laws are different. That’s why we’re in business, so to speak.”
“This is awful.”
“It is, and it can get worse. As a delinquent probationer, Stocky might be excluded from food stamps, housing assistance, a driver’s license, hell, in some states they might take away his right to vote, assuming he’s ever bothered to register.”
Lady was back, reeking of tobacco smoke and still just as jumpy. They plowed through the rest of her unpaid bills. “Is there any way you can help me?” she said, her eyes moist.
“Of course,” Mattie said with far too much optimism. “I’ve had some success negotiating with JRA. They’re not accustomed to lawyers getting involved, and for such tough guys, they’re easy to bully. They know they’re wrong and they’re afraid someone might bust them. I know the judge over there and by now they’re tired of feeding Stocky. We can get him out and get him back to work. Then we’ll probably consider a bankruptcy to save the home and wipe out some of these bills. I’ll haggle with the utility companies.” She clicked off these bold moves as if they had already been accomplished, and Samantha suddenly felt better. Lady managed a smile, the first and only.
Mattie said, “Give us a couple of days and we’ll put together a plan. Feel free to call Samantha here if you have any questions. She’ll know everything about your case.” The intern’s heart skipped a beat as she heard her name mentioned. At the moment, she felt as though she knew nothing about anything.
“So we have two lawyers?” Lady asked.
“You certainly do.”
“And you are, uh, free?”
“That’s right, Lady. We are legal aid. We do not charge for our services.”
Lady covered her eyes with both hands and began crying.
S amantha had not recovered from the first client meeting when she was called in to her second. Annette Brevard, the “junior partner” at Mountain Legal Aid Clinic, thought it would be educational for their new intern to get a real taste of domestic violence.
Annette was a divorced mother of two who had been in Brady for ten years. She had once lived in Richmond and practiced law in a midsized firm until a bad divorce sent her packing. She escaped to Brady with her children and took a job with Mattie because there was nothing else available in the Commonwealth. She certainly had no plans to stay in Brady, but then who’s smart enough to plan the rest of their life? She lived in an old house downtown. Behind her house was a separate garage. Above the garage was a two-room apartment, Samantha’s home for the next few months. Annette decided that if the internship was free, then so was the rent. They had haggled over this, but Annette was adamant. Samantha had no other viable option and moved in with promises of free babysitting. She was even allowed to park her hatchback in the garage.
The client was a thirty-six-year-old woman named Phoebe. She was married to Randy, and they had just gone through a bad weekend. Randy was in jail about six blocks away (the same jail Samantha had narrowly avoided) and Phoebe was sitting in a lawyer’s office with a swollen left eye, a cut on her nose, and terror in her eyes. With compassion and feeling, Annette walked Phoebethrough her story. Again, Samantha frowned intelligently without making a sound, took pages of notes, and wondered how many crazy people lived in those parts.
With a voice so calm it soothed even Samantha, Annette prodded Phoebe along. There were a lot of tears and emotion. Randy was a meth addict and dealer, also a drunk who’d been beating her for a year and a half. He never hit her as long as her father was alive—Randy was terrified of him—but after he died two years ago the physical abuse started. He threatened to kill her all the time. Yes, she used meth too, but she was careful and certainly not an addict. They had three kids, all under the age of ten. Her second marriage, his third. Randy was forty-two, older, and
“This is awful.”
“It is, and it can get worse. As a delinquent probationer, Stocky might be excluded from food stamps, housing assistance, a driver’s license, hell, in some states they might take away his right to vote, assuming he’s ever bothered to register.”
Lady was back, reeking of tobacco smoke and still just as jumpy. They plowed through the rest of her unpaid bills. “Is there any way you can help me?” she said, her eyes moist.
“Of course,” Mattie said with far too much optimism. “I’ve had some success negotiating with JRA. They’re not accustomed to lawyers getting involved, and for such tough guys, they’re easy to bully. They know they’re wrong and they’re afraid someone might bust them. I know the judge over there and by now they’re tired of feeding Stocky. We can get him out and get him back to work. Then we’ll probably consider a bankruptcy to save the home and wipe out some of these bills. I’ll haggle with the utility companies.” She clicked off these bold moves as if they had already been accomplished, and Samantha suddenly felt better. Lady managed a smile, the first and only.
Mattie said, “Give us a couple of days and we’ll put together a plan. Feel free to call Samantha here if you have any questions. She’ll know everything about your case.” The intern’s heart skipped a beat as she heard her name mentioned. At the moment, she felt as though she knew nothing about anything.
“So we have two lawyers?” Lady asked.
“You certainly do.”
“And you are, uh, free?”
“That’s right, Lady. We are legal aid. We do not charge for our services.”
Lady covered her eyes with both hands and began crying.
S amantha had not recovered from the first client meeting when she was called in to her second. Annette Brevard, the “junior partner” at Mountain Legal Aid Clinic, thought it would be educational for their new intern to get a real taste of domestic violence.
Annette was a divorced mother of two who had been in Brady for ten years. She had once lived in Richmond and practiced law in a midsized firm until a bad divorce sent her packing. She escaped to Brady with her children and took a job with Mattie because there was nothing else available in the Commonwealth. She certainly had no plans to stay in Brady, but then who’s smart enough to plan the rest of their life? She lived in an old house downtown. Behind her house was a separate garage. Above the garage was a two-room apartment, Samantha’s home for the next few months. Annette decided that if the internship was free, then so was the rent. They had haggled over this, but Annette was adamant. Samantha had no other viable option and moved in with promises of free babysitting. She was even allowed to park her hatchback in the garage.
The client was a thirty-six-year-old woman named Phoebe. She was married to Randy, and they had just gone through a bad weekend. Randy was in jail about six blocks away (the same jail Samantha had narrowly avoided) and Phoebe was sitting in a lawyer’s office with a swollen left eye, a cut on her nose, and terror in her eyes. With compassion and feeling, Annette walked Phoebethrough her story. Again, Samantha frowned intelligently without making a sound, took pages of notes, and wondered how many crazy people lived in those parts.
With a voice so calm it soothed even Samantha, Annette prodded Phoebe along. There were a lot of tears and emotion. Randy was a meth addict and dealer, also a drunk who’d been beating her for a year and a half. He never hit her as long as her father was alive—Randy was terrified of him—but after he died two years ago the physical abuse started. He threatened to kill her all the time. Yes, she used meth too, but she was careful and certainly not an addict. They had three kids, all under the age of ten. Her second marriage, his third. Randy was forty-two, older, and
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