Counting Backwards

21

Jessa

May 2022

I turned down the narrow side street in Greenwich Village, weaving a path around other pedestrians on the bustling sidewalk. It was one of the first warm days of spring, and the streets were crowded with people enjoying the weather. I hurried along past quirky lunch spots, smoke shops, tattoo parlors, and hipster clothing stores. Most passersby probably wouldn’t even notice the narrow three-story structure where I was headed. But to me, the building was a beacon, a safe haven that seemed to call out to me as I approached.

For the past four weeks, I’d been stepping into the inconspicuous brick building that housed the Manhattan Immigrant Defense Center on a near-daily basis. I pushed open the heavy glass door, checking my watch again. I was relieved to see that despite the subway delay on my ride downtown, I wasn’t as late as I’d expected.

As I made my way toward the building’s interior stairwell, I rounded a corner and nearly collided with Will Carbone.

“Jessa!”

he exclaimed as we each stepped back to avoid toppling the other. Will was dressed in one of his signature three-piece suits. His white hair was combed neatly to the side and his eyes, beneath round tortoiseshell glasses, were especially bright. “We’re really getting there, kiddo,”

he said, and I felt myself puff up at the pride in his voice. With each day that passed since I’d first told him about Hydeford, he’d proven how right I’d been to reach out.

“I’m running late for my granddaughter’s birthday,”

he said with an air of apology. Then he made his way around me. “Lydia and I got so caught up.”

When I had contacted Professor Carbone the month before to ask about working with NYU’s Immigrants’ Rights Clinic, I didn’t think he’d even remember me. Eight years had passed since I finished law school, nine since I’d been a student in his evidence class. I needn’t have worried. When I reintroduced myself on the phone, he immediately referenced a law review article I’d written as a student and joked that he always lamented when promising young legal scholars landed at corporate firms instead of academic institutions. Buoyed by his apparent confidence in my abilities, I launched into the reason for my call, but as soon as I uttered the words class action, he stopped me short.

It wasn’t going to work, he said. Although the students in the NYU clinic were very talented, he explained, a large class action lawsuit would be too complicated for them to manage without additional oversight. He suggested looping in Lydia Brass at the Manhattan Immigrant Defense Center to partner with us.

Since that time, we’d created a larger and more formidable team than I ever could have dreamed. Lydia and her colleagues contacted several other human rights organizations in New York and New Jersey, and even the National Immigration Project of the National Lawyers Guild in DC. I felt as if I’d barely blinked, and suddenly I was co-counsel alongside some of the biggest names in immigrant defense law.

And then there were the NYU clinic participants. Those students were devoting countless hours and providing invaluable support. At any given moment, I found myself surrounded by four or five dedicated 2Ls and 3Ls who were worth their weight in gold.

I made my way to the project room on the third floor, a windowless conference space large enough for ten or twelve people to work together. Under the room’s fluorescent lighting, I found a group of students focused on their individual laptops. I walked to an empty seat at the large oval table and pulled out my own computer. The others acknowledged me quietly, glancing up with silent nods and small smiles.

While I waited for my computer to power up, my eyes roved over the four students seated near me, each of them working intensely. Wanda and Reese, two young women sitting beside each other, had been walking the six blocks to and from NYU’s Vanderbilt Hall multiple times a day to comb through case research, check case citations, and organize the growing piles of supporting documents. Sean, who’d joined the team only the week before, was working on a preliminary press release. Then there was Mia, in her wire-frame eyeglasses and hot pink combat boots, who was so well-versed in the requirements of various immigration orders that I had trouble remembering the young woman was still only a student.

In the four short weeks we’d been working together, there’d been laughter and hugs each time any of us found a new piece of law that worked in favor of our clients. With our shared passion and all the hours of quiet work together, I’d found myself feeling more connected to these colleagues than I had to any of my peers at Dillney. Although Will Carbone had offered to let me remain lead attorney, I’d declined. For the first time in as long as I could remember, it didn’t matter to me who oversaw a particular case. I was just glad we were all doing our best to help our clients. It felt pretty incredible to work alongside other people who were putting forth so much effort for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with their holiday bonuses.

As I returned my attention to my computer, opening Westlaw to continue my online research, Lydia appeared at the door with three large binders in her arms.

