Stepping into the office, I'm decked out in my power ensemble: a sleek black pencil skirt and an ivory collared long-sleeve button-up, all tied together with sharp black heels. Today, I'm determined to turn the tide—channeling every ounce of positive energy I can muster. Yesterday's fiasco? I'm relegating it to history. As I make my way in, Mr. Waterford (Oliver, though we're strictly last-name basis here) won't spare me a glance, deeply engrossed in a conversation about the recent sports match with another attorney.

And why should it bother me?

Suddenly, my path is blocked. "Mrs. Armstrong," intones Mr. Wilde, Oliver's uncle by some distant relation, who seems perpetually uncomfortable with the concept of using my first name because it's too masculine. From day one, eye contact seemed too much for him to manage.

"Mr. Wilde," I respond, masking my irritation with a veneer of respect. The man epitomizes the stereotype of corporate stiffness, his attire impeccable to the point of absurdity, his hair seemingly in a lifelong commitment to hair gel.

"Mr. Marks and Dr. Adonis are handing off a case to you," he announces, matching my stride toward my office.

"Why is that?" I ask, mentally measuring the distance to my sanctuary. 450 feet. 445 feet.

"It's because...he's African American." My eyes involuntarily roll at his discomfort.

"So, we're just handing him off, then? Not interested in defending the guy, but we want to show the world that we have a Black woman in the firm," I deadpan, sarcasm seeping through. Seriously. I know I might be one of two black lawyers in this firm but something is obviously wrong with this man's logic. Clearly. 

Mr. Wilde's cheeks flush a bright red. "Mrs. Armstrong, I assure you, it's not like that. You're a highly skilled lawyer. If we had the resources to defend him ourselves, we would."

340 feet. 

"And what exactly is his crime?" Of course we have the resources, like the rest of America talking about black people is taboo in this vanilla, pumkin spice place of a firm.

"He's accused of assaulting his ex-girlfriend. He's been in and out of jail multiple times for minor offenses."

"Mr. Wilde, this pattern is not acceptable," I retort while digging for my keys. 

"Please," he pleads, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It's a huge favor to us," he draws out the word 'huge' as if it softens the imposition.

With other cases already on my plate, I hesitate at the door. "I'm swamped as it is," I protest. 

"I'm afraid it's not really up for discussion," he admits just as I insert my key into the lock.

"You can't keep doing this to me," I retort, turning the knob and shoving the door open.

"This is your chance to prove yourself, Mrs. Armstrong. If you do well on this case, who knows where this can lead?"

Before I can respond, Mr. Waterford, Oliver appears. "We'll take it," he interjects.

"What?" escapes both our lips in unison.

"I said, we'll take the case," he repeats. "Uncle, could you give us a minute?"

"Uh...yes," Mr. Wilde says, he pushes up his rimless bifocals and retreats down the hall without a word. I know he's enjoying himself after that interjection.

"What the hell was that, we're already spreading ourselves thin, and now we're taking on an assault case? And you know my feelings about him," I whisper scream. Why can't this man...fine man take a hint.

"Noah, relax. It's not as bad as it seems." He plays with his Summer Wind, Frank Sinatra watch. He's a geek about these things.

"Mr. Waterford, please. At the end of the day it's another black thing." I sit down at my desk and which is meticulously organized to a T.

"Noah, we've been over this a thousand just call me Oliver. We've worked together for two years."

"I can't, it's unprofessional, and I just can't bring myself to do it." I upruptly tap the stack of papers louder than I intend to.

"Noah, you can't keep going on another tirade about how it's an 'us versus them' situation. And don't think I didn't notice how you rolled your eyes." He sits on the edge of my desk and I know that he knows that it gets on my nerves.

"It's the truth. That man has done nothing but hold me back and keep me out of the loop. He's not going to change." Unless I get the promotion at the yearly  Promotion Gala.

