Bethany’s squeal cut her off just in time to watch Obama’s grand entrance. The chamber erupted in applause, and the president shook hands with politicians, dignitaries, and unfamiliar people who were probably wealthy donors, as he made his way to the chamber.

  “Hey, as a prominent gay rights leader, how come you weren’t invited?” she asked.

  “It’s not a very big room, and I’m not that important.”

  The camera switched to a zoomed-out view of the whole chamber, and her eyes were immediately drawn to the pocket of black justices’ robes in a sea of more colorful suits and shirts. Tori’s huge, enthusiastic smile for the president seemed to light up the chamber—at least as far as Genevieve was concerned.

  Get it out now, sweetheart, before you have to sit there stoically and pretend you don’t care.

  They watched the standing ovation at the end of the speech, and when CNN cut to their pundits, commencing hours of commentary, they gathered boxes and loaded Genevieve’s car.

  After the last trip, Bethany clicked off the television. Genevieve turned off the lights, and in the darkness, she set the alarm and closed the door on a house that had given her happiness and even more frustration.

  Chapter 21

  Genevieve boarded the plane for Michigan loaded with binders and her laptop. Grateful for HER’s policy that its executives always fly business class, she used the extra space to spread open her binder, typing notes as she read. Arguments for summary judgment in Amelia’s case were tomorrow. If she wasn’t on top of her game, the other side could get her case dismissed before arguments on the actual substance of the matter even began.

  She reclined her seat and began by reading the other side’s briefs to the court. After she read through the first draft of her arguments, she moved paragraphs around, deleted one entire argument thread, and added another. Satisfied—at least for now—she turned to another binder and began reviewing similar cases and decisions. Identifying each argument against her, she typed a bullet-pointed list and interspersed how she would respond if the judge or opposing side raised that point.

  After she deplaned, she sent her notes to Jamie and Penelope with a request to e-mail feedback on her proposed responses. Because she was doing so much travel on this trip, HER had hired her a driver, who took her to a hotel. By the time she’d checked in and settled into her room, both Jamie and Penelope had replied. Jamie wanted her to respond slightly differently to the slippery slope issue, and Penelope tweaked her wording about gender dysphoria.

  She read cases about inmates and health care until well past midnight and slept fitfully, her dreams flitting between being imprisoned herself and her client having a total breakdown while she waited for a resolution in her case. It was a relief when her alarm finally gave her permission to wake up. She trudged to the shower and stood under the spray longer than she should have.

  Maybe Penelope and Jamie had a point. Maybe she was taking on too much, trying to manage HER and litigate cases herself. Even with the addition of an executive director, she was still doing the job of multiple people, and it was taking a toll.

  Jamie managed the organization’s caseload and oversaw litigation strategies but seldom stood up in court to deliver arguments and field questions. Penelope had hired a litigation manager as soon as she took the helm of NCLR. Apart from taking on Genevieve’s case, she confined her responsibilities to overseeing personnel and fundraising. As a non-profit, NCLR’s books were somewhat public, and Genevieve had looked up their numbers a few weeks ago; with Penelope’s charisma, the organization had never had so much money coming in, and it had significantly expanded its number of active cases.

  HER, meanwhile, seemed stuck in a rut. Maybe Genevieve was being overly self-critical, but the impact of her leadership seemed lackluster to her—on the organization’s budget, its caseload, and its national profile.

  At some point she might need to choose between an administrative position and a litigation one. Would she rather be in charge of a lot of people and responsible for boring things like expense reports, or would she rather stride around a courtroom delivering impassioned arguments? Put in those terms, it felt like the difference between being the talent and the talent agent.

  Well, that was a question for another day. She felt good in her suit, and whatever she decided about her career, she definitely looked the part of an attorney. She slid on her trench coat, picked up her briefcase, and headed to court.

  Typically she met her client beforehand, and they entered the courtroom together. It was a ritual she missed when she walked in alone and sat at one of the attorneys’ tables waiting for a prison guard to escort in Amelia. Theirs was the first hearing that day, and the room was virtually empty. As their arguments proceeded, attorneys and clients for other matters would trickle in.

