irritation slightly soothed by his contrite tone. “That’s what I said. Because when one is currently on the docket for possession of marijuana, one must keep their nose clean until the plea bargain has been negotiated.” I stopped pacing the floor. “But here we are, at the county jail, just days later.” I waved my hands in the air. “I could’ve gotten you off easy with a plea bargain. Probation for maybe a year, and if you’d played nice, we could’ve had the misdemeanor stricken off your record. But, Mr. Porter, you’re making it hard for me to do my job when you get locked up for assault.”
“I’m not one of those guys, Ms. Njeri. I’m not a criminal,” he whispered. His voice sounded hoarse and earnest.
I settled into the chair in front of him. “Then who are you?”
“I’m a husband, a father. A son, a . . . a brother. And when my little sister stumbles into the house, shirt torn, lip busted by her deadbeat boyfriend, it’s my job as a big brother to make sure that idiot knows she is protected. And that she’s loved and is to be cherished.” His chocolate eyes were determined. He showed no remorse.
I wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand. Scratch that, I wanted to give him a hug. I knew he was a good guy with extremely bad luck.
“I know you aren’t a criminal, Desmond. I get why you did what you did, but I . . . sometimes you need to take a step back and think of an alternative. Like calling the cops on the guy instead of going to his house.” I balled up my hands and lifted them. “And using your fists.”
His lips quirked. “Duly noted, Ms. Njeri. I just wanted you to know what kind of man I am. I know you got a lot of people coming and going that don’t care, but I do. I see the looks in the cops’ eyes, and the other folks that work at the jail. They think I’m just another nigga.”
“Don’t say the N-word,” I quickly scolded. “If you don’t want them to look at you that way, don’t say things that make them feel okay to label you as such.”
He smiled, but I didn’t. I hated the word, even though it was a part of some of my friends’ and family’s vocabulary. I didn’t want to give people the excuse to ever use a racial slur. Hearing us say the word made people who weren’t black feel comfortable to say it as well.
“You were the first person in all of this to look me in the eyes and ask for my story. You’re a good woman.”
I shrugged, this time smiling. “It’s my job.”
He shook his bald head and gave me a small smile. “Sure, it is. But you care.”
Standing, I smoothed out my skirt and reached for the manila folder. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Do you think you can get me out?” His voice was shaky, just above a whisper, sounding vulnerable.
“I’ll do my best.” I didn’t want to lie to him.
My heart stalled when his eyes dimmed. He nodded, looking at the wall.
“You know why they call me the Gladiator?” I asked, walking toward the door.
“Why?” he responded, eyes still averted.
“Because I’m a warrior and I’ll fight to the bitter end for my clients, like my own life was on the line.” I didn’t wait for his response, just pushed open the door, ready to work my black girl magic.
* * *
My dogs were barking. And my shoes, although cute, had pinched my toes. Limping into the townhome I shared with my fiancé, I pushed the door open, kicked off my heels, and yelled, “Keith, I’m home!”
A caramelized sweet-and-spicy scent greeted me in the foyer. I followed my nose to the kitchen. “Please, God, tell me it’s Pad Thai from Thai Village.”
“The name is Keith, not God, except in the bedroom, and yes, I got us some takeout from your favorite place.”
“Did you get the—”
“Prix-Pow with the basil sauce. Veggies only, of course.”
“Thank you!” I went straight for the brown bag and tore it open. “I’m starving. I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch today.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Keith ran his hand over his baby face. “You need to take better care of yourself, sweet cheeks.”
He was right. I was ten pounds lighter than I was in law school, but with a caseload of fifteen to twenty per month, I was overworked.