“I think you scared them. The guards and stuff. They’re giving me my hormone treatments again, thank God.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it. Do you happen to remember the day that the hormones disappeared and the day they reappeared?” She wrote down the dates Amelia gave her. “And who dispenses medicine to inmates?”

  “A nurse named Milo, but I don’t think he’s responsible. He can’t give me what he doesn’t have. This kind of thing came from the prison administration.”

  “I’ll have my people look into it. If we can pinpoint a few individuals responsible, that’s easier for a judge to rule against than the entire administration.”

  “Judge? So you think we’ll have a trial?”

  “Hard to say. We’ll see how things go with depositions and our preliminary motions. Frankly, we might do very well before a judge with an Eighth Amendment argument about cruel and unusual punishment. If the state takes custody of you, it’s the state’s responsibility to care for you.”

  Amelia’s laugh was cynical, matching the chill in the concrete room. “Care. Please. I restocked shelves at a medical facility. When I was on the outside, I mean. I can tell you all about basic medical supplies and how the corrections department doesn’t give them to us.”

  The look of suspicion she gave Genevieve reinforced how different their life experiences had been, how little Genevieve knew about her client’s circumstances, and how much power she had to impact Amelia’s life. How much damage could she do if she reported to a guard that Amelia had criticized the facility?

  Well, Genevieve would have to win her trust the best way she knew how—by putting together a strong case and being honest. “The problem is if the case goes to trial, it means that we weren’t able to settle the case during preliminary stages, so it will just take longer before you get the medical procedures you need. For that reason, my goal is to wrap this up as quickly as possible. But I’d be remiss as your lawyer if I didn’t make clear to you that this could take a while. Years, even, if there are appeals.”

  A couple of decades of experience giving clients tough truths didn’t make Amelia’s disappointment any easier to swallow. Her eyes fell, and her shoulders drooped; Genevieve’s news depleted any boost she may have been riding from receiving hormone treatments again.

  “I can’t promise you many things, Amelia, but I can promise you this: I’ll never lie to you. I’ll never sugarcoat bad news, and I’ll call you immediately with good news. I’m transparent with my clients about everything, including legal strategy. I believe that we have a good case here, but I won’t try to guess what our chances are or in any other way give you false hope.”

  Amelia wrapped her arms around herself and nodded. “I appreciate that. It’s good, being real like this.”

  “I expect the same from you, Amelia. I want to know if anyone threatens you. If you feel endangered, you tell me. Don’t be a hero.”

  “That’s not something you need to worry about. I’ve never been especially brave.”

  Deep lines between Amelia’s eyes and across her forehead spoke of a life of frequent stress dating back years, long before the eighteen months she’d spent in the prison. Genevieve briefly wondered about her client’s life on the outside, what it had been like before she had ended up here. Did she have family? Had they been supportive of her transition? Did she have someone to care about, someone who cared about her?

  Genevieve flipped through her notebook to focus her thoughts. “After we talk, I’ll take depositions of some of your fellow inmates.” She slid a packet of stapled papers across the table. “Here are the questions I intend to ask them. Please look these over and let me know if there’s anything you’re uncomfortable with me asking.”

  The silence in the room as Amelia read was oppressive. Metal and concrete provided no sound insulation, and every turn of the page sounded like a tornado. Was the whole prison like this? For a moment, Genevieve imagined the sound of hundreds of forks clinking against plates in a cavernous dining area, before she realized that inmates wouldn’t be given metal or ceramic.

  She released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when Amelia returned the questions and nodded. “This is all fine. Did you come up with these?”

  Genevieve cleared her throat. “It was something of a group effort. I’m lead attorney on this case, but we have a legal team working together on every aspect of it. In fact, it’s likely that someone else will take the next round of depositions.”

  The alarm on Amelia’s face made Genevieve pause. “I’ll continue to be your primary point of contact, and if there’s even a chance that you’re going to meet another attorney, I’ll be sure to let you know ahead of time. You’re in good hands, Amelia.”

