by Grace Mead
Through the barren branches, Matt located a bright blue sky and the hint of a lingering moon. On the edge of the park, over the peak of a rolling hill, Matt knew that convicts led some visitors to have sex, almost fully clothed, while the other prisoners and even the guards pretended not to notice.
He wasn’t too lost in his reverie to miss Eric’s approach; against the landscape, his copper hair stood out as one of the few bright colors. While others hugged ferociously, he and Eric exchanged smiles and shook hands. Eric placed his left hand over their hands and Matt noticed a wedding band. Matt hoped that it was camouflage and not some symbol of commitment; after all, in Louisina, gay marriage was illegal.
“Well,” Eric said, “this is a fairly unique weekend road trip for me,” as the two settled on the benches.
“Not exactly driving to Baton Rouge to see a game, is it?” Matt asked.
“Nope. It took about an hour longer,” Eric responded with a grin.
Matt laughed. “Have you made it to the gym yet, or just bought the clothes?”
“Well, I have spent a lot of time thinking about going to the gym. And I’ve read that all of the best athletes visualize their top performances before they have them.”
“Well, yes,” Matt said, “but I suspect elite athletes know what to visualize. A quarterback knows what a perfect pass looks and feels like; a tennis player knows the same about the perfect serve. Have you ever seen the inside of a gym?” Matt raised a single eyebrow.
“I’m offended. I’ve definitely walked by several and looked in, and I picked up Lisa from the gym once.” Matt smiled. The mention of a woman, who any listener could assume was Eric’s girlfriend or wife, made him feel safer. Eric continued: “Really, I think I should probably buy myself a large trophy so I can better visualize what winning looks like.”
Matt laughed again. “You do know that people our age who take up new gym sports have generally passed the age when they give out medals and trophies. I think half-marathons and marathons are the exception. You don’t want to run a marathon, do you?”
“God no.” Eric gasped. “It was named after a battle a guy ran 20-plus miles to report—but even though the battle didn’t kill him the run did. Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“So, changing the subject, have you been back to the jazz club or the Insectarium?” Matt asked.
“The jazz club, no, the Insectarium, yes,” Eric responded. “I didn’t bring it, but they sell certificates to adopt bugs as a gimmick to raise money to support the place. I bought you one for the Atlas beetle, but I didn’t bring it in case they wouldn’t let you keep it. I can mail it.”
“They’ll let you,” Matt said. As they spoke, couples had already begun stealing away to the area over the hill for greater intimacy. Matt forced himself to ignore them, wondered whether Eric noticed and realized the couples were pretty obvious. Matt felt blood rush to his face.
“I also bought a certificate for that other bug,” Eric said, “but I’m going to hold onto that one until you get out of here.” He reached toward Matt with his right hand across the table, only to withdraw it. “It may only live for weeks, but I suspect your years in here will make you appreciate life even more than that insect when you get out.”
Matt nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat and blinking back tears as he felt overwhelmed by Eric’s subtle support, veiled from listeners and watchers. He yearned to reach out and hold Eric’s hand but knew it was too dangerous. Perhaps sensing the tension, Eric quickly diverted the conversation to lighter topics, frequently mentioning Lisa and trying to avoid anything that would suggest wealth. He succeeded on all fronts and Matt was dazzled by novel layers and depths of communication. After an hour or so, Eric departed, leaving Matt hollow.
The next day, while in the library, Matt sensed Luther standing over his right shoulder. “Do you need me to do anything?” he asked, turning around.
“No,” Luther responded. “I actually have a favor to ask you.”
“What?” Matt asked.
“Well, you know I’ve been here for over thirty years, so I don’t have much money.” Luther wrung his hands. “The thing is my brother got sick and now he can’t put food on the table. My brother’s kids are the closest thing I’m going to have to children in my life. I know you have some money on the outside, probably not a lot, but you have some.” Luther looked down at his feet and muttered, “I was hoping maybe you could lend my brother a thousand dollars or so.”
“Of course,” Matt said, glad to be able to do something for his friend. “Just don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want people to know.”
“Thank you so much. I feel terrible asking, but some things are more important than pride,” Luther said.
“You must think I’m a spoiled brat.” Matt shook his head. “I had a great job and a loving family and I threw it all away with a stupid, drunken mistake.”
“The way I figure, being spoiled is less about what you have and more about what you think you should have,” Luther said. “In the old neighborhood, I knew families making $50–60,000 a year whose kids were spoiled rotten. They felt entitled to everything that money could buy. I don’t think you ever believed you deserved anything you had. And that’s the opposite of being spoiled. Hell, I don’t think you even believe you deserve to be free.”
“It’s hard,” Matt said. “There’s a part of me I learned a long time ago, rightly or wrongly, to hate.”
“Let me ask you something,” Luther said. “You must have some gay friends. Do you hate them?”
“How could you even ask that?”
“I’ve always wanted to say this to a lawyer. Just answer the question. Do you hate them?”
“No.”
“Do you think less of them because they’re gay?”
“No.”
“Then why would you think less of—much less hate—yourself?”
“Well, I’ve always expected a lot more of myself than everyone else,” Matt said, studying the floor.
