"Sure enough. I wasn't being seductive. I just meant we use our time wisely by putting our heads together about Cache. When they release her, we're going to need a plan."
"You haven't had a plan?"
"Once she discovered her father was alive she wouldn't even speak to me again. There hasn't been a plan."
"How old was she when she found out?"
"Thirteen. Found out about you on the Internet. Of course."
"She didn't contact me."
"She wouldn't. That wouldn't be Cache—too shy to ever reach out like that."
"But she grew apart from you? Figures."
"How so?"
"You deprived her of a father, and she knew it. Knows it. If she hates you, it's well-deserved."
"Michael!"
"Hey, live with it, Millie. Truth is truth."
There, I've re-established the wall between us. I need it, and she needs it too, although she doesn't know it at the moment. A little Michael Gresham in her life right now would be ugly for us both. No thanks.
That door is closed and will remain closed.
DAY 6/30
The next morning, I swing by St. Anthony Hospital to check on Cache. Last night I finally gave in and checked into a hotel for a night's sleep.
I haven't seen her since about six yesterday evening. By then I had turned into a zombie and hardly recognized my own name when a nurse spoke to me. So I hurry up to her floor and trot down the hallway to her room. A respiratory therapist—who recognizes me—is checking the breathing tube and pump that is keeping Cache alive. She straightens and steps past me, allowing me to be with my daughter privately for a few moments. "There you are, Mr. Gresham."
This morning Cache looks the same, although her hands are arranged differently. The RT, when I ask, tells me this is because she's been turned in the bed. She is quick to explain to me that no, my daughter hasn't moved her hands and arms herself.
It saddens me again, seeing her like this.
It's a short visit. I'm off to see the governor this morning. I slowly retrace my steps back along the hallway and take the elevator down to the cafeteria, where I load up on a large coffee and three donuts. I'm munching on cake donut before I even pull out of the parking lot in my rental SUV.
Then on down to Tacoma where I wait in valet parking outside Millie's hotel. She's to meet me at eight o'clock. It's ten minutes before, so I switch on the radio and catch up on the baseball scores. I'm not ordinarily a baseball fan, but I'm not ordinarily waiting for an ex-flame in front of her hotel, either. In fact, the bright idea occurs to me to leave the radio turned on even after she climbs in so we can avoid any talk that might lead to anything like intimacy. I'm congratulating myself for thinking this little scheme into being when Millie comes hurrying through the rotating front door and looks around for me. I tap the horn. She spots me and waves.
She piles in, lugging along a huge purse and a laptop case that is jammed inside. She climbs in and sits back in the passenger's seat. She shrugs. "Don't ask," is all she says, meaning her overstuffed purse. I don't, pointing instead at the radio and its recounting of last night's baseball. I feign a serious interest in last night's scores. Millie gives me the space to do that. The radio host drones on while I follow the 705 Freeway to the 5 Freeway. Then onto the 5 south to Olympia. It's only about thirty minutes away by the time we've merged into traffic.
The radio drones on. Now we're into the St. Louis Cardinals and their hopes and problems as a ball club. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Millie with her head slumped against her window eyeing the traffic coming at us. Leave well enough alone, I remind myself.
"Well," I say when the tension in the car is almost unbearable, what with her blankly staring ahead and me acting like it's a real job handling the SUV in the morning's very light traffic. I have no doubt: she gets it, and my plan is beginning to over-ripen. "Well. Let's hope the governor is in a good mood this morning."
"Do we have an appointment?"
"No such thing as an appointment with the governor. He doesn't make appointments with nobodies. I was told by his staff to show up and present some compelling reason why I just have to see him one-on-one. He may or may not make time for us."
"Sounds like a busy man."
"Yes. But he's about to have his day interrupted because I'm not leaving until he sees us. Cache deserves no less."
"Then that makes two of us."
"Team!" I say and hold up my hand to high-five. She misinterprets my intention and grasps my hand and squeezes it.
