Chapter 21 #2
“Sorry, it’s an unknown caller. I should pick it up.
For most people it’s just telemarketers, but my clients don’t always have the same phone numbers.
They may lose their phone, or have a phone shut off.
” Amaya gives me an explanation I definitely don’t deserve and of course makes me feel terrible that I snapped at her.
She didn’t even flinch. She picks up the phone. “Hello?”
I can’t hear what is said on the other side. Amaya’s mouth turns into a frown. She hangs up and puts the phone back in her bag.
“What’s wrong?” I know it’s none of my business. Upon seeing her crumpled expression, I can’t help asking.
“They said to stop investigating this case or there would be deadly consequences,” Amaya says, looking more annoyed than upset or scared.
“ ‘Deadly consequences’?” I take a moment to let it sink in. “That sounds like a serious threat.” I look around as if whoever made the call will pop out and reveal themselves like we’re on Scooby-Doo and we’re the meddling kids. “Should we be worried?”
“It’s a big case, it made the front-page of the news today, and this is my work phone.
My number is easily found online, and it’s been given out to hundreds of people I’ve represented and their families.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been threatened and won’t be the last. It could even be the family of the victim, upset about their son.
In these types of cases, emotions run high. ”
“Are you sure?” I ask, wondering if we should call the police, still thinking about my last experience with them—in particular how they had their guns drawn at both our heads.
It doesn’t seem like they’d be particularly helpful.
Maybe the police would even be happy we were getting threats—a morbid but reasonable thought given their treatment of me.
Unlike Amaya, I’ve never been threatened with something so permanent as “deadly consequences,” and it freaks me out, even as vague as it sounds.
It makes me feel like those scary movies where the lead screams, “The call is coming from INSIDE the house!” I can’t shake the feeling that danger is closer than we think.
“Yes, of course, it’s just some nutter,” Amaya responds casually.
“And I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at the ground like a child who’s had a moment to reflect on their actions after a much-needed time-out.
“About what?” Amaya’s nose crinkles again, and I can’t suppress my smile.
“Snapping at you, of course.”
“When?”
“Just now, just before the phone call.”
“Oh, I didn’t even notice. I have so many clients yell at me. If you’re not outright screaming, I barely register it.”
“God, that must be awful.”
“It’s hard. It’s also hard to be frustrated with the yeller.
They are people on the worst days of their lives.
They’ve been manhandled, some of them literally beaten and brutalized.
Held in a dirty jail cell like cattle, and told they’ll only get out of jail if they’re rich enough to do so.
Even if all they’ve done is steal some diapers.
” Amaya pauses for a breath before continuing.
“And most people aren’t happy to see me, a public defender, an attorney for the poor and downtrodden.
If you’re rich, it’s a cool idea, but if you’re poor and you get me, and you feel like your whole life is in my hands, you start to get nervous. ”
I remember what my parents offered last night. They could hire a private attorney if they mortgaged their house and sold all their earthly possessions. Even doing that would not likely cover the costs. I looked at the rates online last night—just out of curiosity, I told myself.
“I don’t know how you manage it,” I reply. It’s the truth. If I had half of what Amaya has going on, I think I’d crumble. Some people are meant for important jobs, and others are just meant to drive around a taxi.
“People probably yell at you too. A taxi driver. I honestly can’t imagine the type of people you encounter. You mentioned the drunk people in your cab yesterday. I’d freak.”
People are rude to me. I just assume that’s the life of a taxi driver.
In Sri Lanka, the service people who seem to take the brunt of everyone’s annoyance are often reduced to “less than” status.
It shouldn’t be that way. Everyone deserves respect and common decency.
Isn’t that how I treat people, from the man behind the counter at a bodega to Gary, the sanitation worker who empties our trash every Thursday?
“You ready?” Amaya asks, nodding toward the elevator, interrupting my thoughts.
I don’t feel ready, and this sinister phone call only adds to the panic I’m feeling. But time isn’t on our side.
—
The elevator doors open into a beautiful lobby marred only by New Frontier’s orange-and-black logo, which appears on nearly every flat surface.
