Every Reasonable Doubt

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Wow, coach was making some good points. I resorted to my safety net–sarcasm. “You definitely sound like a public defender. You work this hard for child molesters, too?”

  Her eyes narrowed into thin slits. “My allegiance is to whoever’s paying the bills.”

  “Fine. But based on what we just heard in there, my gut tells me Tina may’ve actually killed her husband.”

  Neddy set her briefcase on the grass and threw up her hands. “Are you hard of hearing? I just told you it doesn’t matter. Not yet anyway. And your gut isn’t trying this case. During my first few years of practice, my gut was wrong a helluva lot more than it was right. So I learned to rely only on the facts. We don’t have any facts that conclusively tell us that Tina killed her husband. And until we do, the assumption is, she’s innocent. You have heard the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ haven’t you?”

  I hated her patronizing attitude and there was no way I was going to continue to put up with it. “I really don’t like the way you talk to me,” I said. “How in the hell are we going to handle this case with this kind of working relationship? I don’t have an issue with you and I don’t understand why you have one with me.”

  She locked her arms across her chest. “I don’t have an issue with you.”

  “Judging from that scowl pasted on your face every damn day of the week, I would think you had an issue with the entire world.”

  Neddy looked like she wanted to hit me. My body stiffened and my chest protruded in a way that said “go ahead.” I was wearing the most expensive Anne Klein suit I owned and I’d just gotten a touch-up and a cinnamon rinse, but if we had to roll around in the grass to set things straight, sometimes a sister’s gotta do what a sister’s gotta do.

  When I saw Neddy’s right arm extend toward me, I tried to duck, but she managed to reach behind me, throw her arm across my shoulder, and pull me close to her. I tried to pull away, but she had me snagged in a vicelike grip. So now she was trying to hug me? She must be schizophrenic.

  When I heard a voice from the rear, I understood.

  “Is everything okay out there?” Tina called out to us. She was poking her head out of a set of double doors that had to be two stories high. We must’ve looked like a pair of unhappy Siamese twins.

  “We’re just fine,” Neddy said smiling, her fingers clamped tightly around my shoulder. “We were just out here strategizing. Sorry if we made too much noise.”

  “No, not at all,” Tina said. “I just walked by the window and saw you two standing there. It’s good to know I have such hardworking attorneys on my team.”

  “We’re a team all right,” I said, looking over at Neddy, my body as stiff as a two-by-four. I wrapped my free hand around her waist and mimicked the fake smile pasted across her lips.

  “Well, we better get going,” I said, untangling myself from my new archenemy. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I was seated in my favorite booth at my regular neighborhood hangout, the T.G.I. Friday’s restaurant owned by Magic Johnson in the Ladera Center, waiting for my best friend to arrive. After my verbal sparring match with Neddy three hours earlier, I desperately needed some bonding time with my homegirl.

  The restaurant was usually packed on Friday nights and tonight was no exception. I waved when I saw Special walk in. She flashed me a big smile and pranced over.

  Exactly two seconds after giving me a quick hug and sliding into the booth, she let me have it. “Okay, girlfriend, I know you’re my homegirl and everything, but I have to tell you the truth. The next time you’re going to be in the media spotlight, you have to make sure your gear is tight.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I said.

  “This!” She slapped three newspaper articles about the Hayes trial on the table. “That suit is not happening. You’ve got at least a dozen suits in your closet that look a whole lot better than that. Were the lights out when you pulled that bland thing out of your closet?”

  I reached across the table and picked up one of the articles. The photo showed David and me outside the courtroom right after the verdict. “I know you’re not bagging on my favorite suit,” I said. “I look fabulous. Don’t hate.”

  “Please!” Special said, screwing up her face like she had just sucked on a lemon. “I don’t see nothing about that suit that should make it your favorite. You need to take a good two inches off the hem. My mama wears skirts shorter than that.” She took the article from me and replaced it with another one. “Now, in this one, your hair looks good, but I still have to convince you to try some highlights.”

  All I could do was laugh. Special always made me laugh. There were three things Special was one hundred percent serious about: fashion, men in general, and men with money. She had a model-thin frame with healthy curves in all the right places and flawless cream-colored skin. Today, she donned a purple chiffon blouse and a pair of black leather pants so tight it looked as if they had been painted onto her legs. Her hair was pulled back into a long, fake cherry-blond ponytail. No telling what color it would be next week. At 5’9”, she was an inch taller than me.

  A woman walked by, stopped, then glanced back as if she recognized me but couldn’t place my face.

  “Girl, you’re famous!” Special squealed. “That woman probably saw you on the six o’clock news. You were damn near on every channel. You’re ‘bout to blow up. Oooooh, and what if you get a TV show like Star Jones?”

  I had absolutely no desire to host a TV show and Special knew that. When I first left my old law firm Brandon & Bass, I had only wanted a break from the demanding pace of corporate litigation. I felt the much smaller O’Reilly & Finney would offer me that, as well as a realistic shot at partnership. But with the Hayes trial under my belt, I had to admit that the thrill of victory left me itching to get back into the ring for another big win, despite the toll it would take on my body and my marriage. It was just too bad my new case had me teamed up with Neddy.

