by Grace Mead
Only communications with the outside world marked time and leavened life. Unlike other prisoners, he sent and received weekly letters from Eric—using a pseudonym and Lisa’s home address—and daily letters from his mother.
A letter from Eric stood out:
A—
Hope all is well and you’re staying safe. So my parents took me to Rent on Broadway years ago, but Lisa wanted to see it and just made me watch the movie on DVD.
I read some nonsense that the play hasn’t aged well because it’s about spoiled kids trying to get out of paying their rent and using a protest to save the homeless from being evicted from a park as an excuse. It does revolve around three couples, and two now seem somewhat superficial and melodramatic.
But the real hero is part of the third couple. They’ve apparently missed the not-so-subtle hint of her name—Angel. Even though she’s poor, when she first meets the man who would become her boyfriend, he’s just been mugged, is coatless and she insists on buying him a new one. She volunteers immediately that she’s HIV-positive, and he—a professor—volunteers the same. When the two later run into a woman selling the stolen coat, she insists on buying it back.
She loves readily, without any of the “angst” of the kids from wealthier families. When her boyfriend first asks if they’re a “thing,” she responds, “we’re everything.” In the second act, while the other couples bicker, she dies.
At Angel’s funeral, we learn that she taught all of them the meaning of love and every major character invokes her as an inspiration for pursuing love. She intervenes near the end by appearing in the white light during a death scene and encourages the person close to death to return to the one she loves.
I watched it twice, and I got it. You’d think if people were going to bother to write a review, they’d at least bother to analyze all the characters!
Oh well, I’m not going to complain about being forced to watch a movie to you. Except I just did.
Hang in there,
M
Matt remembered the movie version, which he’d “allowed” Lisa to drag him to the movie theater to see, and she must have told Eric. Eric was right. Angel was the hero, but his letter omitted what no prison censor or nosy inmate would likely know, let alone remember. She—or perhaps he—had been a drag queen, and her relationship with her boyfriend queer.
His mother’s letters mostly recounted her routine, but she couldn’t help but try to help. She wrote a second letter about religion:
Dear Matt,
I figure I get credit for sending so many letters now prattling about my job and other boring things that I get to bother you again with a serious letter, even though I didn’t hear a peep from you about the last one.
I’ve been thinking more about religion and being gay. I remember when you were little and learning to ride a bike and you fell and insisted you’d broken something and needed to go to the hospital. When I said you were fine, you said you couldn’t walk and dragged yourself around the house using your hands for three days. It’s hard enough to tell you to do something, much less to stop being something. So, I still don’t know much about being gay, but I’m not going to tell you to stop. If only because my life’s too short.
I guess I’ll start with Mahatma Gandhi, even though that kind of feels like a lawyer’s trick and I’m not an expert on recent Indian history. But Gandhi was a lawyer too, so I guess I’ll indulge you. Jesus, in most places, seems to limit the requirement of belief in Him to—as He puts it in Matthew—“everyone who hears these words,” so that might save Gandhi.
And when the Pharisees said that Jesus could only cast out demons because he was allied with Satan, Jesus introduced the concept of a house divided: “Every kingdom divided against itself is laid waste and no city or house divided against itself will stand.” He goes on to say: “Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters. Therefore I tell you, people will be forgiven for every sin and blasphemy, but blasphemy against the Spirit will not be forgiven. Whoever speaks a word against the Son of Man will be forgiven, but whoever speaks against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven, either in this age or the age to come.” Even if Gandhi didn’t believe in Jesus, his life’s work certainly reflected the Spirit and he spoke for peaceful protest and good works.
And as I mentioned in my last letter about religion, Jesus said that some of the prohibitions in the Old Testament—like the bans against eating unclean foods, failing to wash your hands before eating or working on the Sabbath—give way to the need to eat or to work to heal. They gave way to the necessities of life and deeds for others that reflect the Spirit. If so, then surely they also give way to the need to love and love for others, no matter what sex or gender. After all, Jesus identifies loving God and loving others as the highest commandment.
And, by the way, I’m not encouraging you to eat without washing your hands. Please wash them before eating whenever possible.
Love,
Mom
Matt snorted at the last line, typical of his mother. But he realized that she, from her own anxiety-tinged perspective, hadn’t given up hope. For so long, he’d concentrated on working, surviving and putting one foot in front of the other that he hadn’t thought about why. He’d always known that his depression and its collateral consequences—if unchecked and uncontrolled—could devastate. Perhaps that explained the why; he needed to minimize the burden his pain imposed on those he loved. And, perhaps in combination with a sliver of belief in the possibility of release, the same mixture of books and work could also keep him going here. He knew his mother feared his death more than anything else in the world; after all, she’d once told him that she couldn’t imagine ever not loving her child, unless he became a serial murderer or committed some other atrocity. So maybe he need only, for her sake, try to keep putting one foot in front of the other here too.
