Five Minutes on Charles Street

By Jami Amerine

It happened in just five minutes . . .

Saraphina Landry-Shay is an independent, smart, "stupid-happy" New York lawyer on a mission to bring justice to the wrongly imprisoned. But on her very first solo case, she is barely able to stay upright in her power chic stilettos. Continually distracted by the vibrant characters of the W

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jami Amerine
• Release date: Sep 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986666013

Jami Amerine

Jami Amerine is the author of the popular blog Sacred Ground, Sticky Floors, where she posts about Jesus, parenting, marriage, and the general chaos of life. She holds a master’s degree in Education, Counseling, and Human Development. Jami and her husband, Justin, have six kids and are active in foster care.

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Five

Minutes

on

Charles

Street

A Novella

Jami Amerine

Five Minutes on Charles Street by Jami Amerine

Copyright © 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

To Mary Margaret and Sophia Rose

Thank you for New York

The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.

—Albert Einstein

One

My father, an English literature professor, always ended his lectures with the phrase, " Our time together has ended. You are excused to contemplate. And so it is. " It was a definitive conclusion, one that set him apart as an authority while simultaneously setting his captive audience free to think what they would. I asked him about the phrase once. His answer: One can only give their point of view on any topic for so long before it is exhausted. I cannot decide what will be accepted or rejected. I can only offer what I know and let time foster the rest into something beyond what I have consi dered.

Eclectic was how many students would describe him, free to be himself. Still, my father was willing to discuss contrasting opinions. And remain rock-solid on his own. Never uttering the condemning words, I am right, you are wrong. My father was not afraid of fresh insight or threatened by the expansion of others. That was what made him an excellent father, educator, and friend. I could only hope to be so gracious and use my time for the expansion of all I was taught so that time might foster unique ideas. And I refuse to waste time being cliché. I propose, this is the plight of humanity. The need to be accepted often bullies authenticity. Clawing for approval, in my mind, is a colossal waste of time. Allow me to be authentic: If we met on the bustling streets of New York City, you would peg me as a tourist. Or Meg Ryan’s stunt double in any movie she has ever filmed in New York City. I would volunteer my services to dear Meg as her jaw has surely grown weary from her delirious, eternal-sunshine grin. Yes, that hyper-adorable, stupid-happy kind of NYC girl that only exists in movies?

That’s me.

Not that I look like Meg Ryan. I have unruly dark hair instead of her always-perfect wavy blonde. My hair is a character in and of itself. I am a proud, card-carrying member of the 85 percent of American women are a size 12 but prefer a 14 club. Big boobs, bubble butt, calves like a Viking, and a neck I like to call fem thick.

I am not a Viking. Or Puerto Rican or an exotic mix of Pacific Islander. But that is usually the assumption. I suppose it is because of my waist-length black hair. Which is most often slicked into a ponytail or bun so I needn’t fuss (or wash). My dark eyes lend to the mystery of my origins. But my skin leaves them guessing.

Their confusion? Chin acne and ruddy cheeks. My cheeks are perpetually flushed with what could be blissful wanderlust or heat stroke. The easy marks of a tourist.

Perhaps because I do not originate from the planet of Manhattan, I am common in my claim of distinctiveness. If one is not from the Big Apple, at what point does one become a typical New Yorker, thereby succumbing to the monotony of cynicism?

It is a trick question, the art of my trade. Because there is no such thing as typical in New York. New York is not a location, it is an experience.

Framed in my office, above my law degrees and accomplishments, is a note my mother kept posted on our refrigerator when I was a child.

To live is so startling there is little time to do anything else.

—Emily Dickinson

This treasure is written in my mom’s impeccable, crooked left-handed script.

I do live in New York. But I experience New York in startlingly, ridiculously, happy, hopeful, oh, my gosh, calm down wonder, to the point that anyone at first blush might consider me drunk, high, or stupid.

I am not any of those things. I am Saraphina Landry-Shay. I am smart. Smart enough to move to New York as a seventeen-year-old orphan, wait tables, and put myself through college, law school, and graduate school. And like any smart New Yorker, I always keep sneakers in my briefcase. A briefcase so large, it could be easily mistaken for a studio apartment on the Upper East Side. Stilettos on the subway will either get you a broken neck or a less-than-fragrant proposal. I personally find nearly every New York encounter delightful.

And I consider myself a New Yorker. But I do so with humble reverence because I am not originally from here. Which matters. Even if you are a proud Irish New Yorker or Italian, African, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Pacific Island, East Asian, or simply Bronx Strong. In America’s original melting pot, one must have some singular experience in the city before one can authentically share in the New York-ness of deeming oneself a New Yorker.

