“You got an address for Vince Whitaker’s parents?” Keller asks.
“Yeah, for his father, anyway. The mom took off a few years before Blockbuster.”
“Let’s go talk to him.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Another piece of advice?” Keller says.
“Sure sure sure.”
“Don’t ever call a woman in her thirties ma’am.”
CHAPTER 11
CHRIS
On the first day of orientation at the Union County Public Defender’s Office, all the new lawyers are subjected to the same ritual, a speech by the head PD, Henry （“Don’t ever call me Hank”） Robinson. A Black man in his late fifties, Henry has a seen-it-all demeanor, and is regarded as one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the country. Every year at orientation, he stands at the podium, in his tweed jacket, goatee flecked with silver, looking like a college professor, and tells the story of Bartholomew H. Badcock.
Chris’s own orientation had been no exception. Henry had stared at the assembled faces, making eye contact with Chris and each of the new assistant PDs, and told them about the best lawyer he ever knew:
“It was New Year’s Eve 1999. You all are too young but it was a momentous occasion. The new millennium. It was before social media. Before everyone had those phones you can’t stop thinking about checking even while I’m talking here. I know you’re thinking about them—the dopamine urging you to see how many likes you got for that amazing photo of your lunch.” The room tittered, and Henry gave an exasperated shake of the head. “Anyhow, Bart was a simple lawyer. Now, make no mistake, I don’t mean he was a simple man. No, he was a simple lawyer because he believed that no matter who you are—rich or poor, Black or white, good-looking or butt ugly—you have a constitutional right to the best defense. When three daughters of Linden were taken from this world in the most brutal way on that New Year’s Eve, and our office was called to defend the accused, Bart didn’t hesitate. And he did what each and every one of you will be called on to do in service of your clients: to hold the government to its burden of proof.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And you know what happened then? Bart got his client released, and the man was never seen again. In the wind. Pfft.” Henry made a jet-airplane motion with his hand.
“And ol’ Bart Badcock? You know what happened to him?” Henry turned somber. “His wife ran a small flower shop that was boycotted. His country club—the club where his father and grandfather had been members—revoked his membership. His kids were bullied at school. And this was before Twitter made it easy for cowards to join a mob.”
Henry shook his head in disgust. “It was too much for his family. His wife left him. Took the kids. He couldn’t go into town without someone saying something. And he eventually left, stopped practicing law altogether. He lost everything, simply for living up to everything this office stands for. He was, and still is, the best lawyer I ever knew.” Henry ended the speech with three words that they all soon learned he uttered at the end of every staff meeting: “Serve justice today.”
Two years ago, the speech had given Chris goose bumps. Not because the great Bartholomew H. Badcock had represented none other than Chris’s brother, Vince Whitaker. But because of the sentiment—that Chris and his colleagues were part of something honorable, something bigger than themselves. That they quite literally were the guardians at the gate.
Now, Chris is less enchanted by the tale. He’s since learned that the office lifers don’t revere Bartholomew H. Badcock. To the contrary, they fear ever representing a client so despicable that they might lose everything. The name “B-file” is shorthand at the office for dogshit cases no one wants. And the lack of resources, pay, and respect make it hard to keep up with Henry’s idealism.
Chris wonders sometimes if he should’ve gone for the money, gone to Big Law like his girlfriend, paid off those student loans. He’s three months behind on the payments and, lawyer or not, there isn’t much he can do to stop the harassment from the collection agencies. He’s like many of his clients: in too deep, with no end in sight. It’s not drugs that pulled him in, though. It’s higher education. Soon, he might have to go back to bartending. That was how he got through college, in addition to racking up debt on his credit cards that are still compounding double-digit interest.
He’s had satisfying moments on the job—like the time he helped a prostitute, trying to escape a husband who forced her to turn tricks. Chris was surprised to learn that many pimps aren’t fur-jacket-wearing clichés, but domineering spouses in abusive relationships. And he once managed to get a confession thrown out after the cops pressured his intellectually disabled client. But most of his days are spent pushing paper, entering pleas for silly drug-possession charges, representing people who hate him.