All of my old fears of speaking before an audience came flooding back, in spades. As a survival mechanism, my obsessive compulsive streak kicked in then, and I zealously over-prepared. Terrified that I might not have an answer, or that my mind might just go blank, I researched…and rehearsed…and researched some more.
The stakes were high, as they always are at this level of argument. On a personal level, the case came down to whether a three year old boy who had been placed in foster care for very good reasons could be freed up for adoption by a family who wanted him. On a broader plane, the issue that would be decided for this case and all cases coming after it was just when in the formal TPR process the courts should stop favoring a parent’s right to stay connected and start considering the “best interest of the child.”
Since the case involved a young child who clearly deserved a better life, the “mother tiger” in me kicked in as well and I spent weekends working on the case. I pulled over to the side of the road just to jot down ideas on Dairy Queen napkins that came to me as I was driving. I sat cross-legged on the floor of the courthouse basement, poring over dusty statute books from the 1800s, trying to trace the path in the law from when children were considered property to the realities of the present day. I rehearsed my introduction over and over again as I drove, afraid that if I didn’t have the words absolutely committed to some subconscious part of my brain stem, I might freeze like a deer in the headlights.
And finally the day came to argue before the high court. I had brought my older son with me for company. I treated him to lunch beforehand at an Italian restaurant. I passed on his offer to share his breadsticks, and took another dose of Pepto Bismol. My friend and co-worker who had tried the case joined us at the court. As he sat beside me in the packed room, I told him “if I pass out, just pick up my notes and keep reading!” I wasn’t kidding.
