Redeeming Justice

by Jarrett Adams

  “I know you said that,” Keith says.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Carl says. “How can they gloss over this?”

  “We’re going to win the appeal at the Seventh Circuit,” I say. “That’s our best shot. We’ll finally get out of Wisconsin. I see going to the district court as a formality.”

  “Jarrett,” Keith says, “you really are something. How do you stay so positive? I want to bottle that.”

  “I’ve just seen a lot,” I say. Then I add, quietly, “I’ve seen too much.”

  * * *

  —

  Months later, a guard leads me out of temporary lockup at Green Bay and into a van. I am driven back to Boscobel, the all-segregation supermax where I previously spent nearly a year in isolation. The prison feels as foreboding and as ominous as ever. Banished to Boscobel. A guard brings me down a narrow corridor and deposits me in my segregated cell. I take one step in and feel as if I’ve walked into a coffin.

  Time drips like a slow leak. I crave news. Then, one day, a sliver of light knifes across the floor. The Wisconsin Innocence Project notifies me that they have officially filed the appeal to the Seventh Circuit, located in Chicago. My birthplace. My home. The city that now holds my fate in its hands. I try not to obsess. I try to distract myself from waiting. I write. I read. I play chess through the walls. I pray. I pace. Repeat. Each day hollows me out a little. Each day takes a nick out of my soul.

  Two months evaporate. Then news comes. The Seventh Circuit has granted my certificate of appealability. Keith asks for an oral argument. Not a given. But a good sign for us if the court grants it. I believe in the strength of our argument, its solid, legal foundation. Keith will argue the case in front of a panel of three judges. Good, I think. I have the law on my side. Strickland v. Washington alive, in living color.

  Time drips…drips…drips…

  My birthday comes, goes, then Merry Christmas, and the calendar reads 2006. With the New Year comes an unseasonably sticky heat in the air that signals a premature spring. My cell turns into a sweatbox. I pace, my head pounding, my pores gushing. The heat suffocates me. My body feels on fire. Then, one day, I get the word. The Seventh Circuit will hear the oral argument.

  On the day of the hearing, a guard opens my cell, handcuffs me, shackles my legs, and leads me the length of a city block to a pay phone. Because I’m in segregation, the state won’t allow me to attend the hearing, but I know my mother and aunts are there. The guard hands me the phone and stands to the side. Keith has arranged to patch me into the courtroom. I grip the phone tightly, squeezing the receiver. My mouth goes dry as I hear Keith start his defense—the ineffective assistance of counsel. He explains that my lawyer used “no defense” as his strategy, failing to investigate and call Shawn Demain as a witness.

  The presiding judge, Diane Wood, interrupts him. “Why would he do that?”

  “He didn’t get it,” Keith says. “He simply didn’t get it. I guess he thought it was a valid strategic defense.”

  Keith proceeds with his defense. After his allotted ten minutes, he concludes his argument and thanks the judges. The judge calls the prosecutor, who begins by offering a definition of ineffective assistance of counsel.

  Judge Wood cuts her off.

  “We know the standard of review for ineffective assistance of counsel. We can repeat that in our sleep. I want to know why counsel didn’t call Shawn Demain as a witness. It would seem extremely pertinent.”

  “Well, Your Honor—”

  “When you don’t have much, you need to call witnesses, and this strategy of calling no one bothers me.”

  “It was a strategic decision,” the prosecutor says.

  “But why? Not going with a witness is a little…odd.”

  The judge pauses. I feel my palms sweat. I move the phone to my other ear.

  “Why didn’t he try to find the witness?” Judge Wood asks.

  “I think he made an effort.”

  “What was that effort?”

  “I—I assume he called the campus—”

  The judge dismisses this. “The co-defendant’s counsel found him.”

  Rovaughn’s attorney, I think. Boyle.

  “It couldn’t have been all that hard,” the judge says.

  She asks the prosecutor a few more questions, and then the judge raises her voice in what sounds like either frustration or irritation.

  “It’s really hard to see force in her account of what happened.”

  “Well, the threat of force,” the prosecutor says, and adds in a small, thin voice, “I admit it’s a close case.”

  “Did she ever explain why she didn’t leave another way…when she’s being threatened?”

  “She doesn’t fully explain that.”

  The prosecutor then offers what sounds like a halfhearted summation. She ends by saying, “I ask that you deny Mr. Adams his petition.”

  Judge Wood thanks the prosecution, thanks Keith, and says they will take the case under advisement.

  The hearing ends. It has lasted a total of twenty minutes.

  The line goes dead.

  They will take my case under advisement?

  They are taking my life under advisement.

  My hand starts shaking.

  The guard steps forward and asks for the phone.

  I try to hand it to him, but I can’t pry my fingers off the receiver.

  * * *

  —

  June 30, 2006.

  I pace in my cell, my body slick with sweat. Since the hearing, I have done almost nothing else. I try reading the Bible verses my aunties send, but I can’t focus. Words prance across the page, the letters scrambled. So I pace. I trek another million miles in my cell, waiting.