  “I’m in the hands of the state.” She picked at her fingers and affected a bored look, but her leg started bouncing up and down, and the table vibrated with her movement.

  “Fair enough,” Genevieve said. “I mean, you’ve got a bunch of lawyers in your corner. And my staff is very good.”

  “Got anyone on staff who’s trans?”

  “We do. A woman named Cherice, and she’s staffed on your case, actually. Does that make you feel better?”

  “Yeah, a little. I mean, none of this makes me feel better, really. But yeah. I’m sure you all are great. And I’m glad you got me my hormones back.”

  Genevieve nodded. “I’m going to take the depositions now, but I’ll try to see you again before the day’s over to give you an update.”

  Amelia’s shoulders fell for the briefest of moments, before she squared them and sat up straighter. “Guess I don’t get to sit in, then.”

  “Oh. Um, most clients don’t want to. The questioning can be pretty tedious.”

  “Probably most of your clients aren’t in prison, then.”

  Truth be told, Genevieve wasn’t overly fond of taking depositions in front of clients. Depositions were tricky beasts. The person being deposed was under oath, and everything he or she said was on the record, as were the questions Genevieve asked. It was all about wording, and good attorneys were able to tease out perfect sound bites without looking like they’d coached their own witnesses or harassed the opposing side’s. Clients’ reactions to the deposed person giving testimony were distracting—they were always grunting in frustration or nodding in agreement.

  But there was no doubt that Amelia would spend a better day in a deposition than harassed in a prison yard. And since today’s sessions were with other inmates and were happening on-site, she could probably make it happen. “Let me talk to the guards and see what I can do.”

  “Guards don’t know shit. You’re gonna have to talk to the warden.”

  “Is he here, on-site?”

  “Not usually. But I’m sure he’s got a phone.”

  “Will they let you wait here until we get this sorted out?”

  Amelia scrutinized her for a moment before giving Genevieve an overly casual shrug, but it seemed like something had changed between them. “Maybe. Depends on whether they had their coffee or not. Or whether they got laid last night or not. Or whether they got something against Latinas, or women, or me.” She raked her eyes down Genevieve’s body and back up. “You could ask, though. Pretty white girl like you, you could probably charm the keys right out the guards’ hands.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The chair scraped harshly against the ground when Genevieve stood up, and her heel clicks echoed around the room as she made her way to the door. She knocked twice on the panel, and a guard appeared.

  “I’ll be taking three depositions today. Do you know what room has been set aside for this?”

  He glared at her as if she’d asked him to explain quantum physics or why women don’t like it when men order food for them at restaurants. “Be right back,” he said and disappeared before Genevieve could ask him her other questions.

  Sighing, she leaned against the door to wait. “You know this guard?”

  “Oh, honey, I know ’em all. This one’s fine. Bit of a Neanderthal when it comes to brains, but harmless.”

  “You’ll point out any guards who’ve given you a hard time?”

  “I do that, I get beat up.” Her eyes looked tough, as if the admission were nothing to her, but her body shrank almost imperceptibly.

  “Well, obviously, don’t do it so they hear you. But I’d like to be able to recognize them.”

  Amelia thought about that and then grinned, and her whole face changed. The tension in her forehead and cheeks dissipated, and Genevieve had a brief vision of how different Amelia would be—inside and out—if she won this case. “Tell you what. I’ll hum something by Lady Gaga if one of those pricks shows up.”

  “I can work with that,” Genevieve grinned.

  “I saw her in concert once. That first year after her Fame Monster album dropped. Bitch has pipes. Did you know she’s classically trained?”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. I’d love to see her live.”

  Amelia’s face shifted to wistful—not as luminous as it had been, but still a far cry from the desperate air she’d carried into the room with her. “I took piano lessons when I was young. Made it all the way to Chopin. Our neighbor had a piano. But then my dad’s company did layoffs, and we moved, and that was that.”

