30 Days of Justis

by John Ellsworth

  Justice McKinney cuts right to the point. "Gentlemen, it is my recommendation to the full court that this matter not be taken up by the Washington Supreme Court. We have been over these issues in the previous petition for post-conviction relief filed by Attorney Larsyn—although not all were presented then—and I see no need to rehash. Anything further?"

  I make a last stab at showing how my motion for an emergency hearing is different than what was presented here by Larsyn over a year ago, but Justice McKinney is dismissive. I'm dead in the water. We thank her and hang up. Lemongrass' voice is bouncy and glad when we say goodbye to the judge and thank you. I hate him now more than ever.

  "Now what?" asks Verona, who was listening on my speakerphone.

  "Now? The federal judiciary is what's now. I'll put together a habeas corpus motion and ask for a writ. That's all that's left."

  "You must be horrified, dear Michael."

  I shake my head. "That's not desperate enough. I'm way beyond horrified, Verona. I'm desperate and dying inside."

  "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning it's time to act outside the box. It's time to do what no one is expecting."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as helping our daughter escape. Run away. Flee to South America while she's still in the hospital. There won't be a better time to escape from her guard."

  "Guards, plural."

  "Whatever. You know what I mean."

  "You're not serious about running. Are you?"

  "I'd much rather be on the run with Cache than watch her die for something that isn't her fault. No parent would disagree with me."

  "True. How would it be done?"

  "That, I don't know. That's Marcel's area of expertise."

  "Let me think about it. In the meantime, let's hit the road. I'd like to see her before dark."

  "How far is it?"

  "Something like three-hundred miles. Maybe five or six hours."

  "Then let's get moving. Daylight's a-burning."

  "John Wayne?"

  "John Wayne."

  On the drive to Gig Harbor, we discuss Mikey and Dania—the younger kids—and Annie, our savant, as well as Danny's parents—presently watching the kids while we're gone. We also discuss my job in Washington, D.C. at the U.S. Attorney's Office. I've run out of vacation days, so there is much to share. We stop for coffee and pie at a Cracker Barrel. It's been years since I've been inside one and I see nothing much has changed. But we have excellent service thanks to a waitress who's premed at UW.

  We load back into the SUV. We give Lucky a bowl of water and a piece of the plain hamburger we've purchased. Then we're off again.

  Marcel calls. He wants to see me in person. He says he has an issue that can only be discussed in person. This must be what he was up to the other night when he left for Gig Harbor after sundown. We'll talk tomorrow.

  Two hours later, we hit the city limits of Gig Harbor and follow the GPS to St. Anthony Hospital. The elevator takes us up to Cache's floor.

  Except there is no Cache. We retreat to the nurse's station, only to learn she's been returned to the prison infirmary at Purdy. We're stunned. I know Lemongrass is behind the sudden transfer back to prison. He's outfoxed me again.

  We rush to Dr. Collingsworth's office. He's not available, but his nurse explains that he was in total disagreement with the State's demand that Cache be discharged into prison custody. In fact, the doctor called the governor himself and was told the governor was in complete agreement, that he'd already been advised of the discharge. There was nothing Dr. Collingsworth could do, the nurse finishes. She looks up at us helplessly.

  For the first time in a long time, I am without words and direction.

  Verona puts her hand on my arm as we ride the elevator back downstairs.

  "Maybe it's time to take our case to Big Boy court."

  "Federal court, yes."

  "It's our only hope, Michael. You've said this same thing many times before."

  "True."

  "Our only hope, yes. It's Cache's only hope, too.

  DAY 15/30

  Verona and I decide to head south to Purdy and visit Cache early tomorrow. It's gotten late, and I'm probably best kept away from people right now with my exhausted attitude. I sleep until seven.

  My mind hits the floor running at exactly 7:05.

  I am in turmoil.

  What can I do today that might save Cache? What is my best angle? My mind is moving at high speed now. I'm frantic and don't know where to turn. Then I remember Verona is with me in bed. I snuggle up against her, stealing a few last moments before the fight begins again.

