INDEFENSIBLE: One Lawyer's Journey Into the Inferno of American Justice (33 page)

      
Yet touched as I was by her evident and heartfelt loss, when she finally turned away, surrounded by the sad comfort of a grieving family, I still understood why despite her very real pain and loss, I was standing right where I should have been. Because as deeply as I felt Wale’s sister’s anguish, I also felt, as acutely as ever, how desperately Roger and the rest of my clients --even the guilty ones --need protection from the punitive ravages of a vengeful world. Wale’s sister had lost a loved one, and for that there was no excuse, but her victimization was hallowed, respected, and validated by the world around her. But without a proxy, there was no one to ameliorate Roger’s fate, no ears attuned to his claims for mercy or justice, and no one else to shield him from the life sentence or even the death penalty a justifiably angry sister might (were she able to) have imposed. And ultimately, protecting Roger --from a vindictive system fueled by grief and loss and anguish --ensuring that at least one person was there for him, actually felt good.

      
And if that seems strange, simply consider this: even after more than a decade in the system, I still fundamentally believe in the possibility of redemption and the value of every individual. I care for my murderous clients much like Wale’s sister loved her drug-dealing brother. Their shortcomings don’t disqualify them from my caring. But somehow, when I try to explain this in the context of my work, I’m met with blank confusion. Everyone seems to understand and indeed to celebrate the ability of a born-again Christian to see potential in everyone, and to love each individual no matter what they’ve done --this is, after all, the essential teaching of Christ. But somehow, when I present this same basic belief in the context of a secular humanist thrust into the brutal world of criminal justice, it loses its coherence.

      
Roger got the eleven years.

- - - -
 

      
Just outside the doors, I quicken my pace, heading back down the escalators toward TAP-1, where Najid is still waiting.

      
“They already adjourned my case,” he tells me as I approach. “We were one of the last cases, and the judge said he wasn’t going to wait for lawyers anymore. There was some guy there, I think from your office, and he did the case. We’re supposed to come back in like three weeks.”

      
I’m crestfallen. My visit with Malik meant that at the end of the day, I’d totally missed Najid’s case.

      
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him.

      
Judges wouldn’t dream of calling a private lawyer’s case without the lawyer present. But they do it all the time to public defenders --going so far as to dispatch their court officers to roam the halls to corral a colleague to “stand on a case.” And while rich defendants would never think to allow a judge to proceed without their lawyers, my clients, even the savvy ones, have no such sensibility. Even if they were to balk, a judge would read it as uppity rather than reasonable.

      
“Really, Najid, I’m so sorry you had to waste another day on this. And I’m sorry I kept you waiting too.”

      
“Don’t worry about it, man!” Najid says brightly, giving me a huge hug. I can feel his slight frame through the puffy green coat. I can’t figure out how Najid manages to be constantly smiley and enthusiastic: he seems to think that his criminal justice odyssey is perfectly normal.

      
“So I’ll see you next time?” Najid asks as I copy his court date into the little black book I use to track court appearances.

      
“Don’t forget about the dance!” he adds. Two weeks ago, Najid left me an invitation --a handcrafted note with a little packet of flower seeds --and tickets to the More Gardens! dance.

      
“I’ll try to make it,” I tell him. And with that, he turns his acrobatic little body away from me and, leprechaun-like, floats down the grimy hall toward the escalators and the fading winter light beyond, his ragamuffin crew of garden do-gooders trailing just behind.

- - - -
 

      
Across the hall, in arraignments, Judge Birnbaum is still plowing through his stack of misdemeanors.

      
“I’ll give her two days of community service!” I hear him say as I come through the doors. The girl standing before him has a hip jutted out and a scowl on her face. Her disaffected pose seems to have struck Birnbaum the wrong way.

      
“But, Judge,” her lawyer is saying, “her codefendant just got a conditional discharge.”

      
“Well, for her it’s two days!” Birnbaum snaps. He doesn’t do so well after lunch. Charming in the morning, Birnbaum loses steam in the afternoon as judging takes its toll. It’s the same in night court --after dinner he becomes more and more irritable and relies more and more on the snap judgments he seems to form during the first ten seconds of a bail argument.

      
“Does she want it or not?”

      
It’s clear she doesn’t, but it’s unwise to decline even a vaguely reasonable offer from Birnbaum late in the afternoon, since along with his irritability comes unpredictability. He’s thrown people in jail just to get a case over with, even though three hours earlier he’d never have done so.

      
The lawyer and the defiant woman huddle for a moment, and Birnbaum’s gaze shifts upward.

