“ALL RIGHT, let’s talk about how you’ll look the day of the trial.”
The trial was in exactly one week. My nails were bitten down to bloody stumps, and it felt like even my hair was splitting in protest of all the stress.
“I’m getting a haircut tomorrow,” I said quickly, tugging anxiously at my dead ends. “I’ve picked out an outfit already. A light blue blouse and beige skirt, nothing loud or with logos.” I wrapped my arms around myself to hug my Green Lantern T-shirt, wishing I could be wearing something more familiar instead when I took the plunge.
Haywood waved his hand around as if he were swatting at a fly in front of his face. “No, no, not what you’ll be wearing. We’ve gone over that. I trust you to make a smart first impression. I mean about how you’ll look.” He sighed when I raised my eyebrows. “How the jury will see you, what they’ll think.”
“If I’m dressed like a nice girl, won’t they think I’m a nice girl?” I asked. “And by the way, I’m a nice girl whether I’m wearing ripped jeans and T-shirts or a catholic school uniform.” The cross of my arms became a little more defensive.
“I know that and you know that,” Haywood said, rubbing at his temple. “But the jury is going to be making a snap judgment about you based on your appearance, your demeanor, and a number of racial and age-based stereotypes.”
I didn’t know how to respond. My jaw went a little slack, not quite dropping open but not far from it, either. “Excuse me?”
“You know. You’re a small girl, pretty, East Asian.” He shrugged. “That’s what they’ll see first and foremost, before your neat clothes even register. Don’t look so surprised! It’s incredibly common for human beings to use stereotypes to make quick judgments about a person’s character and personality. That doesn’t make it right, but this isn’t to our disadvantage.”
“‘This’?” I asked, uncrossing my arms to make finger quotes in the air. “You mean my race. You’re really bringing race into this?” It didn’t feel right. A quiet chill crept up my neck.
“I hate to be frank like this, but it’s best you know what you’re in for. Certain things are going to work to our advantage. Like your size. Make sure you’re wearing flat shoes to emphasize your height. The less physically imposing you look, the more trustworthy you seem.”
“That’s stupid.” I wanted to add, “And you’re stupid,” but I refrained, instead shooting Haywood a nasty look.
“No, it’s logical. Pin your hair back in a clip or a bow to show off your face, and don’t wear any makeup. Asian women in particular are often perceived as submissive, shy, and quiet. If you play up those traits, you’ll seem more sympathetic.”
“This is ridiculous. You want me to play into racial stereotypes? I am not a representative for the entire population of East Asia!”
“I’m not saying that. Will you listen to me?” I had never heard Haywood use that tone before. It was a hard, solid voice coming from the most fragile, wispy body. It was a strange juxtaposition, and it served to shut me up. “I’m saying that I can’t prevent there from being racist jurors, but I can teach you how to outsmart them!”
I rubbed at the crease starting in my forehead. My mother was worried about it becoming a permanent wrinkle.
“You’re telling me to assume the worst in people and to lie about who I am because it might make racists feel more comfortable,” I said, lowering my voice to a more reasonable volume. “And I’m telling you that I’m not comfortable with that.”
“Most stereotypes about Asian people are positive. Being studious, good at math, hardworking, that sort of thing. Then to get into the fetishism of the exotic, and you get stereotypes about the obedience and submission of Asian women. I find it repugnant that there are people whose brains operate this way.
“But what I’m trying to say, perhaps ineloquently, is that by allowing those people to think that way while you’re on the stand, you can tip them in our favor. I’m not saying lie. I’m saying… tone down that part of you that’s argumentative and strong-willed and a born debater. When you’re the lawyer, you can crush the stereotypes and destroy the patriarchy from the inside out. But you’re the witness, and they have to like you.”
“I’m not likable when I’m me?”
Haywood sat back in his chair and shook his head. His eyes looked sad, and maybe lonely.
“You are an intensely likable person when you’re you. I like you a lot. But the jury gets to see you for only a few minutes, talking about how your friends were murdered and you want Dustin Adams to spend the rest of his life in prison. No one wants to sentence a young man to life in prison. No one. That’s a lot of responsibility for a juror. They have to be able to feel like they’re making the best possible decision, that there is no way they can let this man back on the streets.”
“I’m the person ruining Dustin’s life,” I said, feeling slightly in awe of this realization. “That’s how they’ll see me. The girl who wants to ruin his life.” I tried to imagine what they’d see when they looked at him: Dustin Adams, the tall, athletic boy with a bright future. A future I hoped to ruin. Haywood seemed to concur.
“Good-looking, young, white, intelligent Dustin Adams will take the stand at some point after you. He will tell them a sob story. He will do everything in his power to convince them that he is not guilty, and his counsel will do everything in their power to undermine your credibility so that his story sounds more plausible.”
A heavy stone settled in my intestines, a weight of fear and disgust. “I still hate it. I hate that I have to assume that the first thing the jury will notice about me is the color of my skin and the shape of my eyes, and that those things will impact how they feel about my testimony. It makes me sick to even think it.”
It was the same feeling I got, to a lesser extent, when people expected me to be a natural in math class, or good at chess, or to know a language I rarely even heard spoken. It was a gross feeling, a bone-deep aversion, like the feeling of having a bug on your skin but being unable to swat it away.
Haywood stood up from his chair and walked around his desk to crouch in front of me, sitting back on his haunches. Up close, there was color in his cheeks, flecks of blue in his eyes. And his hair, underneath the silver wisps, had a reddish undertone.
“Don’t you ever, ever lose that feeling,” he said. His voice was soft but authoritative, and I looked at him and saw him more clearly than I ever had before. “Don’t ever forget what it feels like. Not for one second. It should make you feel sick and angry and tired. That’s what makes you human, and what will make you extraordinary at whatever you choose to do with your life after this.”
“I’m not extraordinary. I’m just a girl.”
Haywood put his hands on both my knees. “You are a bright, passionate young woman with unlimited potential to do good in this world. This trial is just one tiny piece of what will be the absolutely epic story of your life.”
Sometimes someone says something that you don’t believe right away. The words sit on your skin like perfume, pleasant but external to you. And then, after a long time, it begins to sink in, and those words become a part of you. You internalize the words, and they fundamentally change you, change who you’ll become.
Haywood’s words would lie on my skin through the trial, a superficial comfort. Over time, they would seep into my bloodstream and put fire behind my words. But when he said them, I didn’t believe him.
I said, “Yeah, okay,” and I said, “Thanks,” and Haywood took his hands off my knees and apologized for the invasion of my personal space. And he gave me a few last-minute tips on how to act, and I listened and agreed. But I had the sickening feeling, in some deep, unreachable part of me, that even if we won the battle, we’d already lost the war.