  I wanted to tell Special about my new client, but she could only keep a secret if you locked her in a closet until you were ready to reveal it. So instead, I shared my other news.

  “Jefferson bought me a present,” I said.

  “I have to call that boy and tell him he’s spoiling you so much you’re not going to be good for any other man,” she said with feigned envy.

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “Yeah. Too bad I’m not the one being spoiled.” She took a sip from her water glass. “So what lavish gift did Mr. Ideal Husband give you this time? A trip to the Bahamas, a diamond necklace?”

  “Nope,” I said. “An ovulation kit.”

  Special tilted her head to the side. “That brother trying to tell you it’s time to make some babies?”

  “Yep.”

  “You feeling him?”

  I picked up the menu even though I already knew I wanted the Jack Daniel’s shrimp. “Nope.”

  “So, what did you say?”

  “Nothing. He was so excited and proud of himself, there was no way I could tell him I wasn’t quite ready for motherhood.”

  She grabbed the menu out of my hands. “What’re you looking at that for? You order the same damn thing every time we come here. So what are you going to do?”

  “Hell if I know. I bet the minute I go off birth control, little Jefferson will be pounding on the door of my womb trying to get out.”

  She looked confused. “But I thought you wanted children.”

  “I do, but not nine months from now. I at least want to wait until I make partner.”

  “Ah shoot, here we go.” Special folded her arms. “Let’s not start that mess all over again. You nearly lost Jefferson slaving away at your last firm trying to make partner. I thought you had your priorities in order? Your eggs aren’t getting any younger, you know.”

  “O’Reilly & Finney is nothing like Brandon & Bass. Except for when I’m in trial, I don’t work nearly as hard. And the managing partner thinks I
’m God’s gift to the law. I’m going to make it this time.”

  Her eyes scolded me. “Girl, you need to keep your eyes on the prize and the prize is your sexy-ass husband, not partnership. Besides, it’s about time for me to be a God-mommy.”

  I could always count on Special to give it to me straight. Since our freshman year at USC, we had been joined at the hip, drawn together by the many similarities in our lives. Both first-generation college students and only children, no matter where we went, we were usually the tallest women in the room.

  Unlike me, however, Special’s stint at USC did not survive freshman year. A direct consequence of her intense preoccupation with the opposite sex–primarily athletes–rather than any particular course of study. Special dropped out and went to work for Telecredit, where she eventually became a supervisor. Somehow the separation strengthened our friendship. She was always on hand to help me type a paper, make a late-night library run, or ply me with coffee and No Doze during finals.

  I fumbled with my napkin and pondered my predicament. “Like I said, I do want kids. I just need to work out the timing. But if I tell Jefferson I want to wait a while, I know he’s going to go off.”

  “Well, let me give you some advice.” She twisted her lips and cocked her head to the side. Special handed out advice so often she could have rented a couch and charged for it. “Just don’t tell that brother partnership is the reason you’re stalling. That would be déjà vu for him. He loves your ass, but if I were him, I wouldn’t play second fiddle to your career twice and I don’t think he will. Getting pregnant might be a good thing. Anyway, you don’t want to be showing up for the first day of kindergarten with gray hair and crow’s-feet.”

  I chuckled sadly. “That’s Jefferson’s argument.”

  When the waitress arrived, Special ordered a Long Island iced tea, a cup of clam chowder, the Cajun fried chicken salad, and the strawberry cheesecake. Special always ordered her dessert up front. She ate like a linebacker and didn’t have an ounce of fat to show for it.

  “Anyway, I might have another big case, and it would be stupid for me to get pregnant until it’s resolved.”

  Special’s eyes lit up. She loved hearing about my cases. “I’m so happy you represent the good guys every now and then. Who’s the racist, sexist corporation you’re going after this time?”

  “It’s not an employment case and I can’t talk about it right now. But it could be extremely high profile.”

  “Really?” Special leaned her head in closer to mine and lowered her voice. “C’mon, tell me. I won’t tell anybody.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ve heard you tell that lie before. You’ll have to read about it in the newspapers just like everybody else.”

  “Aw, c’mon,” Special said, pretending to pout, “pretty please.”

  “Nope,” I said firmly. “So stop begging and let’s just change the subject. What’s up with you? Have you gone out with that guy you met at La Lousanne? What’s his name? Derek?”

  She huffed loudly. “Girl, that brother’s history.”

  “Special, you just met the guy a week ago. What happened?”

  “I must have drank too much that night ‘cause when I got a look at him in daylight he was tore up from the floor up,” she said, dramatically rolling her eyes. “And on top of that he had no class, no money and now, no mo’ dates with my ass.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Special had more dates than any woman I knew. Unfortunately, no man was ever good enough for her. “So you’re manless again?”

  “Girl, please. You know me better than that. It’s a poor rat that ain’t got but one hole to go to. I’ve always got some backup.” She picked up a chip of ice from her water glass and began crunching on it. “Anyway, I think I’ve figured out what I’ve been doing wrong when it comes to men.”

  “Oh, that’s an interesting admission,” I said. “I never knew you felt you were doing anything wrong. So let’s hear it.”

