Chapter Fifteen
LENA - LOS ANGELES, CA
Ilooked at my watch. Four thirty p.m. already.
Shit. If I didn’t leave work immediately, I’d hit a ton of traffic and be late.
I clicked Send on the email I’d been drafting, slammed my laptop shut, and shoved it into my bag.
I grabbed the Hawke case folder and tucked it in there as well.
I needed to work on the direct examination of a few of the plaintiffs later that night at home.
But at the moment, I needed to hit the road.
I was meeting my dad at the Terranea Resort, where the wedding would take place.
I thought, for the thousandth time, how surreal it was to be planning my dad’s second wedding.
When I stood up to leave, Brad was standing in the doorway. Oh God, now what? I had to get out of here and didn’t have time for more of Brad’s questions. Since he’d taken on the Fletcher case, he’d come to me for advice more often than I liked.
“Where’re you heading? You never leave this early.”
“I’ve got an appointment. Family commitment.” That was all he was getting. It was none of his business. I walked over to the door.
“Oh, bummer. I wanted to discuss strategy for the Fletcher case.”
I shut off the light to my office then gestured to him to back up so I could close the door.
“Walk me to the elevator. That’s all I’ve got time for now.” I was losing my patience with his constant comments about the case. What is this—the third time he’s come to me? It might have been easier to handle that goddamn case myself.
He fell in step alongside me, matching my quick gait. “So, because there’s still no federal protection for sexual orientation discrimination, we’re using the state statute as our principal argument.”
Obviously, I thought, nodding dismissively.
“But we were thinking of adding a different federal claim to the case. Something more creative. I remembered that case you handled years back, when California first passed state protection but it still wasn’t well tested in the courts.”
Brad had an excellent memory. When I was a new attorney at the division, I worked on a case representing a public school teacher who alleged the district had fired her for telling her students she was a lesbian.
We added on an argument that the district violated her First Amendment right of freedom of speech.
There was a gaping hole at the federal level, with no protection against sexual orientation employment discrimination, and the new California statute was too weak to hang our entire case on.
It had a long, sordid history, including a veto by then Governor Pete Wilson, protests by LGBTQ community members and advocates, and the state legislature then enacting a watered-down version of the original statute.
So we’d attempted the creative argument that if the teacher hadn’t answered her students’ questions about her sexual orientation, she wouldn’t have been fired. And we’d won.
I turned and stared at Brad. “I’m surprised you remember that.”
“Don’t be. It was impressive.” He lobbed that compliment to me like a kid who’d been told he had to hand over his favorite toy to a playmate by his parent—reluctantly.
But I’d take it. “So I’m taking a page out of your playbook.
I reviewed your case file for Deborah Woodside vs.
West Covina School District, and we’re adding a freedom-of-speech claim. ”
I shrugged but felt myself smile. “Stop trying to butter me up so you can boast more about your case.” Brad loved talking strategy.
“Is it working?” Brad asked, eagerness and smugness playing across his face.
Infuriating. “A little,” I admitted, groaning.
“Yes!” Brad said, pumping his fist in the air. “That’s the ticket.” He looked like he wanted to pick me up and twirl me around.
Please, no.
We’d reached the elevator bank. I hit the button impatiently. “Is that it?” I hoped this would be the last time he came to me about this case.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting me. I rolled my eyes.
He cocked his head, curious. “So, what gives? Why didn’t you want this case for yourself? I thought you’d be all over it.”
“I’m swamped right now with the Hawke case and a few others I’m handling. Plus, I’ve got some outside commitments that are going to need my attention for the next few months.” I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture, letting Brad know these commitments were not open for discussion.
“Got it. Hey, if you need help, I can assign that new paralegal, Toby, to work with you on the Hawke case.”
“No, I’m fine. I don’t need his help.” My reply came out much more firmly than I’d expected it to.
Brad must have noticed. He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, I was just offering. Marcus wants him to work with as many of us as possible. But no worries. If you’ve got it covered, that’s cool.”
I was relieved to see the elevator doors opening. I stepped inside and quickly hit the button to close the doors. “Yup, all good,” I said dryly, watching Brad’s face disappear as the doors shut.
I was the one who’d passed this case on to Brad. But I couldn’t help feeling annoyed that I had more experience with this area of law and he would be the one to try the case. It was hard to sit on the sidelines and watch him gloat.
Why didn’t I take that freaking case for myself? The timing was totally off. That was what I told Marcus. And that was true. I had my hands full. But I realized it might be more than that.
As the elevator descended to the parking garage, my mind drifted back to that 1998 case I’d handled.
How jarring to think of it again. It was an important case for me professionally, for sure.
But it had also affected me personally. I had a hard time separating myself from the case.