She spotted me and smiled warmly. With gray hair cut close to her head and a face that was only just beginning to wrinkle, she was dressed with her usual bohemian flair in tan bell-bottom pants, a flowing floral blouse, and long earrings made of pink feathers that reached below her shoulders. Despite her fun-loving style, she could tear apart a weak legal argument in a matter of seconds. She hurried around the table, making her way toward my seat.

“You’re just in time,”

she said in a half whisper, then dumped the binders on the table. “I think it’s ready to go,”

she continued in a hushed tone.

She was talking about the complaint. We’d been going over it with a fine-tooth comb for the past several days, making sure we hadn’t left out any important claims or any possible defendants. Once it was finalized, we’d send it over to our co-counsel, the New Jersey Alliance for Immigrant Justice, who would file it on our behalf in the morning.

“The kids finished the cite checks last night. All that’s left is the final proofing now. You want to take a turn?”

Back in my life at Big Law, being tasked with proofreading could have been considered an insult, or at least a waste of a senior attorney’s valuable time. Proofing was a dreaded assignment endured only by junior associates and paralegals. But I was glad to be involved in all stages of the case. Instead of simply drafting theoretical documents, I was getting deep in the weeds, doing the tasks that kept a person feeling connected to a case. And anyway, Lydia had turned her focus toward discovery and the different sources from which the team would be seeking information. There were bucketloads of work involved in that too.

I nodded enthusiastically. “Give it here,”

I said, reaching for a binder.

I picked up a pen and began reading from page one. It felt like I’d been over the familiar document a thousand times already, but judges could be sticklers for perfection, and I didn’t want to risk even the smallest error. As I read, I rubbed a hand against my belly. I still wasn’t showing, but my stomach wasn’t nearly as flat as it had been eleven weeks earlier. Only one more week remained until the coveted twelve-week mark, when the risk of miscarriage would drop dramatically. I was still trying to maintain some emotional distance from the baby growing inside me. Just in case. But I was doing a woefully poor job of staying aloof.

As I continued turning pages of the complaint, I became engrossed in the facts of the case all over again. Each time I was confronted with the details from Hydeford was just as jarring as when I first discovered what had been happening to the women. I could see the events unfolding all over again, like a horror movie playing in my mind.

Nearly an hour later, as I reached the end of the document, the section enumerating the relief the plaintiffs sought, the quiet was interrupted by Lydia’s legal assistant, Asahi.

“I brought food!”

he called gleefully. He held up two take-out bags from Loukoumi Taverna, our favorite Greek restaurant, famous for their cumin-spiced falafel wraps.

Sean whooped in response, like he’d just won a prize. “You are a legend, Asahi!”

The scent of garlic made its way toward me, and instead of making me queasy, it caused my mouth to water. In recent days the nausea had subsided and I’d been ravenous. For breakfast alone, I could go through two English muffins, fully loaded with eggs, cheese, bacon, and avocado. No matter how much I ate, it never seemed to be enough.

Asahi placed both bags on the lacquered table. People rose from their seats, gathering around the bags to extract foil-covered pita wraps and plastic containers of salads and dips.

I waited while the others rooted around, not wanting to seem as piggish as I was feeling. Wanda noticed me still in my seat and tossed me a wrapped sandwich.

As I smiled gratefully and began opening the foil, Sean came up behind me, glancing at the complaint on the table.

“You’re almost finished. Good.”

He pulled out the chair beside me, unwrapping his own sandwich before continuing. “Then you can help me with the request for the Senate investigation. If we can get the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations to look into this . . .”

He took an aggressive bite of his gyro, then grinned sheepishly as he worked through the large hunk in his mouth. “They’ll find everything. Hopefully they’ll even shut down the facility while the investigation is pending.”

“We should definitely be aiming for that,”

Reese said from across the room as she settled back into her seat. She had the kind of long, straight blond hair I’d always envied as a kid. She was a beautiful young woman with a bright future ahead of her. She was also a white all-American girl, probably just the sort of person my great-grandfather would have wanted to clone.

“Getting Hydeford closed, it’s a more immediate solution,”

Reese said. “At least then the women would be moved somewhere else where the threat of retaliation would be reduced.”

