"What's that mean?"
"It means it wouldn't help much if I were a dentist."
"Gotcha."
"So," I begin when the silence between us lengthens, "I've come here to help. What a lawyer like me needs, to help, is an accurate set of facts."
"Meaning I shouldn't lie to you?"
"Something like that, yes. What I need is your best version of the facts. We don't need to worry about whether the facts make you more or less guilty. We just need the clearest view of the facts that we can get."
She shakes her head. She drops her eyes to the tabletop. "Judge Wilberforce raped me. Then he passed me around to his friends. After that—long after—he claims I gave him AIDS. He was married. He was covering up by saying I blackmailed him. I was thirteen when he raped me. It went on for years after.”
"How long have you been HIV positive?"
"I don't even know. There've been lots of faces on top of me, Michael."
"Were you ever tested for HIV before you had sex with the judge?"
"I was raped before I was placed with him. I was tested then and later. Does that help or hurt me?"
"Bear with me. Some of my questions might make no sense."
"Okay."
"Let's talk about your history. Let's start with that. When were you born?"
I'm making notes now on my laptop. She sits back and jams a finger in one ear. She studies what comes out under the nail then uses another nail to flick it away.
"I was born August 4, 1989."
"So you've got a birthday coming up."
"Call it that, but don't buy a cake. I'm supposed to die the day before. The guards promise me a cupcake in the yard if it gets delayed."
"What's the yard like here?"
"Four concrete walls with rolls of razor wire around the top. The sun gets in there around noon. It lasts for maybe fifteen minutes and then climbs out again. The floor isn't grass or dirt; it's concrete. Nice place if you're a racquetball."
"But you're not a racquetball. You're flesh and blood."
She picks at her forehead. "If you say so."
"How often do they let you bathe?"
"Once a week. My skin has turned into an oilfield, and I itch all the time. ‘Hey, bitch,' the guards tell me. ‘Suck it up!' So I suck it up. But there's one guard who's nice to me. She wrote the letter you got because I can't have pencils or pens because I might commit suicide by writing my story."
"How would that kill you?"
"It would bore me to death. I'm just another runaway whore."
"What about the HIV? You're taking medications?"
"Supposed to, but the prison docs haven't seen me yet. So none's prescribed."
"So you're not getting HIV medications?"
"No, I'm not."
"Sweet Jesus."
"Yeah, I was on the Atripla once-a-day plan. Now that shouldn't be that big a deal to get in here. But so far no dice."
"I've dealt with HIV in confinement before," I tell her. "If you miss even one dose of your antiviral lots of bad things happen. Missing even a few doses can allow the HIV to spread in the body by making copies of itself. Which can cause drug resistance."
She is nodding. "And drug resistance is when HIV changes and makes your medications not work. Well, welcome to my world. Aren't you glad you asked?"
"I am. We'll have a motion on file immediately to get your drug regimen going. And I'll stop and talk to the warden about it today. I'm guessing you were in Spokane Detention until yesterday?"
"That's right. But listen, because I don't get it. They're going to kill me one month from today. Who cares if I'm loaded with the virus then or not?"
"That's not the point. You've constitutional rights to certain things, including necessary medications, regardless of your sentence. We could make a federal case out of it. But I don't think we'll have to. What else are you taking?"
"Were. Were taking."
"Okay, what else were you taking?"
"I've got a forever case of gonorrhea. Two street dudes raped me and gave me a strain that nothing stops. Doctors have tried over and over. It's a new strain from Thailand. So far the old meds aren't knocking it out. So I've always got the clap. So does anyone else who screws me bare."
I'm holding up my hand. "You just triggered something. Did you have this STD when you had sex with Judge Wilberforce?"
"I forget how long it's been. It was after I was in foster at Serenity House. I ran down to the 7-Eleven for a pack of ciggies, and two winos raped me. Inder warned me. He told me not to go south of Sprague Street alone."
"Inder?"
"My old pimp. He’s not my pimp now.”
