“Just because you’re representing Edison doesn’t mean anything has changed,” she replies.

Before I can respond, the judge takes the bench. He looks from me—clearly in the middle of a charged conversation with my client—to Odette, across the room. “Are the parties ready to proceed?” he asks.

“Your Honor?” Ruth says. “I would like to get rid of my lawyer.”

I am pretty sure Judge Thunder thought nothing else in this trial could surprise him, until this moment. “Ms. Jefferson? Why on earth would you want to discharge your lawyer when the defense has rested? All that’s left is a closing argument.”

Ruth’s jaw works. “It’s personal, Your Honor.”

“I would strongly recommend otherwise, Ms. Jefferson. She knows the case, and contrary to all expectation, she has been very prepared. She has your best interests in mind. It is my job to run this trial, and to make sure it’s no longer delayed. We have a jury sitting in the box that has heard all the evidence; we don’t have time for you to go find another attorney, and you are not equipped to represent yourself.” He faces me. “Unbelievably, I am granting you another half-hour recess, Ms. McQuarrie, so you and your client can make nice.”

I deputize Howard to stay with Edison so that the press can’t get near him. Getting to our usual conference room will require running past the press, too, so instead I take Ruth out a back entrance and into the ladies’ room. “Sorry,” I say to a woman following us, and I lock the door behind us. Ruth leans against the bank of sinks and folds her arms.

“I know you think nothing’s changed, and maybe it hasn’t for you. But for me, it has,” I say. “I hear you, loud and clear. I may not deserve it, but I’m begging you to give me one last chance.”

“Why should I?” Ruth asks, a challenge.

“Because I told you once I don’t see color…and now, it’s all I see.”

She starts for the door. “I don’t need your pity.”

“You’re right.” I nod. “You need equity.”

Ruth stops walking, still facing away from me. “You mean equality,” she corrects.

“No, I mean equity. Equality is treating everyone the same. But equity is taking differences into account, so everyone has a chance to succeed.” I look at her. “The first one sounds fair. The second one is fair. It’s equal to give a printed test to two kids. But if one’s blind and one’s sighted, that’s not true. You ought to give one a Braille test and one a printed test, which both cover the same material. All this time, I’ve been giving the jury a print test, because I didn’t realize that they’re blind. That I was blind. Please, Ruth. I think you’ll like hearing what I have to say.”

Slowly, Ruth turns around. “One last chance,” she agrees.

—

WHEN I STAND up, I’m not alone.

Yes, there is a courtroom waiting for my closing argument, but I’m surrounded by the stories that have blazed through the media but have mostly been ignored in courts of law. The stories of Tamir Rice, of Michael Brown, of Trayvon Martin. Of Eric Garner and Walter Scott and Freddie Gray. Of Sandra Bland and John Crawford III. Of the female African American soldiers who wanted to wear their hair natural and the children in the Seattle school district who were told by the Supreme Court that cherry-picking students to maintain racial diversity was unconstitutional. Of minorities in the South, who’ve been left without federal protection while those states put laws into effect that limit their voting rights. Of the millions of African Americans who have been victims of housing discrimination and job discrimination. Of the homeless black boy on Chapel Street whose cup is never going to be as full as that of a white homeless woman.

I turn toward the jury. “What if, ladies and gentlemen, today I told you that anyone here who was born on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday was free to leave right now? Also, they’d be given the most central parking spots in the city, and the biggest houses. They would get job interviews before others who were born later in the week, and they’d be taken first at the doctor’s office, no matter how many patients were waiting in line. If you were born from Thursday to Sunday, you might try to catch up—but because you were straggling behind, the press would always point to how inefficient you are. And if you complained, you’d be dismissed for playing the birth-day card.” I shrug. “Seems silly, right? But what if on top of these arbitrary systems that inhibited your chances for success, everyone kept telling you that things were actually pretty equal?”