“I believe you,” I say.
As I sit with Philip, I realize a sad, enraging fact.
The police had a crime to solve. They didn’t have a criminal, so they created one.
Does it happen all the time? No.
But it happens.
I deliver my evidence to the lawyer in our office.
“You found the discrepancy,” he says. “You’re a miracle worker.”
“It wasn’t a miracle,” I say. “Time and effort.”
Our lawyer presents the evidence. The prosecutor dismisses the charges.
The police officers don’t get suspended, disciplined, slapped on the wrist.
They go back on the job.
As if nothing happened.
* * *
—
Three months before orientation, but it feels as if law school were a day away, looming, bearing down on me. For my mental health, I probably should take a day off here, a long weekend there, but I don’t. Law school will cost more than undergrad, so I increase my hours at work. With a push and letters of recommendation from MiAngel and Carol, I’ve also applied for the prestigious Chicago Bar Foundation Abraham Lincoln Marovitz Public Interest Law Scholarship, awarded yearly to one incoming Chicago-area law student who is committed to helping vulnerable people with their legal needs. A long shot, I admit, but why not go for it? Let somebody else tell you no.
One day, I’m walking into work when the receptionist at the front desk stops me.
“You got a message from Judge Williams. She wants you to go over to her chambers.”
“Really? When?”
“Now.”
I almost say, “Judge Ann Claire Williams, one of the most prominent judges in the country, the first African American to serve on the Seventh Circuit, wants to see me? Why?” I hold my tongue, backpedal, head out the door, and walk to the courthouse. On the way, I try not to speculate why Judge Williams has asked for me. I’ll find out soon enough. One thing I’ve been working on in therapy—try to obsess less. But I do recall that the last time I got a note telling me to meet somebody at a government building, I ended up in prison for ten years. Thinking about that triggers a sense memory and my nerves kick in. As I walk into the courthouse, my hands start shaking.
The judge’s assistant, Deborah, escorts me to Judge Williams’s chambers the instant I arrive. I walk in and a stylishly dressed, striking woman with short-cropped hair stands at her desk and moves toward me.
“Mr. Adams.”
“Judge Williams,” I say, “I’m honored to meet you.”
“Well, I’m honored to meet you.”
She beams a wide smile.
“Thank you,” I say, and then I blurt, “Why?”
She roars. “The Marovitz Scholarship. I’m on the three-person selection committee.”
I nod. I have a feeling that her vote carries a lot of weight.
“So, I drew the first third of the alphabet. Yours was the first application I read.”
“Right. Adams,” I say.
“I read your application and that was it. I said, ‘Okay, I’m done. I’ve made my decision.’ Everyone else agreed.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I start to laugh. “I’m kind of speechless. Thank you.”
“You deserve it. Now, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“Would you be willing to tell your story at a few events in the city?”
“Of course.”
“I helped start this organization, the Just the Beginning Foundation. We try to get kids of color from low-income neighborhoods interested in the law. I’m thinking that you could be sort of an ambassador.”
“I’d be honored.”
We talk for a while about how that would work. Judge Williams mentions another organization that she started twenty years ago to help law students of color pass the bar, Minority Legal Education Resources.
“I can have you speak to them, too,” she says. “A few folks at a time. I just want people to meet you and hear your story.”
It all sounds unreal, incredible, a golden opportunity. I say all this to Judge Williams, and after I leave, I mentally replay my meeting with her; then I do it again and again. I keep hitting rewind in my mind.
“Did that really happen?” I take a walk around the block before I can come back to earth and return to the office.
Only after I sit at my desk and start plowing into a paper mountain of police reports do I answer that question.
“Yes. It really did happen.”
* * *
—
Judge Williams invites me to attend an event at the law offices of Perkins Coie, a major downtown law firm. She introduces me and then, to my shock, asks me to say a few words. I’m thrown off for a second, but I don’t think it shows. After my brief speech, I’m standing off to the side, surveying the room, sipping a soda, when I see—this woman.
She’s around my age, impeccably dressed, curvaceous. I look at her and I swear she’s bathed in light. Then she faces me and smiles, and my knees buckle. I feel as if I have to hold on to something or I will fall over. It’s as if I black out for a second. She’s not just beautiful; she’s beyond that. She’s celestial. And I believe, ridiculous as this sounds, that she is—the one. In the two seconds she looks at me, not even at me, in my direction, this thought—this certainty—crackles through my mind like a lightning bolt.
I don’t know if she heard me speak, if my speech made any impact on her whatsoever, but I know this. I have to go over to her. I have to meet her. I clear my throat and walk toward her, tentatively. It takes only a few seconds to cross the room, but it feels as if time has stopped. And then I’m next to her. I start to introduce myself, but I first look at her hand.
No ring.
She’s not married.
Yes, I say, hopefully to myself.
“I’m Jarrett.”
“I know. That was a good speech.”
“Thank you, I—”
She turns away, engages with somebody else.
