VOLUME | ONC 2023

3. Good Trouble

Lizzie...

I contemplated what to do. I'd poured over the documents three times, still arriving at the same conclusion.

I glanced over at Mr. Marshall's door. Unlike most times, it wasn't open but slightly ajar.

I rolled my eyes, annoyed with myself for being a wimp and annoyed that he wasn't carrying on as he usually was.

A human thermometer, I had been gauging the temperature of the office. I knew them to be more lenient with Black folk than other places, but I could never be too certain. I couldn't just knock on a door and tell them to fire whatever legal clerk had been previously assigned to this case.

And right now, my only potential ally was that darned junior attorney who kept finding excuses to grate on my very last nerve.

I shuffled the papers, placing them in the corner and out of the way while I strategized an approach.

Dotty, the woman who presided over all administrative matters, seemed to appear out of nowhere in front of me, "Miss Smith, can you file these documents for Mr. Mathison, please?"

She produced a substantial stack of papers, dropping them haphazardly onto my desk with a thwack.

"Yes, ma'am. I can do that," I nodded.

"Good. I know it's a lot, but you're fast, girl. You should be finished in no time," with bright red lips, she smiled at me, her eyes telling another story.

"I prefer Miss Smith."

"Hmm?" Dotty's perfect little eyebrow arched questioningly.

"You referred to me as girl, but Miss Smith will do just fine." The smile I had plastered on my face was nothing but bright.

"Right. Miss Smith. Hurry along now," she punctuated the statement with a golf clap before pivoting on her heels and walking in the other direction.

In my head, I had resorted to referring to her as the overseer.

Just because the firm as a whole seemed to preach integration didn't mean everybody had joined the bandwagon. I had only been employed for mere weeks, and she'd been pester-some, meddlesome, and downright nasty. She wasn't mean in a grandiose sense – her cunning existed just under the surface, hard to discipline but easy to discern if you were accustomed.

If I could get away with it, I'd wring her raggedy little neck. Non-violence, my ass.

I whispered to myself, "Lord, forgive me. Give me strength, endurance, and patience, cuz I sho ain't got none."

I made a mental note to search "long-suffering" in my concordance.

Movement out of my peripheral arrested my attention. I looked up to see Mr. Marshall watching me, a smile playing on his lips.

When had he opened his door?

I grit my teeth, checking my watch. I'd be sixteen minutes early, but I was sure no one would notice if I slipped out for lunch.

Paper bag in hand, I walked inconspicuously to my lunch hideaway, grateful for the reprieve I would feel. The firm's expansive law library was full of reading nooks and enclosed spaces. There were even a few private reading rooms for studying that no one had ever really occupied. A multi-generational firm, the library was brimming with legal tomes, volumes, and literature outlining the law dating beyond the American constitution. Greek texts – and their subsequent translations – could be found alongside various iterations of property law and civil procedure.

It was a legal historian's paradise.

Empty as usual, I sat down at a small research table at the end of a row of books. The filtered light pouring through the windows brought me solace.