“Ben!”

He turned, took one look-then stopped dead in his tracks.

“Ben, this is Ellen Christensen.”

He stared a long time before answering. “I know who she is.”

“Ben,” Jones said, grinning from ear to ear, “she wants you to take over her son’s defense. Can you believe-”

“No,” he said succinctly. He turned back toward his office.

“Ben,” Christina said quickly, “did you understand? She wants you to-”

“I’m afraid I’m not available.” And he closed the door behind him.

Half an hour later, Christina entered Ben’s office without knocking. “Ben, I want to talk to you.”

“Look, if it’s about that phony blank-”

“It’s about Ellen Christensen’s son. She says he’s innocent.”

“She’s his mother.”

She took the chair opposite his desk and scooted it up close. “I’ve been talking to her, Ben. She sounds pretty convincing. Shouldn’t you at least meet with her?”

Ben continued reading his brief. “No.”

“Could you please explain why not?”

“I don’t have to justify my decisions.”

“I’m not saying you have to. I’m asking if you will.”

“Christina…” He leaned back and propped his feet up on his desk. “Could you for once please just leave it alone?”

“No, Ben, I can’t. Think what that poor woman has been through these past few months-hearing the accusations against her son, mounting his defense on a limited income. She’s a widow.”

“I know.”

Christina’s brow furrowed. “Ben, this woman needs our help.”

“There are lots of lawyers in Chicago. Getting one from Tulsa is crazy.”

“I agree, but she’s determined to have our firm represent her son.” She leaned across his desk. “So why don’t we give her what she wants?”

“Christina, I don’t want to take this case. Let me be crystal clear: I refuse to take this case. Understand?”

She stood, obviously hurt in more ways than she could count. “No, Ben. I don’t understand at all.” She closed the door behind her.

It was long past closing time, Ben realized, glancing at his watch. Time to go home? Safe to go home?

He pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed his coat. Maybe he should’ve just told Christina. It would’ve been simpler. But so much time had passed. He’d known Christina so long, he would’ve felt like a fool. She would’ve tried to make him think rationally. And he didn’t want to think rationally. There was nothing rational about this.

Just as he approached his office door, he heard movement on the other side.

Christina was standing there.

“I’m leaving now,” she said.

“I thought you’d already left.”

“No.” She looked one way, then the other. “Look, I don’t think I’ll be able to come over tonight.”

“Sure.”

“In fact… well, anyway.” She shook her head. “This is stupid.”

She started to turn away. Ben reached out and took her arm, holding her back. “Has Mrs. Christensen left?”

She looked at him coldly. “A long time ago.”

“She’ll find another lawyer, Christina. I promise you.”

“She didn’t want just anyone. She wanted the best.”

“She’ll have people lining up to take her case.”

Christina shook her arm loose. “No, she won’t.”

“She will. I promise.”

“She won’t.” She grabbed her overcoat off the hall rack and started for the door. “She doesn’t need anyone else, Ben. I took the case.”

I always knew I was gay. Always. As far back as I can remember, I knew I wasn’t like the other kids. Maybe everyone feels that way when they’re young, but with me it was something more, something profound. A real sense of distinction. And of danger. Because I knew what would happen if the other kids at Bradley Middle School ever got a whiff of my secret.

I’m probably not the only scrawny kid who didn’t love PE class, but for me, the challenge was a lot greater than seeing if I could finish twenty-five sit-ups. Every single day we went through the same ritual-changing clothes, sweating, showering. The same exotic, erotic, intoxicating, and oh, so perilous routine. I practiced deep breathing, distracted myself, thought about someone ugly, whatever it took to make sure I didn’t have a physical reaction that would betray my secret. At the same time, I couldn’t help sneaking a peek every now and again. It was like throwing a straight fourteen-year-old into a bordello; the girls might not be all that great to look at, but they were girls, just the same.

Of course, all the boys I ran around with at that age were constantly talking about homosexuality. Looking back, it was such an obsession I can’t help but wonder if I was the only kid on the block nursing a secret. All the talk was derogatory and hateful, to be sure, but it had a frequency that exceeded even nasty girl talk. You’d constantly hear someone shout, “Fag!” when someone did something wrong. “Back off, you fairy!” if there was an accidental touching. “Queer as a three-dollar bill!” for any nerds who weren’t part of our particular nerd pack. At that age, most of the guys had no real understanding of homosexuality or even what these epithets implied-they were just words. That would change, of course. In time, I would become all too familiar with the venom that people both young and old could have for those of us with a sexual preference different from their own.

Even before I knew what being categorized as gay could do to you, I was going out of my way to make sure I wasn’t. As a teenager, I observed and copied all the standard hetero moves. I asked girls to the school dances, I made suggestive remarks, I even took them out back and groped them like everyone expected, shoving my tongue down their throats and fumbling stupidly with the clasps of their bra. Even took a girl to the senior prom. I asked her, then I asked a friend who I suspected might be similarly inclined to double-date with us. Never mind that I was more interested in him than my date. We became a socially acceptable foursome. We bought the corsages, danced the slow dances, even went parking afterward. I was in the backseat going through the usual charade-with her skirt hiked up and her bra dangling around her neck-when a cop shined his flashlight through the window. I was secretly relieved, but damned if I was going to let anyone know it. “Did you see the way that pervert cop stared at us?” I remember grousing, as we drove our dates home. “He’s probably some kind of faggot.”

It would be a good long time before I stopped talking like that, even longer before I stopped thinking of myself in those terms. That may seem stupid to you, dear diary. After all, we don’t live in the eighteenth century. But fear can be a powerful motivator. And the fear of being different is the greatest of them all. In the face of abject hate, even the most stalwart may become cowards.