After court and lunch, I walked the few blocks to the jail. It’s close enough that the transition feels abrupt — one minute I’m checking status of discovery, and the next I’m handing over my ID, my bar card, and a little card with my client’s name and location.
They give me back the client card, return my bar card, hand me a badge, and send me through security. Then I go upstairs, slide the card under the window, and wait in an attorney booth for my client to show up.
That’s the part TV never shows — the paperwork, the process, the waiting. The quiet grind of showing up.
I went in with a plan: twenty to thirty minutes per client. Epic fail.
The first client was a Spanish speaker. I speak enough Spanish to hold a basic conversation, but legal stuff is a bit trickier. And my phone doesn’t get a signal in the jail, so Google Translate wasn’t an option. We worked through it — slowly, patiently, with gestures, context clues, and a lot of grace.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was human. And sometimes human is enough.
When I finished, they told me my female client was in medical and I’d need to come back. So I walked the few blocks to the other jail to see my second client — the one with a deal on the table.
We talked for about forty minutes. He listened. He asked questions. He trusted me. And I told him I’d try to get him a time served.
Yes, we have rules. Yes, they should be followed. But a year in county jail for stealing clothes and a backpack — as a homeless person — is excessive. Excessive in a way that makes you stop and ask what we’re actually doing.
When I left that visit, I stood outside the jail debating whether I was going back to see my female client. Thinking about the walk. Thinking about the wait. Thinking about the phones that cut out every time someone breathes too hard. Thinking about the round concrete stool that is as uncomfortable as it sounds. Thinking about how long medical might take.
And thinking about her.
So I went back.
I handed over my ID and bar card again. They called upstairs to make sure she was in the tank so I wouldn’t waste time going back up.
She was.
Got the badge again. Went through security again. Slid the client card under the window again.
When she finally came down, she was happy for a visit. We finished the legal stuff pretty quickly, so she just talked — about life, about the fights in the tank, about trying to get her footing back after her eviction four years ago. Her mom took her kids so they’d have stability. She wanted to get her life back on track. And instead, everything spiraled.
I had a deal for a year in county on one case and a dismissal on the other. But she had no felony convictions. None. So I told her I’d try to get her a time served — so when we went to court, she would be done.
When the visit was over, she signaled she was ready to go back to her dorm. I stayed with her because I wasn’t just gonna leave her sitting there.
It took the guard almost an hour to come get her. Ten minutes for the men. Nearly an hour for her.
By the time he finally showed up, he saw we still had the phones and started to walk off like he’d come back later. No sir, you better not leave it took you forever and a day to come. I looked at her and said, “Girl, bye. You need to eat.”
By the time I left, I’d been with her almost two hours. Best believe I was exhausted on Friday evening. But I wasn’t about to leave her sitting there alone, waiting on a system that moves when it feels like it.
And that’s why I go.
I have never once walked into a jail visit without first having to talk myself into it. And I have never once walked out regretting that I went.
Not because the phones work. Not because the concrete seats are comfortable. Not because the wait is short. Not because the process is smooth. Not because the system makes sense.
I go because showing up matters. I go because my clients deserve to be seen. I go because sometimes I’m the only person they’ve seen since they got arrested. I go because justice doesn’t only happen in courtrooms — it happens in these small, uncomfortable rooms where someone finally feels human again.
And that’s the part TV never gets right. The humanity. The exhaustion. The context. The quiet truth that poverty, eviction, homelessness, and instability are treated like character flaws instead of circumstances.
My clients aren’t asking for miracles. They’re asking to be remembered. They’re asking to be seen. They’re asking for someone to show up.
So I do.
On (In)justice 