"You're a good guy, Michael Gresham," she says still holding my hand. At last, I wrest it away without seeming to wrest it away—two-hands on the wheel kind of wresting.
"Thanks, Millicent. You're not so bad yourself."
"How about some AC?" she asks. "It's stifling in here with the seaside humidity."
"Sure enough."
When I can't locate the AC controls when feeling around the dashboard without taking my eyes from the freeway, she reaches over and lifts my hand out of the way and places it on my thigh. Seconds later, the AC spins up, and cool air relieves the anxiety that's causing me to form sweat droplets on my forehead and around my lips.
"It is stifling," I add as if the humidity is causing me to sweat so profusely.
But it isn't the humidity or the inside air, and she knows it, for she looks away with a wry smile and says something that sounds like, "That's my Michael, always dodging and feinting."
I ignore the comment.
We arrive at the State House and locate parking along Cherry Lane. Stepping out, we feel the heat has risen a good five degrees since we left Tacoma not forty minutes ago. Nevertheless, my collar is buttoned, and the red and blue striped tie I brought along is knotted perfectly. My gig line is perfect, as well. Millie steps up onto the curb and smooths her suit pants. She is wearing linen but, surprisingly, looks unwrinkled despite that fabric's reputation. We head around to the entrance.
The receptionist has no idea who we are, of course. So we explain in great detail the story surrounding Cache, including the attempted suicide, the possible brain damage, and the steps taken by the Washington Attorney General to euthanize our daughter. At this point, Millie is crying into a wad of tissue, and I'm wiping my eyes as I recount the past seventy-two hours. No doubt, this is the person we have to convince in order to see the governor.
She picks up her phone, taps in a call to the inner sanctum, then whispers and listens. She hangs up. They'll be breaking for mid-morning coffee and photos in about an hour; we should have a seat. She's sorry to keep us waiting. "He wants to see you," she concludes.
We take facing chairs in the waiting area. I immediately grab up the business section of an abandoned newspaper and begin reading about the Yen on the Japanese market. I read where Bitcoin has surpassed one million yen. I know just enough about international economics to know that Bitcoin isn't my retirement vehicle.
Every time I look up, I spy Millie sitting with her right knee caught in her clasped hands, her dangling foot tapping out the time to some inner rhythm while her eyes pass back and forth across my face. I ignore her smile and keep reading.
Forty-five minutes later, the governor's office doors fly open and several men and women—all carrying briefcases—come hurrying out. Two uniformed state police follow them partway out and then step back inside, closing the door behind them.
"That's your cue," says the receptionist. "Let me buzz."
Which she does, nodding while she talks.
"Wait three minutes and then go on inside. He's peeing right now."
I do my best not to crack a smile and instead nod like I hear this kind of toilette talk about governors all the time.
At last the doors come open. Millie precedes me into the governor's office. His name is Jackson L. D'Nunzio, and his face means nothing to me because I don't live here in Washington State. Without looking up until the very last second he continues writing at his desk and finally stands, extending a w
ell-calloused shaking hand. We pump hands too long. He moves away and waves us to sit down.
"I've heard about your daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Evans. Terrible stuff."
"Actually, I'm Michael Gresham, and this is Millicent Evans. Yes, we're the parents of Cache Evans, and yes, we're distraught and terrified."
"How about bringing me up to speed. Jimmy Accardo is my administrative assistant but he's run up to Seattle, so I'm not getting my usual thirty-second briefing. How about you supply that?" he asks, directing the request to me.
"Our daughter was arrested, tried, and convicted of aggravated murder of Judge Wilberforce over in Spokane."
"I remember hearing about that. Nasty business."
