, I was ready to tell her to find a black attorney.

I considered telling her about my childhood in the Bed-Stuy section of Brooklyn or pointing to the wall behind her at my father’s photo of Jackie Robinson entering the Dodgers clubhouse through the door marked “KEEP OUT.” Not so much to impress her, but to clue her in that she didn’t know jack shit about me.

She grumbled, “This is bullshit.”

I yanked open the bottom drawer of my old wooden desk and hauled out my Yellow Pages, dropping it, with an intentional thud, in front of her. “Here you go,” I said, flipping to the attorney listings. “Call anyone. And be prepared to pay dearly for what they have to say.”

She pursed her lips and continued to give me the evil eye. But she knew I had her. “Fine,” she said. Grabbing the large black purse she’d parked next to her, she shot to her feet as if the chair were on fire. “I need to do some shopping,” she announced.

I nodded and smiled, like I gave a damn where she was going or what she intended to do. “This shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

“Hmmph.” She turned toward Tina. In a stern voice, she said, “You behave. And answer Ms. McRae’s questions, you hear me?” Over her shoulder on her way out, she tossed the words, “I’ll be back.”

Goody, I thought. Tina’s sullen expression suggested our thoughts were identical.

Sinking into the chair like a deflating balloon, Tina’s elbows jutted over the armrests as she crossed her arms. Her blue-jeaned legs waggled, signaling boredom. I could see the outline of rail-thin arms and bony shoulders under the loose-fitting pink sweatshirt that swallowed her frame. She must have taken after her father. Her chubby-cheeked face and café au lait complexion were nothing like her mother’s. Her hair was tied in a ponytail with a pink sequined scrunchie.

“Tina, it says here you knocked an elderly woman down while trying to snatc

h her purse. Is that right?”

She shrugged. “Yeah.” Her look said, “What about it?”

“Based on what I have, this looks like your first offense. What brought this on?”

She shrugged again. “I just tried to jack her purse,” she said, revealing a crooked overbite. “She wouldn’t let go.”

“Why did you do it?”

She rolled her eyes. At least her repertoire included more than shrugging. “Why you think?” she said, in a tone that suggested I might be missing a few brain cells.

“I could assume lots of things, but I’m asking you.”

Again, she shrugged. “Money, I guess.”

“You guess?”