Small Great Things

by Jodi Picoult

"Kennedy." The familiarity sits uncomfortably on my tongue. "I can't go back to prison." I think of how, when Edison was a toddler, he'd put on Wesley's shoes and shuffle around in them. Edison will have a lifetime to see the magic he used to believe in as a child be methodically erased, one confrontation at a time. I don't want him to have to face that any sooner than necessary. "I've got my boy, and there's no one else who can raise him to be the man I know he's going to be."

  Ms. McQuarrie--Kennedy--leans forward. "I'm going to do my best. I have a lot of experience in cases with people like you."

  Another label. "People like me?"

  "People accused of serious crimes."

  Immediately, I am on the defensive. "But I didn't do anything."

  "I believe you. However, we still have to convince a jury. So we have to go back to the basics to figure out why you've been charged."

  I look at her carefully, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. This is the only case on my radar, but maybe she is juggling hundreds. Maybe she honestly has forgotten the skinhead with the tattoo who spit on me in the courtroom. "I'd think that's pretty obvious. That baby's father didn't want me near his son."

  "The white supremacist? He has nothing to do with your case."

  For a moment, I'm speechless. I was removed from the care of a patient because of the color of my skin, and then penalized for following those directions when the same patient went into distress. How on earth could the two not be related? "But I'm the only nurse of color on the birthing pavilion."

  "To the State, it doesn't matter if you're Black or white or blue or green," Kennedy explains. "To them you had a legal duty to take care of an infant under your charge." She starts listing all the ways the jury can find a reason to convict me. Each feels like a brick being mortared into place, trapping me in this hole. I realize that I have made a grave mistake: I had assumed that justice was truly just, that jurors would assume I was innocent until proven guilty. But prejudice is exactly the opposite: judging before the evidence exists.

  I don't stand a chance.

  "Do you really believe that if I was white," I say quietly, "I'd be sitting here with you right now?"

  She shakes her head. "No. I believe it's too risky to bring up in court."

  So we are supposed to win a case by pretending the reason it happened doesn't exist? It seems dishonest, oblivious. Like saying a patient died of an infected hangnail, without mentioning that he had Type 1 diabetes.

  "If no one ever talks about race in court," I say, "how is anything ever supposed to change?"

  She folds her hands on the table between us. "You file a civil lawsuit. I can't do it for you, but I can call around and find you someone who works with employment discrimination." She explains, in legalese, what that means for me.

  The damages she mentions are more than I ever imagined in my wildest dreams.

  But there is a catch. There's always a catch. The lawsuit that might net me this payout, that might help me hire a private lawyer who might actually be willing to admit that race is what landed me in court in the first place, can't be filed until this lawsuit wraps up. In other words, if I'm found guilty now, I can kiss that future money goodbye.

  Suddenly I realize that Kennedy's refusal to mention race in court may not be ignorant. It's the very opposite. It's because she is aware of exactly what I have to do in order to get what I deserve.

  I might as well be blind and lost, and Kennedy McQuarrie is the only one with a map. So I look her in the eye. "What do you want to know?" I say.

  WHEN I COME HOME THE night after my first meeting with Ruth, Micah is working late and my mother is watching Violet. The house smells of oregano and freshly baked dough. "Is it my lucky day?" I call out, shuffling off the heaviness of my job as Violet gets up from the table where she's coloring and makes a beeline for me. "Is there homemade pizza for dinner?"

  I swing my daughter up in my arms. She is clutching a violent red crayon in one small fist. "I made you one. Guess what it is."

  My mother comes out of the kitchen holding an amoebic blob on a plate. "Oh, clearly it's an...alie--" I catch my mother's eye, and she shakes her head. Behind Violet's back she puts her hands up and bares her teeth. "Dinosaur," I correct. "I mean, obviously."

  Violet smiles widely. "But he's sick." She points to the oregano spotting the cheese. "That's why he has a rash."

  "Is it chicken pox?" I ask, as I take a bite.

  "No," she says. "He has a reptile dysfunction."

  I nearly spit out the pizza. Immediately I drop Violet to her feet. As she runs back to the table to continue coloring, I raise a brow. "What were you watching?" I calmly ask my mother.

