Five Uneasy Pieces

by Debbi Mack

  “Okay, I guess.”

  I went through the tedious process of digging for more information. Bottom line: she was an average student who read at a higher than average grade level. And she had better verbal abilities than her terse responses would suggest.

  “So what’re you reading now?” I asked.

  She held up the book. A Piece of Cake by Cupcake Brown.

  “I read that. Quite a story.”

  She nodded. “It’s real.”

  It was real, all right. The memoir was a mature selection for a 13-year-old girl. Cupcake Brown (her real name) had run away from a dreadful foster home, and ended up in a gang, addicted to drugs—before her eighteenth birthday. She hit rock bottom, living in a dumpster at one point. With some support from other recovering addicts and the law firm that employed her, Cupcake turned it all around and became an attorney. An uplifting story about possibilities that casts a positive light on lawyers—and you don’t get to hear many of those.

  “Are you reading that for class?”

  “Naw. Jus’ for fun.”

  “It’s refreshing to meet a young person who reads.” I winced at my choice of words, those of an old fart. Tina didn’t seem to notice. “You do any after-school stuff?” I asked.

  “I played softball up ‘til last year, but I dropped outta that.”

  “How come?”

  Another shrug. Maybe she was trying to work out knots in her shoulders. “I dunno. Just don’t feel like it no more.”

  “Ever do any volunteer work?”

  She shook her head.

  “Go to church?”

  Negative.

  “Your mom go to church?”

  “Naw. She work Sundays.”

  I was fishing for the kind of “give-her-a break-your-Honor-she’s-a-good-kid-with-a-bright-future” stuff that defense attorneys routinely trot out, in the hope their clients will get off with lighter sentences. Unfortunately, this approach tended to work better for middle-class kids, who had been fast-tracked for success as early as nursery school. By high school, they were already padding their future resumes with internships and other extracurricular activities that would set them apart from—or, at least, keep them abreast of—their career-driven peers. Unfortunately, the neighborhoods that fed Silver Hill Middle School were far from middle-class, and many of the students were busier building rap sheets than resumes. So the “bright, shiny future” stuff seemed less workable than the “let’s-not-make-things-any-worse-than-they-have-to-be” approach.

  With that in mind, I asked, “Have you ever been suspended?”

  “Nuh-uh. I done some detentions.”

  “What for?”

  “Bein’ late, talking in class.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Once for getting in a fight, but the other girl started it.”

  I looked at her. She stared back, daring me to say otherwise. “How’d it start?”

  “I was eating lunch in the caf with my friends. This heifer named Lakeesha, she step up, start dissin’ my friend, Rochelle. She always raggin’ on her. She jus’ jealous, is all. Anyway, she start in on Rochelle again. Rochelle say, ‘Girl, you got a mouth on you. You want to back your noise with some action?’”

  Tina snickered. “That heifer was frontin’, big time. She back down. I kep’ a eye on her, anyway.

  “Then, when we was getting up to leave, Lakeesha get up, too. I saw her come up behind Rochelle wit’ a razor in her hand. So I shoved Lakeesha and knocked her ass down. Then Rochelle and this other girl start wailin’ on the bitch for sneakin’ up on her like that. I started kickin’ her, too.”

  “So you were the one who knocked her down?” Just like the old woman with the purse. “Why were you kicking her, if she was already down?” And would you have beaten up the old lady if the cops hadn’t been there?

  “Lakeesha the one wit’ the razor,” she said, in a soft voice. “I couldn’t just let her try to cut Rochelle up and get away with it.”

  Sounded reasonable, assuming it was the truth, and you could never be sure about that. But if Tina were going to lie to me, why mention the fight at all? I’d represented a handful of violent juveniles—all boys. They’d had more attitude than brains. Tina didn’t seem to fit that profile, even if she did talk tough. Or maybe I was letting her gender, baby face and slightly nerdy overbite fool me.

  “Have you been in fights before?” I asked.

