It was my turn to go first, as the person who had asked the high court to hear the case. The justices filed into the courtroom in their black robes, and solemnly took their seats. One of the justices and I had been reporters at the same newspaper many years earlier, and she gave me a quick smile as our eyes met. I don’t recall that it made me feel any less nervous. As I began to speak, I could feel my chest start to tighten and my air supply go dangerously short. My voice shook for a bit, but it passed. I remembered that what was at stake was far more important than what I was afraid of, and my breathing finally returned to normal as the justices started to pepper me with questions about the case and the law.
Gratitude and relief beyond words flooded through me when I finally got to sit down and turn the hot seat over to the attorney on the other side. When the court was done with our case, my son and my friend and I left the courthouse and stepped out into the sunlight. As I cleared the doorway, I looked at the sky and declared, “Thank God I’ll never have to do that again!!” I was absolutely sure that I wouldn’t survive another go-round.
The three of us headed to a nearby restaurant for a little celebration. We settled in to our air-conditioned seats, and ordered drinks and nachos. As we waited, I repeated my heartfelt desire to avoid such an incredibly grueling experience again. My friend looked at me and smiled wickedly. “You know, I’ve got another case I want you to look at…”
Timelines for appeals in cases involving TPRs are mercilessly short. I wouldn’t have thought it possible at first, but only five weeks later—and months before the first case was even decided—I had finished another brief and had it sitting in the supreme court’s “in” box. And I got to prepare and argue two more cases to the court after that in the next couple of years. Then I finally got to catch my breath. Even now, the thought of saying the words “May it please the court” can make my heart race.
