by Kia Corthron
“No.” His face warm. “Of course I. I said ‘I’ but I meant—”
“Glad to hear it, because you’d be delusional, pardon me, certifiably insane if you thought a Northern Negro attorney could come down here and fly solo on this one.” She rests her elbow on the table, the side of her face gently leaning into the L of her index finger and thumb. “It will be your case, your team’s, not mine. So petition for the habeas if you wish, if you can get your partners on board. As I say, there’s a good chance you’ll be in the initial round facing Sawyer on that one, and when he refuses you can go to the state supreme court, and when they refuse you can go to the U.S. Supreme Court, with the boys all the while languishing behind bars. I will be right there, cheerfully hitting the law library for any research you need, cheerleading you and Diana and Steven Netherton all the way, wishing Godspeed for your success. But should you fail. It will be quite late in the day then, Mr. Campbell, to beg Judge Sawyer for mercy.”
The fourteen-year-old in the family suddenly belts out “Say you will!” in accompaniment with Jackie Wilson’s tenor plea. She is promptly smacked on the arm by her mother.
“Eliot,” he says, an assent to drop the formalities.
Didi smiles. “Eliot.” She opens her briefcase fully so that he can see inside. Two small chocolate bunnies. “Technically they’re contraband, but I trust you can keep a secret. I’m going to slip them to the boys when I see them today.” Eliot stares at her, then looks at the children across the restaurant, and then at the counter, for the first time noticing a plate of colored eggs in a nest. “Oh my God, you’re such a Northern heathen! You didn’t realize Sunday’s Easter? Why do you think the kids are out of school? It’s Maundy Thursday!”
The waitress brings the food and sets it in front of them, then walks away. Eliot inspects his grits, the recommendation of his breakfast companion, not quite sure if they are what he had had in mind. Didi nearly falls off her chair laughing. “Welcome to Down Home, my friend. Oh, and if you ever again ask a waitress if they make hash browns in that damn Northern accent, I’ll have to slap you. Yankee mess!” as she sloshes her biscuits around in her gravy.
8
“You must be Mr. Campbell.”
Eliot steps back, confused by the gray-haired white man, no taller than himself, who has opened the door.
“I’m Sol Rubin, Diana’s father.”
“Mr. Campbell!” Ten feet behind Sol, at the foot of the stairs, a young woman smiles. Pretty, petite, black hair and eyes.
“You broke one of the sacred laws of the South,” Diana says when the two are alone in the “drawing room.” “A Negro coming through a white person’s front door.”
“Oh,” Eliot says, looking back vaguely in the direction of his entrance, trying to remember whether this was a part of Winston’s top ten Dixieland dos and don’ts. Diana laughs.
“If I didn’t want you to break that law, I would have warned you. It’s nothing dangerous in broad daylight, given that everyone on the street could see I was expecting you. And I guarantee you they were looking, peeking behind their blinds. Always suspicious of their Hebrew neighbors.”
“You grew up in this house?”
“I did.”
“Your neighbors have always known you.”
“Yes, my entire twenty-six years. My father was born and raised in this town, you might have thought by now he would have graduated to their neighbor rather than their Jewish neighbor. He went to Philadelphia for school, met my Philly native mother during his residency. Doctor, nurse. He persuaded her to move here with him. He should have been a lawyer.”
“Do you plan on staying?”
“Heavens no! I’m getting married in July, moving to Sacramento. Are you married, Mr. Campbell?”
“No.” He suddenly realizes he had forgotten to put the penny in the pocket of his pants this morning. Andi had found it on the ground as they strolled to her apartment the evening before he traveled South, Lincoln’s shiny profile. “Heads. Good luck,” she had said before she gave it to him.
“I do plan on continuing law, my fiancé and I are both preparing for the California bar. I certainly didn’t study all these years just to spend my days arguing the virtues of Comet versus Ajax!”
A Negro maid of about forty appears with a tray: coffee, petits fours. A childhood image flashes through Eliot’s mind—his mother ironing in Miss Idie’s house.
“Thank you, Bertie.” Bertie must have noted Eliot’s glance but leaves without ever meeting his eyes.
“Thus far I’ve only passed Illinois so we will both have to motion for a pro hac vice to practice here.”
“And you worked for a firm in Chicago?” Eliot asks carefully, taking a sip.