      
“Oh, hello, Mr. Feige!” he chimes. For all our occasional friction, I’m one of the lawyers Birnbaum genuinely likes. Over the years we’ve developed a strange and funny repartee, which seems to work for me and brighten his mood.

      
“Hi, Judge!” I say, raising my chin slightly as if pointing to the mess in front of him. “I’m just here to take care of that special situation from a few weeks ago.”

      
“Oh, of course!” he says, nodding enthusiastically.

      
I head toward the door that leads to corrections, quickly piecing together the details of the case Birnbaum is doing. Wagging my index finger toward the still-huddling lawyer and client, I narrow my eyes and nod at Birnbaum as if to say,
This isn’t worth the effort
.

      
Give her the CD,
I mouth silently.

      
Birnbaum looks away, rolling his eyes slightly, ostentatiously ignoring my utterly inappropriate behavior. Squinting my left eye and turning my head slightly, I give Birnbaum an “oh, c’mon already” look, and just as the lawyer and the girl disengage, Birnbaum pipes up.

      
“I’ll give her the CD,” he says, shaking his head at me.

      
“Done,” says the lawyer, leaning in again to whisper to his client.

      
Putting my palms up in a “wasn’t that easy?” shrug, I mouth,
You’re a good man
to him before disappearing inside the steel doors to the pens.

- - - -
 

      
“She’s yours, right?” Officer Terra knows exactly who Cassandra is waiting for.

      
Cassandra is sitting on the floor of a small holding cell staring off into space.

      
“Hi, sweetie,” I say as I approach the bars. Cassandra turns and lumbers to her feet.

      
“Ah, hi, David,” she says in her halting way. She’s smiling --a good sign. “I’m, um, I’m ready to come out,” she tells me, nodding sagely as if she’s spent a good deal of time pondering the issue.

      
“Okay, sweetie, that shouldn’t be a problem. Have you been thinking about where you might like to go?”

      
“A shelter, I think.”

      
“Do you know which one? We had a few ideas for you.” I’m trying to be encouraging.

      
“I think I’ll go to Brooklyn. . . .” Cassandra trails off thinking about it, her big round face betraying no emotion. “Yeah, Brooklyn . . . I, I, I like it there. Brooklyn is nice. I’m gonna try not to drink too, David. Maybe just for a few days, just, you know . . . for a few days.”

      
“You know we’ll help you if you want to try to go more than a few.”

      
“I know, David, but I’m gonna do it . . . you know . . . for a few days . . . take a few days off. No drinking.” She’s nodding as she thinks this through.

      
“That sounds like a really good start,” I say. I’m trying to be positive, but all I can see is day three, when crack starts sounding good and she’s saved enough money for three or four hip flasks of vodka. I’ve been through this with her before and know that pushing her doesn’t work --she just closes up completely.

      
“Do you think we could make a date to talk in a few days --just to check in?”

      
“Okay,” she says plainly. “I can come. Talk maybe, it’s okay.”

      
“Sure, and we can be sure you’re still taking your medication. You got that, right?”

      
“Yes, David.”

      
“And you have the prescriptions so that we can be sure you get what you need when you get out of here?”

      
“Yes, David.”

      
“And you know that we’ll help you if you have to get them filled, or need to talk to someone at a shelter or something?”

      
“Yes, David.”

      
“Okay, then, shall we get you out of here?”

      
“Okay.” Cassandra nods again, as if freedom seems at least an acceptable alternative to continued incarceration.

      
“Promise you’re gonna come see me?”

      
“Yes, David.”

      
Terra is shaking her head gently and smiling at me. She knows as I do that I’m going to lose Cassandra to the streets. Everyone knows. It’s been nearly seven years, and I’ve made minimal progress at best. Still, right now, she’s medicated, showered, and relatively stable, so hope springs eternal.

      
“You can put her in the well if you want,” I tell Terra as she lets me out.

      
“She’s going home, right?” Terra asks.

      
“Something like that,” I say, a twinge of sadness creeping over me as I ponder just what constitutes “home” for Cassandra.

- - - -
 

      
“Feige” --Birnbaum says my name as if it’s spelled
Fiegeee
--“what was I supposed to do with this one?”

      
“Dismiss the tickets and let her out,” I tell him firmly. “This is the woman I asked you to put in a few weeks ago --I’ve been working with her for half a dozen years.”

      
“Oh, riiiight,” Birnbaum says, seeming to recall the unusual approach. “What were the tickets for?”

      
“Nonsense. Open-container stuff mostly. I surrendered her, remember?”

      
“Riiiight. Ready to do it?”

      
“Sure am.”