  She knows that the only television we let Violet watch is Sesame Street or Disney Junior. But from the studied wash of innocence on my mother's face I know she's hiding something. "Nothing."

  I pivot, staring at the blank TV screen. On a hunch, I pick the remote up from the couch and turn it on.

  Wallace Mercy is grandstanding in all his glory, outside City Hall in Manhattan. His wild white hair stands on end, like he's been electrocuted. His fist is raised in solidarity with whatever apparent injustice he's currently championing. "My brothers and sisters! I ask you: when did the word misunderstanding become synonymous with racial profiling? We demand an apology from the New York City police commissioner, for the shame and inconvenience suffered by this celebrated athlete--" The Fox news logo runs beneath the slightly familiar face of a handsome dark-skinned man.

  Fox News. A channel that Micah and I do not generally watch. A channel that would easily be the home of multiple ads about erectile dysfunction.

  "You let Violet watch this?"

  "Of course not," my mother says. "I just turned it on during her naptime."

  Violet looks up from her coloring. "The Five-o-Meter!"

  I shoot my mother the Look of Death. "You're watching The Five with my four-year-old daughter."

  She throws up her hands. "All right, fine, yes, sometimes I do. It's the news, for goodness' sake. It's not like I'm putting on P-O-R-N. Besides, did you even hear about this? It's a simple misunderstanding and that ridiculous fake reverend is shooting his mouth off again all because the police were trying to do their job."

  I look at Violet. "Honey," I say, "why don't you go pick out the pajamas you want to wear, and two books for bedtime?"

  She runs upstairs and I turn back to the television. "If you want to watch Wallace Mercy, at least put on MSNBC," I say.

  "I don't want to watch Wallace. In fact I don't think he's doing Malik Thaddon any good by taking on his cause."

  Malik Thaddon, that's why he looks familiar. He won the U.S. Open a few years back. "What happened?"

  "He walked out of his hotel and was grabbed by four policemen. Apparently it was a case of mistaken identity."

  Ava settles beside me on the couch as the camera zooms in on Wallace Mercy's verbal tantrum. The cords in his neck stand out and there is a throbbing vein at his temple; this man is a heart attack waiting to happen. "You know," my mother says. "If they weren't so angry all the time, maybe more people would listen to them."

  I don't have to ask who they are.

  I take another bite of my dinosaur pizza. "How about we go back to only turning the television on to a channel that doesn't have commercials with side effects?"

  My mother folds her arms. "I would think of all people you'd want your child to be a student of the world, Kennedy."

  "She's a baby, Mom. Violet doesn't need to think that the police might grab her one day."

  "Oh, please. Violet was coloring. All that went right over her head. The only thing she even remarked on was Wallace Mercy's extremely poor choice of hairdo."

  I press my fingers to the corners of my eyes. "Okay. I'm tired. Let's just table this conversation."

  My mother takes my empty plate and stands up, clearly miffed. "Far be it from me to see myself as more than just the hired help."

  She disappears into the kitche
n, and I go to put Vi to bed. She has picked a book about a mouse with a mouthful of a name none of her friends can pronounce, and Go, Dog. Go! which is the title I hate more than anything else in her library. I climb into bed with her and drop a kiss on the crown of her head. She smells like strawberry bubble bath and Johnson's shampoo, exactly like my own childhood. As I start to read aloud, I make a mental note to thank my mother for bathing Violet and feeding her and loving her as fiercely as I do, even if she did expose her to Wallace Mercy's righteous wrath.

  In that moment, my mind drifts to Ruth. Violet doesn't need to think that the police might grab her one day, I had said to my mother.

  But honestly, the odds of my child being a victim of mistaken identity are considerably smaller than, say, Ruth's.

  "Mommy!" Violet demands, and I realize I've inadvertently stopped reading, lost in thought.

  " 'Do you like my hat?' " I read aloud. " 'I do not.' "

  ADISA SAYS I NEED TO treat myself, so she offers to buy me lunch. We go to a little bistro that bakes its own bread, and that serves portions so large you always wind up taking home half. It's busy, so Adisa and I sit at the bar.