  Then, one day, I hear keys jangling in the distance. Coming closer. The jangling abruptly stops. My trapdoor slides open with a boom. I jump. I blink furiously. I know it’s too early for mail. I stare at the open trap, and then the guard says, “You have a legal call.”

  “All right,” I say. “All right.”

  I retreat a few steps, allowing the guard to come into my cell.

  He chains me up. He puts me in shackles.

  I want to say, “I’m going to a phone call, not my execution.”

  But I don’t speak. I can’t speak. I shuffle out of my cell, hunched over. I feel like a condemned man.

  The guard leads me on that long walk to the phone. He hands me the receiver and backs away. I expect to hear silence as I wait to be patched into the call, but I pick up the phone and I hear laughter over a speakerphone. It’s as if I’ve broken into someone’s celebration, a private party. The voices speak happily over each other, and after a moment I make out Keith’s voice, and Carl’s, and Andy’s, and I swallow and say, “Hey, it’s Jarrett.”

  “Jarrett,” Andy says, drawing my name out, almost as if he were singing or shouting at me across a room.

  “Carl,” Keith says. “Why don’t you tell him?”

  “Wow, sure.” Carl pauses. “Jarrett, we’ve got some good news.”

  “Okay.”

  “We won. You won the habeas appeal.”

  I cannot speak.

  My mind snaps shut.

  “Did you hear me?” Carl says. “YOU WON.”

  Click.

  The line goes dead.

  They’ve hung up.

  Or—someone has hung up.

  The guard bull-rushes me from the shadows, grips me by both biceps, pulls me away from the phone. “Let’s go. Call’s over.”

  He shoves me back toward my cell.

  “Wait,” I say. “That was a legal call. Attorney-client. That’s privileged.”

  I speak to silence. To air. The guard grunts and practically drags me back into my cell. He slams the door and storms off.

>   They were listening, I think. I’ve been filing complaints against being in segregation, trying to litigate my way out, complaining against the guards’ treatment—especially this guard—and they were listening.

  I hit my emergency call button. I punch it with my fist. No one comes. I lean on it, slam my palm over it, hold it down. Finally, the same guard returns.

  “I was on a legal call,” I say. “The phone hung up.”

  The guard stands outside my cell, folds his thick tattooed arms, and stares at me. He pretends he hasn’t heard what I said.

  “You got a legal call,” he says.

  * * *

  —

  Back on the phone, I wait for Keith, Carl, and Andy. After what feels like ten minutes, I hear a hum, some static, and then their voices come on, overlapping.

  “That was strange,” Carl says. “The line went dead. Like someone hung up.”

  “Like someone was listening and hung up,” I say.

  “That’s never happened,” Keith says. “In all my years as a lawyer. They can’t do that. Breaks every protocol, every rule of law.”

  “They wouldn’t do that,” Carl says.

  “Well, I didn’t hang up,” I say.

  “Neither did we,” Andy says.

  “So,” Carl says. “Did you hear what we said? You won.”

  “I heard,” I say.

  Yes. The court has vacated my conviction. My record will now appear as if the first trial and conviction never happened. The court has ordered the state to either retry me or dismiss all the charges.

  “It’s amazing,” Carl says. “We’re thrilled for you. Aren’t you happy?”

  I don’t feel happy.

  I feel numb and terrified. This feels so fragile. I “won” at my first trial, too. Yet here I sit not just in prison for nearly eight years but in segregation.

  “We won this round,” I say.

  “Well, we know, but—”

  “There are two more parts.”

  “Two more possible parts,” Keith says.

  “Two more levels,” I say. “The Seventh Circuit reversed the district court. But they still have an opportunity to petition for a rehearing en banc.”

  En banc.

  “We won in front of a three-judge panel. The prosecution could say they felt something was missing at the hearing and request a rehearing in front of all the judges in the Seventh Circuit.”

  “It was unanimous, Jarrett,” Keith says. “All three judges agreed that your conviction should be reversed. Based on evidence. Strickland v. Washington. You were right.”

  “They could appeal,” I say in a hushed voice. “And if the Seventh Circuit denies it, they could request that the Supreme Court look at it. There are two more possible steps.”

  “It won’t happen,” Keith says. Then, after a moment, he adds, “I can’t believe you even knew about en banc. You’re more knowledgeable than some lawyers.”

  “Keith,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’m very glad we got where we are. I am. But I’m in here locked up for no reason. You have to excuse me for being cautious.”

  Then I lower my voice again. “They could still be listening.”

  “Who?” Keith says. “The guard?”

  “I have to be careful,” I whisper. “I have to think two steps ahead. I can’t disappoint my mother again. It’ll kill her.”

  “We understand,” Keith says. “Still, I believe this decision will hold.”

  “What happens next?” I say.

  “They have 120 days to either release you or retry you. If we hear nothing in that time, then your case has been overturned.”

  “So, I wait some more,” I say. “Plus, I’m still a ward of the state, still have to do segregation, unless I litigate out.”

