Page 23 of Meant to Be

CHAPTER 7

Joe

For the most part, I liked being an assistant district attorney. It was hard work, but the hours weren’t nearly as bad as what my law school buddies were billing at their big corporate firms—and my cases were a lot more interesting. Instead of arguing over a clause in a contract or reviewing documents for litigation that would never see the light of a courtroom, I was out in the field, talking to cops and witnesses and victims, building a case and preparing for trial. I loved any kind of court appearance. It reminded me of theater in that I had to stand up and put on a really good performance. Sometimes I had a script that I memorized, but I was good at thinking on my feet, too. Basically, I did whatever I needed to do to charm the jury and get a conviction.

In that sense, I had a distinct advantage over my fellow ADAs. Jurors felt as if they already knew me, and for the most part, they liked and trusted me. I could win over most judges, too, many of whom were older and had revered my father. In other words, I definitely benefited from my name. For once, though, I didn’t feel guilty about my advantage, since I felt I was using it to help others. I was fighting for justice, just as my grandmother had wanted me to. Every now and then, she would come downtown to see mein action. Afterward, she’d take me to lunch, and we’d talk about the case. Occasionally, she felt sorry for a defendant and expressed mixed emotions about me getting a conviction.

“I have to say, Joey…I was really hoping that young man would see an acquittal today,” she said one afternoon as we sat in a little bakery.

I chuckled and shook my head. “C’mon, Gary. He was guilty as hell,” I said. “They found the crack in his car.”

“Allegedly. It could have been planted. At the end of the day, you only had the word of one white police officer. That’s not exactly ironclad.”

“Okay. But we also got aconfession,” I countered.

She dismissed that, too, and began a whole diatribe about shady police tactics and forced confessions and unethical interrogations.

“And in any event,” she said, “does it seem right to put away that kid forlife?”

“Well, he’s eighteen. So technically an adult,” I said, feeling instantly sheepish as I thought of my birthday party and how eighteen hadn’t seemed so old to me then. “Besides. It was histhirdoffense.”

“Right. Because he’s a teenageaddict. Addicts typically do things more than once.”

I sighed, then said, “Well, I don’t make the rules. And neither do cops or judges or juries. That’s up to the legislature.”

My grandmother conceded this point but insisted that the so-called war on drugs wrongfully targeted minorities and the urban poor. “Joey, have you ever wondered why the sentencing guidelines are harsher for crack cocaine thanregularcocaine?” she asked.

I shook my head, because I hadn’t; I’d just always thought crack seemed worse, somehow more dangerous, more associated with crime.

“Think about it. But for now, let’s put that aside,” she said. “Let’s just talk about pot.”

I smiled, surprised to hear my grandmother use the slang term.

“Okay,” I said, nodding.

“Which file is more likely to come across your desk—an African American teenager smoking pot in Harlem or a white kid getting high at Columbia?”

“Dang,” I said, nodding. “You got a point there.”

“You smoked pot in college, didn’t you, Joey?”

“Gary! C’mon,” I said, smiling.

“Well? Were you ever worried about being imprisoned?”

I shook my head and said, “No. Not really.”

“And if the police had raided one of your little parties, and brought you in, what would have happened?”

I bit my lip, imagining how it would have all unfolded, and how far-fetched it was that any scenario would have included a jail cell. “Yeah. I hear you.”

“The whole criminal justice system is problematic, Joey.”

“Right. Sure. But a lot of the people I prosecute are seriously bad guys, and I feel good about getting them off the street.”

“I know, Joey,” she said. “And I’m not trying to disparage your entire profession. We need principled prosecutors….”

“But?” I said.

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