  I have been spending more time with my sister, which is both comforting and strange. Before, I was almost always working when I wasn't with Edison; now my schedule is empty.

  "This is nice and all," Adisa says to me, "but have you given any thought to how you gonna pay for your own lunch down the road?"

  I think about what Kennedy said yesterday about filing a civil suit. It's money, but it's money I cannot count on yet--maybe never. "I'm a little more concerned with feeding my son," I admit.

  She narrows her glance. "How much cushion you have?"

  There's no point lying to her. "About three months."

  "You know if things get tight, you can ask me for help, right?"

  At that, I can't help but smile. "Seriously? I had to give you a loan last month."

  Adisa grins. "I said you can ask me for help. I didn't say I'd be able to provide it." She shrugs. "Besides, you know there's an answer."

  What I have learned this week is that I am overqualified for nearly every entry-level administrative job in New Haven, including all open secretarial and receptionist positions. My sister believes I should file for unemployment. But I see that as dishonest, since once this is settled, I plan to go back to work. Getting a part-time job is another alternative, but I'm qualified as a nurse, and my license is suspended. So instead, I've avoided the conversation.

  "All I know is that when Tyana's boyfriend got busted for larceny and went to trial, the court date wasn't for eight months," Adisa says. "Which puts you five months in the hole. What advice did that skinny white lawyer give you?"

  "Her name is Kennedy, and we were too busy trying to figure out how I won't go to prison to discuss how I can support myself while I'm waiting for a trial date."

  Adisa snorts. "Yeah, because that kind of detail probably never occurs to someone like her."

  "You met her once," I point out. "You know nothing about her."

  "I know that people who become public defenders are doing it because morals are more important to them than money, or else they would be off making partner in the big city. Which means Miz Kennedy either has a trust fund or a sugar daddy."

  "She got me out on bail."

  "Correction: your son got you out on bail."

  I shoot Adisa a glare and turn my attention to the bartender, who is polishing glasses.

  Adisa rolls her eyes. "You don't want to talk, that's fine." She looks up at the television over the bar, on which an infomercial is playing. "Hey," she says to the bartender. "Can we watch something else?"

  "Be my guest," he says and hands her a remote control.

  A minute later, Adisa is flipping through the cable stations. She stops when she hears a familiar gospel jingle: Lord, Lord, Lord, have Mercy! And then, the camera cuts tight to Wallace Mercy, the activist. Today he is lambasting a Texas school district that had a young Muslim boy arrested after he brought a homemade clock to school to show his science teacher and it was mistakenly identified as a bomb. "Ahmed," Wallace says, "if you are listening, I want to tell you something. I want to say to all the black and brown children out there, who are afraid that they too might be misunderstood because of the color of their skin..."

  I am pretty sure Wallace Mercy used to be a preacher, but I don't think he ever got the memo that said he doesn't need to shout when he's miked on a television set.

  "I want to say that I too was once thought to be less than I was, because of how I looked. And I am not going to lie--sometimes, when the Devil is whispering doubt into my ear, I still think those people were right. But most of the time, I think, I have shown all of those bullies up. I have succeeded in spite of them. And...so will you."

  Adisa gasps. "Oh my God, Ruth, that's what you need. Wallace Mercy."

  "I am one hundred percent sure that Wallace Mercy is the last thing I need."

  "What are you talking about? Your kind of story is exactly what he lives for. Job discrimination because of race? He'll eat it up. He'll make sure everyone in the country knows you were wronged."

  On the television, Wallace is shaking a fist. "Does he have to be so mad all the time?"

  Adisa laughs. "Well, hell, girl. I'm mad all the time. I'm exhausted, just from being Black all day," she says. "At least he gives people like us a voice."

  "A loud one."

  "Exactly. Damn, Ruth, you been drinking the Kool-Aid. You been swimming with the sharks for so long, you've forgotten you're krill."

  "What?"

  "Don't sharks eat krill?"

  "They eat people."

