First Pages - I Think That Song is About me

The last time I wore this suit was at Grandad’s funeral. I was sweating through it in the shade, that after the chill of the church’s A/C. I can’t tell if it smells of Georgia pollen or my own stink. I lift my collar and lower my nose to meet it. 

“All rise,” calls the bailiff.  

Up I jump, pulling my suit jacket down from around my neck. I button it, station my feet at shoulder width, chest out. The judge enters and settles into his chair behind the bench. There’s a symphony of creaking wood as the rest of the courtroom sits. The congregation may be seated. 

Grandad hated church and court. A white collar is a white collar, and they can’t be trusted, and by dint of some socioeconomic devilry known as the American Dream his seed wears one. My hands aren’t hard like his. My neck isn’t burnt. Shame. He’d cuss out loud if he saw me arguing a civil rights case. I guess he’d slap his knee though if he knew I’m suing a rich yankee. Somehow Trump being the pinnacle of rich yankee didn't occur to Grandad, but the rest could go to hell.  

“Attorney Wallin, what are we here for this morning?” asks the judge. My chest deflates. The judge was too busy to read our motion. I stayed up late prepping for this. Sometimes judges are babies buckled into a stroller – along for the ride and in charge. I guess I have to be the mom. 

“Your honor, we filed a motion for leave to file a surreply to Defendant’s reply to Plaintiff’s objection to Defendant’s motion in limine.” You heard me. The judge shuffles some papers, stares at his computer screen, and glances at his clerk. I should back up. “Your honor, this is a housing discrimination complaint. My client—” I gesture toward her, just like in the movies. The judge frowns at me without moving his mouth. I know who the plaintiff is, say his eyes. “—Trisha Daphne was denied a subsidized condo unit in favor of a white buyer. We are prepared to present expert testimony that subconscious racial bias is endemic in the housing market. The defendant has moved to block our expert from testifying. We’re asking for ten days to file a surreply.” I glance at my co-counsel, giving her a  telepathic high five. That’s right. I said ‘endemic.’ 

The judge clacks some keys on his heavy government keyboard, looking back and forth from his screen to an open file folder. His shoulders relax when he finds what he’s looking for. He taps a stack of paper on the bench in front of him. At the bottom of the stack is our request for ten days to add more paper to the stack. I give him a moment, then I explain how subconscious racial bias is a burgeoning field of study. I admit that it would be groundbreaking for the court to hear this testimony. I want the court to get excited about being groundbreaking. My co-counsel nods. We’re excited about it.   

Opposing counsel rises from her seat, standing erect and still. Her suit looks like she remembered to clean it. “Your honor, my client, Bob Woodward, is a longstanding member of his community. He has built numerous housing developments all over the south shore and has never before been accused of discrimination. Now the plaintiff is accusing him of subconscious discrimination? This abuse has gone on long enough.” 

The judge looks at me for a response. All I want is ten days for Christ’s sake.

“Your honor, widespread subconscious bias is the milieu in which the defendant has operated for decades.” I lose the judge’s eye contact as soon as I say ‘milieu.’ I press on. “It informs the significance of the defendant selling to a white buyer over the plaintiff.” 

Opposing counsel jumps back in. “Mr. Woodward has sold and rented units to all kinds of people for decades, your honor – white, brown, black, green, purple, you name it.” Not fair. You can’t wear that suit and be folksy. She continues, “My client is a respected small businessman in his chamber of commerce. He’s won awards for his contributions to the growth of the local economy.” She’s doing a good job making this irrelevant character profile seem relevant.

I feel a tug at my sleeve. Ms. Daphne looks up at me. Fight for me, Ethan, say her eyes. I watch opposing counsel sit down, scoot in her chair, and put her pen down. She’s running circles around me, isn’t she? My chest rises and falls with a sharp breath. I look at the judge. The room goes dark. A spotlight clicks on, its echo reverberating through an empty theater. 

“Your honor, this is an important procedural issue with significant implications for this case and for hundreds of cases like it.” I catch myself clicking my pen. Putting my pen down, “Your honor, this court has a choice. Will it push civil rights in this country forward, or will it leave it stuck in the mud of complex procedure, expensive litigation, and the inertia of precedent?” 

Fight for me.

“A fair shot at owning a house – that’s all Ms. Daphne has asked of the law. Ms. Daphne deserves a discrimination-free chance at the American dream.”  

Fight for ME, said her eyes.

“Ms. Daphne worked her way through school to get a job in health administration.” Cue the strings. “She kept her children housed in changing neighborhoods with rising rents. She guided them through sputtering school systems that were ill equipped for her children’s learning disabilities. This condo was more than four walls with new appliances and a parking spot.” The music builds. “It was opportunity manifest. It was lush green grass under her tired feet. It was the reward for all Ms. Daphne’s dreaming.” 

Silence.

“Ten days?” asks the judge, looking at me with heavy eyelids.

“Your honor?” 

“All that over ten days?” The judge looks at his clerk, one eyebrow bowing into upward facing dog.    

“But Defendant’s counsel was—” I start.

My co-counsel intercedes. “Yes, ten days to file a surreply is what we’re requesting your honor.” 

“Why not ask for fifteen?” The judge suggests, flipping a page in the file. 

“That works for—” I start, stopping when co-counsel backhands my leg. 

“Wait. Are we here in ten days?” the judge wonders, looking at his computer. His clerk murmurs something. “Right. That’s a Sunday. Fifteen days it is,” he says.

Justice prevails!

“Next matter,” says the judge.