I continue to be overzealous in my residency. I am the deliriously giddy type of New Yorker who takes the free 42nd Street ferry. And I take my camera every time. My coin purse has a picture of the Statue of Liberty on it. I have twenty-one I heart NYC t-shirts because they are three for $10, and laundry in New York is dumb. I feed pigeons in the park, eat hot dogs from vendors, go to museums, and on more than one occasion, have taken a Hansom cab in Central Park all by myself at dusk. Also, if a street performer in Times Square asks for volunteers, I yelp, "Pick me! Pick me!" which no respectable native would do.

Christmas in New York? I could run circles around Buddy the Elf’s holiday cheer. My best Christmas party trick is to challenge partygoers to a game of I have never. I win by a landslide with I have never peed myself as a fully grown-ass woman with breast implants when Santa floated by on the Macy’s Christmas Parade float.

The breast implants were a not-so-brilliant decision, one I have since had undone. I keep mistakes in a collective memory lapse, what some might call regret. Blaming my apostate ex-husband for my decision to go on a B-cup to D-cup to C-cup journey of discovery? Cliché. Asking myself why I allowed the only boy who ever kissed me, and ultimately nearly destroyed me, to convince me to reshape my bust line to meet his fancy is of no relevance. Nor did it convince him, I was what he wanted. Again, cliché. However, as much as I love Christmas time in New York, my excessive Xanax dosage along with my Olympian coffee consumption could have been held suspect in my bladder control issues on that particular day.

I am determined, with a smidge of what some might call laziness. Still, I have habitually, as I am a lawyer, argued, Is it laziness? Or is it prioritizing? Is it wrong to stay up until two o’clock in the morning watching reruns of The Golden Girls if that makes me happy? If I am not neglecting my work? If I excel in all that I do?

Of course, the essence of defense is to understand the offense. My dermatologist once threatened to fire me. My hairstylist did fire me. Could I take my makeup off before bed? Yes. And could I fill that prescription for acne ointment and actually use it? Sure. Could I wash my hair and toss out my juvenile collection of scrunchies? Yes. But am I being lazy? Or is it possible I would rather spend my energy freeing the unjustly imprisoned, spending Sunday afternoons riding a rented bicycle in Central Park, and watching The Golden Girls all night instead of sleeping?

I am prioritizing.

My priority is justice and the freedom of the falsely imprisoned West Village Portable Cooler Killer, Patrick O’Connor. My second priority is to maintain the illusion that my priorities are not cliché. And I must tend to those priorities without sleep, void of any reasonable skin and hair care routines, while rocking four-inch stilettos.

Unless, of course, my priorities get muddied by the fact that I can’t outrun any questionable character in high heels, and good people could get hurt because I have a few cliché characteristics. My legal work has the potential to get me in some dangerous situations. But there is nothing quite as satisfying—even compared to all-night The Golden Girls rerun marathon or strolling in Central Park in autumn—as seeing justice become a reality for the wrongly accused and their people.

August 7, 2008

Dear Mr. O’Connor,

My name is Saraphina Landry-Shay. I am an attorney with Free Me, a non-profit that seeks to bring justice to the falsely imprisoned. Our services are of no expense to our clients. We cannot promise the outcome of partnering with us. That said, your case was recently brought to our organization’s attention. We have collected significant evidence that supports your claim of innocence in the maiming of Anthony James Mortelli and the death of Ruth Ann Morris on May 10, 1991.

At this time, we request that you notify Attica Prison authorities of our desire to be added to your legal team and your primary visitor ledger. You will find all the necessary documentation in the pages attached, as well as a self-addressed stamped envelope for you to return with your signature of intent, the intake questionnaire, and a release for your sealed court records, if any.

Once we have received your documentation, we will arrange to meet with you to discuss the process. Please know, Mr. O’Connor, I am eager to help you. The process is not a quick one, but you can trust me to work with diligence and haste. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Saraphina

Saraphina Landry-Shay LLM

Two

The way I see it, serendipity is mystical timing. Kismet is just smart karma. And fate is the harsh or blissfully outstanding time when significance is clas sified.

Any one of those instances can change a life drastically, if not end a life, no matter how it is labeled. Stuff happens in a timely fashion, I guess.

I love time. It allows for growth, healing, and rest. As much as I love time and the concepts it stylizes, I am not a great master of time management.

Einstein is quoted as having said, Time is an illusion. Which applies to my brand of timeliness: I am never late, but I am never, ever early. Which probably translates into time is a delusion in my world.

And that brings us to now. My unruly locks are styled in a slick ponytail, because the illusion of time got away from me and I didn’t wash my hair. I am meeting with Cora O’Connor-Moretti, the only child of the notoriously violent Patrick O’Connor. I reviewed my notes