earphones hung down the front of his shirt like a doctor’s stethoscope; and as he read the decision handed down by the court just an hour before, his lips mouthed the words. “So, what does all this bullshit mean?” he asked.
“That you won,” I explained. “If you don’t want to say the Pledge of Allegiance, you don’t have to.”
“What about Karshank?”
His homeroom teacher, a Korean War veteran, had sent Topher to detention every time he refused to say the Pledge. Ithad led to a letter-writing campaign by my office (well, me) and then we’d gone to court to protect his civil liberties.
Topher handed me back the decision. “Sweet,” he said. “Any chance you can get pot legalized?”
“Uh, not my area of expertise. Sorry.” I shook Topher’s hand, congratulated him, and headed out of the school.
It was a day for celebration—I unrolled the windows of the Prius, even though it was cold outside, and turned up Aretha on the CD player. Mostly, my cases got shot down by the courts; I spent more time fighting than I did getting a response. As one of three ACLU attorneys in New Hampshire, I was a champion of the First Amendment—freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to organize. In other words, I looked really great on paper, but in reality, it meant I had become an expert letter writer. I wrote on behalf of the teenagers who wanted to wear their Hooters shirts to school, or the gay kid who wanted to bring his boyfriend to the prom; I wrote to take the cops to task for enforcing DWB—driving while black—when statistics showed they corralled more minorities than whites for routine traffic stops. I spent countless hours at community meetings, negotiating with local agencies, the AG’s office, the police departments, the schools. I was the splinter they couldn’t get rid of, the thorn in their side, their conscience.
I took out my cell phone and dialed my mother’s number at the spa. “Guess what,” I said when she picked up. “I won.”
“Maggie, that’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.” There was the slightest beat. “What did you win?”
“My case! The one I was telling you about last weekend at dinner?”
“The one against the community college whose mascot is an Indian?”
“Native American. And no,” I said. “I lost that one, actually. I was talking about the Pledge case. And”—I pulled out my trump card—“I think I’m going to be on the news tonight. There were cameras all over the courthouse.”
I listened to my mother drop the phone, yelling to her staff about her famous daughter. Grinning, I hung up, only to have the cell ring against my palm again. “What were you wearing?” my mother asked.
“My Jones New York suit.”
My mother hesitated. “Not the pin-striped one?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Yes, the pin-striped one,” I said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Did I
say
there was anything wrong with it?”
“You didn’t have to.” I swerved to avoid a slowing car. “I have to go,” I said, and I hung up, tears stinging.
It rang again. “Your mother’s crying,” my father said.
“Well, that makes two of us. Why can’t she just be happy for me?”
“She is, honey. She thinks you’re too critical.”
“
I’m
too critical? Are you kidding?”
“I bet Marcia Clark’s mother asked her what she was wearing to the O.J. trial,” my father said.
“I bet Marcia Clark’s mother doesn’t get her daughter exercise videos for Chanukah.”
“I bet Marcia Clark’s mother doesn’t get her
anything
for Chanukah,” my father said, laughing. “Her Christmas stocking, though … I hear it’s full of
The Firm
DVDs.”
A smile twitched at the corners of my mouth. In the background, I could hear the rising strains of a crying baby. “Where
are
you?”
“At a bris,” my father said. “And I’d better go, because the mohel’s giving me dirty looks, and believe me, I don’t want to
“That you won,” I explained. “If you don’t want to say the Pledge of Allegiance, you don’t have to.”
“What about Karshank?”
His homeroom teacher, a Korean War veteran, had sent Topher to detention every time he refused to say the Pledge. Ithad led to a letter-writing campaign by my office (well, me) and then we’d gone to court to protect his civil liberties.
Topher handed me back the decision. “Sweet,” he said. “Any chance you can get pot legalized?”
“Uh, not my area of expertise. Sorry.” I shook Topher’s hand, congratulated him, and headed out of the school.
It was a day for celebration—I unrolled the windows of the Prius, even though it was cold outside, and turned up Aretha on the CD player. Mostly, my cases got shot down by the courts; I spent more time fighting than I did getting a response. As one of three ACLU attorneys in New Hampshire, I was a champion of the First Amendment—freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to organize. In other words, I looked really great on paper, but in reality, it meant I had become an expert letter writer. I wrote on behalf of the teenagers who wanted to wear their Hooters shirts to school, or the gay kid who wanted to bring his boyfriend to the prom; I wrote to take the cops to task for enforcing DWB—driving while black—when statistics showed they corralled more minorities than whites for routine traffic stops. I spent countless hours at community meetings, negotiating with local agencies, the AG’s office, the police departments, the schools. I was the splinter they couldn’t get rid of, the thorn in their side, their conscience.
I took out my cell phone and dialed my mother’s number at the spa. “Guess what,” I said when she picked up. “I won.”
“Maggie, that’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.” There was the slightest beat. “What did you win?”
“My case! The one I was telling you about last weekend at dinner?”
“The one against the community college whose mascot is an Indian?”
“Native American. And no,” I said. “I lost that one, actually. I was talking about the Pledge case. And”—I pulled out my trump card—“I think I’m going to be on the news tonight. There were cameras all over the courthouse.”
I listened to my mother drop the phone, yelling to her staff about her famous daughter. Grinning, I hung up, only to have the cell ring against my palm again. “What were you wearing?” my mother asked.
“My Jones New York suit.”
My mother hesitated. “Not the pin-striped one?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just asking.”
“Yes, the pin-striped one,” I said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Did I
say
there was anything wrong with it?”
“You didn’t have to.” I swerved to avoid a slowing car. “I have to go,” I said, and I hung up, tears stinging.
It rang again. “Your mother’s crying,” my father said.
“Well, that makes two of us. Why can’t she just be happy for me?”
“She is, honey. She thinks you’re too critical.”
“
I’m
too critical? Are you kidding?”
“I bet Marcia Clark’s mother asked her what she was wearing to the O.J. trial,” my father said.
“I bet Marcia Clark’s mother doesn’t get her daughter exercise videos for Chanukah.”
“I bet Marcia Clark’s mother doesn’t get her
anything
for Chanukah,” my father said, laughing. “Her Christmas stocking, though … I hear it’s full of
The Firm
DVDs.”
A smile twitched at the corners of my mouth. In the background, I could hear the rising strains of a crying baby. “Where
are
you?”
“At a bris,” my father said. “And I’d better go, because the mohel’s giving me dirty looks, and believe me, I don’t want to
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