I sit silently but aghast that my daughter has now had her breath of life removed. I'm certain she is now dying.
Suddenly, Millie jumps up and runs from the room.
"I understand," Dr. Collingsworth whispers.
We're all focused on Cache's chest. The respiratory therapist is poised over her, watching for the slightest sign of movement. Every few seconds she looks up to the monitors beyond Cache's head.
Then, not fifteen seconds after being disconnected from the respirator's airflow, Cache's chest abruptly raises and lowers.
"Oh!" Dr. Collingsworth exclaims.
We continue watching and praying. Then, there it is again. And again.
"Your daughter is breathing, Mr. Gresham," Dr. Collingsworth sings out to me. "Mrs. Gresham," he calls out into the hallway, "your girl's alive!"
Millie returns, skirts around Cache's bed, and approaches from the far side. She watches as our daughter gasps for air again and then again.
It continues in this manner.
"Disturbed and shallow," says Dr. Collingsworth, "but by God, she's alive."
"Praise the Lord," exclaims Father Monsini. He touches the cross on his chest.
I am weeping now, openly and without shame. "Oh, my God, thank you, I tell everyone present. Thank you all!"
Larsyn edges over and squeezes my shoulder. "Congratulations, partner. You've got your daughter back."
"Enough, Maria," Dr. Collingsworth orders the RT. "Restore the machine function."
Maria turns back to her machine and reattaches all tubing. Now the machine is breathing for Cache again.
"Why the tubes if she's breathing on her own?" Larsyn asks."
"In due course, counsel. We'll work our way into self-sustained breathing. One step at a time."
"Yes, but in the movies—"
"Look around, Mr. Larsyn. This isn't a movie," Dr. Munoz says in a detached voice. "This is someone's life."
"Sorry," says Larsyn. He moves apart from me.
I think we've just witnessed nothing less than a miracle. But that's the old Catholic rattling around inside of me, the man whose peers spot the Savior's blood on statues and see Mary's silhouette in their English muffins. It can be confusing when the real thing comes along.
"So?" I say to Dr. Collingsworth. "Is the team prepared to sign affidavits stating Cache Evans is alive?"
"We are," says Dr. Munoz without consulting the others. Dr. Collingsworth nods.
"Good. I'm also going to want to video Dr. Collingsworth. I'll need you to go over the things you described to us this morning, meaning the tests and what they reveal, and then recount what we've seen in here today."
"Spare me from court stuff, please," says Dr. Munoz.
"Consider yourself spared, Doc. I just need one video for my court filing."
"I'm happy to oblige if it will help my patient," Dr. Collingsworth says to me.
"Thank you, Doctor," Millie says and turns to hug him. He obliges her.
I cannot stop the tears seeping from my eyes.
My daughter is back.
DAY 8/30
We're all relieved, all of us in Cache's corner, but the reality still is there: this is day eight of the thirty-day countdown to her execution. Regardless of what we've established so far, the execution date is still approaching. I am determined to see it rescinded.
My mind is spinning every day and my nights are full of night sweats and moments of clamoring awake, grasping at the dark images swirling over my head in my hotel room. These images are old acquaintances. They always come over me during times of high stress from the practice of law. Many lawyers would know exactly what I'm talking about.
While we were at the hospital yesterday watching Cache breathe on her own, Marcel was in Spokane, where he somehow acquired the complete dependency file on Cache. This is the file maintained by CPS, the confidential file. It is a crime to obtain it. But…we have it now, and I'm reading. The chief caseworker, while Cache was a minor, is a woman named June DeWitt. Her notes and memos swell the file to where, in paper form, it's a good three inches thick.
The entire file has come to rest on the table in my hotel room. I will take this day to review it. I need to absorb it, not just review it, because I'm confident it will contain incidents and occurrences that could be very helpful in saving Cache's life. Or even—best of all worlds—setting her free. When I'm finished with the file, I'll be ready to begin writing my response to the AG's motion to accelerate the date of execution. Larsyn is scheduled to take Dr. Collingsworth's video deposition this afternoon, so the entire day belongs to me.