"Yes, well, what you probably didn't hear is how the so-called victim raped our daughter when she was just into her teens while she was living in his house as the nanny for his kids. He then used her essentially as a sex object for the next several years, which included him passing her around like a toy for his friends to rape. This went on four years until our little girl broke away from CPS altogether and hid out on the streets of Seattle. She supported herself as a prostitute. At some point, the judge learned he was infected with HIV, and that turned into full-blown AIDS. As he was going through the medical process, he blamed our daughter for infecting him. He was all innocence. The prosecuting attorney of Spokane County bought it. They prosecuted Cache, and now she sits on death row in Purdy. She was waiting to die in thirty days when the guards failed to keep an eye on her, and she attempted suicide. Thank God, it failed. But she now is hospitalized in St. Anthony's in Gig Harbor with no indication whether her condition is permanent. As if this weren't enough, the attorney general of Washington has now filed in court to withdraw our daughter's life support."
"Really? How can that be?"
"Exactly my point. That would be cruel and unusual punishment under the Eighth Amendment to the Constitu—"
"No, I mean why would the AG file it? Why not the office of the prosecuting attorney? Wouldn't they have jurisdiction? I'm not a lawyer, so I'm just shooting from the hip, Mr. Gresham."
"Who did or didn't file it isn't the issue, Governor D'Nunzio. The point is, your state is attempting to euthanize our little girl while she's very, very sick."
He leans back from his desk and peers to the left. Two aides are standing by, one of whom is taking notes without looking up. The other bends down and whispers to the governor. The governor shrugs and takes a deep breath, nodding all the while. "I'll tell them," I think I hear him say to his aide.
"Now, Mr. Gresham and Ms. Evans, here's what I propose. Let me call the Spokane Prosecuting Attorney and see if I can find out why the AG is in on this. Maybe then we can get to the bottom—"
"Please, governor," Millie wails. "Our daughter is unconscious, and your people are trying to kill her. Do something, for the love of God."
The governor places both hands together on his desk. I've seen powerful men assume this pose before. It always comes right before they do a hatchet job on someone less powerful.
"Ms. Evans, your daughter is a convicted murderer. Please try to remember where that leaves me. And please try to remember that I'm the state officer who has been asked to pardon her and refused. If she is put to death while unconscious, it's my wish for that to happen. Now, is there anything else you can tell me?"
I sputter and stop and start, but finally manage, "Yes, I want to tell you that I'm going to sue everything in this state—including you, sir—if this is allowed to proceed. I'm—"
"Well, Mr. Gresham, sue away if you please. It won't stop the execution of your daughter. But sue as much and as often as you feel you need to. Our Attorney General will represent the defendants and give you a run for your money."
"It's not about money," Millie says in a small voice that sounds very far away.
"I misspoke, no it's not about money. It's about the orderly administration of justice in my state. Okay, time's up. I need to get back to my meeting."
"Roads and bridges?" I ask.
"Education. Now, excuse me."
The uniformed cops step forward and take a position on either side of us. We step out in lockstep and continue through the doors and on outside to the stairs we scaled two hours ago.
We are exhausted. Millie is crying. Maybe I am too. I'm having trouble seeing and my eyes sting.
But it's the last bite they'll get of me.
It's on, brother. It's on.
No sooner are we belted into the SUV and rolling north on the 5 Freeway when Kelly Larsyn calls. He's Face-Timing, and my phone has the same ability. So we connect and look each other over.
"You've been to see Governor D'Nunzio, right?"
"Yes. Waste of time. Roads and bridges, bridges and roads."
"Well, here's an eye-opener for you. Judge Lakin just called me about coming to court next Monday. Wanna guess why?"
"No. Tell me."
"The frigging AG has now filed to move the execution date up by two weeks. That would leave us just one week to file appeals and make our case to the feds."
I'm surprised but not shocked. "What's their rationale?"
"Same as before. That it costs a hundred thousand dollars every day she's kept alive on life support. By moving it up two weeks, the state saves one-point-four-million dollars. We've gotta take drastic action to stop these assholes, Michael."
"Totally agree. Any chance you can come by my hotel tonight?"
"Are you forgetting? I'm in Spokane. You're in Gig Harbor."
