I get asked that all the time. “Or Robert!” I say, although Howard was actually right. I might prefer to be named for the politician who did so much for civil rights, but in reality, my mother just had a crush on his ill-fated brother and the Camelot mythology.

I will do whatever it takes to make this poor kid realize that at least one person in this office is glad he’s here. “So. Welcome!” I say brightly. “If you need anything, have any questions about the way we do things here—feel free to ask me.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“And maybe we can grab lunch?”

Howard nods. “I’d like that.”

“Well. I have to get to court.” I hesitate, and then address the elephant in the room. “Also, don’t listen to Ed. Not everyone around here thinks the way he does.” I smile at him. “For example, I think it’s pretty amazing that you’re giving back to your community.”

Howard smiles back at me. “Thanks, but…I grew up in Darien.”

Darien. One of the wealthiest towns in the state.

Then he sits down, invisible behind the partition that’s between us.

—

I HAVEN’T EVEN had my second cup of coffee yet and I’ve already hustled through far too much traffic and a tangle of reporters, leaving me to wonder what is going on in superior court in the courtroom where I’m not, since the only reason a TV crew might cover arraignments is to provide a sleep aid for insomniacs. So far we have gotten through three cases: a criminal violation of a restraining order with a defendant who did not speak English; a repeat offender with bleached hair and bags under her eyes who allegedly issued a bad check for twelve hundred dollars to buy a designer purse; and a man who was dumb enough to not just steal someone’s identity and start using the credit cards and bank account but actually pick someone named Cathy and not think he was going to be caught.

Then again, as I often tell myself, if my clients were all smarter, my job would be obsolete.

The way it works in New Haven Superior Court on arraignment day is that one of us from the PD’s office stands in for anyone who is brought before a judge and doesn’t have a lawyer but needs one. It’s like being trapped in a rotating door, and every time you step into the building, there’s a whole new décor and layout and you’re expected to know where you’re headed and how to navigate there. Most of the time I meet my new clients at the defense table, at which point I have the span of a heartbeat to assimilate the facts of their arrest and try to get them out on bail.

Did I mention I hate arraignment day? It basically requires me to be Perry Mason with ESP, and even if I do a stellar job and manage to get personal recognizance bail for a defendant who otherwise would be locked up pending trial, chances are pretty good that I will not be the attorney litigating his case. The juicy ones that I’d want to take to trial will either be plucked out of my grasp by someone with more seniority at the office or transfer to a private (read: paid) lawyer.

That is surely going to be the trajectory for the next defendant.

“Next: the State versus Joseph Dawes Hawkins the Third,” the clerk reads.

Joseph Dawes Hawkins is still so young that he has acne. He looks absolutely terrified, which is what a night in a jail will do to you when your experience with criminal behavior is limited to binge-watching The Wire. “Mr. Hawkins,” the judge asks, “will you please identify yourself for the record?”

“Um. Joe Hawkins,” the boy replies. His voice cracks.

“Where do you live?”

“One thirty-nine Grand Street, Westville.”

The clerk reads the charge: drug trafficking.

I’m going to guess, based on the kid’s expensive haircut and his wide-eyed response to the legal system, he was pushing something like Oxy, not meth or heroin. The judge enters an automatic plea of not guilty. “Joe, you’ve been charged with drug trafficking. Do you understand what that charge means?” The boy nods. “Do you have counsel present today?”

He glances over his shoulder at the gallery, goes a little paler, and then says, “No.”

“Would you like to speak to the public defender?”

“Yeah, Your Honor,” he says, and that’s my cue.

Privacy is limited to the so-called cone of silence at the defense table. “I’m Kennedy McQuarrie,” I say. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen. I’m a senior at Hopkins.”

The private school. Of course he is. “How long have you lived in Connecticut?”

“Since I was two?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” I ask.

“Answer,” he says, and he swallows. His Adam’s apple is the size of a monkey’s fist knot, which makes me think of sailing, which makes me think of Violet swearing.

“Are you working?”

He hesitates. “You mean besides selling the Oxy?”

“I didn’t hear that,” I reply immediately.

“Oh, I said—”

“I didn’t hear that.”

He glances up, nods. “Got it. No. No, I don’t work.”

“Who do you live with?”

“My parents.”

I am ticking off a checklist in my mind, peppering him with a barrage of questions. “Do your parents have the means to hire an attorney?” I ask finally.