The Latina Lawyer

La Abogada

I'd left my neighborhood behind for corporate law. Glass towers and expensive suits, as far from East LA as possible.

"We need someone to handle a pro bono case," my boss said. "Community advocacy thing. Your background might help."

My background. Code for: you're Latina, you handle it.

The community center was nothing like my firm. Peeling paint, fluorescent lights, and a woman running everything with fierce efficiency.

"You're the lawyer?" she asked.

"One of many."

"You don't look like you belong here."

"I grew up three blocks away."

Something shifted in her eyes. "Then you understand what we're fighting for."

Her name was Carmen. She'd dedicated her life to this center—keeping programs running, fighting developers, protecting what little the community had left.

"Why this?" I asked.

"Because someone has to. And because my mother ran this center before me."

"And after you?"

"There has to be an after. That's the whole point."

I threw myself into the case. Nights researching, weekends in the community, every skill I'd learned in corporate used for something that mattered.

"You're different from what I expected," Carmen admitted.

"What did you expect?"

"A sellout. Someone who forgot where she came from."

"I forgot for a while. I'm remembering now."

We won the case. The developers backed off. The center was saved.

"You could go back to your tower now," Carmen said.

"I could."

"Will you?"

"I don't know yet."

She kissed me in the community center, where my mother used to volunteer before she passed.

"Stay," Carmen said. "We need lawyers who fight for us."

"I'd be giving up everything."

"You'd be gaining everything that matters."

I opened a practice in the neighborhood. Still do corporate work—but only for clients who deserve it. The rest of my time is Carmen's center.

"To coming home," we toast.

"To never leaving again," she adds.

The Latina lawyer—where justice is personal, and coming home is the best verdict.