I look around the room. This is not my idea of a good time—a stuffy fundraising event with a bunch of wealthy people doing their good deed for the quarter. But Sabrina Cowell’s assistant insisted it was the only time on her calendar this week and if I wanted to get five minutes of face time with the district attorney I’d need to stop by. And I desperately needed to get in front of the woman if I was going to land a live interview. Coming off the high of my interview with Tamara, I had mentioned, somewhat impulsively, in our daily news meeting that I had my sights on sitting down with the city’s new upstart DA. When Scotty turned to me and said, “Get it done,” it went from tentative idea to mandate before I even closed my mouth.
“Riley?” I hear my name punctuated by two taps on my shoulder.
“I’m Amina, the district attorney’s chief of staff. You didn’t have any problems at the door?” The young woman has the tiny frame and energy of a hummingbird, head flitting right and left to survey the scene as her fingers fly over the screen of her iPhone, sending a message, all while also talking to me.
“None at all,” I lie, swallowing down the microaggression, as I’ve done a thousand times.
“Thanks for making the time. Sabrina’s work schedule is jam-packed right now.”
Not so full that she can’t take time to slowly work a room, as I watch her do now across the way, rubbing elbows and eating canapés with Philadelphia’s moneyed elite, who will be critical to financing her rumored mayoral campaign.
Amina continues to type words in her phone as fast as they come out of her mouth. “I’m going to introduce Sabrina—share her story. And then she’ll talk for about ten minutes. She’ll shake hands, take selfies, collect some checks, and then you can have ten minutes with her.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
For the first time since speaking to me, Amina finally looks up at me. “DA Cowell knows everything.”
I snag another glass of sparkling water as Amina heads to the front of the room and grabs a microphone. After two loud taps to test the sound, she starts speaking.
“When I graduated from Georgetown five years ago, I thought I wanted to stay in DC and be an aide on the Hill. And then I read about Sabrina Cowell and I knew I wanted to work for her, so I wrote her a fangirl letter out of the blue telling her how much I admired her career, and she said, ‘Well, then, come work for me.’ It was the best thing to ever happen to me, so thank you, Sabrina, for taking a chance on a complete stranger who slid into your DMs.” She stops for laughter. “Many of you here tonight have heard my boss’s story, but it’s a good one, so I’ll tell it again. Sabrina Cowell was raised right here in Philly, over in the Tasker Projects. She went to Masterman High School, received a full scholarship to Tulane and then Penn for law school, and became one of the youngest women ever and the first Black woman to make partner at Johnston Caruthers. But corporate life didn’t suit her. Too much money, too little time. You all can appreciate that, right?”
Appreciative titters from the crowd.
“She found a home at Gardner and Jones, where she worked on pro bono civil rights cases against the police force with unmatched tenacity. But still… it wasn’t enough. Change only happens in this city if you’re on the inside. And so she challenged the old guard, ran a tough race, and tossed them out on their behinds. Please welcome Philadelphia’s district attorney, Sabrina Cowell.”
Sabrina jogs the few feet over and takes the mic from Amina after a long and what appears to be genuine hug. A hush falls over the crowd as we shuffle closer to her. It’s instantly clear—before she even speaks—that she’s one of those people who seem to have a field of energy around them, drawing you toward her like a magnet, all the makings of a great politician… or a cult leader.
I take in the full force of Sabrina’s hair, which is just that—a force. A massive halo of natural corkscrew curls. If I hadn’t started relaxing my hair in the eighth grade, if I weren’t addicted to the “chemical crack” and my standing appointment at the hairdresser every twelve weeks on the dot, I’d want my hair to be exactly like hers. I’d also love to be able to pull off a bright magenta lip, as she does, even though Momma would insist this flashy shade was reserved for “hussies.”
Sabrina scans the room before she starts talking. “A lot of people don’t know that my grandmother used to clean houses here. On this very street. Hell, maybe even this very house. And who would have thought that one day her granddaughter would be here getting y’all to pay me, without dusting or shining a damn thing.” A pause. “Not this girl.
“Everyone loves the story Amina told you about me. Poor girl from the hood makes good. It’s the all-powerful myth of exceptionalism that people salivate over so they can use it to validate the rags-to-riches possibilities of America. If this Black girl did it, everyone else can too. So if someone doesn’t, or can’t, it must be a personal failing. Never mind the systemic issues stacked against people—brown people, poor people—all the barriers and disadvantages that keep the playing field in this city and this country about as level as a seesaw with an anvil on one end, and the American dream on the other. We gotta move that anvil, folks, and that’s why I wanted to be the district attorney and why I’m considering a run for mayor.”
She pauses as the crowd breaks into applause—the guy who handed me his coat whistles loudly—then continues. “Every one of you out there wants to change; you see yourself as social justice champions, am I right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have paid five hundred dollars to be here tonight. Thank you for that, by the way.” Her laugh is deep, husky.
“But as important as voting is, it’s the personal changes and accountability that matter too. You think racism is so awful. You want to level that playing field I mentioned. But are you willing to acknowledge how much you benefit from white supremacy? That every single social, political, and legal system in this country is built and maintained by white people, on the bedrock idea of white power, and that allows you to move through the world with a basic confidence in your sense of safety, opportunity, and respect. That as white people you are automatically associated with everything that is good and right and ‘normal,’ and everyone else’s experiences and value are weighed relative to that. A thousand books and movies and lessons in school have told you this was true, so much so that it’s seeped into your very soul. That wasn’t your fault, but what you do about it now is. So how will you confront the lie? What will you sacrifice? What are you willing to put on the line? Are you going to send your kid to the public school down the street? Are you going to rent your house to a young Black family? Are you going to hire more eager dark girls with kinky curls to be your junior executive? Because your well-meaning intentions, your woke T-shirts, your Black Lives Matter tote bags, your racial justice book clubs are not going to cut it.”
She stands at the front of the room staring out at the audience, letting them simmer in an uncomfortable silence.
It’s more than an hour before Sabrina can free herself from the claws of her admirers. I get lost looking for the bathroom and find myself peering into the kitchen—there are two Black or brown faces out there, including my own, but in here, there are dozens of brown people serving and washing dishes who smile at me warmly. As I wander back toward the living room, I’m about to give up when Amina appears, grabs me by the elbow, and ushers me down the hall into a quiet library where Sabrina has already made herself comfortable in one of the host’s leather club chairs. I settle into the one across from her in the dimly lit, wood-paneled room like we’re about to smoke some cigars and talk about our golf handicaps.