Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

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 décor 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.