  “Ma’am? I got that info for you,” the guard said from the other side of the door. “You’ll be right here. So you can make yourself at home.”

  She’d hoped for a cheerier room, but at least she had a better chance of keeping Amelia if they weren’t relocating.

  “Great. Here’s my list of witnesses, in the order I want them. Amelia will be staying with me until we’re through. I’m ready for the first deposition whenever you can get her here.”

  The guard nodded and left again.

  Genevieve and Amelia’s eyes met. “Maybe it’s as easy as that,” Genevieve said.

  “Probably not, because this is prison, and my life, and nothing is ever as easy as that. But we can always hope.”

  “You have a lawyer on your side now. We can do better than just hope.”

  The depositions went well enough, and Genevieve enjoyed laying the foundations of their case. The witnesses all agreed that Amelia suffered from anxiety and depression, and her cellmate described in detail a failed suicide attempt. Amelia stared stone-faced at the wall during that part, and Genevieve curbed her impulse to reach out and touch her shoulder, unsure if it would be welcome.

  The witnesses also testified to the guards’ mistreatment of Amelia, and the prison’s general intolerance for all things queer. Between the second and third deposition, the guards changed over, and Genevieve could feel Amelia’s tension as she worried that she’d be sent back to her cell. Genevieve flashed the new guard a thousand-watt smile and told him she and Amelia would be finished up in a couple of hours. He dropped the bottle of water he’d been carrying, stammered, and almost ran into the wall as he left.

  “See what I mean about pretty girls like you?” Amelia’s voice dripped with cynicism, but her eyes were laughing.

  Privilege was an insidious and awful tool of oppression, and Genevieve had dedicated her life to eradicating it, legally if not socially. But she wasn’t above using hers if it would keep someone whose life was already hard enough out of a prison cell for a day.

  Chapter 8

  Victoria looked up from the kitchen counter where she had been reading the news on her tablet, as Genevieve stormed in through the front door and stalked into the kitchen.

  “I see you released the fall docket this afternoon.”

  Victoria tried to read past Genevieve’s measured tone. Before she could fully assess the distant look in her eyes, Genevieve turned and opened the cabinet that held the liquor.

  “I’m having scotch. Can I get you something?”

  It was annoying to be offered her own alcohol. Yet another thing she would need to adjust to if she and Genevieve were going to share a living space in any more permanent arrangement. “There’s a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge.”

  Genevieve pulled open a few drawers looking for a corkscrew, and Victoria wondered how long it would take her to just ask for its location. She had always loved Genevieve’s stubbornness when it was directed elsewhere.

  After she successfully located the corkscrew on her own and poured a glass for Victoria, Genevieve settled into a seat at the kitchen island and nursed her scotch.

  Victoria held back a sigh. “If there’s something you want to say, now’s as good a time as any.”

  Genevieve’s eyes went dark. “I can’t believe you took the appeal on the Rowlings case.”

  “I suppose it’s not necessary to remind you that I don’t work alone.”

  “The fifth circuit decision is perfect. Why would you mess with that? There’s no real legal question that you all need to decide.”

  “I agree with you, you know. But some of my colleagues see things differently.”

  Genevieve abandoned her chair, taking her drink with her. She stared out the glass door into the backyard.

  Fighting the urge to go to her, Victoria sipped her wine and waited for the explosion she could see lurking beneath Genevieve’s stormy features.

  “Well, I’ve argued in front of the Court before with you there. It’ll be just like déjà vu.”

  “Genevieve—”

  “Don’t even say it.”

  “We weren’t in a relationship then. Can’t you see the difference? Now that everyone knows about us, you can’t argue in front of the Court.”

  “I can’t believe you.” Genevieve started pacing across the kitchen. “There’s nothing—nothing—that prevents me from arguing in front of you. There’s no real conflict here. There’s only you and your ridiculous—”

  “I’m not sure there’s no real conflict here, Genevieve.”