"Was an autopsy done on Judge Wilberforce?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"As you said, he might have this same drug-resistant STD. Maybe he gave it to you. Maybe it wasn't the winos at all. I'm making a note to check this out."
"Nobody ever asked me that before."
"Not even your lawyer?"
"Not even."
"Why didn't you testify at your trial?"
"Lawyer wouldn't let me."
"He might have done you a favor, but I would want the jury to know about the rape by Judge Wilberforce. Incidentally, did you ever tell the police you have HIV?"
"No. I tell them to wear a rubber when they fuck me. They would come back and kill me if I gave them HIV."
"The police rape you?"
She smiles and waves me off. "Come on."
"Do they have sex with you in a hotel? Anyplace we can get records?"
"No, they rape me in the backseat of their squad cars. All the girls get raped by them. It's not so bad because they're usually clean. The downer is that they're mostly Afghanistan vets. A couple of them are real head cases.”
"Police rape's another case, and maybe we'll get to it one day. So how did the prosecutor know you had HIV?"
"They filed a motion, and the court made me give a blood sample."
"Did anybody talk about it at trial?"
"A witness came in and told the jury how the judge died. Natty little dude in a green tie with a red alligator on it. I'm not making this up."
"I believe you."
She smiles a sideways smile. "For a big city guy that's pretty naive, isn't it?"
"I'm not a big city guy. I grew up in a small town, and I've still got straw in my hair. Let's get back to the witness with the green alligator."
"Can I ask you something first?"
"Ask away."
"Where are you staying?"
"Davenport Hotel in Spokane."
"Oh, Mr. Moneybags."
"Mr. Anti-bed-vermin. The Davenport's got a great rep."
"Okay."
"Why do you want to know where I'm staying, by the way?"
"I don't know. I'm just curious about how you roll, I guess."
"Let's get back to this natty little dude who told the jury how the judge died. Was this a doctor, by any chance?"
"Maybe—yes. I think so. He talked about how Judge Wilberforce died."
"Did he talk about any tests he did on the judge?"
"Yes. He talked about blood tests. And—oh yes—this really got me. He told the jury how much the judge's brain weighed."
"How much did it weigh?"
"Exactly three pounds."
"Why was brain testimony admitted? Do you know?"
"I don't. But it was just about the only interesting thing in my whole trial. Will they weigh my brain after they kill me?"
"I'm not going to let that happen."
She ignores my words; she's worlds ahead of me.
"Will they autopsy me?"
"Not if I can help it."
"You can't. My friendly guard, Wanda, told me they always have to autopsy anyone who dies in prison. Is that true?"
"Probably. Why?"
"I just don't want them sawing off the top of my head. It isn't much, I'll give you that. But it's mine, and it belongs in one piece. Will you stop them from butcheri
ng me, Michael?"
"We'll talk about that if and when we get to that point."
"Michael, we reached that point a couple of days ago when the Supreme Court turned me down. We're there."
A guard sticks her head inside our room. "About done?"
I glare at her. "Why? Is there a time limit?"
"Are you angry, Mr. Gresham?"
"I'm not happy. My client hasn't been receiving her HIV drug. Why don't you toddle off to the warden and see if you can find out why? Can you do that?"
"Geesh!" She closes the door—slams it, actually. When I look back at Cache, she's smiling. She's a tweaker, a meth head. You can always see it in the teeth. But that's for another day, too.
She lets out a long sigh.
"Michael, aren't you just spinning your wheels here?"
I study her face. "Well, why did you write to me? You asked for my help. Here I am. And now you're asking me why?"
"That was before I knew you. You're real, now. And I don't want you to go down with a sinking ship. You're too nice for that."
"Let me worry about which ship I go down with. Believe me, there've been lots of them."
"I relate."
"I'm here because you're my child and I already love you. You just don't know that yet. But that's how I roll, to use your vernacular."
"Got it." Her eyes are glassy. A chord has been struck.
So I back out.
