She sat down and rested a hand on her client’s shoulder. “The last time we were in court together, when the other side tried to get your case thrown out, we won. We’ve got a good track record so far.”

  Amelia nodded. “I practiced all the things we talked about. I know what to say and what not to say. I worked really hard on not saying ‘um’ between sentences.”

  “You’re well prepared. And that’s all you need to be,” Genevieve said.

  The judge entered, the room was called to order, and they were off.

  As the plaintiff’s attorney, Genevieve gave opening arguments first. She stood and buttoned her jacket.

  “Your Honor, my client, Amelia Garcia, has been in the custody of Michigan’s Department of Corrections for two years now. During that time, her mental and physical state has deteriorated, and she has attempted suicide twice.

  “You see, Your Honor, my client suffers from gender dysphoria. Multiple experts have attested to this, including the defense’s own psychologist. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders defines gender dysphoria as the condition one experiences when biological sex and the gender that person identifies with are in conflict. Amelia Garcia is female. But her biological sex contradicts this identity, and this contradiction is causing her immeasurable harm. I will call three witnesses who will demonstrate that my client requires sex reassignment surgery, and because the state is holding her, it is the state’s responsibility to make this surgery financially and logistically available.”

  Judge Reagan Hart nodded and scribbled something on the papers in front of her. “Mr. Orr?” she said, turning to opposing counsel.

  Orr nodded at Genevieve as they passed each other, and he began his opening statement. “The state stipulates that the plaintiff here is transgender, and that we have been providing her with hormone therapy to help her.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Genevieve stood. “The state has intermittently provided my client with hormones, and only once we filed this lawsuit has my client had consistent access to those necessary medications.”

  “Your Honor,” Orr said, “the medication access has been uninterrupted for the last seven months. The fact that there was a lawsuit pending is irrelevant.”

  “Well, I think it’s obvious why the state suddenly decided to fulfill its responsibilities to Ms. Garcia when it made hormones available,” Hart said. “But Mr. Orr is correct, Ms. Fornier. There’s no real objection here.”

  Genevieve sat down, and Amelia whispered, “Is that bad?”

  “Nah. The judge knows that the state has been somewhat delinquent here and that our filing this lawsuit has changed things. That’s good.”

  “The state contends that sex reassignment surgery is an elective procedure, and an expensive one at that. Taxpayer dollars should not go to medically unnecessary procedures such as this. With the hormone drugs we commit to providing Ms. Garcia, there is no reason to undergo such a costly and cosmetic surgery.”

  Genevieve’s team of HER lawyers deftly examined and cross-examined witnesses all morning, with little help from Genevieve. Dr. Carson’s testimony turned out to be worth every penny, and she actually wondered if Orr’s heart was in it, given that his witnesses weren’t very strong and his cross-examination of hers seemed lethargic. Amelia took the stand right after lunch.

  They had debated whether or not she would. Cross-examination was always difficult, and there was no mechanism requiring Amelia to speak on her own behalf. But she was determined to do everything she could to win her case, even if that meant enduring insulting questions intended to trick or trap her.

  Genevieve’s first few questions for her client were straightforward and biographical, and Amelia answered confidently; any anxiety she might be feeling she hid away so well that even Genevieve couldn’t detect it.

  “At what point in your life did you realize your sex and gender didn’t match?” Genevieve asked her.

  Amelia shifted in her seat slightly but gave no other indication of tension.

  “I was four,” She kept her answers simple and straightforward, just as they’d practiced.

  “And how did you realize this?”

  “I was playing with my neighbor—she was a girl, Gabriella. I asked her to pretend I was a girl. I told her to call me Amelia. We played together all day, and I realized.”

  “What did you realize?”

  “That I was a girl. Whatever other people thought I was, I knew was a girl.”

  “And how did the people in your life react to this realization?”

  “Well, I didn’t tell anyone else for a long time. Gabriella was my best friend, and whenever we played together, she called me Amelia. No one else knew until high school.”

  “How did it feel, living two different lives?”

  “Painful. I developed an eating disorder when I was twelve. When I was thirteen, I started cutting myself.”

  “And did anyone intervene to help you?”

  “Yes, a guidance counselor at school. At first I wouldn’t say anything to her, but she insisted I start seeing her every day. Finally, I told her. Everything. That I was really a girl. That I threw up after I ate. I showed her the scars on my arms.”

  “And what did she do?”

  “Well, she started calling me Amelia when we would meet, when no one else was listening. She got me appointments with a therapist—I didn’t understand this at the time, but I think she paid for them out of her own pocket.”

  “When did you start telling other people that your name is Amelia?”

  “My senior year, right before graduation. I told my mother then. She told me to leave, not to come back. I stayed at my guidance counselor’s house. She helped me legally change my name, helped me buy new clothes. After I graduated, I got a job two towns over, restocking shelves at a medical supply warehouse. Everyone there knew me as Amelia.”

  “And when did you start medically transitioning?”

  “Very soon after I started my job, I met with a doctor, and shortly after that I started taking hormones.”

