Mean Woman Blues

neglecting to put her hand over the receiver. That nearly blew out Isaac’s ears, but then she came back all soft and pleasant. “Four-twenty-one Loyola.”
    He hustled on over on his scooter, and when he got to Section J, out of breath, only minutes to spare, the judge wasn’t in and wasn’t scheduled to go on the bench.
    “There must be some mistake,” he said, and at almost the same moment saw the sign that said Civil District Court. A criminal lawyer’s office had sent him to the wrong court, wrong courthouse, wrong part of town.
    “You want magistrate’s court,” the clerk told him. “Over on South Broad. Near the police station.”
    Once there, he asked and was directed a second time to the wrong court and finally arrived at ten fifteen to find that there was no Section J. He was winded by now, carrying the sport coat over his shoulder, his shirt nearly soaked through.
A tie
, he thought,
would have killed me. And the stress might still.
    He was astounded at how hard this was, this thing that ought to be simple.
And I’m white and educated
, he thought.
They say it’s
really
hard if you’re black and poor.
    Finally, someone directed him to the office of the clerk of court, where he was told that Theresa Whittaker wasn’t on the docket. “She’s got to be.” Futilely, the words came out. Nothing so far had worked out as it was supposed to. But, still, she’d spent a night in jail. They had to bring her before a magistrate (or so he thought).
    The clerk looked at his records again. “Sorry, I just can’t find her.” He seemed a nice and sympathetic man, which might be quite a trick in the job he had.
    Not knowing what else to do, Isaac prowled the halls till he found an office labeled Indigent Lawyers. It wasn’t a phrase he’d heard before, but surely it meant public defenders. He marched in and stood before a woman whose desk nearly spanned the doorway. “Can I help you?”
    “Yes. I need a lawyer.”
    “All of our lawyers are court-appointed.” Naturally. Another roadblock.
    Isaac considered. “Well, maybe I just need help. A friend of mine’s supposed to be in court at ten a.m., and the clerk says she’s not on the docket.”
    “Did you ask him if she’s scheduled for four o’clock?”
    “Well, no, she was arrested last night. Surely she’s scheduled for morning.”
    “Not necessarily. If a lot of people came in, they might not get to her till then.”
    So it was back to the drawing board, and once again the clerk was patient, but no. Theresa Whittaker wasn’t scheduled for four, either.
    Feeling wrung out, Isaac called Puglia yet another time, and still he wasn’t in. He was out of ideas and out of starch, as limp as if he’d done a whole day’s work, and he’d hardly started and hadn’t accomplished a thing. Plus, he’d already missed his first class.
    The hell with classes. He wasn’t going to make it today.
    He called his next-door neighbor, who was more or less like a guardian angel to him. “Pamela, it’s Isaac.”
    “Oh, hi, Monkie.” This was her nickname for him, a holdover from the days when he called himself The White Monk. “Want some coffee? I’m just making some.”
    He did. He wanted some desperately, and, more, he needed it. He was fresh out of adrenaline. “Thanks, but I can’t stop, I’m trying to get someone out of jail.”
    “Not Terri, I hope.”
    “Terri? I didn’t even think you knew her.”
    “Of course I know her. She and I visit all the time.”
    “Pamela, listen. Do you know any criminal lawyers?”
    “Sure. My brother’s wife, Tiffany.”
    “Tiffany? That’s a lawyer?”
    “Tough little cookie. Just ask Leo.”
    “Well, I mean, would anybody take her seriously?”
    “Only everybody. She used to be an assistant D.A. Give her a call, why don’t you? And listen, let me know if there’s anything I can do. Terri’s a good kid.” Good old Pamela. She not only had what he needed, she offered more, and no questions asked. Everyone should have a friend like her.
    “Someday, you know, I’m going to buy you that castle in Spain.”
    “What castle?”
    “The one I owe you.”
    “Oh, by the way, about your lawyer— her friends call her Tiffie.”
    If he hadn’t been so desperate, Isaac might have disqualified Tiffie on grounds of cognitive dissonance, but he was desperate. And Tiffie was in. Quickly, he explained the problem.
    Tiffie wasted no words. “She must be in Jefferson Parish.”
    “No, she can’t be. I was