  Up and out. Make coffee, take Lucky out to pee and sniff, and back inside.

  This is much better now. Dog—coffee—Verona; not necessarily in that order. I sit down at my laptop and take my first sip of Starbucks.

  Federal habeas corpus appeals are notoriously difficult to get. That's the first thing I have to remind myself. But if we are lucky enough to get one then we'll get a new trial out of it.

  I begin preparing the petition for filing in the U.S. District Court. I have the option of filing either in Spokane or Tacoma, and I choose the latter. I want to remove it from the good old boys of Spokane as much as possible.

  Two hours later, Verona awakens from her deep sleep. I'm quite a way down the road on my petition, and I'm ready for a break. We decided to visit Cache. Verona hits the shower, and I take a last look around the apartment.

  While we were away, the apartment complex's maintenance people have replaced the missing drywall Lucky chewed away. I've picked up a wire kennel from Petco. I coax him into it when I hear the hairdryer erupt in its sonic whine. I slide the lock behind him. He's good for a couple of hours now, which is all we need.

  Then we set out, me driving, Verona in the passenger's seat. We haven't driven one city block when she asks, "Will I be able to visit with her? Will they let me in?"

  "Just remember, you're my paralegal/investigator. You're a member of my staff. That should get you right in."

  "I'll tell them."

  At the visitors' window, we are successful without blowback. They agree to let Verona in with me. (How could they not? Our client is facing execution in fifteen days.) We're led to a conference room that's new to me. It consists of a desk, two visitors’ chairs, and a grated window looking out on a desolate landscape of dead grass and coiled razor wire running around the top of a ten-foot chainlink fence. A mix of claustrophobia and disgust settles over me. Verona, across the desk, nods solemnly. Something is up with her, too.

  Cache is led into the room by a stout woman wearing the liver-colored uniform of the guards in this place. The woman is incommunicative and seems to disapprove of our meeting with her inmate, which I couldn't care less about.

  Cache waits until the door closes behind her and then shuffles to me—she's ankle-chained and waist-chained. She lays her head on my shoulder and shudders. I pull her close and just hold her without speaking. There are no words that can make this moment right; no words can lift the oppressive air in this place. Now she draws back and, without a word, turns to Verona.

  Verona hugs her, too, without hesitation. When she releases Cache, the girl is crying soundlessly. All hope is gone, the slope of her shoulders and downcast face tell us. She has given up.

  "I'm sorry I've been unsuccessful so far, Cache. I need you to know that I'm doing everything I can."

  "I know. This is your wife?"

  "I am. My name is Verona, Cache. I'm the mother you never knew you had just like Michael is the dad you never knew you had. And like your dad, I'm one-hundred-percent behind you. We're ready to give up everything we have to save you."

  "Okay. What's next?" she asks, and absently cups a hand in front of her mouth and sniffs her breath. She pulls away from her own air and scowls. "I don't even get a toothbrush. I'm on suicide watch; nothing allowed that I might kill myself with. I'm sorry for my smell."r />
  "I love you no matter your smell, no matter what you've done or haven't done in your life," I tell her. "If you had taken a gun and killed this judge I'd love you just the same. You're my kid."

  This last part elicits more tears—the last thing I mean to do.

  "I wish I'd met you twenty years ago. We would've been great friends."

  "That's true. But it's not too late to start. I'm not going to lose you."

  Verona shoots me a look of admonishment meant to say I shouldn't promise a result I might not deliver. But I disagree. I'm going to win this thing.

  "I've started today writing a petition for a writ of habeas corpus. That's a fancy lawyer way of saying I'm going to the federal court and get you a new trial."

  "I don't care what they call it. I just want to tell the jury my story."

  "I know you do, Cache. And you will."

  "I hope so."

  Tears again, and this time Verona joins her, snuffling and dabbing with a monogrammed handkerchief from her purse. I can only sit here and watch, my heart breaking for both of them. So many bygone opportunities to love and be loved.

