AN HOUR LATER, my day has gone from bad to worse. Because although I went to law school at Columbia, graduated in the top 5 percent of my class, spent three years clerking for a federal judge, today my boss—the head of the New Haven Judicial District of the Division of Public Defender Services in the state of Connecticut—has sent me to negotiate about bras.

Warden Al Wojecwicz, the director of corrections at the New Haven facility, is sitting in a stuffy conference room with me, his deputy director, and a lawyer from the private sector, Arthur Wang. I’m the only woman in the room, mind you. This convening of what I’ve come to call the Itty Bitty Titty Committee has been precipitated by the fact that two months ago, female lawyers were barred from entering the prison if we were wearing underwire bras. We kept setting off the metal detectors.

The prison wouldn’t settle for a pat-down, insisting on a strip search, which was illegal and time-consuming. Ever resourceful, we started going into the ladies’ room and leaving our underwear there, so that we could go in and visit our clients. But then the prison said we couldn’t go inside braless.

Al rubs his temples. “Ms. McQuarrie, you have to understand, this is just about minimizing risk.”

“Warden,” I reply, “they let you go inside with keys. What do you think I’m going to do? Bust someone out of jail with a foundation garment?”

The deputy warden cannot meet my gaze. He clears his throat. “I went to Target and looked at the bras they have for sale there—”

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline, and I turn to Al. “You sent him to do field research?”

Before he can answer, Arthur leans back in his chair. “You know, it does beg the question of whether the entire clothing policy should be under review,” he muses. “Last year I was trying to see a client last-minute, before I headed out for vacation. I was wearing sandals, and was told I couldn’t enter the prison with them. But the only other shoes I had were golf cleats, which were perfectly acceptable.”

“Cleats,” I repeat. “The shoes with actual spikes on the bottom? Why would you send someone in with cleats but not flip-flops?”

The warden and the deputy exchange a glance. “Well, because of the toe-lickers,” says the deputy.

“You’re afraid that someone is going to suck our toes?”

“Yes,” the deputy says, deadpan. “Trust me, it’s for your own protection. It’s like a conjugal visit with your foot.”

For just a heartbeat I picture the life I could have had if I’d joined a sterile corporate law firm, on the partner track. I imagine meeting my clients in paneled wood conference rooms, instead of repurposed storage closets that smell like bleach and pee. I imagine shaking the hand of a client whose hand isn’t trembling—from meth withdrawal or abject terror at a justice system he doesn’t trust.

But there are always trade-offs. When I met Micah, he was a fellow in ophthalmology at Yale–New Haven. He examined me and said I had the most beautiful colobomas he’d ever seen. On our first date I told him I really did believe justice was blind, and he said that was only because he hadn’t had a chance to operate yet. If I hadn’t married Micah, I would have probably followed the rest of the law review staff to sleek chrome offices in big cities. Instead, he went into practice, and I stopped clerking to give birth to Violet. When I was ready to go back to work, Micah was the one who reminded me of the sort of law I used to champion. Thanks to his salary, I was able to practice it. I’ll make the money, Micah used to tell me. You make the difference. As a public defender I was never going to get rich, but I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror.

And since we live in a country where justice is supposed to be meted out equally, no matter how much money you have or what age you are or what your race or gender or ethnicity is, shouldn’t public defenders be just as smart and aggressive and creative as any attorney for hire?

So I flatten my hands on the table. “You know, Warden, I don’t play golf. But I do wear a bra. You know who else does? My friend Harriet Strong, who’s a staff attorney for the ACLU. We went to law school together, and we try to have lunch once a month. I think she’d be fascinated to hear about this meeting, considering Connecticut prohibits discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity, and given that only female lawyers or those lawyers identifying as female would even be wearing bras when visiting clients in this facility. Which means that your policy is infringing on attorneys’ rights and is preventing us from providing counsel. I’m also pretty sure Harriet would love to talk to the Women’s Bar Association of Connecticut to see how many other female lawyers have complained. In other words, this falls smack into the category of You are fucked if this gets out in the press. So the next time I come to see a client, I am going to take my thirty-four C Le Mystère demi-cup with me, and—pardon the metaphor—I am going to assume there will not be any fallout. Would I be assuming correctly?”

The warden’s mouth tightens. “I’m confident we can revisit the underwire ban.”