Redeeming Justice

by Jarrett Adams

“Toalla,” he says.

  I hesitate, then take it from him. I sigh. I can now shower. I can dry myself off. For that one tiny moment—the first in days—I feel human.

  My shoulders rock as the sobs come and the tears gush down my cheeks.

  * * *

  —

  Two days later, at six in the morning, an officer rattles my cell door.

  “Wake up,” he says, “you have court.”

  I force down breakfast, a plate of lumpy gray gruel dotted with something yellow and runny that may or may not be scrambled eggs. An hour later, two officers bring me out of my cell and chain me to a line of inmates. Tethered leg to leg, the thirty of us shuffle through a series of tunnels, my legs aching, the metal links banging into me as we walk in an underground chain gang. We arrive at a small detention cell that fits twelve people tightly. Officers unclasp the chains, and the thirty of us shove and elbow our way into this dimly lit, claustrophobic cage. An officer tells us that we will wait here until somebody calls our name. Then we’ll leave this bullpen, go into another bullpen, and then into the courtroom. If we need to use the bathroom, we tell an officer who will escort us to one of two commodes that sit out in the open, outside the bullpen, right in front of the group. I pray that I don’t have to use the bathroom.

  In the bullpen, I struggle to find room enough to exhale. I’m shorter than nearly all the other inmates, but the hours I played basketball in the alley with my brother and his friends have taught me how to maneuver for position against bigger guys. I stand shoulder to chest, back to back, and butt to butt, claiming my space in this scrum, waves of hot, vile breath blowing on my neck and face, mixed with the smells of urine, vomit, liquor, sweat, body odor, and recent defecation. I pinch my nose with my fingers, try to shut out the smell. I can’t. I squirm and I start to feel the walls closing in, terror rising inside me. I play mind games to distract myself, add numbers in my head, make a mental list of the chores I still have to do, daydream, fantasize that I’m far away from here, on a desert island, in a school classroom, anywhere but here. Mostly, I stand in position, in the present, and wait. And wait. And wait. Ninety-nine percent of the time you spend in jail, you wait. I wait all morning, trapped here, crushed here, waiting all told for four hours, and then finally, mercifully, somebody calls my name.

  An officer takes me out of this bullpen and into another bullpen, this one feeling like heaven because only ten inmates wait here. Another half hour passes, and a young man in a rumpled suit appears, trains his eyes over all of us in the bullpen, and calls my name. I get the sense that he has gone through this procedure hundreds of times. A lawyer, I think. “Clearing the bullpen,” someone behind me says. An officer repeats my name. I follow him and the lawyer to a small room with a table. The officer closes the door. I sit down across from the young man in the suit. He stares at me with grainy eyes. It looks as if he’s been up all night.

  “I’m from the public defender’s office,” he says. “You’re here for an extradition hearing for some charges out of the state of Wisconsin. Do you want to waive your rights to a hearing and just be extradited?”

  “I don’t—I mean, I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what to do.”

  The public defender sighs massively, impatiently. He looks so tired. He finally speaks in a monotone. He sounds robotic.

  “Do it this way,” he says. “Waive your rights. It speeds things up. You want to move this along, right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Are you guilty of this rape charge?”

  “No, sir. I did not rape anybody. This girl lied.”

  “So, okay, here’s what you do. You’re going to go inside the courtroom in about an hour. You’re going to tell the judge that you want to be extradited as soon as possible because you know you’re innocent and you want to face the charges. You want to get this over with, right?”

  He has no idea. I want this to be over so bad I can literally taste it. I want to get back to my life. I want to go home.

  “Tell the judge what I said. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That’s what I do.

  An hour later, I tell the judge that I’m innocent and I want to be extradited. He shows no expression.

  Three weeks later, an officer leads me through the underground tunnels below Cook County Jail and brings me outside to a windowless minivan that’s idling and belching brown exhaust fumes in a parking lot. I climb inside the van, and the guard chains me to a metal bench alongside two other prisoners. After a few minutes, officers bring two more prisoners into the van and chain them to the bench across from me—Rovaughn and Dimitri. We greet each other like long-lost friends, which in a way we are.

  Seeing them, I feel relief and a sense of normalcy. Calm descends over me. We talk, the three of us. We joke about how ridiculous we look in our prison uniforms and we laugh—we actually laugh. We honestly don’t comprehend the gravity of our circumstance. Despite being chained to a metal bench in a van, I believe that once we get to Wisconsin, this unfortunate episode, this misunderstanding, will be resolved. I believe that in this windowless minivan we’re taking a ride to freedom. I believe we’re riding to justice.

  5.

  The First Trial

  A week later.