  “No. But I ain’t scared to fight or nothin’.” Her voice took on a petulant, defensive tone.

  “Well, no one said you were, but I’d avoid it, if I were you.” What was with the attitude? Maybe someone accused her of being chicken. Maybe she’d gone after the old woman on a dare. “You can be suspended for fighting at school, you know. Or even expelled. I guess they cut you a break because you were defending your friend.”

  “That an’, like I say, I ain’t never been in no fight before. Mr. Powell, he put in a good word for me, too.”

  “Who’s Mr. Powell?”

  “Guidance counselor.”

  I finished up our interview with some routine questions, a brief description of juvenile court and the probable outcome in her case. I suspected that, as a first-time offender, the court would go easy on Tina, but I qualified every possible result with “maybe,” because you never know for sure.

  When we’d finished the formalities, I said, “I loved to read when I was your age. Seems like I hardly have the time now. What else have you read?”

  “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”

  “Maya Angelou. I read that, too.” In high school. She wasn’t lacking in intellect.

  Tina’s face remained impassive, but her eyes warmed to the subject of books. “I also read Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah.” She gave me a speculative look. “Whatchoo read when you was a kid?”

  “Lots of books.” I tried to think back. Seemed like a century ago, though it was closer to a quarter of that. “Catcher in the Rye. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.”

  “I think we s’posed to read that Catcher book in high school. Don’t know the other one.”

  “They may not teach it. I guess I liked it because I’m from Brooklyn.”

  “Oh, yeah? I got a uncle live in Brooklyn. In Bed-Stuy.”

  “That’s where I’m from.”

  Her eyes narrowed into a quizzical squint. “But ain’t that mostly black?”

  “Yes, it is. And it was when I was there, too.” That was in the 1970s, not the best of times for Bedford-Stuyvesant, once known as the biggest ghetto in the U.S. Not the best place for a pale-skinned white girl like me to be living, either.

  Her expression was appraising now, as if trying to gauge exactly who I was in light of this new information. I must have passed some test, because her expression softened and she smiled.

  I gave Tina my card which she stuck in her book.

  “Call me anytime, if you have questions. Or want to talk about books.”

  “Okay, Ms. McRae.”

  “Call me Sam.”

  Three raps on the door and Shanae poked her head in. I checked my watch. She’d been away an hour, to the minute.

  “You done, right?” she said. “I need to talk to you.” To Tina, she said, “Go downstairs and wait,” dismissing her with a wave of her hand.

  The animation drained from Tina’s expression as she rose. Glaring at her mother, she slunk out and closed the door.

  Shanae shook her head. “That girl trouble. She need to clean up her act, you see what I’m sayin’?”

  “She’s at that age, I guess.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t know how much longer she gonna live, if she keep up her bullshit.”

  “Well, this is her first offense, so to speak. It should go pretty smoothly. It may take a month or two before we get a hearing before a master. A master is like a junior judge—”

  Shanae dipped her chin, in a brief nod. “Fine,” she said. “You jus’ let me know when her court date is. I gots another problem to talk to you about.”

/>   I was surprised she didn’t have more questions about Tina’s situation, since she’d been so adamant about staying for the interview. “What is it?”

  “You do child support cases?” she asked, taking the seat she’d vacated an hour before.

  “Yes.”

  “I need a lawyer,” she said. “My girl’s father owe me child support. I wanna do sumpin’ ‘bout it.”

  “I’d be happy to help you,” I said, doubting my own words. There was no conflict of interest that I could see. And I could always use the work. “I would have to charge my regular fee, though.”

  I thought that might end the discussion. “I can work that out,” she said. “My brother’ll lend me the money.”

  “Okay,” I said. I wondered if she’d discussed it with her brother and why she hadn’t asked him for help when she failed to qualify for public defender services. I decided to get some case particulars, since I always give an initial free consult.