  “Amelia, what’s the next step in your transition?”

  “Surgery. All my doctors think it’s essential for me. For my mental health.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I, uh.” She took a deep breath, and the quick rhythm of their question-and-answer exchange stalled. “I have anxiety. And depression. It’s hard to function some days. But in prison, you don’t get to, you know, lay in bed all day, even if you’re too paralyzed to move.”

  “And these bouts of depression and anxiety, how else do they affect you?”

  Amelia looked her right in the eye and said as dispassionately as she could, “I’ve tried to kill myself twice since I’ve been in prison.” Her voice wavered on twice, but she squared her shoulders and almost dared anyone in the courtroom to challenge her.

  “Amelia, if you were to have surgery, what effect would it have on your overall health?”

  “I… It’s like I’m in a foreign country. And no one speaks my language. And the food tastes strange, and I don’t understand how to use the crosswalks, because the cars are on the wrong side of the road. If I had this surgery, it would be like coming home again. Suddenly, things would make sense. I would make sense.”

  “Thank you, Amelia. No more questions, Your Honor.”

  Genevieve sat down, and a member of the opposing legal team, Tai Bolton, stood to cross-examine. Genevieve braced herself, and Amelia bit her nail before stopping herself and slowly, intentionally returning her hands to her lap.

  “Amelia, how long is left on your sentence?” Bolton asked.

  What kind of question was that? Genevieve had expected cross-examination to target Amelia’s character—to suggest that she had broken the law and therefore didn’t deserve expensive, elective surgery.

  “Eighteen months,” Amelia said.

  “Eighteen months. And, how old are you now?” Bolton paced a little, a sneer on her face.

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “You are twenty-nine years old. You’ve lived for twenty-nine years in that body. Don’t you think it’s a bit much to ask the taxpayers of Michigan to pay for an expensive surgery for you, when you could wait a measly eighteen months and have the surgery once you’ve been released?”

  Genevieve sucked in a breath. This wasn’t a line of questioning she’d expected or spent much time preparing Amelia for. “Objection!” She jumped up again. “Argumentative.”

  “I’ll rephrase,” Bolton said. “Why does the state have to pay for this surgery, when a year and a half isn’t a very long time for you to wait for it?”

  There were two objections she could give, but Amelia started talking before she had a chance.

  “I think what you’re really asking is whether this is an elective surgery,” Amelia said, and Genevieve wanted to applaud right then and there. Way to get underneath her question and bring it back to the real issues.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Bolton said. “A year and a half is a relatively short amount of time for someone who’s nearly thirty years old to wait for something.”

  “Objection.” Genevieve might as well stand up during Bolton’s entire cross-examination at this rate. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, but is there a question in here somewhere?”

  “Ms. Bolton, please ask the witness a question.”

  Bolton was about to try again when Amelia answered anyway. “Eighteen months is an eternity for anyone living in prison. It’s an eternity for anyone who feels like a foreigner in their own body. It’s forever for a person who struggles to get out of bed every day. Put all of this together. Eighteen months is longer than I’ll survive.”

  Bolton tried a few more times to get Amelia to say she could wait to have surgery until after her release—including suggesting that maybe Amelia might be eligible for release in nine months and asking how quickly it was even possible to schedule such a surgery.

  It was an unexpected strategy. Bolton wasn’t questioning whether Amelia needed the surgery—just when she needed it. She wasn’t putting forward any arguments that could be construed as transphobic; she never implied that Amelia was really a man or that trans people were less deserving of state services or even that the surgery wasn’t something the state should cover for incarcerated people. She just suggested that it might not be something it needed to cover for this incarcerated person who might be released before the surgery could even be scheduled.

  Bolton concluded her cross-examination, and Genevieve rose to wrap up. “Amelia, has anyone, other than Ms. Bolton, right now, suggested to you that you might be released in nine months?”

  Amelia shook her head with dignified certainty. “No. This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  “Well, maybe Ms. Bolton knows something I don’t know. Maybe the prison wants to release me early so it doesn’t have to pay.”

  “Objection,” Bolton said. “Speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  Genevieve nodded and continued. “And Amelia, have you ever discussed with a doctor what the process of scheduling such a surgery would be?”

  “Yes. Surgeons schedule this procedure three months in advance. That’s all.”

  “No more questions, Your Honor.”

  Amelia returned to her seat next to Genevieve, and after court was adjourned and everyone stood to leave, Genevieve hugged her. The prison guard escorting her took a step toward them, but she gave him a dirty look from over Amelia’s shoulder. Still, she kept the hug brief.

  “So. We wait now?” Amelia asked, crossing her arms and shifting her weight from foot to foot.

  “Yep. I expect we’ll hear in four to six weeks.”

  Amelia shrugged as if it didn’t matter to her one bit, but she fidgeted with her fingers, then crossed her arms again. “Waiting sucks.”

  “I know. I want an answer yesterday too. I’m sorry that we had to go to trial and that things have taken this long. But I think we did well today.”

  “Yeah? You think we’ll win?”