  The waitress sat my Diet Coke and Special’s Long Island iced tea on the table. Special stirred her drink with a spoon then took a sip.

  “I’ve been dating guys with the wrong name,” she said.

  “What?”

  She looked me dead in the eyes. “I’m not dating any more brothers whose names begin with D.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Special has said some bizarre stuff before, but this topped the list.

  “It just came to me last night. Eight of the last ten guys I’ve dated have names that begin with D. That’s too many to be just a coincidence. Think about it. Even your cousin Donald, with his fine-ass self, fell into that category. And then there was Daniel, David, Donnell, Damarco, Deke, and that fool I just went out with, Derek.”

  “That’s only seven.”

  “Well, Ronald, that Carson sheriff’s deputy, technically counts because everybody calls him Dap.”

  I still didn’t get it. “Excuse me for being dense, but I don’t understand why the letter D is a problem.”

  Special rolled her eyes. “You can think up more negative words that begin with the letter D than any other letter in the alphabet.”

  I picked up her drink and looked inside. “Somebody must’ve spiked this thing with something besides alcohol because what you just said is nuts.”

  “I’m serious,” she said, taking her drink back. “Think about it. Death, divorce, danger, disaster. They all begin with the letter D.”

  “Special, a lot of negative words begin with other letters, too. Not just D.”

  “Yeah, but not as many begin with D. We would be here for days if we tried to list them all. Discipline, darkness, damnation, devil, dying, disgusted. I fell asleep last night trying to count them. And when I got up this morning and looked in the dictionary, it only confirmed my theory.”

  I still refused to believe she was serious. “That’s why you think your relationships haven’t worked out?” I said, laughing. “You really believe what you’re saying?”

  “Laugh if you want to, but I’m as serious as a heart attack.” She pulled a pen from her purse and started jotting down more words on her napkin. “Diarrhea, disease, depression, disability.”

  I laughed even harder.

  “It ain’t funny. My theory makes complete sense.”

  She continued to scribble down every negative D word she could think up. “Defective, dysfunctional, diabetic, diaper rash, drug dealer, donuts.”

  “Donuts?”

  “Yeah, donuts. Do you know how many fat grams there are in one of them little tiny-ass Krispy Kreme donuts? About a zillion. That’s a helluva negative.”

  I just stared at her, shaking my head. “Special, please don’t repeat this to anybody else.”

  “Laugh if you want to, but I’m not going out with another brother whose name begins with D. I might even extend it to men with the letter D anywhere in their damn name.”

  I looked around the restaurant. “Okay,” I said, spotting an attractive catch sitting at the bar, “if that cutie pie over there in the beige T-shirt with the huge biceps wanted to get with you and his name happened to be Dean, you’re telling me you’d refuse to go out with him?”

  Special glanced at the man and turned up her nose. “Please! You know I ain’t feeling that brother. He’s hella blight. I need me a big chocolate buck.”

  Blight was Special’s nickname for black men with light skin. Even though the guy we were looking at was a good two shades darker than she was, he wasn’t even close to the hue she preferred.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “How could I forget how color struck you are?” I scanned the rest of the bar area. “Okay, what about that charcoal-colored stud over there in those black jeans?”

  “Well…” Special squirmed in her seat as she checked him out.

  “Well, what?” I said, demanding an answer.

  “I might have to make an exception for really, really fine-ass men.”

  We both cracked up.

  The waitress showed up with our food
and we took a break to enjoy it.

  “So,” Special said, between bites, “what’re you going to do about your little motherhood dilemma?”

  I shrugged. “For right now, I’m just hoping that case I told you about disappears. If it doesn’t, there’s no way I can get pregnant right away.”

  “Have you told Jefferson about the case yet?”

  “Do I look crazy?” I said.

  Special raised an eyebrow. “Naw, you don’t look crazy. But, if you ask me, if you choose that damn law firm over your man, you might as well be.”

  CHAPTER 8

  My conversation with Special weighed heavily on my mind all weekend. She was right. I could not afford to keep putting my career above my marriage. Especially not over a case that was bound to be a miserable experience for me anyway. Just after noon on Monday, without allowing time for reconsideration, I marched straight into O’Reilly’s office to do what I had to do, regardless of the impact it would have on my career.

  O’Reilly was sitting at a small, circular table across from his desk reading the Wall Street Journal and munching on one of two foot-long Subway sandwiches spread out before him. The room smelled of onions and pickles. His suit jacket hung over the arm of an adjacent chair and his tie was thrown backward over his shoulder. He had one shoe off and I could see that his sock was badly worn at the heel. O’Reilly’s wacky socks were his trademark. The ones he was wearing at the moment were black with bright orange squares.

  I walked in, closed the door behind me, and took a seat directly across from him. “Lunch at your desk again?” I teased. “You’re working too hard.”

  He smiled. “Have to set the right example for the troops.”

  I liked the fact that I felt comfortable talking to O’Reilly about almost anything. He was raised in a predominantly black working-class neighborhood in Detroit not much different from where I had grown up in Compton. That upbringing had given him a comfort level with a whole mix of folks. He may’ve had his own racial biases, but I hadn’t picked up on any.