“I was thinking the same thing,”

I said. “Although I don’t know why I keep allowing myself to get distracted with this part of the case. I know the DC attorneys are handling the filing with the Office of Inspector General. I should really be working on this list for discovery with you guys.”

“I know why you’re focusing on it,”

Asahi said from across the table. “You want to see those fuckers pay as quickly and dramatically as possible.”

I laughed. “Well, I guess that too.”

As I bit into my sandwich, I couldn’t tell whether the warm sensation coursing through my limbs was from the falafel or the camaraderie filling me up. Probably both.

After everyone finished eating and the room quieted down again, I returned to the complaint. Even with only a few pages left to read, I couldn’t regain my focus. The talk of discovery had brought Dustin to mind, probably because we worked together on multiple discovery teams at the firm. Or, more likely, because he simply kept invading my thoughts unbidden, and I was having an increasingly difficult time banishing him. There had been so many times over the past several weeks when I’d wanted to call him, just to tell him what was happening on the case. I thought he’d want to know. But I also didn’t want to confuse myself or Dustin about any feelings we might have for each other, especially not while everything was still so fragile with Vance.

And things were getting better with Vance. Well, sort of. Ever since the night of our reconciliation, we’d both been on our best behavior, and we hadn’t had a single argument.

I sighed thinking about him now. Despite the recent détente, something still felt off. I knew he was trying—like when he started making me flavored decaf coffees every morning, poor but thoughtful substitutes for the espresso shots I’d used as fuel before pregnancy. He bought me a new pair of fuzzy slippers and a full-sized body pillow that was supposed to help prevent back pain as my pregnancy progressed. But such things did not make a relationship satisfying. I was getting what I’d thought I wanted, but it turned out the little gestures didn’t matter to me at all, not when there was still so much we weren’t saying to each other. At times I would catch Vance staring at me from the other side of the room, thinking unknowable things. I wondered in those moments if he was looking for traces of evil in my face, second-guessing his decision to make peace.

A noise caught my attention, and I glanced up from the document. As if conjured by my thoughts, Vance stood in the doorway of the project room. He was wearing a dark long-sleeved t-shirt and the gray cargo pants he favored for weekend outings. He raised his eyebrows at me expectantly, beckoning me over. I held a finger to my lips and hurried around the table toward the door.

“What are you doing here?”

I whispered as I took his arm and pulled him farther into the hallway.

“Can I kidnap you for a while?”

he asked, moving me toward a window. “Take you out for some fresh air and a walk to Washington Square?”

“Vance, I can’t,”

I said, trying to sound disappointed. In truth, I was outraged he would ask me to step away when he knew we were nearing such an important deadline. “We’re filing tomorrow, remember? I need to be here to finish this with everyone.”

He smirked. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”

Annoyance seeped out of each clipped word. It was the first time in recent weeks he’d used that irritated tone with me. I almost felt relief at hearing the rancor and knowing he was at least being genuine with me. I figured all that hostility had been lurking there, simmering underneath his gentlemanly behavior all this time.

Before I could give it more thought, he backpedaled. “I just wanted to see you. Can we sit, just for a few minutes?”

He motioned toward a bench at the end of the hallway.

I nodded and followed. As he sat, his expression turned so serious that I began to worry. His lips were pinched, and he seemed to be holding his breath, gearing up for something.

“What?”

I demanded.

“I talked to Gram today,”

he started.

“Gram?”

I said with sudden panic. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

He waved away the concern. “I just had some things I wanted to talk through with her.”

“Why? Like what?”

I felt immediately defensive.

“You’ve been so slammed. I knew you had to cancel brunch plans with her, so I called and offered to take her.”

“Why?”

I repeated. “Were you trying to find out more about her father?”

Had he co-opted the date simply to interrogate her? A protectiveness welled inside me as I worried about what he might have said or done.

“What? No.”

He seemed affronted by the thought. “I had no ulterior motive. You can relax your shoulders.”

He laughed lightly. “I just wanted to do something helpful for you while you’re so busy. Can’t I try to take care of you, of your family?”

He reached toward my face, where a stray curl had fallen from my messy bun, and he tucked it behind my ear. “Gram’s my family too, you know.”

As I berated myself for wrongly assuming the worst, I couldn’t stand the constant flux of my feelings toward him.

“Did you know that Gram met Carrie Buck?”

