Aarti Namdev Shahani - Here We Are: American Dreams, American Nightmares (A Memoir)

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To my family, and the many others who will join us here

THROUGH A STRANGE COINCIDENCE, I met the man who ran the jail where Dad was locked up.

Howd a girl like you start visiting Rikers anyway? he asked me.

My dad was an inmate there, I said. Not the answer he was expecting.

We were hunched over a tiny oak table in one of those quaint cafs on the Upper East Side. I kept stepping on his toes, not on purpose.

The jailer, Martin Horn, happened to be friends with a genius mentor of mine. Now retired, Martin liked having meandering conversations with journalists. Im a journalist. Only, I wasnt on my A game. He was the one asking all the good questions, digging deeper.

Who was the judge in your dads case? he asked.

Why?

Maybe I know im.

Sure he does. Just like because Im from Queens, I know everyone there. Blumenfeld. I humored him. The judge was Joel Blumenfeld.

Is that right! The jailers eyes lit up. Hes one of my best friends. We go way back, to the Vietnam War days. Really nice guy.

Really nice guy. Quite a tone-deaf way to describe the man who presided over the case that ruined my family, incrementally, over the course of fourteen years.

I think youd like Joel. Ya wanna meet im? The jailer loved connecting people. Lemme know if youre interested. He made it sound as casual as a Tinder date.

Thanks. Ill let you know.

I said it with disinterest, but thats only because I felt such an intense surge of emotion that my game face kicked in.

These last few years, Id been trying not to think about the past. By anyones measure, I took aggressive steps to forget it. But, wherever I turned, there it was. I could never stop feeling like that teenage girl sitting in court, holding her moms hand, seeing her dad in handcuffs, his once-alert eyes crumbled into an empty stare. No matter how hard I tried to be someone else, thats the girl I always was. Am.

It didnt take longer than a week for me to accept the jailers offer.

Judge Joel Blumenfeld replied almost instantly. I hear you on the radio, he wrote in his email. Why dont you come by next time youre in town?

When Im not chasing the skeletons in my familys closet, Im a correspondent for NPR. I live in California and cover the largest companies on earth, three of which are a short drive from me in Silicon Valley. I was supposed to be scheduling my interview with a billionaire whod invested early in Facebook and Twitternot with this judge, who was clearly off my beat. But being a journalist has its perks (namely, access). I get VIP treatment from all kinds of people who otherwise would never give me the time of day.

The judge invited me into his private chambers. Thats a place no defendants kid gets to gothe place behind the courtroom, where he writes his decisions about how long someone is sent to prison or whether the convicted can reopen a case.

I didnt expect that. And, it turns out, I was not ready for it.

I went during one of my business trips to New York. I took the E train into Queens, just like I used to when Id visit Dad in jail. That was a lifetime ago. Not much had changed: a McDonalds wrapper tossed on the orange subway seat, the train cars rattling on the tracks like there was an earthquake. Will they ever fix these tracks?

Exiting the turnstile at Union Turnpike, I was about to make a left for the Rikers bus stop. Muscle memory. Then I remembered thats not where I was going.

I walked down Queens Boulevard and passed the bodega run by Indians (I used to buy Doritos there, back when I was young enough to metabolize Doritos). I spotted the dusty glass storefront with the words ABOGADO/LAWYER stenciled in huge black letters on a tacky yellow awning and cringed thinking about the crap promises theyd make inside: Well beat the charge. I know the judge. As if it were that easy to buy justice in America.

When I got to the Queens Criminal Courthouse, it was smaller than I remembered. Maybe thats because the last time I saw it, I had child eyes.

I put my purse through the scanner and spread my arms like a bird for security. Flashback to teenage me, standing in this exact same spot with Mom, my big brother, Deepak, and my big sister, Angelly. We usually talked a mile a minute. That morning, we were mute. Dad had just been arrested.

Miss, whats this supposed to be? The guard pointed to the X-ray, at a black blob inside my bag. That a baton?

No. Thats just my shotgun mic. I should have left out the word shotgun. I use it to record.

No recording allowed in here.

I wont record anything, I promised.

That was mostly true. Whatever might get etched into my memory, I hadnt planned to turn on the equipment. It was with me at all times because, my editor told me, you just dont know when a plane might crash. Always be ready for breaking news.

Up in the courtroom, I spotted the pews where the public sits. Flashback to my first time sitting here, in the second row. A defense lawyer walked up to a prosecutor, right after their hearing. I overheard them joking about each others golf game. They were golf buddies? I thought opposing counsel would be at war in all facets of life. Their sliver of an exchange opened my eyes to a basic fact: for most lawyers, justice is just a day job.

I walked toward the swinging doors that separate the bench from the audience. A girlfriend had recently taught me about Stuart Weitzmans, and Id grabbed a pair off the clearance rack. Today, Id break them ina mistake that announced itself in each step. With my pinky toes dying a slow death, I sounded like a bowlegged tap dancer. I never wear heels. Why the hell did I wear these?

Hi, I have an appointment with Judge Blumenfeld. I handed the bailiff my card.

He eyed it and nodded. Gimme a sec.

A few feet away, there was the witness stand. Flashback to when Dad sat there. He wanted to explain what happenedto lay out the facts of his life, not just the caseand be heard for a moment. He was such a quiet man; it wasnt like him.

Your honor, may I please

The judge cut him off before he finished his sentence.

Mr. Shahani, I suggest you speak with your lawyer.

Long pause. Lump in Dads throat. Lump in mine.

In this room, he could not be heardunless it was to say Im guilty.

The bailiff came back and held open the swinging doors. This way, please.

Three menprobably co-defendants waiting for their hearinglooked at me like, Where does she think shes going? I wondered that, too.

I turned a corner and knocked on Judge Blumenfelds door.

Young lady, I told you to send me the case number. Those were the first words out of his mouth. A scolding, which he didnt bother to give standing still. He walked right past me over to his desk. No handshake or Hey, nice to see you after all these years. Straight to business. Though I wasnt sure what that business was. I didnt have an agenda. I just showed up because I couldnt help myself.

I hadnt seen him so up close before. In my minds eye, hed been a granite-faced figure in billowing black robes. Now he was an adorable old man from the nice part of Queens: round, with pink, saggy old-man cheeksand shorter than me, with or without my heels.