Chapter 8
My lessons are on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, for an hour or two at a time, depending on Miss Dunn’s schedule. If there’s no one else in the lounge room in the evening and I’ve finished all my homework, I sometimes watch TV.
I don’t watch much TV, but there is one show that I like. It’s called Clarissa Hobbs, Attorney at Law, and it’s about a woman lawyer. Fortunately, nothing that anyone else wants to watch is on at the same time. Bindi and Cinnamon always watch stupid stuff like Shop with LeeLee, the reality TV show where LeeLee Nelson goes shopping with the people who are her friends this week.
Clarissa Hobbs is a divorced mature-age lady, and has grandkids because she married so young, but she doesn’t look like a granny. Clarissa’s hair is ash-blonde, not grey, and her face has character lines rather than wrinkles. She dresses in simple, elegant suits and keeps fit by playing racquetball at the local gym, which is where she met her boyfriend, a handsome silver-haired lawyer.
Clarissa is from the South in America, but now she lives in Los Angeles. She comes from a rich family, although her family lost their money when she was about my age.
Tonight, Clarissa is doing one of her pro bono cases, which means that she’s helping a poor person by handling their case for free. In this case, Clarissa is defending a young black man named Trell. He’s a gang member, and Clarissa knows he’s no angel. She’s helping him for two reasons. Number one, she thinks he’s innocent. Number two, Trell’s father has been on Death Row since he was a baby, so he’s had a rough start in life.
Trell has been accused of arson and murder. A fire broke out in a local convenience store, killing the owner who lived upstairs. The prosecution says that Trell set the fire as revenge because the owner accused him of shoplifting. The prosecution doesn’t have any physical evidence, but they do have an eyewitness. The eyewitness is Mrs Crabtree, an old lady who lives across the street from the shop. Mrs Crabtree was sleeping, and says she was woken up by the noise from the fire and saw Trell running away from the building.
Clarissa works out a strategy to attack the credibility of Mrs Crabtree, who is white. Clarissa, when she cross-examines Mrs Crabtree, casts doubt that Mrs Crabtree can tell one black man from another by asking Mrs Crabtree to describe Trell’s features.
‘Well, he’s black,’ Mrs Crabtree says.
‘And how would you describe the features of that gentleman over there,’ Clarissa asks, pointing to a black court officer.
‘Well . . . he’s . . . black,’ Mrs Crabtree says, squinting and looking flustered. You can hear a few people in the courtroom laughing quietly.
‘Can you be more specific, Mrs Crabtree?’ Clarissa says, with exaggerated patience.
Mrs Crabtree splutters and stammers.
‘Mrs Crabtree, are you sure it was Trell Anderson you saw running from that burning building?’
Mrs Crabtree turns red. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ she squeals indignantly. ‘Are you casting aspersions on my character?’
‘No, Mrs Crabtree,’ Clarissa replies acidly. ‘I’m not casting aspersions of any sort. I am questioning your attitudes toward African-Americans, the reliability of your memory, and the accuracy of your eyesight.’ Clarissa turns to the judge. ‘No further questions, Your Honour,’ she says.
Of course, Clarissa wins the case. She always does.
Even so, Clarissa isn’t overjoyed. ‘I have a feeling I’m going to be representing Trell again someday,’ Clarissa says grimly, as she snaps her briefcase shut.
After the episode ends, there’s the usual five minutes of ads. A model strides down a dark alley and knocks on a door. When the door opens, she pulls off her dress so she’s wearing nothing but lacy red and black underthings. ‘Ripper,’ a voice whispers, as she steps into the darkened house. Then the screen goes black and Ripper Intimates is displayed in red type.
I switch off the TV when a McCain’s frozen food commercial comes on. I hate that part at the end where they say, ‘Ah, McCain’s, you’ve done it a-GAIN’. One night, that commercial was the last thing I saw before I went to bed, and I heard it rolling through my brain about a hundred times before I could get to sleep.
I climb the stairs, put on my pyjamas, and climb into bed.
Ripperrr, the TV voice purrs.
‘Ripper!’ Daddy used to say, if something really pleased him. ‘Ripper got me best patch,’ says Ernie.
I jerk awake, run to the light switch and turn on the light. It takes me a few minutes to calm down. I pull out a book out from under my bed. Georges Sand: A Woman’s Life Writ Large. It’s too advanced for me to understand. Or maybe it’s just boring. That’s the best kind of book to read if you’re trying to go to sleep. I still haven’t figured out why a woman is named Georges, or why George has an ‘s’ on the end, or why it’s ‘writ’ instead of ‘written’. I put the book away, turn off the light, close my eyes, and think sand, sand, sand, sand, sand, sand, until I fall asleep.