*
Matt also spent many days in the library. On one, he entered, nodded to Luther, and sat down with his legal file. His case had proceeded rapidly by legal standards perhaps because of its high profile, Farrar’s stature with the bar, or the legal arguments were novel. The Louisiana Supreme Court had affirmed his conviction, provoking mild disappointment, but his reaction annoyed him as much as the decision itself. He’d known the cases upholding the state’s ban against gay marriage made the result foreordained. He spent the morning testing the analysis in the opinion against his own research and readings of the cases.
About half an hour before lunch, Matt checked his email to confirm Parnell’s lawyer hadn’t sent him any new information. He pulled out Parnell’s file, glanced at the transcript of the appellate argument, and considered rereading it yet again. The judges had been disturbed by the erroneous instruction but, as Matt had predicted, they’d expressed reluctance to disturb the jury’s verdict because of the ambiguous objections made by Parnell’s trial counsel and the other overwhelming evidence of his guilt.
Matt didn’t know what to make of the delay and he worried the judges were working to find evidence in the record showing waiver and harmless error. He shoved Parnell’s file aside. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now.
After lunch with Luther’s friends, Reggie arrived at the library. Reggie pulled out a seat and placed his tattered reader on the table. Matt asked him to open to page forty-six and he began deliberately sounding out words. It had taken Matt weeks to teach him the alphabet. He couldn’t even begin to guess at the scope of Reggie’s learning disabilities, but he made up for his lack of natural aptitude with a slow and steady determination. That made sense. After all, a life sentence could cultivate patience in even the most impatient men.
After they finished, Reggie asked: “You mind some advice?” He pushed the book across the table toward Matt.
“No,” Matt responded.
“You need to work with who you are and what you got to make friends and stay outta trouble,” Reggie said, with his hands resting on the table’s edge.
>
“What do you mean?” Matt asked.
“We’se all different, or mos’ people who matter are. I figger if’n you’re different enough, you got two choices—you can let folks trample on you or you can lead ’em. Take that rodeo. You know I called it a sucker’s bet. That used to be real different. Mos’ folks round here were happy for the chance to win fifty or a hundred bucks by riding in it—that’s a lot of money to mos’ of ’em. I called it out as the bullshit it was, showin’ I didn’t need the money and warn’t gonna be their monkey. But you did somethin’ different.”
“Yeah, something stupid,” Matt said. Reggie shook his head.
“Maybe, but you shouldn’t tell that to nobody else. You showed you could control your fear. You didn’t jes’ beat those other cons roun’ that table. You stared down that big crazy bull and made the crowd go quiet. People ain’t gonna forget that.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” Matt said. “I heard you tell Luther you’d saved him from a few beatings,” Matt said.
“Yep, that was back in the bad ole days.”
“Any tips for if I get cornered?”
“When it’s time, you gotta move fast,” Reggie said.
“What do you mean?”
“Most folks talk too much. A guy’s tryin’ to scare ya and he usually ends up givin’ a lecture. I think mebbe he’s tryin’ to talk himself into it too. Soon as you figure out a guy’s gonna hurt you, you gotta hurt him first. If they’se busy runnin’ their mouth, they’se gonna be slow.”
“Sort of like in a James Bond movie where the villain explains the evil plot?” Matt asked.
“Dunno ’bout that,” Reggie said. “I jes’ knows you best move fast.”
About a week later, Matt learned, while working in the library, that the United States Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit had affirmed the dismissal of the lawsuit challenging the use of video cameras in the bathrooms. Matt had cabined the inmates’ request for relief so that they sought to conceal only the toilets and doorless stalls. But, as he’d predicted, the court had hewed to existing federal precedent and ruled against the prisoners. Bill should have let him pick the case.
Matt returned from work that day and Parnell told him he should sit next to Bill at dinner that night. Matt didn’t know how Parnell already knew, but he did. Matt arrived at the cafeteria, loaded his tray and carried it over to the open seat next to Bill. He felt his heart in his throat, terrified by Bill and his own anxiety. If he was this worried about Bill, he wondered how he could possibly stay under control if Parnell turned on him. Matt sat.
“So, you heard about the decision?” Bill asked.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “It’s too bad, but we expected to lose.”
“God, I fucking hate lawyers,” Bill said. “What good did you do me?”
“You had a better chance of winning your case,” Matt said.
“Yeah, but I lost and I had to use up my favor for nothing.” Bill shook his head. “Just like on the outside where we have to pay you assholes even when we lose. But in here, I pay the jailhouse lawyers what I think they deserve. And that payment ain’t always positive. I wanted to pay you real good, ’cause I don’t think I got very much for the favor Parnell owed me. I almost convinced him he should let me have a shot at you just to put the fear of God in you about losing his case. But he hasn’t gone for it yet.”
Matt exhaled suddenly, incapable of concealing his relief at Parnell’s continued protection. He looked at the plate of food he hadn’t touched and tried to keep his expression blank.
“But if you lose Parnell’s case, his boys gonna take the first shot at you, and then we get a shot,” Bill said. “Winning his case just became that much more important to protecting that virgin ass of yours. Or maybe it ain’t virgin, but you sure are worried about it if it ain’t.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “But the brief I wrote was far more professional than anything written in this prison—and better than most briefs written by private lawyers. You also didn’t listen to me about the merits of the camera case, and I can’t help you if you don’t listen to me. You have lots of cases among all the members of the Brotherhood, and if you’d let me screen them for the strongest case, we would have had a better chance of winning.”