He gets off once I give him a pointed look and takes the seat across from me. "He's my uncle." He brushes imanginary dust off of his suit coat. 

"And your point is?"

"I'm asking you, as a friend, to cut him some slack. He's not all that bad."

"To you," I sigh, rubbing my temples. "Not to be Johnny Rain Cloud but imagine not only being a woman and being black when it comes to working with this man. Seriously the man is a living stereotype.

"You're a fantastic lawyer, Noah, and you know it." He flashes a smile that's more of a grin, a glint in his eyes.

I cross my arms. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That thing with your eyes and the smile," I insist.

"What thing?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

"You know what, that thing where you try to get people to agree with you. I'm not budging on this one. Mr. Wilde's views are archaic, and his treatment of me is unethical. There, I said it. Happy?"

"Noah," Oliver sighs. "Just think about it...anyways our client."

"Which one, the one who commited fraud and cheated on his wife multiple times or the Black kid all our white counterparts are afraid of." I pick up the folder that Mr. Wilde handed me. Tremaine Johnson. 23 years old.

"Tremaine Johnson, age 23. Charged with 2nd degree assault and battery, resisting arrest, and domestic violence," Oliver reads from the file.

"His ex-girlfriend was found dead from a gunshot wound in her apartment," he continues, flipping through the documents. "She had bruises and lacerations on her face and neck."

"How was he charged with murder?"

"According to the report, he'd been arguing with her and the next morning she's dead."

"And the police are calling it murder," I reply.

"There were witnesses."

"Do we have any information on them?"

"All the files are here. We'll have to talk to them as well."

We pour over the files, reviewing the details. The ex-girlfriend, a girl named Jazmine, was found with a single gunshot wound to the chest. She was 20 years old, and according to the report, had a history of drug dealing and prostitution. The morning of her death Tremaine was on a flight to Florida.

We end up spending the rest of the day pouring over the details, making notes, and putting together a plan for our investigation. It's a grueling process, but we manage to make a decent amount of progress.

By the end of the day, I'm exhausted.

"Ready to go home?" Oliver asks.

"Yeah, let's call it a day," I reply, packing up my bag. "Are you still on for Thursday, visiting Tremaine?"

"Of course, wouldn't miss it."

I walk out of the office and make my way to the parking lot. My phone rings, and I fumble to answer. I recogonize the number. It's my Mom.

How did she get my personal phone number. Only a few people have it. I hit decline.

It rings again.

"Hey, Noah," Oliver says coming up behind me. "You forgot your bag." He hands it to me.

"Thanks." I say quietly.

My phone rings again.

"Are you going to answer it?"

"No." I say shoving it in my bag.

"Why not?"

"It's..it's my Mom."

"Oh." He says, a moment passes. "Well, if you need to talk, I'm here."

I look up at him. His green eyes meet mine, and I'm momentarily transfixed. He usually doesn't stay here this late. He usually leaves around 8. I clear my throat.

"Thanks, but I'm fine. Really."

"Noah, we've talked about this. You can't just shut down."

We're almost close to my car. 600ft. 550ft.

"Oliver," I fold my arms. "You're not my therapist."

"Maybe not, but I am your friend, and I'm not going to let you wallow in self-pity."

"Excuse me?" I snap. "I'm not wallowing in self-pity. I have to go." I open my car door, and climb in.

"Wait, Noah."

I ignore him, closing the door. I start the car, and pull out of the parking lot.

As I drive home, I replay the conversation in my head. Was I too harsh? I mean, he was right, I do tend to shut down when it comes to talking about my Mom.

My phone buzzes. It's a text from my Mom.

**Please Answer.**

I can't. I'm not dealing with her manipulation games today. What is it now. Getting bailed out of Jail. Money. Taking my Credit Card to a liquor store. Doing this but not bothering to see your own daughter in person?

I hit delete.

I'll have to deal with her at some point, but right now, I have more pressing matters.