"I know that. But I need you to fly over and plan on staying a few days while we put together our response."
"I don't get it. Why can't we do that online?"
"Because you and I are going to set up a demonstration here in the hospital and I need your expertise on Washington state evidence and procedure."
"So you need me to cross the T's and dot the I's?"
"Exactly. Are you packing?"
"No, but I will be. See you in the a.m."
"You know where to find me. Just come on up to the room. I'll be up early."
"Later."
We end the call, and my screen goes blank.
"He's an interesting fellow," says Millie, who has been viewing Larsyn over my shoulder."
"What do you know about him?" I ask.
"He's the most aggressive lawyer I've ever seen in court. It's a miracle for the state they managed to convict Cache in the first place."
"What stands out most in your mind about the trial?"
"That Mr. Larsyn didn't let Cache testify. The jury needed to hear about Wilberforce raping her and then passing her around to his cronies. It would've turned out much differently."
"Why do you think he didn't let Cache testify?"
"You want the truth?"
"Absolutely, Millie. I want the truth."
"He didn't let her testify because he wanted to be appointed to Judge Wilberforce's court. He wanted to be the judge to replace the dying Wilberforce. You can't ever tell him I said this."
"You have any proof of this?"
"Two times the clerk of the court nudged me aside and told me to make Larsyn let Cache testify. She said for me to be careful, that Larsyn wanted Wilberforce's seat on the bench."
"Anything else?"
"I caught Judge Maxim and Larsyn in the judge's office during one break in the trial. I was lost, looking for the ladies' room. I came up the hall and heard two men laughing their heads off. I recognized one of the voices as Kelly Larsyn. I'd heard him laugh before."
"What did you do?"
"What any mother would do. I stopped to listen."
"Could you make out what was said?"
"I did. I heard Larsyn say she wasn't going to testify."
"What else?"
"I heard Maxim say he was fast-tracking Mr. Larsyn's appointment to take over Judge Wilberforce's court. Those were his exact words, ‘I'm fast-tracking your appointment so you can take over as soon as we're done with this trial.'"
/> "What did Larsyn say?"
"Nothing. Nothing I could hear, anyway."
"Have you ever told any of this to anyone?"
"I filed a complaint with the prosecuting attorney's office. I wanted the whole case investigated for fraud."
"What happened?"
"What do you think?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing, that's right. And before you ask me why I haven't told you this before, let me explain something. Ever since I walked into Cache's room, you've been trying to keep distance between us, Michael. To tell the truth, I didn't know I could even trust you."
"You serious?"
She nods. "Until today, when I heard you tell the governor how many ways you were going to sue him. Then I knew whose side you were on."
I'm beside myself. How could she—"How could you even think I might be holding out on my own daughter?"
"I'm scared, Michael. I'm really scared. I don't know who to trust."
It is all I can do not to take her by the hand and reassure her. Or pat her knee and tell her I'm on her side.
But I don't. I love my wife, Verona, and nothing's going to come between us. Especially not the estranged mother of my daughter.
I make a mental note to call Verona just as soon as I'm alone.
"Well, it obviously didn't happen, Millie. Judge Wilberforce is very dead, and Kelly Larsyn hasn't taken his seat on the bench."
"That's because they took all of Judge Wilberforce's cases and distributed them to the other judges."
"What, they closed his court?"
"Larsyn is running for judge in the next election. He's already got signs up, so I'm told."
Something about this sounds shaky. Ordinarily, when a judge dies or steps down the chief judge or the supreme court or the governor appoints somebody to fill in until the next election. That hasn't happened with Judge Wilberforce's seat on the bench. Something to find out about.
We lapse into silence the rest of the way back to Millie's hotel.
As soon as she's inside, I whip out my phone and make a call to Verona. I miss my wife, and I'm relieved I didn't get impulsive and entangled with Millie. She's beautiful and charming and smart as hell, but she's also out of bounds.
30 Days of Justis Page 7