There is a receptionist sitting just beyond a pair of glass doors to our left; the blond woman, dressed in a suit, without even asking for our names, waves us through the doors.
Her skin looks so perfect, I’m tempted to ask what products she uses.
I’m wondering whether it’s a Korean twelve-step routine when I remember the consequence of what we’re about to do.
It’s not as if I don’t take this seriously—I do—but my anxiety-riddled mind is looking for anything else to think about lest I have another panic attack.
But, as my big brother always told me, I have to be brave, especially in those times it feels hardest to do so.
I spot a janitor milling about, but otherwise the entire office is devoid of people.
It gives the building an eerie postapocalyptic feel.
I assume the absence of people is due to the early hour of the day, not zombies.
The reception area is lined floor to ceiling with windows that give a beautiful view of the city.
I scan the room and see one man standing by the window with his back turned away from us. This must be Brett Ryan.
“Mr. Ryan?” Amaya asks so sweetly that I’m not sure she’s the same person from just a few moments ago.
Her different tactics in getting people to speak are impressive.
First and foremost, she always comes off as extremely likable, clearly following true crime rule number three: Always be polite to get people to talk.
It’s a surprisingly hard feat given how easy it is for some to label a woman as bitchy or bossy when she’s just trying to do her job.
“Yes?” Mr. Ryan turns around. Brett Ryan is conventionally attractive, like a long-lost Kennedy brother.
His hair is a little windblown, as if he just stepped off a yacht.
For a second, I imagine myself in a Hallmark movie: Woman falsely accused of murder falls in love with a man who helps her find the truth.
No. This isn’t the time to develop a crush.
Besides, in the reflection of the glass window, I catch my limp curls, which I spent thirty minutes trying to tame this morning. I’m not melting any hearts today.
“Hi, my name is Amaya—”
“You’re the defense attorney, I presume?”
“Yes,” Amaya answers. Her eyebrows rise just a little, like she is actively working to keep her face neutral. It doesn’t work. I can tell immediately she’s surprised, and I wonder if this will throw her off track.
“And next to you is…?” Mr. Ryan asks.
“Uh, my investigator,” Amaya says.
My cheeks burn with the lie and the crush I’m trying to suppress.
I wish I had worn some makeup—Ammi has tried to force a copious amount on me these past few years—and I know there’s some unopened bottle of foundation and probably garish blush somewhere just waiting to be used.
I’m grateful he doesn’t recognize me; surely he’d kick us out if he did.
“I didn’t think you were with the NYPD. They already came here and asked all sorts of details, none of which I assume was of particular help.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to ask you a few questions as well,” Amaya says, her voice an octave lower and more like herself now that the ruse is up. To me, the request feels brazen but necessary.
“I suppose it’s not the popular choice to answer the questions of the lawyer representing the woman who killed my friend,” Mr. Ryan says, and I flinch at his words.
“But I was a lawyer once. I learned about the presumption of innocence, and I believe that you should be able to investigate your case and defend yourself. It wouldn’t be a fair fight otherwise. ”
I’m grateful that he isn’t turning us away, as he has every right to do.
It’s actually pretty magnanimous of him—if I were in his place, I’d definitely tell us to piss off.
It once again makes me rethink my stance on the criminal justice system and how maybe I’ve gotten some of it very wrong.
Amaya and I are not detectives. We don’t have the power of the police force behind us.
I am a taxi driver, and Amaya is just a lawyer, not someone with the backing of the state like the assistant district attorney prosecuting my case.
We have no power at all. If someone doesn’t want to speak to us, then we are out of luck.
“Thank you, we are very grateful,” Amaya replies.
“We can take a seat in my office,” Brett says as he leads us down a long corridor to a gorgeous corner office with sweeping views of downtown Manhattan.
Amaya and I take a seat across from Brett, who is wearing a well-tailored suit.
I can tell it’s expensive just from the way the fabric looks.
A silk pocket square with a designer logo on it popping out of his breast pocket confirms my suspicions.
Brett’s suit is probably a whole month’s pay for me.
I think about my dwindling passengers. Possibly two months’ at this point.
“Could you tell us a little more about James?”