I flip through my Rolodex, looking for Legal Aid’s number.
“Have you got a job? You might qualify for Le gal Services. If you do, they don’t charge anything.”
There is a certain dignity in the posture and voice of this girl as she replies stiffly, “They turned me down.
They say they don’t take every case even if you’re eligible financially.”
Super. Legal Aid won’t even take it. A tab marking the beginning of the “L’s” snaps off in my hand. Cheap crap, formerly county property. I took the Rolodex with me when I left the Public Defender’s Office, rationalizing my theft with the thought that few persons would want the telephone numbers of some of the women I dated right after Rosa’s death.
“Are you on AFDC?” I ask, picking up a confetti-size piece of plastic and dropping it in my wastepaper basket as if I want to impress this girl that I am some kind of neatness freak. Accident or not, the public will pay a fortune for the care of this child. Medicaid, I suppose. What did the state of Arkansas do before Lyndon Johnson was President?
“I get a little,” she admits, “but my caseworker said it’ll be stopped. And I’ve been waitressing off and on at D.Y.”s since I was sixteen.”
“The place on the interstate to Memphis?” I ask, surprised.
Could this plain, almost country-looking girl be a hooker? D.Y.”s makes it into the news from time to time for general rowdiness and an occasional drug bust. Clan told me just a couple of weeks ago he used to eat free at D.Y.”s for a period of time during which he represented some prostitutes who operated out of there. Maybe Gina has us confused. If so, I need some serious work. Clan is obese and his thinning hair in the last couple of years has gone squirrel gray.
“It’s not as wild as people think,” Gina says loyally.
“And the food’s great. You can ask Mr. Bailey.”
Shit! I should have known. I was going to dump her on Clan and he beat me to it. No wonder Julia set this up.
Now is the time I ought to run her off. Yet, I remember from my many years as a caseworker, few lawyers in Blackwell County know anything about juvenile court (Clan included) or have the desire to learn, since there is no money in it. I pull a legal pad from the right-hand desk drawer and realize to my dismay that Julia has gotten white tablets again. They’re cheaper, she says. Probably better for the environment, too, but after yellow, a white tablet is like trying to write on a neon sign.
“How many times have you been convicted of prostitution?” I ask bluntly, sore that Clan is punting this one without even asking me.
“Never!” she says emphatically.
“Mr. Bailey has got me off twice. He would have helped me, but he says you’re the real expert in this area.”
Child abuse defense attorney-a charming specialty, one I’m sure that will lead its practitioner to the upper echelons of Blackwell County’s legal elite. I begin to make some notes.
“He means I used to work for the Division of Children and Family Services. Actually,” I say, hoping this girl will take the hint, “I’ve never tried a case as a lawyer in juvenile court. ““That okay,” Gina assures me, crossing her long legs, her best feature.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence, I think. Clan, you owe me one.
“How much money do you have?”
“Two hundred dollars in cash,” she says, and begins to reach into her purse, a scarred black piece of plastic junk that wouldn’t find a buyer at the lowliest garage sale.
Feeling the beginning of a dull headache, I massage my forehead. Will private practice always be this pathetic?
After two years I ought to be attracting a better clientele. Every time I think I’m about to break through to another level, I endure a dry spell or wallow around with cases like Gina Whitehall’s. Just say no, I think, but she looks so vulnerable and young I can’t bring myself to turn her down. Knowing I could get stuck out at juvenile court for most of a day, I say gruffly, “I’ll need at least a thousand.”
Knowing she’s hooked me, she reaches into her wallet and peels off four fifty-dollar bills and lays them on my desk. Her business is strictly cash and carry.
“I’ll pay the rest before trial.”
I grab up the bills and slip them into my wallet. Now at least I won’t have to stop at the bank before I leave for Fayetteville.
“I’m just signing on for the juvenile court case,” I say pointedly.
“If you get charged with anything in criminal court, you’re on your own.”
She nods, and as I watch her read through my standard retainer agreement, I realize I am being paid with the earnings she receives as a prostitute. I wonder who her customers are. Mostly truckers probably, but who knows? As innocent and natural as she looks, she might attract a diverse group of customers.
For the next forty-five minutes I get as much information as I can. At least she has brought the petition and the affidavit of the caseworker, a woman by the name of Sheila Younger. Based on the allegations of the department, it is clear that the case will turn on the opinion of a burn expert. The documents recite in water at a temperature of 140 degrees from the faucet the child would need to have been exposed only about five seconds to receive full and partial thickness burns over forty percent of her body. The mother’s story that the child was left briefly in the tub is considered inconsistent with the evidence, obviously a reference to the medical opinion of a doctor at St. Thomas, where the child was taken by ambulance. As an artfully drawn complaint, the petition leaves a lot to be desired, but since a probable cause hearing has already been held, there is little to do now but go forward.
“Were you having some problems toilet training Glenetta?” I ask at the end of the interview, still hoping this girl will level with me. She wouldn’t be the first parent in Blackwell County to have decided to teach her child a lesson for soiling her pants, “She’s real good about that,” Gina says, as if the child were playing quietly in the next room. If the judge will listen to her, Gina, with a little work, should do reasonably well on the witness stand. Many parents in abuse or neglect cases are their own worst enemies, floundering hopelessly as witnesses in a system that seems to entrap them even as it promises to help rehabilitate their families.
Wise beyond her years to the game that is being played, this girl knows she is being watched and has visited the child in the hospital at every opportunity. I would prefer to believe she is motivated by her concern and love for her child, but all the same it is nice to have a client who knows the clock is still running.
“What about Glenetta’s father?” I ask, suspecting this will be futile.
A sardonic smile coming to her unpainted, pouty shaped lips, Gina looks at me as if I had asked whether her wedding announcement will be in the society pages.
“I don’t think a convicted car thief with a cocaine problem is going to be the answer to my prayers.”
I grunt noncommittally, putting my pen down and pushing my chair back from my desk. Most of the time, the practice of law is about as exciting as looking a name up in the phone book. I have fired blank after blank with questions about her parents (estranged since she announced she was pregnant, they sent Glenetta a card on her birthday) and friends (off-and-on prostitutes who supplement their income with tips waitressing at D.Y.”s or vice versa). One normal witness testifying with a straight face that she would nominate Gina as the Mother of the Year would be nice, but, as is typical with most of my criminal defendants, I expect there will not be a long line of dignitaries waiting outside the courtroom to testify that a model citizen is being hounded by the American judicial system. This case is a long shot at best.
“Nothing is more stressful,” I say, “than trying to raise a child by yourself with no help and very little money. If you were maxed out that day and held your baby down in the water out of frustration, it’s understandable.” She opens her mouth to speak, and I raise my hand to keep her from interrupting.
“If you go into court and admit how strung out you were that day and agree to attend parenting classes and get counseling, I think there’s a decent shot you might get her back some day. The intent of the law is to rehabilitate families, not split them up.”
Gina clutches the tissue in her hand.
“But it was an accident!” she exclaims.