"But don't get all sentimental on me. It's a father's job to love his kids. I'm just doing my job."
"Yeah, yeah. I know, I know, that's for another day, too."
The guard again sticks her head inside our room. This time there are no words, but I understand the icy stare. She's about to have me thrown out.
"So does she get her medicine or not?" I demand of the guard. "Or am I going to have to take this shit-hole in front of a federal judge?"
She only continues staring at me with a nasty look. I've seen that look on women before. Evidently so has my daughter; she looks away if only to avoid a confrontation with a guard who could make her final days very miserable. She's right. I drop it and turn away.
Then I stand and hold out my arms to hug my new client, my daughter.
"No touching!" cries the guard.
"Oh, caught me! There I was, just about to pass your prisoner a square of Semtex. I was only going to hug my daughter."
"That will get you maced."
I don't turn to acknowledge her. Neither do I lower my arms. "Hugs," I whisper to Cache and thump my heart with my fist. She touches two fingers to her lips and points up and away through the ceiling, through the rooftop, through the clouds, all the way to heaven, as if she's just going to have a look around up there.
This is my thought. I'm her dad. We have nowhere else to turn but to each other.
"Right," says Cache. "Life is but a dream, dad."
I'm beguiled by this young woman. It overwhelms me, not knowing how to deliver the miracle she needs.
My shoulders sag, and I drop my arms.
"Later," she says and turns away.
"Tomorrow."
"Don't be a stranger."
"And the day after and the day after."
She leaves; the room is empty, and I feel like the father who has just sent his child off to bed with a fairy tale.
I sit down and wait for the guard to come and walk me out. Sure enough, not fifteen seconds later, a burly guard wearing a liver-colored deputy shirt with a wide brown tie and silver tie clasp strides confidently into the room. "You've gotta come with me, sir."
"Well, why don't you take me by the warden's office, then. Because I've gotta stop there, sir."
He moves aside to let me out of the room then turns me to the left. He follows on short, choppy steps like a goat. With a commanding voice, he directs me to the right, to the left, straight ahead, up these steps, until we come to the end of a long hall. The door is decorated with yellow geometries of glass probably installed before Cache was born.
"Go on in. I'll wait here."
"Thanks," I tell the guard. It's a good thing he's done for me; he certainly didn't have to bring me here.
The secretary inside—a doughty woman whose eyeglasses are perched halfway down her nose—looks me over and scowls. "Who brought you here? You have no appointment. The warden's calendar is empty."
"I'm a citizen, and I'm a lawyer. Depending on what her honor, the warden, tells me, I may or may not sue this prison tomorrow and every one of you in federal court. Is that enough bona fides to get me in to see her?"
She abruptly stands and turns away then opens and disappears through the oak door at her back. I strain to see inside but am only allowed a short glimpse. But my mind already knows. A broad, blemished desk from the Eighties, covered with files and books and papers scrawled with important notes, all held down by the woman sitting behind in an executive chair from the "Let's do ugly" section of the office furniture catalog.
Moments later, when I am led inside, my preconceived notions of the scene dissipate and fall away. Because sitting behind the desk is a youngish woman of maybe forty with a Vogue haircut, comfortably wearing a Dolce & Gabbana navy blazer. I'm certain—without even seeing—there are tailored gray slacks on her side of the desk.
She doesn't stand, but she does rock back in her no-nonsense chair. She lays aside her pen and grips both armrests.
"Can I help you, Mister--"
"My name is Michael Gresham. I'm the attorney for one of your prisoners."
"Who might that be?" She leans forward and places her hands on her keyboard. She is listening and will bring up Cache's record.
"Cache Evans. My client is HIV positive and tells me she isn't receiving the antiviral medication that is keeping her alive. I want to get that fixed."
Looking at her screen, "I see her here. There's nothing about HIV. Is she on the communicable cell block?"
"She's on death row."
"Okay, yes, I see that now. Goodness, we have a signed execution warrant and an execution already on the calendar. It also says that her appeal was rejected by the U.S. Supreme Court. So she's done all the appeals she gets. What new dances does this new lawyer have for my prisoner to try out?"