  I sit next to my court-appointed attorney, an older white man with stringy uncombed brown hair, a beer belly, wearing an ill-fitting sport jacket and pants that don’t match. My mother drilled into me a belief that appearance matters, that you get only one chance to make a first impression. I don’t believe my attorney got that message. But I don’t have a choice. I’m seventeen years old, wearing a Jefferson County Jail jumpsuit, about to hear a court official read the charges against me and a judge decide how much bond he will post. Even though we’ve just met and hardly spoken, I have to trust my attorney. I have to believe in him. I have to believe in the system, a system I don’t understand. My attorney doesn’t know me, has no sense of who I am, no idea of the egregious and false charges against me. The court has chosen him from a list and given him my name randomly.

  I look to the side of the courtroom and see Dimitri, Rovaughn, and their attorneys. This time, the three of us share no feeling of joyfulness, or reunion, or camaraderie that we had a week ago in the van. I sense only gravity, even a sense of doom. I don’t know what to expect from this arraignment, but I feel nervous. I look back at my attorney. He doesn’t look at me. He picks at a stain on his tie with his fingernail.

  I have spent the last week in a cell at Jefferson County Jail. After we pulled up outside the building in the windowless van, officers unchained Rovaughn, Dimitri, and me and took us in three separate directions. I arrived at a small holding cell, officers instructed me to strip naked, and once again I went through the intake process. As I stepped out of my shoes and began to undo my pants, I realized that before I got arrested, I’d never gotten naked in front of so many men in my life.

  This time, though, after I put on my official Jefferson County Jail jumpsuit, I received my own soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and towel, and a guard led me to my own cell on the second floor of a clean, bright pod. Over the next week, I see a stark difference between Jefferson County Jail and Cook County Jail. In here, there’s a lack of violence, improved food, even a lack of fear while making a phone call. Compared with Cook County, Jefferson County is summer camp. The difference makes me hopeful. I have not yet prayed, but I feel myself working up to it. I want to believe that God could be sending me a sign, that maybe He is about to let me off with a warning.

  Now, in court, I look over at the prosecutor, a white man, forties, close-cropped military haircut, well dressed, perfect posture. He reminds me of a motorcycle cop or someone recently out of the service, no-nonsense, prepared, tough. I look over at my attorney, and I start to wonder if in addition to being distracted by the stain on his tie, he’s completely overmatched by his
opponent, the prosecutor. Our opponent. I shiver suddenly from worry, and then I hear, “All rise,” and everyone in the courtroom stands as Judge William Hue walks in. Judge Hue commands the courtroom. An older white man with gray, nearly white hair, Judge Hue looks distinguished and serious, carrying himself like a college professor.

  He takes his seat, the rest of us follow, and then Judge Hue asks someone to read the charges against Rovaughn, Dimitri, and me. I don’t hear whether a man or a woman speaks. I only hear the charges in a neutral, disassociated voice.

  “Five counts of first-degree sexual assault.”

  Five counts each.

  According to sentencing guidelines, if convicted, I could receive 25 years in prison per count, a total of 125 years.

  Then I hear, “One count of false imprisonment.”

  I’ve never heard of that. What does that mean? I turn to my lawyer for an explanation. He looks straight ahead, avoids my eyes.

  My mouth goes dry.

  My breath comes fast.

  Six charges against us.

  And then I see her, walking into the courtroom.

  The young woman.

  I had no idea she would be here. I had no idea I would ever see her again, that I would have to face her, that I would be forced to look at her. Of course, it makes sense, but I never wanted to be in the same room with her again, any room, especially a courtroom. I feel blindsided.

  The young woman takes her seat on the stand. I refuse to look at her. But in my peripheral vision, I see her raise her right hand, and she promises to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help her God, and then I look directly at her. I stare at her. She won’t look at me.

  The lawyers begin asking her questions. They ask her to describe the events of that night. “The night she was raped,” the prosecutor says. The night the three of us raped her.

  “I was at a party,” she says. “I was, you know, partying, and then I went back to my dorm room, and all of a sudden I turned around and there were these three Black guys behind me—”

  “Did you know them?”

  “No. I had never met them. I’d never seen them before.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “They forced their way into my room. They put on a CD. Rap music. Very vulgar rap music.”

  I look at my attorney. Anyone could read my expression—do you believe this crap?

  “What happened next?” the prosecutor asks.

  “They turned the lights off,” she says, and stops, her voice halting. “They, uh, began to sexually assault me. That’s really it. That’s what happened.”

  I shout inside my head, “What about your roommate?”

  The questions keep coming, swirling in circles inside my head, a scramble of letters, of words.

  You didn’t mention when your roommate walked in, barged right in in the middle of this nonexistent sexual assault? What about her calling you a slut? What about you running after her?

  Then a lawyer from our side takes over the questioning.

  “Did any of these men threaten you with violence?”

  “No.”

  “Did any of them use violence?”

  “No.”

  “Did any of them threaten you at all?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see a weapon, any kind of weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you have sex with them?”

  “I was scared.”

  “Did you tell them to leave?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t think. I was scared.”

  “Look.”

  Judge Hue shuffles some papers in front of him and leans forward in his chair.

