“Why we need more judges like Alexandra Martinez.”
NPR interviewed Senator Chen, who praised my extraordinary legal mind and unwavering commitment to justice.
CNN ran a segment about the historic nature of my appointment, the youngest Second Circuit judge ever, one of the few former public defenders on any federal appellate court.
And buried in all the coverage was a small but telling detail.
Judge Martinez’s sister Emma is engaged to Judge Trevor Williams, who was sworn into the Southern District of New York on Monday.
The Martinez family was unavailable for comment.
My phone never stopped ringing.
I kept it off.
Instead, I focused on my work.
Tuesday morning, I heard my first oral arguments. Three cases, each involving civil rights violations. I asked sharp questions, challenged both sides’ arguments, and felt the weight of the responsibility I now carried.
After the arguments, Judge Robertson found me in my chambers.
“You were exceptional up there,” he said. “Tough questions, clear thinking, genuine engagement with the issues. You’re a natural.”
“Thank you.”
“It felt heavy.”
“Yes,” he said. “Good. It should. You’re deciding people’s lives, their rights, their futures. The day it stops feeling heavy is the day you should step down.”
That evening, my mother appeared at the courthouse.
Security called my chambers.
“Judge Martinez, there’s a Catherine Martinez in the lobby. She says she’s your mother.”
I hesitated.
Then:
“Send her up.”
My mother arrived looking exhausted.
She’d been crying.
“Alex,” she said, her voice breaking. “Please, we need to talk.”
I gestured for her to sit.
“Your father didn’t mean to hurt you,” she began. “He just didn’t understand.”
“Didn’t understand what, Mom. That I was qualified. That I was successful. That I deserved respect.”
“We thought you were throwing your career away. Public defenders don’t become judges. They just don’t.”
“Except I did.”
“You never told us you were even being considered for a judgeship.”
“Because you never asked about my career except to tell me I’d wasted it.”
“You never asked about my cases, my wins, my accomplishments.”
“You compared me to Trevor and found me lacking without ever actually looking at what I’d achieved.”
My mother was crying now.
“Your father uninvited you from his party because he was ashamed of you. And now everyone knows he uninvited a Second Circuit judge from his retirement party. He’s mortified.”
“He should be.”
“Alex.”
“Mom, I love you, but I’m tired of apologizing for being a disappointment when I’ve accomplished something extraordinary.”
“I’m one of the most powerful judges in the country.”
“I’m 31 years old.”
“I got here because I was brilliant and principled and worked harder than anyone around me.”
“And you missed it because you were too busy being embarrassed by me.”
“We want to make this right.”
“How?”
“By being proud of me now that other people are impressed.”
“By celebrating me now that it’s socially advantageous.”
She didn’t have an answer.
“I need you to leave, Mom,” I said. “I have work to do.”
“When can we see you? When can we talk properly?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
After she left, I stood at my window looking out over Manhattan, the city where I’d spent six years being treated like a failure by my family while quietly building something remarkable.
My phone buzzed.
I turned it back on to check messages from my clerks.
One text stood out from Trevor.
“Alex, I need to talk to you. Not about family stuff. About a case.”
I called him back.
“What case?”
“I have a criminal matter coming before me next week. The defendant is claiming prosecutorial misconduct. Her attorney is citing three cases where you exposed similar problems when you were a public defender. I’ve read the motion. It’s compelling and… and I think she’s right. I think the prosecution cut corners.”
“But if I rule in her favor, the U.S. Attorney’s Office is going to appeal to the Second Circuit—to you potentially.”
“So you want to know how I’d rule?”
“No,” he said. “I want to know. I want to know if I can be the kind of judge who makes the right call even when it’s politically uncomfortable, the way you did for six years.”
I was quiet for a moment.
“Trevor, you don’t need my permission to be a good judge. You just need to read the law, look at the facts, and rule accordingly. That’s the job.”
“Your family is furious with you.”
“I know.”
“Emma says you embarrassed her on purpose. That you could have told us about your appointment, but chose not to.”
He paused.
“Do you think that’s true?”
“I think you made your own path while we were all too busy judging you to notice,” he said. “And I think we… I owe you an apology, Trevor. I’m serious.”
“I’ve been opposing you in court for three years. I won some. You won some. But I never respected you the way I should have. I saw public defender and I assumed… I don’t know what I assumed. That you were less serious, less talented. It was stupid and wrong.”
“Thank you for saying that,” I said.
“For what it’s worth,” he continued, “everyone at the courthouse is talking about you. The clerks are thrilled there’s a former public defender on the circuit. The other judges are impressed by your work.”
“You’ve already changed the culture here and you’ve been on the bench for less than a week.”
After we hung up, I felt something shift.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But maybe the beginning of understanding.
Three months later, I was in my chambers preparing for oral arguments when Jennifer knocked.
“Judge Martinez, your father is in the lobby. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says it’s important.”
I thought about turning him away.
Then:
“Give me five minutes, then send him up.”
My father appeared looking older than I remembered.
He carried a folder.
“Alexandra, thank you for seeing me.”
“You have 15 minutes,” I said. “I have oral arguments at 2.”
He sat down across from my desk, looking around at my chambers, the law books, the framed opinions I’d already written, the photo of my swearing-in ceremony.
“I came to apologize,” he said quietly. “Not a quick apology, a real one.”
I waited.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