“I thought you’d have some excuse,” Bill said. “Tell you what, you lose Parnell’s case, we’re gonna be waitin’ in line to pound your ass. After we pound your ass, we might be able to reach some sort of deal about you working for protection. But hear me now. Your special status in this prison will fucking end and you will happily be some bull’s bitch. You understand me?”
“I hear you,” Matt said. The last time he’d been as careful to connote comprehension without agreement was in a negotiation with an opposing lawyer in a multimillion-dollar litigation. Times had changed.
Chapter 26
On an early Saturday morning, one of the guards unexpectedly escorted Matt toward the main building at Angola. Matt wondered why, as the guard led him through a maze of walls made of cinderblocks, the once-white paint covering them dulled to bone, and opened a steel door to a conference room. Farrar and Lisa sat in black folding chairs at an egg-white table. Matt worried that Farrar Levinson had decided to drop his case, but warm and open greetings from the two allayed that concern.
“Matt, it’s good to see you. You look healthy,” Farrar said, rising, flashing a smile revealing white teeth and shaking Matt’s hand firmly.
“Matt, I’m so glad to see you in one piece,” Lisa added, hugging him. “We’ve all been so worried.” She ended her sentence without the tentative pitch habitual before his trial. She seemed more poised and confident.
“Thanks for coming out to see me,” Matt said. “You didn’t need to. We can talk about the case over the phone.” The three settled in their chairs.
“We wanted to check up on you,” Farrar said. “But we also need to discuss your case. As I told you a year and a half ago, our best shot is probably still a cert petition to the United States Supreme Court.”
“And that’s not much of a shot because they choose to hear less than one percent of those appeals,” Matt said.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Farrar said, with a more serious cast.
“It’s hardly your fault you tried such a good case that grounds for reversal are scarce.”
“We showed up here today because we only have forty-five days from the order of the Louisiana Supreme Court to file the petition. We wanted to discuss it with you.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I’d like to write the first draft,” Matt said, asserting himself. “No one has spent more time examining the relevant case law. And I have the time. I’ve been doing some jailhouse legal work for other inmates, but I have a very limited number of cases. And we’ve finished briefing and argument in my most important client’s case.”
“Is that how you’ve kept yourself safe?” Farrar asked, tilting his head to the side with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah. I’ve been doing some work for a couple of inmates and I’ve been dancing very quickly to make sure my clients stay satisfied. I thought I’d write the first draft of the cert petition and then y’all could edit, check and file it under the firm’s name,” Matt said.
“Well, I’m not going to object to you taking a shot at the first draft,” Farrar said. “In fact, you might think about signing and filing the brief under your own name. The firm could sign as co-counsel.”
“Couldn’t that backfire?” Matt asked. “Federal judges pride themselves on their neutrality and independence. I don’t want to do anything that looks like a cheap ploy for sympathy.”
“I’d agree with that generally,” Farrar said. “But you can address that with the tone of the brief, which, knowing you, will read very professionally.”
“I also hate the idea of being affiliated with all of the other briefs written by prisoners. I think the judges and clerks at least subconsciously associate pro se briefs with weaker arguments.”
&n
bsp; “I know you want to distance yourself from other pro se petitioners,” Farrar responded, “but your case is different. There have been several articles about your case in the American Lawyer. And one of your former professors from LSU has published a law review article arguing that the law should be changed based on your case. I think the justices and clerks will be familiar with the facts and your legal qualifications before the petition hits their desks. And, again, I think the tone of the brief can eliminate those dangers. I also think the Supreme Court’s decision in Lawrence v. Texas bodes well. In Lawrence, the court struck down a law that made sodomy a misdemeanor and resulted in a fine of less than a hundred dollars. You’re looking at spending the rest of your life in here.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Matt said, gesturing toward the cinderblock wall to his right.
“No problem,” Farrar said. He smiled again.
“Okay,” Matt said. “I’ll take a shot at the first draft.” Matt wondered if Farrar’s persuasiveness actually suggested the opposite, but he wasn’t going to give up any chance to regain some control over his life.
The next weekend brought an even better surprise because Eric had informed him in a guarded letter that he would be visiting him, in person, on Sunday in Butler Park—an outdoor park where prisoners with longer tenure had the privilege of receiving visitors. Matt arrived early that morning and sat at a park bench connected to a table for four, anxious about potentially taking up two extra seats but hoping that no one would join them.
Across from the park, the prison cemetery contained the bodies of those who died in prison and penury with no one left to care about or for their remains. In between the two, the Louisiana sun had bleached the St. Augustine grass a salty hue to match pines with desiccated trunks and branches with few needles. White crosses dotted the cemetery and Matt thought it eerie and blasphemous how much they resembled the crosses at Arlington Cemetery; he supposed we all die, our bodies ultimately forgotten, continuing on this earth only in others’ impressions and memories.