  But I can't allow myself to wallow in it. I have to do this.

  "So I need you to tell me the names of other women who you know had sexual intercourse with Judge Wilberforce. Can you give me some names?"

  "Sure. There's Blistex, who always had cold sores; there's Wendy; there's Charlotte the Starlet from the porn vids; and Queen Reina, a tranny. I could remember more if you need."

  "Do you have full names of these women?"

  "What do you mean? I just gave you their names."

  "I mean their full names. And where we might find them."

  "The streets of Spokane, Michael. East Sprague is the street you want."

  "Names?"

  She shrugs. "You know all I know. Are they going to be in trouble? None of them have any money, just like me."

  "The money goes to their pimps?"

  "Yes. Like Inder Singh. He's my pimp. He told me he met you."

  "When was this?"

  "Sunday visiting hours a few weeks ago."

  "He also told me he's your husband."

  "Oh, no! He took care of me when it was cold and kept me from getting beat-up or murdered. But he's nobody's husband. He wouldn't ever get tied down."

  "How can I get hold of Inder?"

  She gives me his phone number from memory. "But don't call before noon. He stays up late and sleeps in. He'll hate you if you wake him up."

  "There's a worry for you," Verona says. She knows her way around sarcasm.

  "What do you want with him?" Cache asks.

  She has a right to know, and it's no secret.

  "I want to get affidavits from the other women who had sex with the judge. Some of them will be HIV positive. We'll get their test results from the county and compare the viruses from all of them to the virus Judge Wilberforce had."

  "What do you mean?"

  "People with HIV who're taking antiviral drugs and who have suppressed the virus with those drugs cannot give the virus to someone else. I plan to show that was your profile. I also want to show your virus wasn't the same as his virus. That's point number two. If your virus is different from his, then you couldn't have given him HIV."

  She looks steadily at me. "None of this was mentioned in my trial."

  "I know. I've read all your transcripts."

  "Why didn't my lawyer bring it up?"

  "We'll get to that down the road. Now tell me, who is your HIV doctor?"

  "Eleanor Riddell. She's in Spokane a block off Sprague downtown."

  "How long did she treat you for HIV?"

  "Ever since I got it."

  "How old were you when you got it?"

  "Didn't you ask me this already?"

  "Maybe. I'd like you to tell me again."

  "I was maybe thirteen. Maybe as old as fourteen."

  "Just a little kid."

  "Tell them that."

  I look at her. "You know what? I just might do that very thing. Do you remember any of their names? Probably not, but I want to ask."

  "Randy Rosenthaler, Brent Massingill, Dean Driney. That close enough for you?"

  I'm not surprised. I would remember names too if I'd been through that horror.

  Verona is giving me the evil eye, but I ask anyway. "Do you know where they might be found all these years later?"

  "I heard Randy's Humvee hit an IED in Iraq. He's dead."

  "What about Brent?"

  "He became a counselor at Serenity House. Can you believe that shit?"

  "No, I can't. Who runs the place?"

  "Some state agency. It's a hellhole. It's outside the city limits of Spokane on the east side. No playground, no gym, just an empty field that freezes over in the winter. If you must know, Brent was the main guy. He humiliated me when they were done."

  "Tell me about that."

  "He took pictures of me and posted them online. They got taken down, but everyone at SH saw them first."

  I can hardly control my hand as I'm writing these things on a yellow pad. My anger has all but frozen my writing hand.

  "What about Dean Driney?"

  "Dean is not a bad kid. I think the other guys made him fuck me."

  "That's no excuse. Tell me where he is?"

  "He's an insurance agent in Seattle. That's the last I heard. He went to U-Dub on a track scholarship."

  "Good enough."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I need to think about that."

  "Meaning you don't want to tell me?"

  "Meaning you're on a need-to-know basis about it. Right now there's no need."

