In 1963, Detective Richard Mobey is interviewing the prime suspect, Hattie Lee, in the French Quarter... “Again, please state your name.”
“Hattie Lee. Don’t I have the right to an attorney?”
“What the hell for? Nobody has charged you with anything. Even if we did, why would you need an attorney for questioning?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m black,” she said.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m white. So what?”
“I won’t get a fair trial.”
“Lady Justice is blind.”
Hattie fumed, “She’s not blind; she’s blindfolded. Either she’s peeking or she can smell money a mile away.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got the right to a fair trial, if it comes to that.”
“The criminal justice system favors rich white people over poor minorities.”
“Why don’t you stop being prissy and cooperate?” Mobey reproached. This interview had the potential to become antagonistic. Hopefully, it wouldn’t; he never liked to browbeat a woman.
“For the record, isn’t your name Hattie Lee Jackson?” he asked with pronounced patience.
“Jackson was on my birth certificate. When I turned eighteen, I had my name legally changed and dropped Jackson.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I don’t want the same name as a tourist attraction.”
“Jackson Square?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s also the name of a past president.”
“Do I look like a past president?”
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