  Genevieve hesitated. It was the worst question a client ever asked but also the most understandable. “I think we have a better case. We had better witnesses. Our legal theory—that there’s an Eighth Amendment issue here—is solid. So I’m optimistic.”

  It wasn’t a yes. But it was as close as she’d ever give a client.

  Amelia nodded, and her escort stepped forward. “Thanks, Genevieve. For everything.”

  “Stay strong, Amelia.”

  The guard put a hand on her back and guided her toward the door. When he opened it for her, she glanced over her shoulder at Genevieve and waved.

  It was strange, saying good-bye. The judge’s decision would come down electronically; prison officials would download it from the Internet and give a copy to Amelia. Unless the decision was appealed, it was distinctly possible Genevieve wouldn’t see her client again—barring a trip Genevieve made to the prison just to visit.

  She’d done some work on depositions and securing the expert witness, and she’d done the direct examination of Amelia, but her legal team from HER had taken the bulk of the case, including handling the settlement conference entirely without her. She might think of herself as a litigation expert, but her best contribution to this case had been staffing it well.

  * * *

  Genevieve’s 9:00 p.m. flight out of Michigan had her practically sleepwalking through the door of her townhouse at eleven thirty. She barely made it to her bedroom before collapsing and falling into a dreamless sleep.

  On Friday, she woke up refreshed for the first time in months. There was nothing more she could do for Amelia’s case, and she was proud of the way she’d argued it. She had some decisions to make now, including whether she wanted to continue litigating or move more into administration—it was increasingly draining to try to do both. Maybe she’d go for a run and do some soul-searching.

  She stretched and grabbed her phone from her nightstand. There were a few e-mails from her staff, one from Jamie about their progress on the non-discrimination act and one from Penelope. She hesitated, then tapped it.

  Hi Genevieve,

  I know you had arguments in the sex reassignment case yesterday—how’d they go? Listen, if we’re going to be friends, let’s actually be friends. Want to grab a drink tonight and catch up?

  P

  Well, that was unexpected. And very healthy. That was the thing about Penelope—she was so well-adjusted. Genevieve contemplated her reply, then wrote back:

  Hi Penelope,

  A drink sounds great. There’s a wine bar in my neighborhood, unless you had somewhere else in mind. Let me know.

  She stared at the e-mail for a minute, trying to figure out how to sign off. She settled for see you soon. -Genevieve.

  Once she got caught up on e-mail, including a quick back and forth with Penelope confirming drinks at the wine bar at seven, she texted Frank that she’d be working from home that day. His reply was quick.

  Thank God. You must be exhausted. “Work” from home the way everyone else in the world does and watch Netflix. Or read. You’re one of those people who reads, aren’t you?

  Spending the day in yoga pants, reading a novel, and snacking on pretzels sounded perfect, so that’s exactly what she did. She went for a late afternoon run and was about to get in the shower when her phone buzzed with a text from Tori.

  I know we’re supposed to see each other tomorrow, and I know this is last minute, but I was wondering if you would meet me someplace tonight. There’s something I want you to see. Can you be here at 7:00 p.m.?

  And there was an address for a place in Georgetown.

  Tori being spontaneous? When was the last time that happened?

  She rubbed her forehead and put her phone on the bathroom countertop. Drinks with Penelope or a mysterious date with Tori? A quick glance at her phone confirmed that it was too late to try to reschedule drinks for earlier and do both—it was already five forty-five, and she desperately needed to wash off the sweat from her run. The shower was already running, so she postponed her decision.

  Cleaned and refreshed, she stepped out of the shower. Seriously, who was she kidding?

  First, she texted Penelope.

  I’m so sorry about this, but can I take a rain check on drinks? Something’s come up.

  She then texted Tori.

  I’m game. See you in a bit.

  Her phone buzzed almost immediately with a reply from Penelope:

  Tell Victoria I say hi. See you later.

  She wasn’t sure how to interpret that text, but before she could worry about it, her phone buzzed again, this time with a text from Tori.

  Great! Looking forward to seeing you.

  Not really knowing what she was getting into for the evening, Genevieve chose linen pants and a low-cut blouse. Almost as an afterthought, she also put on the pendant necklace Tori had given her. She wasn’t really sure what to expect from their dynamic tonight, but she wanted to signal immediately that, as sentimental as it might sound, Tori was still close to her heart.

  Traffic was worse than she anticipated, and at six minutes past seven, she pulled into the driveway of a house with a red door. She parked next to Tori’s car and headed inside, wondering who lived here. The path to the front door was red brick, and the front lawn was well-landscaped. Whoever Tori wanted her to meet, they had good taste.

  The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open and called out, “Hello?”

  “In the kitchen.” Tori answered.

  The entryway was expansive and stretched upward two stories. A staircase to the second floor wound in an arc from her right to her left, and a contemporary chandelier of small chains and little glass balls filed with light hung above her head. The floor was black-and-white tile, with the railing and molding providing red accents. It was somehow both classic and mod, and she liked the aesthetic instantly.