It hit too close to home, even though the client was a lesbian, not a gay man.
I sometimes wondered if part of my discomfort was that I had enough knowledge as an antidiscrimination lawyer to be aware of what could go wrong.
I saw the ugly side of being other daily.
You would think being so close to the issue would help.
I wondered if it made things worse. My work often served as confirmation that my fears were well founded, as it constantly exposed me to the hatred that still lived in the veins of our supposedly enlightened society.
It was a disease that every person who was other had to live with and be exposed to.
I remembered the day my dad called to ask me the question that would haunt me for years. It was that same year—1998—and I’d been working at the Civil Rights Division for only a few years.
I’d answered the phone in my office. “Lena Antinori speaking.”
“Lena, it’s Daddy.”
I laughed that my father still referred to himself as Daddy sometimes—like I was a little girl. It was embarrassing but also kind of sweet. I was a grown woman with a career, a home, and a husband. That didn’t matter to him.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Question for you—can I be fired for being gay?” he blurted.
His question stunned me into silence. And that didn’t happen often. Then I found my voice.
“Why? Did something happen at work?”
“No. One of my friends told me that, and I thought it was nuts.”
“Well, federal law doesn’t cover sexual orientation discrimination.
And there are only a handful of states that cover it.
California is one of them, but the statute is still fairly new, and it’s pretty weak in its coverage.
It’s somewhat untested by the courts, to be honest. So even though technically an employer can’t fire you because you’re gay, it still may be a tough case to win. ”
“Wow, even in 1998? You’re kidding me,” my dad replied.
“Yeah, it’s absurd. It’s something we’re working on changing. We think the landscape is going to get better and better, with more states passing laws that have some real teeth. But right now, it’s risky to come out at work. I wouldn’t recommend it, Dad.”
It was my dad’s turn to be silent. I waited, letting him gather his thoughts.
“I wasn’t thinking of coming out at work. I guess I’m more concerned someone may find out and tell my boss.”
“That could happen,” I said. “So I suggest you lie low. I don’t mean you should lie exactly, but maybe don’t be too open about it.
You’ve heard the phrase, ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’?
Kind of like that. Is your boss the type that may retaliate against you for being gay, even though you’re such a great worker? ”
“I don’t think so. But I don’t want to take any chances.” My dad sighed.
I felt myself sigh along with him. I was relieved he wouldn’t do anything drastic and risk losing his job, but my heart hurt for him having to be silent about who he was. What a messed-up world we lived in that an employer could fire someone just because of who they loved or were attracted to.
“I think this will change someday. We’re just not there yet. There are still a lot of bigoted, close-minded people.”
“Fuck them! What I do is my business. I don’t tell them who to love!”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I felt like the air had been let out of a balloon. “But it’s not that bad. Just don’t speak about your love life at work.”
Opposing forces were pulling at me. My dad was frustrated and had a right to be. But I felt old wounds coming to the surface. The secrecy of my childhood had left so many scars.
“I’m tired of hiding, Lena. Of feeling like some freak.
I hate that these bastards force me to hide who I am, and the fact that if I’m honest about it—or God forbid, proud of it—I can be treated like shit at work, overlooked for promotion, or lose my job altogether.
And that it would be hard to fight that legally. ”
“I know, I do. You’re preaching to the choir about the law. It’s still nowhere near what it should be by now. But it’s the reality.” I heard someone talking in the background.
“Okay, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you in a few days, okay?”
“Okay, Dad. Talk to you later.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I remember hanging up after our call and feeling a cloud hovering over me.
It was like my entire life was staring me in the face.
Here was my father, asking me if he could be fired for being gay.
And I not only had to answer that yes, maybe he could, but I also had to advise him to keep quiet.
It was one thing to give legal advice to a client, prepare a case, argue it in court, and believe in it.
Of course I felt invested in those cases.
Of course I believed in what I was advocating and zealously represented my client. But I wasn’t my client’s daughter.
I felt like a fake playing the part of the civil rights attorney by day then not just telling my dad to hide but hiding in that closet with him.
There were only a handful of people in my life who knew I had a gay parent—some extended family members and no one at work.
For someone open-minded who professed to be an advocate, I was damn good at hiding the truth.
Maybe I was my father’s daughter after all.
The elevator chimed, and the elevator doors opened to the parking garage, bringing my attention back to the present.
I climbed into my Fiat and turned on the radio.
Frankie Valli crooned the opening line to “Can’t Take My Eyes off You,” one of my parents’ favorite songs when I was a kid.
I could picture my dad singing it to my mom, the two of them laughing.
And when the song would crescendo as it reached the chorus, they’d raise their hands and mimic playing the horns with their fingers while singing at the top of their lungs.
I sighed. They loved each other. It just hadn’t been enough.