Legal Affairs

5

Stepping into the office, I'm decked out in my power ensemble: a sleek black pencil skirt and an ivory collared long-sleeve button-up, all tied together with sharp black heels. Today, I'm determined to turn the tide—channeling every ounce of positive energy I can muster. Yesterday's fiasco? I'm relegating it to history. As I make my way in, Mr. Waterford (Oliver, though we're strictly last-name basis here) won't spare me a glance, deeply engrossed in a conversation about the recent sports match with another attorney.

And why should it bother me?

Suddenly, my path is blocked. "Mrs. Armstrong," intones Mr. Wilde, Oliver's uncle by some distant relation, who seems perpetually uncomfortable with the concept of using my first name because it's too masculine. From day one, eye contact seemed too much for him to manage.

"Mr. Wilde," I respond, masking my irritation with a veneer of respect. The man epitomizes the stereotype of corporate stiffness, his attire impeccable to the point of absurdity, his hair seemingly in a lifelong commitment to hair gel.

"Mr. Marks and Dr. Adonis are handing off a case to you," he announces, matching my stride toward my office.

"Why is that?" I ask, mentally measuring the distance to my sanctuary. 450 feet. 445 feet.

"It's because...he's African American." My eyes involuntarily roll at his discomfort.

"So, we're just handing him off, then? Not interested in defending the guy, but we want to show the world that we have a Black woman in the firm," I deadpan, sarcasm seeping through. Seriously. I know I might be one of two black lawyers in this firm but something is obviously wrong with this man's logic. Clearly. 

Mr. Wilde's cheeks flush a bright red. "Mrs. Armstrong, I assure you, it's not like that. You're a highly skilled lawyer. If we had the resources to defend him ourselves, we would."

340 feet. 

"And what exactly is his crime?" Of course we have the resources, like the rest of America talking about black people is taboo in this vanilla, pumkin spice place of a firm.

"He's accused of assaulting his ex-girlfriend. He's been in and out of jail multiple times for minor offenses."

"Mr. Wilde, this pattern is not acceptable," I retort while digging for my keys. 

"Please," he pleads, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It's a huge favor to us," he draws out the word 'huge' as if it softens the imposition.

With other cases already on my plate, I hesitate at the door. "I'm swamped as it is," I protest. 

"I'm afraid it's not really up for discussion," he admits just as I insert my key into the lock.

"You can't keep doing this to me," I retort, turning the knob and shoving the door open.

"This is your chance to prove yourself, Mrs. Armstrong. If you do well on this case, who knows where this can lead?"

Before I can respond, Mr. Waterford, Oliver appears. "We'll take it," he interjects.

"What?" escapes both our lips in unison.

"I said, we'll take the case," he repeats. "Uncle, could you give us a minute?"

"Uh...yes," Mr. Wilde says, he pushes up his rimless bifocals and retreats down the hall without a word. I know he's enjoying himself after that interjection.

"What the hell was that, we're already spreading ourselves thin, and now we're taking on an assault case? And you know my feelings about him," I whisper scream. Why can't this man...fine man take a hint.