She is awakened by her father on that cold January morning, his close-cropped beard like sandpaper against her cheek. "Snow day." he murmurs, his warm breath tickling her ear. No babysitter today; one can't be found on such short notice. Mama's in the midst of a big case load, couldn't possibly keep a ten-year-old occupied with so much work to do.
So today, Joanne Jefferson will go to work with her father.
Instead of boarding a garish gold school bus that morning, she slides into the cold leather passenger seat of her father's Buick. He drives them the short distance to the county courthouse, where he works as a public defender.
Daddy's secretary is Estella, middle-aged and plump with a gentle smile and too-red lipstick. She exclaims at how much Joanne has grown, then offers her her father's daily schedule and a handful of candy from the faux-crystal bowl that sits at the corner of her desk. Joanne accepts both.
As she walks the short distance to his office, Joanne glances over the neat list of happenings for the day. The first part of the morning looks sparse and uneventful. A few meetings here and there, a phone call or two. At eleven o' clock, however, her father will appear in court.
The prospect makes Joanne bounce, her black patent Mary Janes clicking a happy rhythm on the floor. Nothing makes her prouder than to see her parents command a courtroom. She loves the atmosphere: the tension, the pressure, the challenge of winning an argument. Perhaps it is because she is the product of two lawyers. Perhaps it is something more.
Joanne spends her morning doing small, menial tasks: rearranging files, stapling papers, delivering messages. At eleven, however, her father takes her by the hand and leads her to the courtroom. She sits in the row directly behind him, attentive; her posture is arrow-straight, her legs are crossed at the ankle, her hands are folded neatly in her lap. She is the picture of politeness.
In truth, this 'hearing' is nothing more than the penalty phase of a trial from the previous month. The man who her father is defending has already been convicted of heroin possession, the second time in as many years. He escaped with probation last time, it was a small amount; today, he will not be so lucky.
Joanne watches as guards escort the defendant into the room. His tawny hair, sideburns, and goatee are neatly trimmed and stylish. The brown suit he wears is cheap, however, the dress shirt wrinkled, the orange tie crooked. He's probably in his thirties, Joanne decides, though he looks haggard and sleep-deprived.
The courtroom is only sparsely populated. A neatly-dressed woman, perhaps in her early thirties, sits near the back with a boy about Joanne's age. Joanne doesn't recognize the woman, but figures that she might be a secretary or assistant; the boy, she supposes, is the woman's son. Three young men, probably local reporters, are scattered around the twenty-odd oak benches, notebooks opened. Even when the judge and other court personnel are present and settled, there are perhaps fifteen people total.
The prosecutor begins. This man is a danger to the community, he says. He must be removed from society. He has proven himself unwilling to follow the law and the terms of his probation, and for that, he must be punished more severely—in prison.
Her father then rises to argue on behalf of his client. He gesticulates wildly, his rich voice ringing through every corner of the room. He talks about illness and addiction and treatment, about the tragedy of broken families, and devastation of drug use. Prison won't solve these problems, he says, it only exacerbates them. Joanne isn't quite sure what he means, but she thinks her father is spectacular.
Daddy then asks permission for the defendant to speak. It is granted, and the man rises. He begins with an apology, of course, then asks for mercy. It is a simple, short plea. His voice is gravelly and faint. Joanne doesn't know if it's from the drugs, nervousness, or both.
At this time, everyone rises to hear the judge's verdict. Joanne knows the judge well; he's like a grandfather, soft-spoken and gentle. He hesitates, shuffling papers and shifting uncomfortably on the bench for several moments. Finally speaking, he rattles off a list of terms that Joanne doesn't understand. Rockefeller Drug Law. Second Felony Offender laws. Class B Felony.
What she does understand is the sentence. The judge calls it the minimum, but four and a half years in prison doesn't sound like a minimum of any kind to Joanne.
The defendant bows his head, fingertips resting lightly on the tabletop in front of him, as the guards take him back into custody and escort him from the room. Her father turns around to watch him go, something unmistakably troubled in his eyes. When he sees Joanne, however, he tries to hide it with it a smile.
She tries to wrap her mind around it. Four and a half years was almost half her life. She puzzles over it for some time. When she finally looks up again, the room has cleared, save for her father, and the woman and boy from the back. Her father and the woman are talking quietly at the front of the room. The boy is on the other side of the room, at the prosecution's table. He stands in front of it, fingertips drumming the surface with surprising skill. The look on his face is blank, though.
Joanne leans forward a bit, trying to catch scraps of the adults' conversation. The woman is fair and soft-spoken, she's thanking Joanne's father for his time, "…he was never much of a father to my son, but…it's much appreciated…"
Her father answers with encouragement and assuredness, giving her the contact information for his wife, who works with single mothers. He squeezes her shoulder gently, and wishes her and her son the best. With that, the woman steps away. Pausing at the rail, she calls to her son.
"Roger."
No response. The drumming continues. The woman sighs.
"Roger…"
No response. The drumming continues. The stress of the day must be weighing on her, because the woman's voice cracks in desperation.
"Roger Davis, stop that noise and get over here now."
With that, the drumming stops, and the boy looks up with the most haunted eyes that Joanne had ever seen. The boy is tall and skinny, dressed in several layers of ratty clothes from head to toe, and his fawn-colored hair badly needs a cut. But his eyes are by far the most striking thing about him: two deep wells containing the sorrow and pain and rage of a child without a father and without a home.
This boy, this Roger, stares at his mother for a moment before shuffling ever-so-slowly toward her.
The woman looks as if she regrets her words, but says nothing but a few last words of thanks to Joanne's father. Mother and son walk slowly up the main aisle and disappear out the courtroom doors in silence.
Her Daddy faces her, looking far too world-weary for lunchtime. He gives her another desperately sad smile. "Don't you, worry, kitten. Don't you worry. We've just gotta keep trying."
After a moment's pause, he made a more valiant attempt at cheerfulness, rubbing his stomach with a sly grin on his face. "I'm famished." He gives her a conspiratorial wink. "If you're certain that it wouldn't get back to your mother, I think lunch at, say…McDonald's…could be in order."
Joanne smiles softly, in spite of herself. Her mind is still spinning from the shock of it all. She is book-smart; book-brilliant, really. All her teachers say so. Showered with comfort and love, she lived what many considered to be a charmed life. Her parents were successful, passionate lawyers. They spoke of things like poverty and drug addiction at the dinner table, but to Joanne, they were never anything more than abstract words, statistics and anecdotes to muse over while nursing a full stomach. Today, she saw. She felt. And she is intrigued.
Joanne Jefferson watched a man go to prison today, and in doing so, was freed from her own.