  "This is what I'm telling you!" Adisa sighs. "White folks have spent years giving Black folks their freedom on paper, but deep down they still expect us to say yes, massuh, and be quiet and grateful for what we got. If we speak our minds we can lose our jobs, our homes, even our lives. Wallace is the man who gets to be angry for us. If it weren't for him, white folks would never know the stupid shit they do upsets us, and Black folks would get madder and madder because they can't risk talking back. Wallace Mercy is what keeps the powder keg in this country from blowing up."

  "Well, that's all very well and good, but I'm not on trial because I'm Black. I'm on trial because a baby died when I was on duty."

  Adisa smirks. "Who told you that? Your lily-white lawyer? Of course she don't think this is about race. She don't think about race, period. She don't have to."

  "Okay, well, when you get your law degree, you can advise me about this case. Until them, I'm going to take her word for it." I hesitate. "You know, for someone who hates being stereotyped, you sure as hell do it a lot yourself."

  My sister holds up her hands, a surrender. "Okay, Ruth. You're right. I'm wrong."

  "I'm just saying--so far, Kennedy McQuarrie is doing her job."

  "Her job is to rescue you so she can feel good about herself," Adisa says. "It's called a white knight for a reason." She narrows her gaze at me. "And you know what's on the other end of that color spectrum."

  I don't give her the satisfaction of a response. But we both know the answer.

  Black. The color of the villain.

  --

  I HAVE ONLY been to Christina's Manhattan home once, just after she married Larry Sawyer. It was to drop off a wedding gift, and the whole experience had been awkward. Christina and Larry had a destination wedding in Turks and Caicos, and Christina had said over and over how sorry she was that she couldn't invite all of her friends down there but instead had to limit the guest list. When she opened my present--a set of linen tea towels, screen-printed with the handwritten recipes of my mother's cookies and cakes and pies she loved most--she burst into tears and hugged me, saying that it was the most personal, thoughtful gift she'd received, and that she would use them every day.

  Now, more than ten years later, I wonder if she ever used her kitchen, much less the tea towels. The granite countertops gleam,
and in a blue glass bowl there are fresh apples that look like they've been polished. There is no evidence that a four-year-old lives anywhere nearby. I have an itch to open the double Viking oven, just to see if there's a single crumb or grease stain.

  "Please," Christina says, gesturing to one of the kitchen chairs. "Sit."

  I do, startled to find that there is soft music coming out of the wall behind me.

  "It's a speaker," she says, laughing at my face. "It's hidden."

  I wonder what it would be like to live in a place that feels like it is constantly part of a photo shoot. The Christina I used to know left a trail of destruction from the foyer to the kitchen the moment she came home from school--dropping her coat and book bag and kicking off her shoes. Just then, a woman appears so silently she might as well have emerged from the wall as well. She sets a plate of chicken salad down in front of me, and one in front of Christina.

  "Thanks, Rosa," Christina says, and I realize that she probably still drops her coat and her bags and her shoes when she comes into her house. But Rosa is her Lou. It's just a different person now who's picking up after her.

  The maid slips away again, and Christina starts talking about a hospital fundraiser and how Bradley Cooper agreed to come and then backed out at the last minute because of strep throat, and then Us Weekly photographed him that same night in a dive bar in Chelsea with his girlfriend. She is chattering so much about a topic I care nothing about that before I even finish half my salad, I realize why she's invited me here.

  "So," I interrupt. "Did you hear about it from my mom?"

  Her face falls. "No. Larry. Now that he's filed the paperwork to run for office, we have the news on twenty-four/seven." She bites her lower lip. "Was it awful?"

  A laugh bubbles up in my throat. "What part of it?"

  "Well, all of it. Getting fired. Being arrested." Her eyes grow wide. "Did you have to go to jail? Was it like Orange Is the New Black?"

  "Yeah, without the sex." I look at her. "It wasn't my fault, Christina. You have to believe me."

  She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. "I do. I do, Ruth. I hope you know that. I wanted to help you, you know. I told Larry to hire someone from his old firm to represent you."

  I freeze. I try to see this as a gesture of friendship, but it feels like I'm a problem to solve. "I...I couldn't accept that..."