Her Calls

Her calls really pained me. One day she was thankful and sweet. “I appreciate how you are trying to help me, Todd,” she’d say. The very next day she was as cold and suspicious as she’d been sweet. I could hear it in her first hello. She didn’t trust me, thought I was ripping her off, couldn’t or wouldn’t understand why things were taking as long as they were. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” she’d say, “I should just report you to the Board of Bar Overseers.” And, of course, I would feel myself grow angry and hurt, without any critical distance. I should have said, “I understand why you feel that way. I’ll try to explain what’s happening again if you’d like. The law isn’t fair. It’s hard to hear that, I know. You’re not wrong to feel the way you feel. It’s hard being in lock up and not knowing what will happen next. But there is nothing we can do about it at this time. We’ve done everything we can. We just have to wait. There is nothing further that can be done, not at this time, not by anyone, not F. Lee Bailey, or Johnny Cochran. We’re held here awaiting forensic results and our next court date. Period.” I’ve said this before, more than once.

Instead of being my best self, however, exasperation takes over and I tell her, “Look, if you don’t trust me then find another lawyer. I am doing everything I possibly can for you. You’re the one going behind my back; talking to people you shouldn’t be talking to, making matters more complicated. I have nothing more to say to you. Call if you can be nice or leave me alone.”

Are we dealing with a fifty nine year old lawyer here or a nine-year-old boy? Maybe both.