  “Please,” Genevieve said, running her hand through her hair. “It’s not like there’s a clear law governing recusal or impeachment of justices—you are the law. I argue the case, you hear it….no problem.”

  “Genevieve, it’s not that simple. If you argue the case, I’d have to recuse myself.”

  “You don’t have personal bias or prejudice concerning a party, or personal knowledge of disputed evidentiary facts concerning the proceeding.”

  Victoria raised an eyebrow. “You’re seriously going to quote—”

  “You haven’t served as a lawyer in the matter; you haven’t provided counsel nor are you a witness in the case; you haven’t publicly expressed an opinion concerning the merits of the case; you don’t have a financial stake in the case. Your spouse—or in this case girlfriend—isn’t a party to the proceedings.”

  “Pretty sure there’s a clause about knowing your girlfriend has an interest that could be substantially affected by the outcome of the proceeding.”

  Genevieve stopped pacing and put her hands on the kitchen island. “That interest isn’t fiduciary, nor is it personal.”

  “And you memorized that section of the ethics code when, exactly?”

  “This morning.”

  “You anticipated this argument and wanted to enter it armed with evidence.”

  “I had hoped you wouldn’t be so predictable.”

  Victoria opened and closed her mouth, unable to think of a single thing to say in response. Genevieve refilled her glass and stormed out of the kitchen. Victoria gave her a minute to stew before following her into the living room, stopping just inside the entrance. Genevieve stood in the far corner with her back to Victoria.

  With the whole room between them, Victoria spoke to her girlfriend’s back. “Genevieve, if you argue the case, I’ll recuse myself. I can’t tell you what outcome that would produce in terms of votes—I honestly don’t know. You’d only need four votes—if the Court’s tied, it’ll go back to the appellate decision, and you’ll win. It’s really the same situation whether or not I’m there—you still have to sway one conservative.”

  Genevieve turned to her, hands outstretched, looking desperate. “Which I’d have a better chance of doing if you were on the inside, writing the kind of decision one of them would be willing to sign on to. Can’t we work together on this?”

  “Don’t you see that’s the exact reason that… We can’t collude like that. Absolutely not. I won’t.”

  “Always so uncompromising,” Genevieve said, clearly not intending it as a compliment.

  “Look, either way, the trial record you created at the district level still maintains. The testimony you elicited and the cross-examination you conducted combine to create compelling evidence. Honestly, oral arguments at the Supreme Court will be just a formality.”

  Genevieve spun around. “Bullshit. Nothing about this case is any different than any other case.”

  “I don’t—meaning what?”

  “Meaning it always matters who argues cases in front of your bench. And who sits on it and decides.”

  “Genevieve—”

  “Goddamnit, if one of us is going to have to recuse themselves, then why shouldn’t it be you?” She almost spat the words.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s my case. The transcripts and decisions you all will read to prep for it will have my name all over it. A name you cry out in bed these days. Haven’t I already influenced you?”

  “I… Look, like you said, the guidelines about recusal are…murky at best.”

  “Then I honestly don’t see why either of us has to walk away from this.”

  Victoria dared to enter the room, feeling like she was approaching a trapped animal who might lash out at any given moment. Genevieve’s feet stayed firmly planted, and Victoria perched on the couch, hoping to convey an invitation. “Genevieve, the media—”

  “Fuck the media. They have absolutely no legal power here. No more so than they do for any case that comes before the Court. They can’t make me step away or you recuse yourself. All they can do is recycle the same two pundits—on opposite sides, inevitably—arguing self-righteously that they know more about the Constitution than you or I do.”

  Victoria swallowed. Genevieve had a point. The media could bluster about but couldn’t really do anything. No one could, exactly—she had a lifetime appointment and, well, Genevieve was right. She sort of was the law.