  When Amelia entered from a side door, her eyes darted to and fro nervously until she spotted Genevieve. Her shoulders dropped a little of their tension, but as she sat down next to Genevieve her leg immediately began bouncing up and down, rattling her shackles. Genevieve reached out and gently stilled her knee, hyperaware of the prison guard seated directly behind them.

  “Relax. Take a deep breath. Try not to let anyone else see that you’re nervous.”

  “Easy for you to say. Last time I was here, they threw me in the slammer. This place gives me the creeps. And they’re gonna ask me really personal questions. Questions that I don’t want to talk about in public.”

  “Not today, Amelia. Today is just procedural. In fact, most clients don’t even come to summary judgment hearings, but I thought you’d like a chance to leave the yard for a bit.”

  Amelia nodded as her leg started bouncing again, and Genevieve gave up trying to set her at ease.

  Opposing counsel entered and sat down at the other table, nodding in Genevieve’s direction. Judge Reagan Hart came in, and they all stood, waited, and then sat down again, reminding Genevieve, as always, of going to church when she was a child.

  The judge banged her gavel. “Up next, case number 56324, Garcia v. Michigan, hearing on summary judgment. Ms. Fornier, please.”

  “Your Honor,” Genevieve said, standing. “The defense has moved to have this case dismissed because they say it has no legal merit. We submit that there is a history of animus against transgender residents of the state, and the other side is more concerned with its budget and image than with giving my client her rights under the law. When the state incarcerates one if its residents, it takes responsibility for that person’s health. And it is vital that we understand health broadly to include physical and mental health. My client is suffering from depression and anxiety, and the state has a responsibility to look after her well-being, which, in this case, includes taking steps to alleviate her stress. This stress is directly caused by my client’s gender, and the mismatch between its physical manifestation and its inherent nature.”

  “Objection, Your Honor, counsel is testifying, and assuming facts not in evidence,” opposing counsel said.

  “Sustained. Watch yourself, Ms. Fornier,” Judge Hart said.

  “Your Honor, this is exactly my point. There are points of contention here—facts that haven’t yet been put into evidence, such as my client’s relationship to her gender. We need to hear testimony from my client and from expert witnesses from the medical and psychological community before this case is decided. We therefore move that the court reject the defense’s summary judgment motion.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Fornier. Mr. Orr, let’s hear from you.”

  Genevieve sat as opposing counsel stood, but she remained on the edge of her seat in case he said something objectionable.

  “Your Honor, this case has turned into a media stunt, and it has no legal merit. There is no precedent for the state of Michigan footing the bill for expensive, elective medical procedures such as the one this felon—”

  Genevieve sprang up. “Objection, Your Honor. Inflammatory.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said, and Genevieve sat down. “Mr. Orr, do I need to remind you that we haven’t actually gone to trial yet and that there are no jurors here? There’s no need to try to prejudice me against the plaintiff.”

  “Understood, Your Honor. As I was saying, this—plaintiff—may want an elective surgery, but that does not mean the state has to pay for it.”

  “Objection, Your Honor.” Genevieve stood again. “The question of whether this surgery is elective or not is very much undecided and is the reason we need to hear arguments in this case.”

  “Indeed, Ms. Fornier. Mr. Orr, I take your point about a lack of precedent in the state of Michigan, but there are precedents in other states that I think are quite relevant here. I therefore find in favor of the plaintiff, motion for summary judgment denied. Oral arguments in this case will be heard in June as planned. Unless there are any more motions before the court?”

  “None, Your Honor,” Genevieve and opposing counsel said at the same time.

  “Well then. I look forward to hearing your arguments.” Hart banged her gavel, and the clerk called forth another case.

  The guard moved to escort Amelia out the way she had come in, and Genevieve followed them. Once in the hallway outside the courtroom, the three of them stopped.