First up, a carafe of coffee from room service, plus a pineapple Danish and a blueberry muffin. Enough caffeine and carbs to lift me way up before body-slamming me into the mat. At least that's how Verona describes my dietary habits. She might be right, but it still works for me.
I read through the notes quite quickly. It appears there are two stories contained in them. One is Cache's story. The other is Judge Wilberforce's story. They totally disagree with one another. I begin reading again, this time much slower.
I make my notes. Cache ran away from home when she had just turned eleven. When the caseworker approached her on the street, the reason given for leaving home was that the girl had just learned her father wasn't dead, that he was living in Chicago. Upon finding this out on the Internet, she became enraged at her mother for keeping her father secret and fled. She took with her only the clothes on her back and two-hundred dollars in savings bonds her grandparents had given her before they passed. The caseworker had Cache declared dependent and placed her in foster care at Serenity House. Problems developed. Less than a year later Cache was placed with newly-licensed foster parents Hiram and Dot Wilberforce, who couldn't have children of their own. Which isn't entirely true: Hiram had offspring from a prior marriage, but they were with their mother. Dot couldn't conceive but wanted to parent a child. Her religious beliefs compelled her to do so. When Cache moved into their house, Hiram Wilberforce was a judge sitting in the trial court. They lived in Spokane and kept a time-share in San Diego. Dot was active in her church and a street ministry. She planned on raising Cache with those time-honored religious values. In short, she meant to save Cache's soul. Her calling was a youth ministry.
When Cache turned thirteen, living with Judge and Mrs. Wilberforce, Dot became pregnant—miracle of miracles.
A few weeks in, Dot became increasingly moody and distant—according to her best friend Frieda M_____(last name redacted for privacy). That was when—we can only guess—she refused sex with the judge. Perhaps this explains why she never became HIV positive. At any rate, Cache says the judge began catching Cache alone around the house and "crowding her." This consisted of him placing himself between the young girl and a wall or a bookcase or a closet—pinning her in and smiling at her. Then he would say inappropriate things, such as asking what she felt like when she was raped and did she enjoy it. Cache responded by retreating to her room. She later says she didn't tell the social worker this was going on because she feared she would be taken out and placed somewhere even worse. So far, the judge had only leered at her and said "nasty things"—the girl's words. She knew from experience and the rape by three boys at Serenity House the world could get much worse than what Judge and Dot Wilberforce offered her.
When Dot's baby was born, Cache began part-timing as the child's nanny. The judge paid her for this. Her employment was never reported to the caseworker. Then one night, after the judge was up late at his Friday night poker game, and after the whiskey bottles were emptied, he entered her room and raped her. Holding his hand over her mouth and flattening her into the mattress with his ape body, there was no way she could resist. The raping turned into a daily thing. Then he began paying her for sex when Cache said she was going to run away. She stayed and no longer resisted.
The caseworker goes on to say Cache became "Like an hors-d'oeuvre, passed around at stag parties for everyone's pleasure." In other words, the
judge had become magnanimous, offering his foster-daughter to his guests because that's what good guests with sexually abused dependents did—at least in his sick mind.
The story then turns to the judge's version of what happened. Caseworker June DeWitt recounts the judge's yearly physical where a standard blood test came back positive for HIV. He was infected. His condition worsened. Dot hounded him about the source of the virus, angry that he had been sexual outside the marriage as there had been no blood transfusions or any of the other mechanisms by which the disease could infect him. Then she was threatening divorce. The judge countered by breaking down early one Saturday morning in their bedroom. The nanny, he blubbered, one day told him she was going to report him for rape if he didn't give her money. He was horrified; even an accusation would see him tossed off the bench. He might even be prosecuted for sexual assault on a minor. That meant he would never work again. He gave in and began paying her. Then she insisted he have sex with her so that she could get pregnant and start receiving WIC benefits. He had done as she said. She now owned him. This was the story he told June DeWitt when Cache turned up HIV positive herself. June's file notes indicate she was skeptical, but she had no proof positive that either one of them was telling the truth.