  Verona stands and moves to the window. She braces herself with an arm across the glass and leans forward, pressing her forehead to the glass. "This place doesn't deserve someone like you," she says to Cache. "You're far too good for the likes of this. You're not even guilty of anything, so why are you even here?"

  "Because my lawyer sold me out," Cache replies.

  "That's true. Now we just have to make the court see what happened and how the jury verdict might have differed if your lawyer had actually defended you."

  We then lapse into small talk for another half-hour until the same guard opens the door and sticks her head in. "Time's up," she says in her command voice.

  "No time limit," I tell her sharply. "Attorney visit."

  "You've got five minutes then I'm coming in and escorting my prisoner back to her cell. Attorney visit or not."

  "How would you like to end up on the wrong end of a Civil Rights lawsuit?" I ask.

  "Scare you, scare me. Sue away, white boy. I'll sue you right back for Civil Rights."

  "Just leave, please," I ask her. No need to fight the little battles that go nowhere. I realize I'm jumpy, ready to take a swing at anything that looks like a target. So I turn away from her. The door closes as the guard retreats.

  "Tell me about your other kids, Michael."

  "Well, there's Mikey and Dania. The youngest is Mikey. Then there's Annie, our older daughter. She's working part-time at the U.S. Attorney's Office."

  "Lucky girl. I'll bet she likes being around her dad all day."

  "We're not around each other all that much. She works two floors down from me in a private office now."

  "But she's free. That's what I meant."

  "So will you be. Then you can come work with me, too, Cache. If you want."

  Her eyes drop to the desktop. "There's something I haven't told you, Michael and Verona."

  "Such as?"

  "I have a four-year-old son. He's with Inder. That's his father, at least I think he is. He swears he's not, but I think he's wrong about that. My son is dark-complected, and so is Inder. But so am I."

  My mind is instantly racing. A grandson? Are you only just now telling me this? Verona looks at me. I try to appear unruffled.

  I keep my cool. "I'd like to meet him. Is that possible?"

  "Sure. Just tell Inde
r next time you see him."

  "What's your son's name?"

  "Leon Russell Evans. Named after my favorite musician. I call him Leo."

  "Leo. He's four, you say?"

  "Turns four on July twentieth. A great day in my life."

  "I'm sure that's true. What is Inder's address? Spokane?"

  "Yes, Spokane. 2424 Margot Street. It's not a good neighborhood. We hang in a condo with two other pimps and some girls. It's a huge place that used to be a loft. There's only one window."

  "Who's watching Leo now, with you incarcerated?"

  "Inder."

  "But when Inder's not around?"

  "Anyone who happens to be there. We keep an eye out for everyone's kids. It's like a commune."

  I'm getting the picture, and I don't like what I'm seeing. Not one damn bit. It's time to pay a visit on Inder. But first comes the federal court paperwork. It has to be filed today. So we don't argue this time when the guard reappears. We hug goodbye and make promises. Cache is led away, and another officer appears to walk us out.

  Back in the parking lot, Verona speaks for the first time since we walked outside.

  "A grandson? Are you kidding me?"

  "I know. Jump in. We've got lots of miles ahead of us."

  We pick up Lucky from my apartment and head back to the Davenport Hotel in Spokane. Lots of driving today; Verona is in the back seat lying down; Lucky is sitting in the passenger seat, his snout pressed up by the window, eyeballing the traffic we pass. He's a good dog, easy maintenance, doesn't feel the need to pee on every vertical object he comes across, doesn't bark when he hears a noise outside. A really good guy. I think Verona is getting attached to Lucky as I have.

  Once we're in Spokane, the GPS delivers us to 2424 Margot Street. It's an old, industrial-looking building three stories high with a weatherbeaten front door. On the right side sprawls an automobile used parts-store with a junkyard out back filled with the rusted and crushed hulks of motor vehicles that have seen better days. On the left side of the building is a corner grocery with a massive sign advertising lotto and Bud. Everything a local man needs: car parts, games of chance, alcohol, willing women upstairs, and even babysitters. What could go wrong?