“Adams,” I say, making sure she can hear. “Jarrett Adams.”
“Joi Thomas,” she says, turning back to me.
“Nice to meet you, Joi.”
She turns away again.
I understand. I get it. She’s a lawyer here, and I haven’t even started law school. Out of my league, right?
No way. I’ll see you again, Joi. I can promise you that.
That’s what I say to myself as she exits the room, without giving me a second look, her back to me, gone, the light extinguished.
For now.
A few weeks later, the Just the Beginning Foundation holds its annual fundraiser and gala in the Marriott hotel ballroom, downtown. Eight hundred people will attend, a gathering of lawyers, judges, and politicians from all over the country. I’m flattered and only slightly intimidated when Judge Williams asks me to speak on behalf of several scholarship recipients.
“You’re ready for this,” she says.
“I am,” I say, thinking, thank God for that speech class at South Suburban and Judge Williams putting me in front of at least a dozen groups before this, rehearsals for tonight.
“Joi Thomas will be the emcee,” Judge Williams says. “I believe you met her at Perkins Coie. She’ll call you about the speaking order.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “Great. Terrific. Nice.”
Judge Williams tilts her head, narrows her eyes. “You all right?”
“No, no, yeah.”
A few days later, Joi calls. I pace in my apartment, pressing my cell phone against my ear, changing ears constantly because I’m sweating. I wonder if she feels the same connection, the same chemistry. We talk for about a minute, and I realize she has absolutely no idea who I a
m. She doesn’t remember meeting me, she doesn’t know anything about me, and she’s not thrilled that Judge Williams has invited me to speak.
“You’re a law student?” she says.
“Yes, I’m starting at Loyola in a couple of weeks.”
“You’re a first-year law student?”
“Well, I mean, yeah.”
“You realize what this event is?”
“I know it’s sort of a big deal—”
“Sort of? Every major federal and state judge of color in the nation will be there. You’ll be speaking in front of eight hundred people. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“Definitely. I got this.”
My confidence silences her.
“Okay. Well. Good.”
“You know, we’ve met before.”
“We have?”
“At Perkins Coie. I spoke—”
“Oh, that’s my other line. Sorry. I have to take this.”
Click.
She’s gone.
* * *
—
At the gala, I find myself seated at a round table next to Johney and Yvette, a married couple from Detroit, guests of their daughter. At first, I doubt I’ll have much to say to them, but within minutes we’re talking, joking, laughing, gossiping as if we were seated at our own private table of four.
During the programs, I keep an eye on Joi, who seems to be both emcee and producer. She introduces some of the speakers, but sometimes she disappears. I assume she’s running around backstage, putting out fires, making sure the evening stays on track. At a certain point, with Joi nowhere around, someone introduces me to speak. I excuse myself from my new friends at the table and make my way to the dais, my eyes searching for Joi while at the same time feeling all eyes on me. “Who is this young man?” I hear somebody say, and then I begin speaking.
In the next three minutes, my limit, I tell my story and reveal my goals, to become a lawyer and mentor Black youth, helping them become part of the legal field.
I finish speaking, and the ballroom goes silent. For a second, I wonder if my microphone cut out and nobody heard a word I said. And then applause erupts, cascading toward me, people cheer, and everyone in the room, all eight hundred people, rise to their feet. I bow my head slightly, press my fist to my chest, thanking them from my heart, and then I weave my way through the guests who are still standing and applauding, until I arrive at my table, where my new friends hug me, clasping me in their arms, their words commingled with the applause.
“That was so moving, so inspirational,” Johney says. “You have to stick around afterward. We want you to meet my daughter.”
No, thanks, I think, remembering the grandmothers I met when I went into the field to serve subpoenas. That’s the last thing in the world I want.
“You’re not going anywhere, Jarrett. You’re sticking around. Promise us.”
“I promise,” I say.
The speeches end. The gala concludes. Judge Williams gives a few final words of appreciation, and the guests begin to disperse. As promised, I hang back with the married couple, sharing another laugh, and then we exchange our contact information.
“Lil Moma, Daddy, how did you like it?”
I look up.
“Jarrett Adams, meet our daughter—”
“Joi,” I say.
“You’ve met?”
“Yes,” we say at the same time, and we both can’t help laughing.
“Don’t lose track of this young man,” her father says.
* * *
—
A week later, I hit her up for lunch.
“My folks love you,” she says.
“That’s a start,” I say.
She wears a smart-looking business suit as if she were meeting with a client. I wear a sport coat, blue button-down shirt, no tie, pressed slacks. Joi picks up the menu and frowns.
“I thought we were meeting for coffee.”
Coffee? I think. I specifically said lunch, as in, would you like to have lunch—as in, would you like to go out on a date?
At least that’s what I meant.
She places the menu on the table, folds her hands.
“I wish I’d heard your speech,” she says. “I had to deal with an issue backstage.”
“That’s okay.”
“Everyone loved it. My folks loved it.”