“Oh I’m afraid I’ve had some trouble this past year securing work, firms can be damned prejudiced against women. So. This case is my first!” Something in Eliot’s pupils deflates Diana’s broad grin. “You’re disappointed, Mr. Campbell.”
“No.”
“Were you under the impression I had more experience?”
“Well. Miss Wilcox—”
“Didi’s a scream! She was a year behind me but we became fast friends. I spent a week with her and her family one summer, lovely people.”
“There was little time between my late breakfast with Miss Wilcox and now for me to peruse the paperwork she handed me. Still in my glance I was impressed by your academic accomplishments. And I did note one professional appointment. An internship?” He takes another sip, noting how his presumed legal partner’s physical energy seems more akin to sixteen than twenty-six.
“Are you going to fire me, Mr. Campbell?” She is half smiling but he detects the vaguest worry, pout, beneath her words.
“Miss Rubin. After I graduated and passed the bar—”
“Both in record time!”
“My first appointment as an attorney, as you probably know from my CV, was to assist a former professor in his efforts toward mandating equal pay for colored and white janitors in Baltimore. Just an assistant, research and paperwork, no real responsibility. His office could scarcely afford me part-time, well, to pay me part-time regardless of my workload, and I was happy to oblige. But it was understood I was looking for a full-time salaried position. I worked there five months before being offered the job in Indianapolis last March. A firm I have greatly admired for its political rights record, but. As a young lawyer, my thirteen months there have been entirely devoted to divorce settlements, probate disputes, accident claims. Until now. I have been familiarizing myself with Georgia law but I.” He sets his cup down. “To be perfectly honest, I’m a bit concerned that the cumulative experience of yours and mine will add up to a rather big zero for little Jordan and Max.”
“No, Mr. Campbell, I don’t believe that at all! We are both smart, and driven. And we have Mr. Netherton! Did you have a chance to look at his résumé?”
“Briefly.”
“Well then you know! Steven Netherton is a very capable attorney. And a white male Protestant who grew up here, exceedingly useful!” A grandfather clock indicates half past the hour. “Mr. Campbell. I hope you don’t think I’m some silly naïve girl. I’m very much aware of the gravity of the situation, I would not suggest we go through with this if I did not think we were ready. And besides. I worry what alternatives, if any, the boys would have if we pulled out.”
“Perhaps they’d get a more experienced team.”
“And perhaps they wouldn’t. The parents certainly have received their share of rejections.” She picks up her cup and saucer, sitting back in her chair. “I presume you are not here because there’s a lull in your civil work and you need something to fill the time. I would guess this is more in line with what you had in mind when you went to law school, but of course it doesn’t quite sink in until you are in it, the reality of criminal law, the stakes that could not be higher: a pers
on’s life in your hands. Of course the juvenile court is technically civil, but what’s the difference if we’re talking about a client being deprived of his liberty for the next fourteen years? So we accept this responsibility, are aware of that responsibility our every waking working moment. Otherwise we just get out of the whole thing and stick to accident claims.” She sips. “If we’re going to do it, then we must commit. We have to decide, given all the circumstances, the best possible outcome for the boys, then work toward that goal confidently. Optimistically.” Her eyes peek over her cup at him.
He holds her gaze a moment before speaking. “The goal I would be working toward.” He pauses to prepare himself for her inevitable shock. “Habeas.”
“Habeas corpus, yes! Just before you came Didi rang to tell me. Now that is optimism!”
“And?”
She puts her cup down and leans forward. “We should be candid, Mr. Campbell?”
“Please.”
“I was a bit terrified.” A soft giggle. “Didi and I didn’t get to talk long, she just relayed to me the basics. And we hung up, and I pictured some arrogant bully whisking in here, demanding to run things, gunning for his own Supreme Court glory. That is not the impression you have made on me, Mr. Campbell. I don’t know you at all, but I’m a pretty good judge of character. I think we could work well together. I am willing, eager to go on this journey with you.”
Some neighborhood children beyond the screened window. “One potato two potato three potato four.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Eliot says, and while his tone is controlled, she senses an incredible relief.