  “Unfortunately,” Keith says.

  “A hundred and twenty days,” I say.

  Are you listening? I want to shout into the phone. I’m in segregation and they still want to take away any shred of privacy I have left.

  “One hundred and twenty days until I walk out of prison,” I say.

  “Yes,” Keith says.

  “Not like in the movies, is it? I won. But I don’t walk.”

  “No. Not like the movies.”

  “Four more months,” I say. “A lifetime.”

  “Jarrett,” Keith says, “this is going to happen.”

  * * *

  —

  One hundred and twenty days.

  Each morning feels like a week. Each afternoon, another week. The nights don’t exist. They seem like shadowy versions of the day. Lying in bed, I replay the first phone call: Carl telling me we won, the phone line going dead, then the second call with Keith explaining the time I have left. A hundred and twenty days…119…118…

  One day at a time.

  If I don’t take that approach, I’ll go crazy.

  Too late, I tell myself.

  A hundred and sixteen…

  * * *

  —

  Two and a half months after the Seventh Circuit’s decision, I get word that my writ of certiorari has been granted. The legal department sends me a notice. I will be released from segregation. I’m going back to general population.

  Where?

  Waupun.

  Where I first went, a lifetime ago.The prison where I started.

  “When?” I ask.

  As soon as a bed opens up.

  How long will—

  As soon as a bed opens up.

  * * *

  —

  Thirty-two days to go…thirty-one…thirty…

  A bed opens up.

  I check with Keith.

  “We’ve heard nothing,” he says. “Not a thing. You have to think—”

  “We still have thirty days,” I say.

  “I know, but—”

  “Thirty days,” I say. “Forever.”

  * * *

  —

  On the bus from Boscobel back to Waupun, I start sensing a different vibe all around me, a new aura surrounding me. His case is being overturned. The chatter vibrates through the prison underground. Inmates look at me differently. He’s getting out. I begin wearing that truth like a layer of clothes. But then I start to feel antsy. My body shivers involuntarily from nerves. I see the finish line. I see it, but it suddenly moves farther away, a tiny line in the distance. I can’t rush the days. I can’t force time to speed up. I slowly tear away the days in my mind.

  Twenty-two days to go.

  The officer at the desk greets me as I reenter Waupun. Captain Belinsky. I know him. Old white dude. Fat fingers stained yellow from cigarettes. His breath reeks of cigarettes and beer. He wears a handlebar mustache that he subconsciously twirls like a cartoon villain. He hates me. I’m not crazy about him either.

  “What’s your number?”

  He coughs, doesn’t cover his mouth.

  I recite my number, etched in my brain for forever—“385073.”

  “I’m not gonna have no trouble with you this time, am I?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “If you mean the constitutional work I do, helping people with their due process, then, yeah, you might have some trouble with me.”

  He hacks up some spit, wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

  “I hear you’re getting out.”

  “Ugly rumor.”

  “Ain’t that nice. I’ll see you when you come back, telling me your number all over again. Because you will be back. Don’t worry. We’ll keep your bed warm for you in segregation.”

  “I’m never coming back. At least not as an inmate.”

  * * *

  —

  Twenty days to go.

  I don’t go out to
the rec yard. I don’t go out to the chow hall. I take quick showers. I read my psalms. I go to church. I hardly speak. I don’t want to say the wrong thing, so I don’t say anything.

  Nineteen…eighteen…seventeen…

  Then single digits. I count down as if I were about to be sent off into space. Five…four…three…two…one.

  Day 120 comes.

  I call Keith.

  “We haven’t heard a word,” he says. “Not a single word.”

  “So—”

  “Technically, they have until the end of the day. If we don’t hear anything, they have to let you out.”

  “Midnight,” I say.

  I pace. I sense it now. They’re not going to call. I know we have won. I decide to get rid of everything, all my belongings. A purge. A cleanse. I can’t have a yard sale, so I have a cell sale. I give away my TV, my thermal underwear, my flip-flops, my chess set, my typewriter, everything that’s not nailed down.

  Midnight passes.

  The Innocence Project doesn’t call.

  I panic.

  I call Keith an hour after dawn.

  “A sheriff is on his way to bring you to Jefferson County Jail,” Keith says. “They haven’t authorized you to go home yet. But you’re leaving prison.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He has a court order,” Keith says.

  * * *

  —

  The sheriff, court order in hand, waits for me at the threshold of a doorway inside Waupun Correctional Institution. By law, the prison has to deliver me to him. He can’t cross the threshold. As the sheriff waits, a guard comes into my cell, chains me up, puts me in shackles. Another nonsensical protocol.

  “Is this really necessary?” I say.

  The guard grunts, pushes me out of the cell.

  I don’t look back. I’m not sure if I want to take this walk slowly, savor every second, or if I want to sprint down the corridor and shriek goodbye to this place.

  I come to Captain Belinsky at the front desk. He twirls his mustache with his cigarette-stained fingers. He coughs, snaps at me. “What’s your number?”