“If it doesn’t make you think less of them, then why does it make you think less of yourself?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it shouldn’t.” At the last, Matt managed to raise his head.
“Maybe it’s just that simple. I know you don’t think it is, and you like to think yourself in circles, but you’ve got to be careful with that. Don’t let your feelings about who or what you are compromise any legal work you do to get out of here. You want to punish yourself by getting drunk, fine. But the stakes are too high to let your ghosts and doubts damn you to life in here.”
“I know.”
“Knowing and doing are two different things,” Luther said. “Is Parnell letting you work on your own case?”
“Yeah,” Matt said, looking at Luther directly now that the subject had shifted away from himself. “I even have the time to work on other inmates’ cases, but he won’t let me do it.”
“I noticed his lawyer’s started sending you packages,” Luther said. “You want to be careful with that.”
“I haven’t seen anything in them that shouldn’t be there,” Matt said.
“Good. You know you’re playing a real dangerous game with Parnell, don’t you? I’m hearing rumors that we were right when we guessed Tyrone wasn’t selling white lightnin’. Parnell pressured Tyrone to take a beating so he could find out whether you were vulnerable to threats against him.”
“I haven’t heard those rumors,” Matt said. “I guess it makes me less trusting of Tyrone but, to be honest, we were never that close. I just didn’t want word to get out that I didn’t protect my friends.”
“Have any of the other inmates tried to convince you to work on their cases behind Parnell’s back?”
“No. They’re too afraid of Parnell.”
“You know those guys aren’t going to protect you if Parnell’s appeal fails, right? If these guys won’t even ask you to work on their cases behind his back, they certainly aren’t going to help you if Parnell makes a move
.”
“I know, but they may be able to give me some warning or something,” Matt said.
“That’s probably the best you can hope for, but what are you going to do with a warning?” Luther asked.
“I don’t know,” Matt said. He could only deal with one problem at a time.
Chapter 27
Months passed with the constant threat of the Louisiana appellate court rejecting Parnell’s arguments, but Matt carved out a life that brought him some happiness in the limited space available at Wheaton.
He sublimated his loneliness and frustration into work on his own cert petition to the United States Supreme Court. In the final draft, the first sentence read: Letting prosecutors pick jurors who malign gays and exclude all who might be sympathetic violates a gay criminal defendant’s constitutional rights.
He read, wrote letters to Eric and his mother and received guests in Butler Park. Parnell’s ban on legal work for other inmates gave Matt the time and space to lose himself in a series of books, and the regular written and episodic personal contacts with the outside world helped him stay sane.
On a Thursday in September 2009, just as the heat had begun to abate, a guard asked Matt to go to Butler Park, where he was shocked to see his mother, Lisa, Eric and Farrar all seated, alone in the park, at a single picnic table. Genuinely puzzled at first, he tried and failed to clamp down on upwelling hope.
“Matt, I have some very big news,” Farrar said, rising to shake his hand. “The Supreme Court agreed to hear your case.”
Tears welled up in Matt’s eyes and he thought, as he shook Farrar’s hand weakly, that today, at least, he’d allow himself to dream.
“You know as well as I do that the chance of reversal is still very slim, but there’s now at least a chance,” Farrar said. “And you should enjoy it today.” Farrar smiled broadly.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mary said, rising to hug him, glancing around at the other inmates and guards, and then settling back onto the bench. “I’m so happy.” She shook her head. “The only way that jury could have convicted you is because you’re gay. Surely judges smart enough to be on the Supreme Court will see that.”
“Matt, we brought you something; sort of a congratulatory gift.” Farrar held out a wrapped package.
Matt opened the package to find a book: The Count of Montecristo. “Thank you. But is this a sign that you think I need to stage a prison break?”
“Not at all,” Farrar said. “Read the inscription.”
“‘To a man who has stood tall in the face of grave injustice. We’re all honored to love you and labor on your behalf.’”
Matt felt fresh tears coming to his eyes. “Thank you, everyone, for everything. In the spirit of enjoying the moment, let’s not handicap this appeal. Now, nothing terribly exciting is happening in here, so what’s going on in your lives?”
The conversation turned to more mundane matters and Lisa and Farrar excused themselves after about an hour or so, leaving Matt alone with his mother and Eric.
“Matt, I want you to know how proud I am,” Mary said. “I’m sure you wrote a wonderful brief and that’s one of the reasons that the Supreme Court agreed to hear the case.”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“Well, I would think there aren’t very many lawyers out there who’ve been able to convince the United States Supreme Court to hear their case.”
“There aren’t very many; you’re right, Mary,” Eric said, shaking his head. “I read the brief and I wish that I could be half the lawyer your son is.”
“I’m not exactly an outstanding member of the bar at the moment,” Matt said.
“You’re twice the lawyer most of those members of the bar are, and you damn well know it,” Eric said, eyes flashing with an anger Matt hoped was directed at others.
After lunch and more casual conversation, Mary excused herself to begin the drive back to Lafayette. Eric lingered, saying, “You should check the back cover of the book.”