“Now. With regard to my judge of character. Some people—” She takes a bite of cake, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Some people may not be especially. Genial. But they possess other necessary qualities, enough so as to encourage a compromise. Mr. Netherton.” Taking another nibble. “Mr. Netherton and I talked very briefly over the phone, he said he’d rather discuss things face to face. In just three years since law school, his CV has become impressively packed. He has taken on a lot of clients other attorneys refused, this won’t be his first race case! So we are very fortunate to have Mr. Netherton! The attorney.” She absently crumbles the remaining cake in her fingers. “Regarding Mr. Netherton, the man. There are one or two, oh Mr. Campbell, your coffee is getting cold!”
“There are one or two.”
“It seems that occasionally. Occasionally Mr. Netherton has been known to drink a bit much. I do not believe this has affected his professionalism, I’ve only met the man once myself, but I have heard from very trustworthy sources that he has never missed a court date! Still I thought you should be alerted as it’s something you and I may notice while we are all working together.”
Eliot takes a sip, sets the cup back on its saucer, and places the saucer on the table. “What else?”
“Well.” She drains her cup, then refills. She takes the prong, picks up a sugar cube, and plops it in. Another cube. Another. Another. “Not to be redundant but, yes, it is very auspicious that we have working with us not only a white Protestant man but a local white Protestant man.” She stirs the sugar rapidly, the cup clinking. “So you must understand, Mr. Netherton is a man of the South. Which means—”
“Another gentleman for you.”
Diana stares at Bertie in the doorway, then looks at the clock. “Already?”
Laughing and talking as Mr. Rubin and the guest approach.
“Hello!”
Diana and Eliot stand to greet the newcomer, a white man with premature hair thinning and twinkling, mischievous blue eyes.
“Mr. Netherton! You’re early!”
“I hope that is not a problem.”
“I should think your promptness would be a perfect start to a fine working relationship,” her father asserts, smiling broadly. “Diana, I thought I recognized the name. We have a cousin in common! You attorneys are distant relations.”
“By marriage only, Mr. Rubin. A fourth cousin on my side and, I believe, a third on yours.”
“Well!” says Diana. And after another moment, “Well!” Her smile outrageously huge.
“And this,” Sol continues, “is Eliot Campbell.” The younger men shake.
“I am told your alma mater is Lincoln University, Mr. Campbell.”
“It is.”
“Appears to have some reputation. A colored university with graduates arguing cases before the Supreme Court. And shaking up our South!”
“Mr. Marshall is a fine lawyer!” Diana chimes in.
“Oh I wager Mr. Marshall will one day sit on the Supreme Court, if there ever will be such a time and place for a Negro. Do you agree, Mr. Campbell?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“And I do believe it was his work that integrated your own law school, was it not? The University of Maryland?”
Eliot nods. “Murray versus Pearson.”
“Mr. Netherton, please forgive me, I have not even shaken your hand yet.”
“Well you seemed rather caught off guard by my punctuality, Miss Rubin. I hope you two weren’t speaking ill of me when I walked in.”
“Of course not!”
“Bertie, maybe you can refresh the coffeepot. And Mr. Netherton, may I offer you anything stronger?”
“Thank you, Mr. Rubin, but I would very much be obliged for just a tall glass of ice water. This kind of heat in April does not bode well for the coming season.” Bertie takes the pot and exits.
“Mr. Campbell also declined my offer,” remarks Sol. “A roomful of teetotaling attorneys.”
Steven Netherton chuckles, his smile intimating some private joke. “I have been called a lot of things, Mr. Rubin, but ‘teetotaling’? That is a first.”
“I am so sorry about my rudeness before, Mr. Netherton,” Diana apologizes when the attorneys are alone. “I was just confused, not expecting you until two.”
“Think nothing of it. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rubin. Or shall I say ‘Cousin Diana.’”
“We have met before, Mr. Netherton, though you may not recall. The Larsons’ Christmas party.”
“Oh. Parties! When the cocktails are complimentary, who remembers anything later. Now! If we all agree to carry through with this diabolical plan, we shall be spending a lot of time together in the coming weeks so I suggest we hereby dispense with the formalities. May I call you ‘Eliot’?”
“Please.”
“And I’m Diana!”
“And I’m Steven. Plain old Steven, an old man of nearly thirty who did not get my law degree at twenty-five and make the bar on my first try like my esteemed colleagues in this room.”
“Eliot passed at twenty-three!”
