Marie Henein - Nothing But the Truth: A Memoir

I THOUGHT A LOT ABOUT not writing this book. For many reasons. The thing that kept troubling me is that the relationship between me and my clients is deeply personal. It cant be anything else when you are navigating a person through one of the most difficult experiences they will ever live through. Because of that, the best parts of my clients stories, the ones Id like to tell to reveal them and their cases, happen within the confines of our lawyer-client relationship. Ethically, I must keep those confidences; I simply cannot share those moments. And without those moments, I cannot let you feel the fullness of any case. I cannot give you what you need so that you can make up your own mind or ask the real questions. I also did not want to write the usual lawyers memoir; a book that summarizes my cases with the typical ruminations about each of them feels wholly unnecessary. Ive had clients who have chosen to speak or write publicly about their experience in the criminal justice system and others who have decided that this painful chapter is best forgotten. It is their story to tell. And their choice what they wish to do with it, not mine. Anyway, I hate telling war stories. Its just not in me.

But there are things I wanted to say, about myself, my profession, about the justice system. It seemed to me this is as good a chance as any because there are so many assumptions and misconceptions about all of these things. The only problem with an autobiography, I learned, is that it comes with an uncomfortable amount of introspection and digging around in places I would frankly rather avoid. Even on a good day, Im not a big fan of self-dissection. I just dont love my own company that much.

Having told my editor and publisher all these unfortunate facts, they still enlisted me to write. I discovered, every time I sat down to write about myself, what came out were the stories of others. The truth is their stories are mine. It is in the telling of their stories that I think you will find some of me. And in the telling of why I do what I do, I hope you come to know me just a little bit more. I cant promise to rationalize or reconcile what must appear to be disparate parts of me and tie them up into a nice, neat bow, but here it goes, my story. The beginning, the middle, and an end, of sorts.

I HAVE A PHOTOGRAPH of one of our family dinners at my grandmothers house in Toronto. I was five years old. Weekly family dinners at my Tetas were mandatory, and, as usual, after dinner my cousins escaped to the basement to play. Not me. I always preferred the company of the adults. Every one of these gatherings ended the same way, with anise-laden arak, our traditional drink, being brought out from my grandmothers mahogany cabinet. I would watch the adults sorcery as they mixed the clear liquid with water, turning it into a cloudy white elixir. By the time the sweet licorice-scented smoke from the arak and the cigarettes had settled over the room, the Arabic dancing would begin. Later on, the pounding, joyful rhythm of the Egyptian tablah would give way to the melancholic tones of the famous singers Oum Kalsoum and Fairouz, enveloping everyone in arak-infused homesickness. But it was early yet.

In the picture, my dad is standing in the centre of the group of adults who are lounging on garish velvet furniture. He is in his element, smiling, his arms outstretched, one leg crossed over the other, in mid-dance. It was his signature move, hips swaying, his fingers snapping, a bastardized mash-up of the Lebanese dabka. The women would later chime in with belly dancing. But at that moment, my father had the floor.

I am caught by the camera standing off to the side, arms crossed, wearing checked flammable polyester pantsan immigrant staplelooking straight ahead with a very disapproving look. I have a lousy memory for most things from my childhood, but its funny that I still feel this moment. And its where I need to begin. I remember exactly why I had that look on my face. This silliness. Wasted time. How could my father blithely dance with that grin? It was the frivolity of the adults, especially my father, that upset me.

Even at that young age, I was serious. A chronic condition. And while I was given to excess in all sorts of other ways, the emotional frivolity, the sheer happiness of my dad at that moment, pissed me off. I have never, not once, felt what he did. Dont get me wrongIve had fun. Im capable of it. But that sort of fun, never. There were other things to be done, serious things. And the adults should have had the decency, my father should have had the decency, to at least agonize about some of what was being left undone and unsaid while he danced away. But there he was, wildly dancing. Enjoying himself. If I had centre stage, I would say things. Not dance.

My mom knows. She tried to console me. As she hugged me to safety tight to her side, she whispered in my ear, as she would throughout my life, Its never easy, its never easy for you