"Trash Collecting Trash": The Aunt's Mocking Laughter and the Exposure of Forged Loans

The auditorium was different this time.

It was larger, lined with polished mahogany and stained glass, carrying the heavy, solemn weight of centuries of jurisprudence. It was the state supreme court building.

I stood in a line with two hundred other men and women, dressed in a sharp, tailored black suit. My heart was pounding, but it wasn't out of fear or the threat of public humiliation. It was the frantic, beautiful drumbeat of absolute victory.

I was twenty-six years old. I had graduated law school in the top five percent of my class. I had passed the bar exam on my first try, scoring high enough to attract offers from three major corporate firms in the city.

I had turned them all down to stay at the clinic.

In the gallery above, sitting in the front row, was my family. Mr. Henderson was there, wearing a proud, fatherly smile. And sitting right next to him, wearing a tiny suit and a clip-on tie, was four-year-old Noah. He was waving a small, handmade sign that read: That's My Mom!

I caught his eye and winked. He giggled, covering his mouth with both hands.

The Chief Justice stepped up to the podium, looking out over the sea of new attorneys.

"Raise your right hands," the Chief Justice boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

I raised my right hand. I thought about the scared six-year-old girl sitting in a county office, waiting for a home. I thought about the desperate twenty-two-year-old mother, holding a baby against her chest, watching a fifty-foot screen destroy her abusers.

"I do solemnly swear," the Chief Justice began, and two hundred voices echoed his words in unison.

"I do solemnly swear," I repeated, my voice strong and clear.

"That I will support the Constitution of the United States and the Constitution of this State..."

We recited the oath, promising to conduct ourselves with integrity, to discharge our duties to our clients, and to uphold the law. Every word felt like a brick being laid in the foundation of the life I had built from absolute scratch.

"Congratulations," the Chief Justice smiled, striking his gavel. "You are now licensed attorneys and counselors at law."

The room erupted into applause. Noah was cheering so loudly I could hear his specific, high-pitched voice over the crowd.

An hour later, I walked up to the heavy glass door of the legal-aid clinic. Mr. Henderson had arrived before me. He was standing on a step stool, peeling the old vinyl lettering off the door.

He stepped down and gestured for me to look.

The new gold lettering gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Henderson & Warren, Attorneys at Law.

I reached down, picking up Noah and settling him onto my hip. He reached out and tapped the glass right over my name.