  “I’m not the presiding judge in this case,” he says. “I am going to bind this over for trial and let the trial judge figure this out. But I’ll tell you right now, based on the testimony I’ve heard, I don’t see any false imprisonment here, and this isn’t first- or second- or even third-degree sexual assault. If you ask me, and again, I’m not the presiding judge on this case, you guys have some problems with this. There are holes in this case. You have to fill in the holes.”

  I glance at the prosecutor, and I can sense an energy shift. You have to fill in the holes. I imagine him chewing on those words, swallowing them, digesting them. I can feel it. On our side of the table, the lawyers exhale in triumph, especially after the judge admonishes the prosecution. But I don’t feel triumph. I look back at the prosecutor’s determined eyes. He knows he’s lost this round, but he hasn’t lost the fight.

  Someone on our side argues for no bond, but Judge Hue decides on twenty thousand dollars, an amount I know my family cannot afford.

  The arraignment ends and I return to my cell. The door clangs shut behind me, the familiarity of that sound startling me. I don’t want that sound to be familiar. Human beings adjust to our conditions. We adapt to the most horrific, abusive, inhumane circumstances. We are built to survive.

  At Jefferson County Jail, gossip crackles through our small pod. Inmates coming and going to status hearings held every thirty days as we await our various trials distribute news and information like candy. I hear that Rovaughn’s family has put up their house, posted his bail, and hired an experienced trial attorney. A week or so after that, another inmate brings me news of Dimitri.

  “Your man posted bail,” he says.

  “What? No way. His family doesn’t have twenty thousand dollars.”

  “They contested the amount; court reduced it to fifteen.”

  “Still—”

  “I don’t know, man. Somehow, they scraped together the funds. He’s out on bail.”

  “They must’ve sold everything,” I say.

  I could never raise that kind of cash, I think. We just don’t have it. I have no choice. I will have to stay in here until the trial.

  I call my mother and explain what’s going on. She confirms that Rovaughn and Dimitri have bonded out. “I’m hopeful,” I tell her. “The judge seemed to be on our side.” I neglect to explain that Judge Hue will not be the presiding judge for my trial. I tell her that I won’t be in jail here in Wisconsin much longer. I’ll be home soon. Maybe I’ll be home for my birthday or Thanksgiving.

  I’m wrong.

  The judge sets our trial date for March of the following year, six months away. Six more months that I sit and wait, locked away in a jail cell.

  * * *

  —

  My lawyer and I confer exactly twice in the months leading up to the trial. We meet first, shortly after the arraignment hearing, “to strategize,” his term, in a glass-enclosed booth outside the pod at Jefferson County Jail. He wants to go over the police report with me and zero in on my side of the story.

  “You mean the truth,” I say.

  I don’t wait for him to respond.

  “Look, man,” I say, “we put ourselves in a bad spot. She invited us up to her room. We all had a consensual encounter. But for the most part we were all sitting around, laughing, being stupid, and then her roommate walked in. They had an argument, the roommate left, and the young woman went after her.”

  The lawyer frowns. “She walked out, went after the roommate?”

  “Yes.”

  He flips through the police report, scans pages, traces paragraphs with his finger.

  “This says you guys grabbed her and held her back.”

  I start to lose it.

  “Are you listening to me or reading the report? Listen to me. Listen to me, man. We never held her back, grabbed her, forced her to do anything. We never did that.”

  He looks at me, confused.

  “So, she walked out of the room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would she come ba
ck into the room?”

  “Well, she wouldn’t, if she was being raped.”

  He frowns again, tries to get comfortable in his plastic chair, riffles through the report again.

  “Then what happened?”

  “We all went downstairs to this smoking area. Her, too. We hung out there for a while and eventually we left.”

  “That was it?”

  “That’s all.”

  I don’t know what else I should say. I don’t know that I should create a timeline, that the order of events is crucial. I don’t mention that an eyewitness exists, Shawn Demain, the guy I played a video game with in his room and who spent the entire time with us in the smoking area after we came down from the girl’s room and who saw us talking with her. She didn’t seem threatened or scared then. I don’t suggest questioning him. I don’t suggest hiring an investigator.

  I don’t do any of this, because I simply don’t know I should. I’m still a kid, eighteen years old, having had zero experience with crime, or defending myself at a trial. I have put everything in my lawyer’s hands. I put my life in his hands. I don’t know any better.

  “All right,” he says. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  He packs up his papers, stuffs them into his briefcase.

  That was strategizing? I think.

  Our time has ended. A guard approaches, tells me I have to return to my cell. I nod and start to leave, and then I turn back to my attorney.

  “I have confidence in you,” I say. “I have to. You’re all I’ve got.”

  * * *

  —

  I see my attorney once more before jury selection—the second time in eight months—and that’s by accident. I see him walking the opposite way about to enter the corridor, and I yell at him across the pod. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in months. I want to know what’s going on. Where are we? Had he forgotten about me? He makes his way to me and we speak, briefly. He assures me that my case has not fallen through the cracks. He’s on top of it. He’s ready for trial.