  According to Shanae, Rodney Fisher had acknowledged paternity of Tina a few years after she was born, though he and Shanae had never married. He’d paid child support, not always regularly, since then. Shanae said he was making more money now and she wanted to sue for past-due support and seek an increase in his monthly obligation.

  “Rodney making way more money than he say he does.” A worldly-wise smirk creased her face. “Under-the-table money, you see what I’m sayin’?”

  “I get your drift. How do you know this? Off-the-books earnings can be difficult, if not impossible, to prove.”

  “I got a friend been looking into this. He can tell you. See, Rodney own a pawn shop. I think a lot of money coming in that ain’t making it onto the books. Unnerstan?”

  “I’d like to talk to your friend,” I said. “And see any documentation you have on his income, along with a copy of the child support order.”

  “Oh, I can get that for you. Make me sick. I had to take another job, since Giant cut back my hours. Sons of bitches. And that worthless niggah think he can screw me outta my child support. Well, we’ll just see ‘bout that.”

  “As we discussed, it’ll be three hundred dollars to handle your daughter’s case. For your case, I’ll have to ask for a two thousand dollar retainer up front,” I said. “If the retainer’s used up, I’ll bill you monthly. I need payment by cashier’s check or money order.”

  Without batting an eye, she said, “Okay.” I gritted my teeth thinking about this woman’s temerity to go poor-mouthing for a referral from the public defender’s office. Should have asked for four grand on the child support case.

  I pulled up the retainer agreement for Tina’s case and a release form to get access to her school information. I also opened a standard form for Shanae’s case, and typed in the retainer amount before printing the papers.

  I told her to read them over and invited her to ask questions. She read and signed them without comment. Just to be sure, I reviewed the main terms with her. Shanae handed me a $300 money order for Tina’s case. Seeing that she had come with payment in hand made me feel better.

  “I’ll start work on your child support case after I get the two thousand dollars,” I reminded Shanae. I made copies of the retainer agreement for her and her brother and handed her another business card.

  “All right. Thank you, Ms. McRae.”

  Her sudden politeness was a welcome change. “Call me Sam,” I said. “See you later.”

  Shanae strode out. It was the last time I saw her alive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Assistant State’s Attorney Ellen Martinez was nothing, if not completely organized. When I stopped by her office to talk about Tina Jackson, she retrieved the girl’s file in an instant—a quick walk to a file cabinet and a glance in one drawer. She wore a white suit. I searched for a spot or stray hair and came up empty. People that neat and organized should be shot.

  “Tina Jackson. Let’s see.” Martinez rocked in her high-backed chair, flipping through the file. She stopped, her eyebrow arched. “First offense. They might have let her slide at intake, if she hadn’t broken that poor woman’s arm.”

  “That was an accident,” I said. “She never meant to hurt her.”

  “Little Tina has a mouth on her, too, says here.”

  “I think her talk is bigger than her walk.”

  Martinez fixed me with a knowing look. “Really? Well, she’s no stranger to the system.”

  “I thought you said this was her first offense.”

  “It is. I’m talking about social services.” She flipped to another page, placed the file on the desk and tapped a pale pink fingernail on a copy of a court order. “Tina’s mother, Shanae Jackson, was ordered into rehab five years ago. She was a crack addict, selling for extra money. None of this might have come out if it hadn’t been for the abuse.”

  “Abuse?”

  “A doctor noticed Tina’s bruises. It took some doing, but he squeezed the story out of her. Shanae had mood swings. A tendency to fly into rages. One word could set her off. Used to take it out on Tina with an extension cord. One time, she threatened Tina with her own softball bat.” Martinez spoke matter-of-factly, like this was the kind of story she’d told many times before. “Clearly, Ms. Jackson had anger management problems, probably aggravated by the crack.”

  I nodded. Obviously, there was more than the usual mother-daughter friction between Shanae and Tina. “So Tina would have been about eight at the time. Where did social services place her?”

  “With the dad, Rodney Fisher. Shanae’s brother came down from New York to contest it, but his concerns were dismissed as personal animosity.”