"How did it happen?" Dot asked her husband.
The judge began shaking all over. "I was in the shower, and the door suddenly opened, and she stepped under the water with me, totally nude. I was stunned yet found myself with an involuntary erection anyway. After that, my resistance faded, and she accomplished what she had come to do. It was over in less than three minutes, and then she was gone.
"Why didn't you come tell me?"
"I felt like I had done something wrong. I was also scared because she was a minor."
"So that's how you came down with HIV? That little tramp! You're going to go straight to the prosecuting attorney and swear out a complaint against her. And we're having her removed from our home."
"That's not a good idea. She's going to report me if we make her leave."
"Absurd! Nobody would believe a runaway, a dependent. Besides, what proof does she have?"
"She told me she kept my sperm in a safe place."
"Meaning?"
Now he was full-on weeping. "She transferred a sample of my sperm to a handkerchief you gave her last Christmas. She threatens me with turning it over and ruining me. It's evidence that could send me to prison!"
"We're going to the police. They'll believe you before they believe her."
"I don't think telling the police about this is a good idea. If there was any sex at all, I'm guilty because I'm the adult and she's a minor. Besides, what would the police prosecute her for, Dot? Think about it. Calm down."
"They would arrest her for giving you HIV! That's a crime!"
He stalled her off. His doctor administered virus-suppressing drugs. During all this time Dot, to her great good fortune, was even then refusing all sexual advances from her husband.
The anti-virals worked for two years until one day he woke up and could hardly stand. He was weak and very sick. He went straight to his doctor, who told him evidently the suppressants had quit working. Dot gave him two options: the police or divorce. He went to the prosecuting attorney, and a criminal complaint was filed against Cache. They decided she would be tried as an adult. Before it could come to trial, his virus had turned into full-blown AIDS, and he was on his deathbed. After he died, the state added another count to the complaint, this one for aggravated murder. Cache was convicted at trial after she wasn't allowed by Larsyn to testify and tell the jury about the sexual assaults.
It's mid-afternoon by the time I finish up with the juvenile file. My heart is aching for my daughter. No matter which side you believe, the fact always remains that Cache was a minor. The judge was guilty whether he was forced or it was him raping her. She was a minor, and the law had to look no further.
But it didn't stop there, the ruination of my daughter. Millicent had refused to tell her about her dad. Seriously, that's the entire genesis of her undoing. Judge Wilberforce deserved to die. If he weren't already dead, he would be. Cache’s dad would see to that.
Why the same HIV hasn't killed Cache, I don't know. Partly, I'm sure, because she got on the anti-viral medications that have kept her HIV from destroying her altogether. Why the judge died, and she didn't—I've read about this for hours. There doesn't appear to be a clear-cut explanation for how this happens.
But one thing I do know: right now, as she's lying unconscious at St. Anthony Hospital, I have made doubly sure she's receiving her full anti-viral dosing.
Larsyn finishes up with the video session and comes to my hotel room just after five o'clock. He's headed back to Spokane on the seven o'clock redeye, but I've asked him to debrief me first.
"I've sent you the video of today's session by email. It should already be on your computer," he tells me. "It was amazing, Michael. Dr. Collingsworth was very forceful and one-hundred-percent the advocate for Cache. To hear him talk, she was hours away from climbing out of bed and making coffee."
"Please."
"You get my meaning."
"Yes. Tell you what. You go ahead and write the response to the motion to accelerate the execution date. I'll research the issues and be prepared to argue the motion on Monday. Does that square with you?"
"Hell, yes. You've paid me to do the entire job. Now you're going to do the oral argument? How could I complain?"