Vance asked.

“Wait, she what?”

“She met the woman from that court case, Carrie Buck. The one you told me about. They met in the 1980s. Carrie was elderly, and you weren’t even born yet. Gram said your mom and dad were trying to get pregnant with you, and I guess they’d been having a hard time.”

Gram had never told me about this. Nor had she ever mentioned my mom having fertility issues. Were my own struggles with fertility genetic? It would have been nice, during those recent months of worry, to be able to connect my own struggle with my mother’s. Doing so might have somehow softened the blow of it all.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Gram told me today when we were at brunch. Your mom had a second miscarriage, and she thought it was a consequence of everything her grandfather had done, that God was punishing the family. Apparently, your mom insisted they do something to change up the bad juju or whatever. I didn’t understand the trajectory exactly, but somehow they came up with the idea of going to see Carrie Buck. I don’t know. You’d have to ask Gram about the rest of it. She said she’ll tell you. I thought you might want to go see her to find out more.”

“Go see her? Like, today?”

He nodded.

“You thought that while I was finalizing a huge complaint that’s getting filed in literal hours, I’d want to take off for the day to chat with my grandmother?”

I couldn’t help myself from snapping at him. The combination of this new information and Vance’s stupid suggestion was almost too much to bear.

I hadn’t known my mom had miscarried even once, let alone two times. It was strange, learning something new about my own mother all these years after her death, and from Vance of all people. He’d never even known her.

“Actually, yeah,”

Vance answered defensively. “I guess I kind of did think that.”

In spite of my annoyance, I was still stunned by this news and completely intrigued. “So they went to meet Carrie in person? How could Gram not have told me? Especially after coming clean about everything else.”

I wondered what else my grandmother still hadn’t shared.

“I really don’t know, Jess, but here’s the thing: Carrie forgave them. That’s what Gram wanted me to know. I think she wanted me to understand that if Carrie Buck could forgive your family, then I can forgive you too.”

“Wow.”

So much was going on inside my head, I didn’t know where to start. “I can’t believe they actually met her.”

After all the time I’d spent ruminating over the woman’s history, always picturing Carrie as a young woman, it was hard to imagine her as a wrinkled elderly person, sitting in a room with my own mother and grandmother. I tried to keep my thoughts focused on that amorphous visual because I didn’t want to acknowledge Vance’s other comment—that he might be able to forgive me, that this was something he was still working on. Was I supposed to thank him after his epiphany? Was that supposed to be my takeaway from this conversation? I was so much more interested in the other information he’d revealed.

“You should call her later,”

he said. “In the meantime, I can take a hint. I’ll leave you to it.”

He rose from the bench and motioned with his head toward the conference room. “Crushing it on this case is the best way to show those guys at Dillney that they’d be fools to lose you.”

Standing back up too, I wrapped my arms around his waist and lowered my head to his shoulder, desperate to feel the closeness we once shared. We stood there for a long moment, silent, our arms snaked around each other. I soaked in the familiar lines and curves of his lean muscles, the safe smells of cedar and pine that wafted toward me from his skin. As I clung to him, I realized that he’d never understand what this was about. Whatever happened with Dillney, I knew I’d always be able to find another job. I was doing this for the women at Hydeford. I couldn’t say that to him though. Not now, while we were still so raw.

When I finally pulled back, I asked, “What do you think’s going to happen after we file tomorrow?”

As if anyone could know the answer to that question.

Vance shrugged but answered anyway. “I bet it will make the news. You’ll be famous,”

he added with pride in his voice, pulling me back toward him to give me an extra little squeeze.

“Oops,”

he said, letting go quickly. “Don’t want to smoosh the baby.”

“About that,”

I said, leaning back again so I could see his face. “I’d like to tell your parents about the pregnancy tomorrow night. After the filing is done.”

“But it’s only eleven weeks,”

he said. “I thought we were supposed to wait until after the first trimester, just in case.”

“If anything goes wrong,”

I said, “I want your family to be part of our grieving process. But right now, I think we should include them in our joy too.”

“So that’s the deal now?”

he asked lightly. “We just tell everyone all our secrets? All this honesty is getting to be a bit much. Are you sure you can handle it?”

I smiled back without answering. I was beginning to see that I could handle so much more than either of us had yet given me credit for.