  “How long did Tina live with Fisher?”

  “Close to three years. Shanae was in rehab maybe a year of that time. She filed a petition to regain custody after that. It dragged out, but her brother kept paying the legal bills so . . .” Martinez’s mouth twisted into a look of wry distaste. “The case kept going until Shanae got what she wanted.”

  I nodded and jotted this information on my notepad. It could be important, not only for Tina’s case, but Shanae’s request for child support. I wondered if I should feel embarrassed that I hadn’t thought to question my own clients on these matters.

  Martinez must have read my mind. “I only know this because I’ve had the file long enough to make some inquiries.” She paused and sat up straighter. “And I’ve been handling juvenile cases long enough to know what inquiries to make.”

  And you obviously haven’t, I mentally finished her statement. “Well, thank you for letting me know,” I said, trying to maintain a semblance of poise. “Could I get a copy of your paperwork for my file?”

  “Certainly. Happy to help in any way I can.”

  I reached for the file. “May I take a look?”

  She placed it in my hands. “Knock yourself out.”

  I went through the documentation. Along with what Shanae had given me, I found court filings, DSS forms and other paperwork related to her rehab, Tina’s temporary placement with her father and the subsequent custody proceeding. I indicated what I wanted copied, and Martinez stepped out with the file a moment to find a secretary to handle it.

  “Thanks,” I said, upon her return. “So what was your point in bringing all this up?”

  “Tina’s had it rough. A mostly absent father. A mother with problems of her own.” Martinez rounded her desk and sat. “She’s reached an age where she’s starting to act out. What she does now could mean the difference between staying straight and going off the rails. This first offense could be a warning.”

  “So what’s the bottom line?”

  “This is her first offense.” Martinez toyed with the bent corner of another file, smoothing it with her thumb. “But given the violent nature of the crime and her personal history, I don’t want her to get off with a mere slap on the wrist. I’m asking for six months detention, counseling and restitution for the victim’s medical bills.”

  I stared at her. “Detention? You’re kidding, rig
ht?”

  Martinez shook her head. “I think Tina needs some time in a structured environment. If she’s good, they’ll probably allow weekend visits with mom.”

  “Look, I know I haven’t handled a lot of juvenile cases, but I’ve done criminal work. I can think of adults with priors who’ve pled for better deals than this. What about community service?”

  Martinez tucked a stray wisp of dark hair behind her ear and leaned forward. “Juvenile crime is a growing problem in this county,” she droned, as if narrating a documentary. “Especially among girls. And this wasn’t a minor crime. An elderly woman was hurt. Tina and others like her need to understand there are serious consequences for that.” She settled back in her chair and resumed rocking. That simple action irritated me. “Besides,” she said. “I think this incident is more than a fluke. I think it’s a cry for help.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But to lock her up? The punishment seems out of proportion to the crime. Would you settle for fifty hours of community service and court-ordered counseling?”

  Martinez crossed her legs, giving me that look of smug assuredness that came from knowing the juvenile master would take her word as gospel and I was just another defense attorney. Scum.

  “This isn’t negotiable,” she said. “If you don’t like it, you can always make your pitch to Master Cain.”

  “You can bet on it,” I said. “I trust Cain isn’t going to add to the overcrowding at detention centers by locking up a kid on a first offense, just because she’s suffered a few hard knocks. Or comes from the wrong neighborhood.”

  It was Martinez’s turn to frown. “This has nothing to do with Tina’s neighborhood.”

  “No, of course not. Or her race either, I’m sure.” I leaned forward and Martinez stopped rocking. A minor victory. “Just tell me, when was the last time you sent a white, middle-class kid off to juvie jail for a purse-snatching and a first offense at that? Has it ever happened?”

  Martinez said nothing. Her assistant came in and handed Martinez the file and the copies. Martinez gave the copies to me.

  “I guess that about wraps it up,” she said.