How can I tell him I'm only doing it because I no longer trust him? Knowing Cache's full story as I do now, and knowing that Larsyn had access to the same CPS reports, I don't trust him out of my sight since he didn't let her testify. Coupled with Millicent's comments that she heard him conspiring with Judge Maxim to take over Judge Wilberforce's court, Larsyn is way down on my list of trustworthy helpers. In fact, the more I watch the guy drink the iced tea room service brought up, the more I want to drive my fist into his face.
But I don't. The last thing Cache needs right now is to have her best advocate thrown in jail for assault.
So I keep my mouth shut. I've cut Larsyn off from arguing the motion, which I'm sure wouldn't go Cache's way if I allowed him to speak for her. No, this time her father will do her talking. And I will keep my enemy close by.
They will execute this innocent child only over my dead body.
DAY 9/30
Marcel flies to Gig Harbor and hands me this notice, dug up from the general files of the Spokane Chief Judge's Office:
Spokane, WA
Notice of Judicial Vacancy Spokane County Hon. Hiram Wilberforce has passed away. In the interim, the Chief Judge of the Superior Court has assigned cases to sitting judges, but it's now become apparent that a full-time judge is needed to replace Judge Wilberforce. Governor Jackson L. D'Nunzio is now seeking interested and qualified members of the Washington State Bar Association to submit applications to fill this position. The Governor's application for judicial appointment, the Uniform Judicial Evaluation Questionnaire, is accepted by the Spokane County Bar Association and several minority bar associations for evaluation purposes. To be considered for this vacancy, applicants are strongly encouraged to promptly submit complete applications, along with a short resume and the Waiver and Authorization to Release Information, and schedule judicial evaluations with the county bar association and the statewide minority bar associations. All applications must be completed and submitted to the Governor's Office, with all judicial evaluation ratings submitted to the Governor's Office of General Counsel as soon as possible.
"So here's your smoking gun, Boss," Marcel says when I've finished reading and re-reading.
"Larsyn. He's going to be appointed now. Probably about the time we finish up with the State's motion to accelerate. Bastard!"
"What do you want to do with him?" Marcel's look is one I've seen before. He gets it. His face and eyes are nothing less than murderous.
"For now, nothing. For later, we'll talk. This is personal. Whatever
we decide about Larsyn works for me."
"No, I say he has an accident now. A terrible accident in his little yellow Porsche."
"Yellow? Really?"
"It fits him. Coward!"
"He took fifteen-thousand from me, and he's ready to see Cache die. He deserves a terrible accident, you're right. Just not quite yet, okay?"
"Okay."
"Promise me."
"Promise."
"Now let's talk about Cache. It'll help clear my head."
We spend the next ninety-minutes reviewing my notes from her file. When we're finished, Marcel is fit to be tied. He's back on Larsyn and the terrible accident. I need to calm him down, so I suggest we go out to dinner. I call Millie; she's up for it. In fact, she sounds pleased to hear from me. I figure with Marcel along it will be a nice dinner, drop her off, then head back to my hotel with Marcel. No harm, no foul, right?
We're driving south on Angeles Road when I suddenly slam on the brakes. The car ahead of us just hit a dog. Now the dog is lying on its side in the road, trying to get up. After switching on my hazard lights, I’m up and out of the car. Marcel beats me there and scoops the whimpering animal up in his arms.
"Hit the GPS. We need it to find an animal hospital."
I run back to the SUV and manipulate the GPS. It instantly locates an animal hospital. Marcel climbs in beside me, cradling the dog on his lap. The animal's eyes are open. It's trying hard to wag its tail.
"What is it?" I ask.
"As in, breed?"
"Yes."
"English Setter, I'd say. Maybe a Springer Spaniel. Hard to say with all the blood."
"Where's it bleeding?"
"Looks like the upper hind leg. He almost made it across, but the car nailed his back end."
"Is he going to live?"
"He's going to live. Just step on it!"
We locate the hospital and rush in with the dog. The vet tech at the front desk is immediately up and rushing the dog back through a swinging door. We're told to wait in the lobby after we give the admitting clerk the particulars.
30 Days of Justis Page 9