"Are you serious? Why new dances?"
She leans back and crosses her arms.
"I'm as serious as the armed security officers who are coming to throw you out for forcing your way into my office without an appointment!"
So much for the D&G suit and the uptown haircut. I'm being eighty-sixed.
"What about her medication?"
"I have no record of your appearance on her case, Mr. Gresham. I don't have to answer you. In fact, her health is confidential."
Which causes me to come unstrung. I haven't been asked to sit and so I'm still standing, and I lean halfway across her desk, placing my face maybe two feet from hers. "This prisoner also happens to be my daughter! How ugly do you want this to get, Miss Section-1983-Civil-Rights-Lawsuit?"
She recoils. "There's no need for lawsuits, Mr. Gresham. I've already decided to look into this and get her the medicine she needs."
"Good."
"If I think she needs it. God knows, with her execution a month away what difference does it make if it's become full-blown AIDS by then or not?"
"Goddam you!" I curse at her and just then the door to her office is slammed back against the wall as three armed guards storm the room.
They rush up to me and, after I lose the shoving match, they have me standing with my hands behind my back as they attach the handcuffs.
"There's no need for this, gentlemen," I say through clenched teeth. "I'm on my way out of here to sue this dump in federal court just as fast as I can. I'll go without resistance."
Ignored. One of them seizes the cuffs and begins shoving me along. Outside the office, I raise my voice, complaining there's no need. The procession stops beside Ms. Angry Secretary's desk. "I'm unlocking the cuffs," says the first guard through the door. "But I'll fucking Mace
you to death if you give me any cause. Understand me?"
"I do. Keep the Mace in your pants. You won't be needing it."
With an escort on either side and the man with the Mace behind, we leave the warden's lair. Five minutes later I'm being shown the front door, and I am too happy to get out of that place and take a deep breath of clean, free air. The rain has quit. A figure stands from the bench on my right and turns around. Marcel. Calm, true, loyal Marcel. All this time.
"Ready, boss?"
"Yes. Sons of bitches."
"Their loss, boss. They should see you on a good day."
"That's right. Bastards."
"So let's go kick some bastard ass. You ready for that, boss?"
"Get me on a plane, Marcel. We're going to Spokane and read some files."
"I've already got us a flight on the four-forty-five. Snacks and drinks."
"I'll have coffee."
"I'll tell them, boss. Bad in there?"
"You have no idea."
"Yes, I do. It's written all over your face. I can see how bad."
"Coffee on the plane? I'm ready, then."
DAY 2/30
Cache shared her full history last night when I called after Marcel and I checked into our rooms in Spokane. Evidently, the prison switchboard had orders to put me through regardless of the time. Threats of Section 1983 lawsuits can have effects like that.
I absorbed Cache's telling of the middle school years, high school, beauty school, and even a year at the community college where she studied biology with the goal of becoming a child cancer oncologist. She wants to treat little kids with cancer. Well, she had my heart right there.
I will make that happen. I have no idea how, but it will happen. Willpower is a beautiful thing in the face of government, courts, laws, and death machines. You can do this, Michael. There, said and all but done.
After sunrise but before rush hour, Marcel and I meet downstairs for breakfast. We divvy up the day. He will go to the courthouse in Spokane and make complete copies of all documents. Same with the Washington Court of Appeals and Supreme Court. I, in the meantime, will hop online and chase down all federal cases filed on behalf of Cache, including all motions—especially the habeas motions—all appeals, and all rulings. I will then boil everything down to the ten key points I'm left to work with.
The first inquiry, has Cache been treated fairly? I'm about to find out. Setting up my laptop and a yellow pad of paper on my dining table in room 1611 of the Davenport Hotel, I ring down for a large carafe of coffee and lots of cream. It will be hours—a full day, maybe—before I surface again and I'll need all the legal meth coffee offers.
30 Days of Justis Page 3