  “Two minutes. And no touching,” said the guard. He stepped away to give them a modicum of privacy.

  “That went really well,” Genevieve said, and Amelia’s nervous energy quieted for the first time that day. “The judge seems fair—I like her, even.”

  “So, what’s next? Do I take the stand and stuff? Because I never watched Law and Order or anything like that.”

  “Well, you might testify. We’ll have to see—if it comes to that, we’ll go through witness prep for you. But first, we find expert witnesses who will support our claim that this surgery is vital to your health and well-being, and that the state would be delinquent in their responsibilities if they denied it to you.”

  “You gonna get doctors to say all that?”

  “Pretty much. I’ve got a few names in mind, and I’m meeting with two of them later today. The third is traveling, so he and I will talk over Skype. I’m leaving tonight, but my staff has made arrangements with the prison for you and me to meet at the end of the day.”

  Amelia nodded. “It’s real nice, what you’re doing for me.”

  “It’s not nice, it’s just. This is the very reason organizations like mine exist—the reason we hold fundraisers and galas. We build up funds so that we can represent people seeking justice.”

  “Well, I can still think it’s nice, you know.”

  “Yes,” Genevieve said, smiling. “I suppose you can.” The guard stepped closer to them and pointed at his watch. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Amelia.”

  * * *

  The driver who took Genevieve to Henry Ford Hospital let her know that he was heading to lunch but that she could text him when she was done and he’d return within ten minutes. She spoke with a receptionist and was directed to a conference room to meet the first potential expert witness, who turned out to be an unqualified disaster. She lost her train of thought in the middle of every sentence, didn’t use dysphoria appropriately in sentences, and couldn’t maintain eye contact. After the doctor shook her hand—which felt like squeezing a wet fish—and left the room, Genevieve double-checked the profile her staff had given her. Yep, this woman had gone to University of Chicago as an undergrad and had gotten her MD from Northwestern. Just went to show that fancy schools didn’t teach you everything.

  The meeting had also gone way over time, and if she took a cab back to her hotel, she’d be late for her Skype meeting with the next potential expert. She poked her head out the door and got the receptionist’s attention. “Would it be all right if I stayed in this room for the next hour? I need to take a call.”

  The receptionist checked the schedule, then nodded. “Room’s open until three. Do you need our Wi-Fi info?”

  “That’d be great, thanks,” Genevieve said.

  Twenty minutes later, she had responded to half of the new e-mails in her inbox and signed on to Skype.

  This candidate had an MD/PhD and spoke like a textbook. He said all the right things and made great eye contact, but Genevieve had to fight to suppress a yawn, and her thoughts kept straying to her flight home and how nice it would be to read a novel. After clicking end and closing her laptop, she went straight to the coffee bar on the first floor of the hospital and texted her driver while she waited in line.

  The third possible expert worked in a private practice in Grosse Point Park, where wealthy residents could actually afford his services.

  He was a plastic surgeon, primarily, and Genevieve didn’t like the optics of that. Considering the other side would try to frame this procedure as an elective, frivolous expenditure, a highly qualified hospital surgeon would be better. But her other options were pretty subpar, so she tried to keep an open mind as she entered the posh waiting room.

  “Genevieve Fornier, to see Dr. Carson,” she said to the receptionist, trying to decide if she’d had work done. She was gorgeous, and if Dr. Carson had gone at her face with collagen, or Botox, or a scalpel, he was very subtle about it.

  “Nice to see you, Ms. Fornier. Dr. Carson is just finishing up with a patient. Can I offer you sparkling water, tea, or wine while you wait?”

  She raised her eyebrows, trying to decide whether it was unethical for a plastic surgeon to offer wine to clients.

  “Don’t worry, the wine’s not for patients. We keep it on hand for when the four doctors who work together here have their end-of-the-week meetings. I just figured, since you’re not a patient and it’s nearing the end of the day…”

  “Thanks. I’m good with water.”

