I know where she is: "Rosie's," the women's jail on New York City's Rikers Island. And I know where I can go to meet her: not Rosie's.

After all, she's locked up. She can't miss a subway on her way to seeing me and definitely won't have a childcare emergency or conflicting appointment.

Sometimes, no one answers. I call one number and let it ring on speaker, while I'm putting case notes into my computer. I lose track of the number of rings. I hang up and call the second number. This time I count. Twenty. Forty. I dig in my heels this time. I will not hang up.

First, I have to call the New York City Department of Correction a day in advance. There are multiple numbers, and although the department publishes some of them, they're usually handed from attorney to attorney like passwords to a speakeasy.

Check out this look at the daily reality of life in solitary in an American jail.

If I'm going to speak for her, I need to visit face to face. But visiting can be a hell of a slog.

There, I'm confident this client and I can discuss strategies for her pending family court case. The stakes are arguably even higher than in the criminal case she faces—after all, we're talking about how to get her child back when she's released from jail. As a court-appointed attorney, I'm asking a client who didn't get to choose me to trust that I will fight for her child—and her. I have to stand up in court and say that I am talking for that person.

Visiting anyone "on island," as we call it, requires leaving your office for an entire day. That could mean neglecting the rest of your caseload. So most attorneys I know ask to have their Rikers clients brought to Criminal Court at 100 Centre Street in Lower Manhattan.

On the 45th ring, a muffled voice answers.

"I'm calling for an attorney-client visit," I say. "My client is at Rosie's." I rattle off my client's book and case number.

"No go, counselor. It's after 3 PM."

It's 4:05 PM on Monday afternoon, and I've been in family court all day. I want to see my client on Tuesday afternoon. Isn't this a day in advance?

"I'm calling from California? It's before 3 o'clock here," I gamely try.

"You have to call before 3 PM the day before you want to see your client, counselor. Not two days, not the day of. The day before. By three."

I had sent a letter to my client, informing her that I'd be requesting a visit for tomorrow at Centre Street, and now I'm sick imagining her thinking I forgot or didn't bother. There's no way to reach her by phone; she doesn't have commissary money to call to me, and a letter sent today won't wend its way to her in time. She's just across town, but that doesn't matter when the line between inside and outside goes through so many gates.

The next week, I get it right. When court is in recess (before 3 PM), I call that number and refuse to hang up. I finally get a correction officer on the line and give my client's case number. She will be produced at 100 Centre Street sometime the following morning, although I'm not told when.