Matt opened the book and a newspaper clipping fell out. It was an editorial published in the Times-Picayune and written by a prominent libertarian law professor:
Local Lawyer’s Case Before Supreme Court Reveals Need for Reform
The United States Supreme Court has agreed to consider whether the prosecution’s dismissal of a gay juror in the murder trial of Matthew Durant justifies granting him a new trial. I’m confident that the Supreme Court will adequately address the narrow question of constitutional law before it.
I write instead to address voters and local government officials. Regardless of whether Mr Durant was constitutionally entitled to have available and eligible gay jurors hear his case, this newspaper believes that the prosecutor’s office, local courts and state legislature should ban prosecutors from using preemptory challenges to strike gay jurors because they don’t want them to participate in deciding whether a gay defendant is guilty or innocent.
New Orleans is an old city with a long history of diversity and the legal system should embrace that diversity. Just as state prosecutors are not allowed to strike jurors based on their race or gender, state prosecutors should not be permitted to strike jurors based on sexual orientation. Gay men and women have made many valuable contributions to this city and they should be entitled to a jury of their peers just like every other citizen in Louisiana.
“I insisted we include that article,” Eric said. “I know the Times-Picayune may have hurt your case during the trial. After all, who really knows if jurors follow instructions not to read the paper, but this is unbelievable. You may save someone from suffering the same fate—or worse.”
“A single editorial is hardly significant reform,” Matt said.
“It’s a start,” Eric said. “And you worked to convince others of the legal and moral need to protect gay people from behind bars with very few resources and despite the fact you’ve been convicted of murder. It’s pretty impressive.”
“The editorial doesn’t make me unhappy.” Matt smiled.
“How are things going in there?” Eric asked, nodding toward the main complex of buildings.
“The situation is stable.” Matt shrugged. “We’re still waiting to hear from the Louisiana appellate court about my most important client’s case. If Parnell loses, things are going to go south real fast.”
“Do you have a plan if he loses?”
“I think I’ve convinced his outside attorney to send me the decision first, which is likely to be issued while I’m at work in the library. If Parnell loses, the best I can hope for is to throw myself on the mercy of the guards and ask for protective custody.”
“If you ask for protective custody, will you lose your job in the library?” Eric asked, implying the questions behind the question about Matt’s long-term safety and whether, if isolated in protective custody, solitary confinement could compromise his sanity.
“I hope not, but Parnell is very powerful. If the guards think he’s really going to come after me, they probably won’t believe I’m going to be safe working in the library,” Matt said, answering only the question asked and ignoring those unasked.
“You know you’re constantly in my thoughts, right?” Eric asked, looking directly into Matt’s eyes.
“I know, and it helps.”
Matt stood. Eric looked at him, obviously wanting to hug him, but uneasy about the potential consequences. And Matt feared that if he held Eric again they might become inseparable, and then Eric’s departure would tear him asunder.
About two months later, while working in the library, Matt received an email from Parnell’s outside lawyer, which attached an opinion from the Louisiana appellate court affirming Parnell’s guilty verdict. The court ruled that Parnell’s attorney had waived any argument that the attempted murder instruction was improper and, even if instructed differently, the jury would have convicted based on the overwhelming evidence of Parnell’s guilt.
Ice washed through Matt’s body as he fell into a fugue state, and di
sbelief created a sense of detachment barely containing his terror. Luther, noticing Matt’s ashen face, asked if anything was wrong.
“The appellate court ruled against Parnell,” Matt said.
“Shit. You need to get protection now,” Luther said. “I’m calling Lieutenant Dietrich.” After Luther had placed the call, he asked Matt, “Is there any hope for Parnell’s case?”
“There’s always hope. I never would have guessed the US Supreme Court would agree to hear my case. The Louisiana Supreme Court could still reverse Parnell’s conviction, but it’s not very likely.”
Lieutenant Dietrich strode into the library accompanied by Ted. Matt wished he hadn’t brought Ted.
“What’s the problem?” Dietrich crossed his arms over his chest.
“Lieutenant, I’ve been working on an appeal for Parnell Jefferson in exchange for his protection,” Matt said. “The appellate court just ruled against Parnell. Now I’m afraid for my life. Parnell’s repeatedly threatened to have me beaten and raped if he lost.”
“Ted, you hear anything about this?” Lieutenant Dietrich asked.
“Not a word,” Ted said, shaking his head and with a barely concealed sneer.
“Parnell isn’t stupid enough to make threats around the guards, but he’s done it whenever they aren’t around.” It came out sharper than Matt had intended but was better than calling Ted crooked.
“Only verbal threats?” Lieutenant Dietrich asked. “You know we can’t put everyone in protective custody who receives a verbal threat. We don’t have the room.”
Matt wondered whether Lieutenant Dietrich was being deliberately obtuse.
“Lieutenant Dietrich, I was arrested for killing a man outside a gay club. All the inmates think I’m gay. I think that puts me imminently at risk for sexual assault,” Matt said. “The US Supreme Court has held that prison officials could violate a transsexual prisoner’s Eighth Amendment rights by transferring that prisoner into a general prison population. I think that my sexual orientation is an additional and independent reason I should be eligible for protective custody.”