  The chairs in the waiting room were plush and comfy, and the reading material was a far cry from the outdated US Weekly magazines in normal waiting rooms. This month’s National Geographic, The Atlantic, and The Economist were on the table nearest to her seat.

  She didn’t have to wait long; within five minutes, a handsome white man with very coiffed hair and a thousand-watt smile approached her, his large hand extending to engulf hers.

  “Ms. Fornier. So lovely to meet you. Please, right this way.”

  He took her past the exam rooms and into his office, closing the door behind her. “I hope Cynthia offered you tea or wine?”

  “She did, thanks.”

  “Excellent, excellent. Well then, let’s get to it. I’ve been an expert witness before, so I understand the gig. Your office sent me some materials last night, and I looked them over. There’s no doubt in my mind that your client requires this surgery. I’d be happy to testify to such.”

  “And if you’re asked why sex reassignment surgery isn’t an elective procedure?”

  “Then I’ll point to pages and pages of research indicating that gender dysphoria is a very real and very dangerous medical condition, and the treatment for such is sex reassignment surgery. I can cite multiple peer-reviewed studies, some written by me personally, that indicate the effects of having—and, more importantly, not having—this procedure.”

  “And if you’re asked about whether this surgery isn’t simply cosmetic, like most of the work you do?”

  “I’d have to take issue with that question. Cosmetic surgery is a complete misnomer. We do skin grafts for burn victims. Those procedures might give the patient a more aesthetically pleasing appearance, sure—but that new skin will be significantly less susceptible to infection. We repair cleft palates.

  “But also, there are important reasons to have cosmetic surgery that our society undervalues or overlooks because, on first glance, they seem frivolous. Nevertheless, these procedures can have a profound effect on the well-being of the patient. I’ve done skin repair for a teenager who had scarring acne. He was bullied mercilessly in school for it and was so miserable that he swallowed an entire bottle of pills. If his mother hadn’t found him in time, he might not have been alive to undergo surgery with me. That ‘cosmetic’ surgery saved this boy’s life.

  “Self-esteem issues can be an immediate threat to someone’s well-being, and until we can change our culture’s fixation on a single, unattainable standard of attractiveness, these kinds of procedures save lives.”

  It was an impressive and impassioned speech, but she wasn’t sure the judge would buy it. He wasn’t a psychologist, after all. But he was making a good case for being a medical professional whose work should be taken seriously as part of the tapestry of physical and mental health, not some sort of glorified body artist. “How does any of this relate to gender dysphoria?” she asked.

  “This procedure aligns a person’s physical attributes with his or her innate gender identity. When these things are out of alignment, a person’s psychological state plummets. Put it this way: if someone’s atlas vertebra was out of alignment, the result could be gastrointestinal disorders, heart arrhythmia, sensitivity disorders, chronic fatigue, sleep disorders, and malfunctioning of sense organs. When gender and sex are out of alignment, the results include sleep disorders, depression, chronic fatigue, and anxiety. And hundreds upon hundreds of studies link these disorders with a risk of suicide. But even apart from suicide, these disorders are cause for concern in and of themselves. They are indicators of poor health and require medical attention.”

  Genevieve hadn’t expected that much substance behind his shiny veneer. She nodded at him, and he looked pleased. “Does this mean I’ve got the job?”

  “Well, it’s not quite as simple as all that. I’ll need to talk to our legal team, and we’ll have to discuss your rates, which are quite high.”

  “Sorry, but my rates aren’t negotiable.”

  “Understandable.” She stood and extended her hand over his desk. As he shook it, she said, “I’ll be in touch, Dr. Carson. Thanks for your time.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Fornier. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Back in the car, she directed the driver to the prison before calling Frank. “Please circulate Dr. Carlson’s name to the team—he’s the best candidate we have for an expert. Have him completely vetted. I want everything he’s ever written to be read with a fine-tooth comb—this includes any papers he wrote in med school, if we can get our hands on them. Tell everyone that we’re meeting about this at the end of the day on Friday, and I want to hear any objections at that time—otherwise, we’re hiring him.”