“Hey pretty lady, what are you doing here?”
An inmate in an orange jumpsuit presses up against the gate of his jail cell as he spits this question at me. Then he spreads his index and middle fingers across his mouth and wags his tongue at me through them.
I try not to grimace as I recoil at his leering gaze. Then I quickly turn my head away so as not to display my disgust and fear to the man’s face.
But the prisoner’s question is valid, and one that I’m asking myself right now in fact.
What am I doing here?
I’m not the kind of lawyer who works in a jail. Correction: I wasn’t that type of lawyer. Yet the fact remains that here I am walking into a gritty jail instead of a fancy high rise like I have for the past four years of my legal career.
I was finally able to talk to Charles a little bit after my evaluation with his dad, and he hadn't bothered to mention anything to me about his form of "entertaining" the clients, or his whereabouts on the night that we were supposed to have our date.
I hadn't had the energy to get into any of that with him. Instead, I'd told him that his dad and the other partners want me to volunteer for a military organization and that I'd found this one.
"The VLA? They deal with, like, criminals," Charles had said, grimacing. "At like, the jail."
Clearly Charles didn't think I should be volunteering here, but he doesn’t understand what’s at stake if I don’t.
“Ms. Morrell, keep following me, this way please,” says Tim McDonald— or is it O’Donald?— as he leads me through the prison complex I’ve never before entered. “We’re almost there.”
He must know that I’m strongly considering turning around and leaving. Maybe Charles was right— I don’t need to go to these lengths to impress the firm.
There has to be something I can do that satisfies the firm's military pro bono requirements and that doesn’t involve trips to the local jail where I’m accosted by lecherous inmates. But ever since my latest performance evaluation at the firm, Jack Holt’s words have been ringing in my memory.
I need to fit in at the firm. I need to do whatever it takes.
It's no wonder Charles doesn’t understand. He was born to "fit in" at his father's firm, whereas I have to go to great lengths to earn that privilege.
When I began calling around to military legal service organizations where I could volunteer so that I could be a better “fit” for the firm, the Veterans’ Legal Alliance was the only one that responded immediately. So, I jumped on the opportunity to obtain a pro bono gig as quickly as possible.
Tim had explained to me that the VLA organization provides all types of legal services and representation to military veterans, and that usually means representing them in criminal trials. It’s a totally different world than I’m used to, since my work at the firm involves representing large corporations in civil litigation matters in which they’re fighting over money or partnership agreements. But I’m open to anything that will help me become partner at the firm.
Now, Tim leads me to an open meeting room or visiting room of some type. A handful of inmates stand around speaking in hushed tones to each other, while others sit quietly by themselves.
“These are some of the men in our program, who are waiting to meet with their lawyers or be transported to the hearing room for their cases to be called,” Tim explains.
He sits down on a bench at one of the tables a few feet away from the men. I follow his lead and sit down at the bench on the other side of the table.
One of the prisoners catches my eye and I can’t help but stare. While the rest of the men have short, buzzed, military style haircuts, this man has a gruff, outdoorsy look: long hair and a long beard.
His short-sleeved jumpsuit reveals muscular pecs covered in tattoos. I can’t take my eyes off a Día de los Muertos/ Day of the Dead tattoo on his right arm: it’s a colorful skull full of flowers and a cross.
The stranger returns my stare, his eyes the color of dark coal. I feel them burning into my pale blue eyes as if I’m Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom in a rebellious, forbidden act. I tear my eyes away from him and force myself to look at Tim, hoping that I won’t turn into a pillar of salt.
What in the world was that? I wonder, as a scourge of electricity courses through my veins. I cannot possibly have felt attracted to that… criminal. He’s not even my type.
I like nerdy, intellectual guys, not long-haired convicts covered in tattoos. Except for those celebrity guys I just thought about why trying to make myself come. But that doesn't count. That's not real life.
In real life I'm in a relationship, I remind myself, as an afterthought. But I can’t seem to stop staring at the stranger’s thick brown hair, shining brown eyes, and constantly flexed muscles.
I am going to have to try hard to tear my thoughts away from him and keep them focused on this new volunteer job.
What have I gotten myself into? I wonder, on many different levels.
I look at the inmate again and then back at Tim, who is eager to explain the new gig to me.
I guess I'm about to find out.