The lawyer’s phone call was one she’d been expecting—dreading really—for the past two years. What surprised her was that Deshaun wanted to see her again. Why? “I have no idea,” the public defender said. “You’re the only one he asked for.”
Roz debated several days whether to drive to the Riverside County Jail. Was she the only credulous person left he could call for help? Or was he summoning her there to blame her for everything that led to his incarceration? The need to resolve that uncertainty made the decision inevitable. The drive from Brentwood took two hours, more time than she wanted to ponder all the mistakes she’d made with him.
Her first impression, when he entered juvenile court in his black Nike jacket, tight jeans, white T-shirt, and white sneakers, was that he was the kind of handsome, reckless youth she should immediately flee. The swag clothes and slight smirk on his lips, as if he were superior to everyone who’d dragged him there, warned her to stay away. She’d gone out with men with the same cockiness and self-regard; it always ended badly.
The white-haired judge appeared to share her skepticism. He’d detained Deshaun in juvenile hall for three weeks for smoking marijuana and assaulting a staff member in his group home. Deshaun had completed his detention, but remained on probation, and the judge continued to question his behavior. Deshaun’s parole officer, a man with a hardened, acne-scarred face, reported that Deshaun was uncooperative at his new group home and he’d tested positive again for pot. His public defender, a petite Latina who seemed fresh out of law school, reminded the judge “drug relapse is common.” The judge acknowledged the fact but said if there were another relapse, he wouldn’t hesitate to aid Deshaun’s recovery by locking him up again. The case lasted five minutes.
Afterward, the LA public defender hurriedly introduced Deshaun to Roz and left them in the crowded juvenile court waiting room. Roz explained that she was a CASA, a court-appointed special advocate who’d been assigned to his case.
“You another lawyer?” he asked as if she were as useless as the rest.
“I’m a recovering one,” she said. “I used to write contracts for a record company that no longer exists.”
“Spotify, huh?” He summarized her recent history. “So how come you doin’ this?”
Though others had asked the same question, she still hadn’t formulated a simple, satisfying explanation. “I’d like to help,” she said.
“You wanna help?” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Can you get me some weed?”
For a second she wasn’t sure if he was serious. Her reaction made him laugh. “You really think I want that judge to put my ass behind bars again? Lighten up, lady. You feel me.”
He rose from the plastic chair. “I gotta get the hell out of here.” He nodded toward a burly, dreadlocked man hovering by the entrance. “My chauffeur be waitin’ for me.” Then he strutted out the door.
She called the CASA office a few hours later and asked if they might have made a mistake in assigning Deshaun to her. When she volunteered to become an advocate, she imagined becoming a compassionate mentor to a sweet, 12-year-old foster girl who needed a shoulder to cry on, or advice about boys or schoolwork, or simply an occasional treat to lunch and a movie. It’s what she’d craved growing up, support and encouragement from an adult who would listen sympathetically to her complaints about her taciturn and unresponsive parents. With no children of her own, and no longer work to occupy her, she finally had time to become the warm, indulgent figure she’d wished for as a girl.
Deshaun was not what the CASA training had prepared her for. If the non-profit, which had long experience at this, had a good reason for matching them, she didn’t detect it. “The courthouse is a difficult place to meet,” the young woman who answered the phone counseled. “I can understand why he’d want to rush out of there. Why don’t you arrange another meeting in a more comfortable environment?”
She didn’t want to admit that she