“They love me; they loved my speech. I’m doing really well with your parents.”
She laughs. “Scoring a lot of points with Johney and Yvette.”
Then she sighs and does something with her posture, sits up straighter, more formally, a move that I know signals bad news.
“I like you,” she says.
“Uh-oh. The kiss of death,” I say.
“No, I do, honestly. But you need to focus on your first year of law school.”
“Check, please,” I say, pretending to signal our waiter.
She laughs.
“Seriously, I know what first year is like. It’s beyond.”
“Beyond?”
“Beyond intense, beyond stressful, beyond the amount of work you can imagine. I don’t know how you will be able to go to law school and keep your job. Or least keep a full-time job.”
“I’m used to stressful situations,” I say.
“Fair point.”
“So, you’re letting me down easy.”
“I think you have an unbelievable future. As a friend, I want you to concentrate on that, fully.”
“That is what a friend would say.”
“Good. Friends?”
She extends her hand. I take it and we shake. I hold on longer than a typical handshake, longer than a friend. I notice that she doesn’t let go until the waiter arrives to take our order. Not exactly a friend move on her part, either.
She’s instituting a hiatus. That’s how I see it.
I will focus on my first year of law school. Smart advice. But there’s no way I’m letting her go.
“I just want to remind you,” I say, “your father told you to keep track of me.”
“I always listen to my dad,” she says, smiling.
* * *
—
One day, hurrying into work, I stand aside to allow a mail carrier to walk by. As he does, our eyes meet.
“Jarrett?”
I recognize him now. Mr. Hill. Rovaughn’s dad.
“Mr. Hill.”
“How are you, Jarrett?”
“I’m good.” I pause. “I’ve been meaning to reach out to Rovaughn. I know it’s been a while—”
Mr. Hill stops me. “It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “What you went through? What you all went through? I can’t imagine.”
I look at Mr. Hill and I see the same anguish in his eyes and the same deep lines etched in his face that my mother still carries.
“He didn’t go through what you and Dimitri did, but he felt it.”
Mr. Hill fixes his eyes on the sidewalk.
I think about Rovaughn. He never talked about going into the army, but after they dropped the charges against him, he enlisted. Maybe he wanted to escape.
Mr. Hill brings up his gaze to meet mine. His eyes have filled up.
“So, what about you? What are you doing downtown?”
“Actually, I work here. And I’m about to start law school. I want to become the kind of lawyer I wish I had.”
“That’s something,” Mr. Hill says.
He grips my hand.
“I’m proud of you, Jarrett,” he says. “Don’t stop. You keep going.”
“I will.”
* * *
—
The first day of orientation at Loyola University Law School, I take a seat in a large auditorium, a mix of excitement and nervo
usness pumping through me, followed by an almost impossible surge of pride. I am a young Black man in law school. I don’t puff my chest, but I don’t even attempt to smother my smile. I scan the auditorium to take the measure of my classmates, to see who they are, to see whom I will be spending so much of my waking hours with for the next three years. As I look at them, another emotion edges its way in—sadness. In our class of three hundred, I see only a handful of Black men.
We have to do way better than that. If we can’t get an equal representation of Black and white students in our law schools, how will we ever achieve equality in our criminal justice system? Without a strong number of lawyers, judges, politicians, and advocates coming from our neighborhoods, how will we effect change in those neighborhoods? I want to work on fixing those inequities, on leveling the playing field.
Five minutes into law school and I have placed even more pressure on myself to become an attorney and make a difference.
* * *
—
It begins. We don’t test the water, get our feet wet. We dive in. Or maybe we’re pushed. Here it comes, just as Joi said: beyond. The infamous work, pressure, and stress of first year. I sailed through my undergraduate classes. I worked hard, put in long hours, but I never felt overwhelmed or overmatched. Law school is a whole new ball game—more demanding, harder, more competitive, my classmates more engaged, intelligent, and motivated. I feel as if I’ve gone from Triple-A to the major leagues.
I am battle tested, though. I know how to do this, how to attack every task, how to attain my goal, which appears like a mountaintop in the distance. I glance at that mountaintop, acknowledge it, commit to conquering it, then focus not on the peak but on the middle of the mountain. I’ve learned that I need to break each task into parts, starting at the bottom and then working my way up methodically—to the middle. Once I arrive at the center, the peak won’t appear so far away, so unreachable.
My workday breaks down the same way as undergrad—work all day, go into the field, return to the office, go right from there to class usually starting at 5:30, ending at 10:00, four or five nights a week. After each class, I duck into the law library, find my spot in the corner, hunker down, and stay there studying until the cleaning crew or janitor kicks me out on their way home. I make friends with my classmates, occasionally meeting for a beer or a bite to eat, but mostly I lock myself away and work. That’s the key to this. I may not be the most brilliant law student in my class, but nobody will ever outwork me. I tell myself that the bars and clubs will be there when I graduate from law school in three years.
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