“Nearly twenty-four. My birthday’s late.”
“And you, Steven, are being modest. You have already built a reputable career, the courage to take on so many cases other lawyers wouldn’t touch.”
“Yes, Diana was just expounding on our good fortune that you are considering being part of our team.”
“Eliot and I have our passion and drive, and you bring your experience. I imagine we will have much to learn from you.”
Steven, who had been glancing between the two of them with a detached amusement, now laughs heartily. “Well! I don’t remember playing instructor to anyone since I taught my younger brother how to mix wine and beer without bringing it back up.” He snaps open his briefcase, taking out a file. Bertie enters, setting the ice water in front of him and replacing the coffeepot. “Then let this unstoppable legal team get right down to the business of freeing those fast little pickaninnies!”
“More petits fours?” asks Bertie, holding up the near empty dish. Diana stares at her agape, then turns to Eliot, who replies.
“No thank you.”
The maid turns to the white man.
&nb
sp; “Oh none for me. Trying to keep the weight down!” as he pats his faintly round tummy. Bertie leaves. Steven peruses a newspaper clipping. “Now. Between what Diana told me over the phone and according to the Red Bank Sentinel, our local bulletin of record, the incident occurred on Thursday the 31st of March, two weeks ago today, and the boys were given their disposition orders on—” He has looked up and is surprised to see the others staring at him. “Yes?”
“Steven!” Diana laughs. Now Steven stares. “‘Pickaninnies’?”
Steven appears confused, then turns to Eliot. “Well what do you call them?”
“Eliot.” Diana takes a breath. “Steven Netherton is a man of the South. As such, there are certain words. They may seem insensitive to you, but down here. They are often regarded, by some, as neutral—”
“I would ask that you not speak for me, Diana.”
“Steven, you must see from Eliot’s point of view—”
“I am a lawyer. I believe after practicing law in the state of Georgia for three years I have at least earned the right to defend myself in a drawing room conversation.”
“Look,” says Eliot.
“What’s wrong with ‘pickaninny’? Pickaninnies are cute little darkies.”
“Steven—”
“Oh can it, Diana, I did not just emerge from a cave. I know the preferred term is ‘colored.’ No, knee-grow. The nicest word I grew up saying was ‘Nigra,’ which will be the same with the appellate judges we are to face in the capital, and believe me the good people of Atlanta will not be so welcoming given the entire state of Georgia has been indicted by the international press, the constituency demanding those uppity little boys stay locked up at least until adulthood. And they are the constituency, Georgia appellate judges are elected, and if they want to get re-elected they very well may find it expedient to appease the cracker masses. If I’m going to be a part of this, I will not be made to feel uncomfortable every time I open my mouth in a private colloquy with the two of you. I could train myself to say what’s proper in Mr. Campbell’s presence, but quite frankly we don’t have time for that and, more to the point, those little boys don’t have time for that. If either of you are disturbed by my manner of expression, please speak now and I will gladly leave. Go find yourself a Northern white liberal attorney, yes, we’ll see how far that gets you. With the sensationalism of this case, we will undoubtedly be called upon to make statements to the press. The men and women who’ll stand outside the courtroom waiting for those accounts, or who will read about them in the paper the next day. I know all those white folks, if not personally then let’s say we are all of a kindred spirit, and I can guarantee you they will not be impressed if I start putting on airs, speaking in all the Yankee-sanctioned vernacular, and neither will our panel of judges who are merely a J.D. removed from the horde. And perhaps I should reiterate here, Cousin Diana, that you and I are kin only through marriage. Make no mistake: my lineage is one hundred percent Protestant. And the men of the appellate court we need to persuade and I are of like blood and like minds and you may as well know now that, for the most part, I agree with them. Our common grievances regarding all the changes suddenly being thrust upon our states. I am very conflicted on the subject of school integration, and I am categorically opposed to miscegenation. But to send children this small to the youth penal colony. Well it’s absurd. Esteemed fellow members of our potential legal team, I would submit that I, if any of us, would have the trust of those judges, enough that they may actually also come round to seeing the absurdity of it all. But! Whether or not those judges see my name on the briefs. Up to you.” And with one long, luxurious swallow Steven downs the ice water, then sets the glass on the table. Diana looks to Eliot. Her hand clutches her knee, white knuckles.
