The poor woman seems distraught. She steps just over the threshold of my office, accompanied by my secretary. Around fifty years old, she is African-American. Well-dressed. It’s clear she’s put on her best for this appointment. I stand up and extend my hand energetically.
— Good morning, ma’am. I’m Laureen Addock, attorney. Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.
I motion toward the chair in front of my desk and take my own seat.
— Mrs. Jones, how can I assist you?
She fiddles with an immaculately white handkerchief that contrasts sharply with her brown skin. Her chin trembles as she struggles to speak. Her eyes glisten, and small tears escape from their corners.
The secretary enters with a tray holding glasses and a pitcher of water—a brief reprieve for Mrs. Jones. She grabs a glass and drains it in one go. I watch her. I know this behavior well: people come in carrying something heavy, very heavy. Their throats are dry. They find it hard to begin their story, to tell me their tale. As if hearing their own words makes their reality even more tangible, definitive, and frightening. I wait patiently.
After a long sigh, her shoulders sag slightly, and Mrs. Jones begins:
— My daughter has been charged with involuntary manslaughter.
Heavy, indeed, as I expected. She looks at me, and in her eyes, I see the pain of a mother, the anguish.
— Tell me in detail what happened.
For thirty minutes, Mrs. Jones recounts the story. I ask questions. I’m both horrified and shocked by what I hear, and I decide without hesitation to take on the case. I already know I won’t charge her a fee—on principle. Sometimes, being a lawyer is simply about defending principles.
I stand, walk around my desk, approach Mrs. Jones, and take her hand. With all the compassion I can muster, I look her straight in the eye and say:
— Don’t worry anymore. I’ll take care of it.
A faint smile appears on her face.
The next morning, bright and early, I’m at the district prison, in the women’s ward. I survey the place. I will never understand how society can believe that putting people in such grim, dehumanizing environments will make them more humane, less dangerous.
The windows are high and narrow. Massive metal bars fragment the light, casting sinister shadows on the floor. The floor itself, smooth concrete, looks greasy from having been halfheartedly mopped countless times with a dirty mop. The walls, an indeterminate beige, do nothing to warm the atmosphere. Two chairs and a table bolted to the floor complete the scene. The room is a reflection of the institution: gray, cold, rigid.
I hear the door open and turn around. Miss Jones enters. She’s a 27-year-old African-American woman. Well-groomed. Her face is still somewhat youthful—she doesn’t look her age. Her eyes are deeply shadowed, her lips chapped. She’s pale. Her hands are cuffed. The resemblance to her mother is striking, both in their demeanor and physical appearance. Compared to her standard-issue orange jumpsuit and her pallor, I suddenly feel garish in my suit and makeup.
I introduce myself and offer:
— Let’s sit down, shall we?
She nods and sits in one of the chairs. I take the other.
— I’m your attorney. Your mother hired me yesterday to help you. I’ll do my best to get you out of here, but before we begin, tell me—have you been treated properly?
She looks at me, a little surprised, and answers:
— Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m in a hospital cell.
I nod, remembering she was gravely injured.
— Okay, let’s get started. I need your version of events. Tell me your story and the whole truth so I can help you.
She sighs, rubbing her nose. The cuffs clink. Her gaze drifts to the small windows. She begins her story:
— I was at home with my man. The father of my baby. I… I’m not a violent person, I just felt so deeply betrayed. I saw red.
She sighs.
— He was in the shower when he got a message. We’d been waiting for a response from a potential employer, you know, with the baby—we needed the money. I checked his screen to see if it was the response. It was Betty Winter, that tramp!
She looks at me.
— Excuse my language.
I nod.
— It was a sext, with a disgusting photo—Miss Jones shifts uneasily in her chair. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I did what I shouldn’t have done—I looked through their chat history. They’d been having an affair for months! I felt sick, the baby was kicking in my belly. I grabbed my keys and bag and went to find her. She was at the park, as usual. I threw my things on the ground, and in front of a group of neighbors, I shoved her violently, hitting her shoulders. Everything escalated. We fought—fiercely. I don’t know how long it lasted, but at some point, I saw a weapon in her hands. She fired several times, missing me at first but then hitting me. The pain was excruciating. I passed out. The last thing I remember is hearing police sirens. I woke up here, in the prison hospital.
Her hands tremble, her face is pale, and heavy tears stream down her cheeks. She looks at me. So much pain in her eyes. My heart clenches.
— I woke up here… my belly empty. My baby is dead, and I’m accused of killing him.
Inspired by a true story: Link to the article in English that served as a basis.
Rose Lorang