30 Days of Justis

by John Ellsworth

  We park across the street, make a mad dash ahead of oncoming traffic, and pull open the front door. We're greeted by a gray staircase straight ahead and a whitewashed door with no glass and no sign on our right. We take the stairs, me leading the way.

  A locked door at the top brings us to a halt. A bare bulb is the only illumination. Cobwebs glisten overhead. Verona looks at me; I turn and rap my knuckles on the whitewashed wood. Voices can be heard inside, plus the wails of a crying child, maybe two crying children. No answer, so I pound on the door. An adult voice goes silent. Then it shouts out, "Who you looking for, fool?"

  I guess I'm the fool. "This is Cache's dad. I need to talk to Inder."

  We wait, and just as I'm about to knock again, the door opens a crack. A huge man, bare from the waist up, peers out at me. "Wassup, fool?"

  "I'm Cache's dad. I need to talk to Inder Singh."

  "He ain't here."

  "When will he be back?"

  "Dude, if I knew that I'ma be the po-lice. And I ain't the po-lice."

  "Can we see our grandson?" Verona asks from off to the side.

  "You his grams?"

  "I am. I really need to hold my grandson."

  "Thas all right. Get on up in here."

  He stands aside, pulling the door open, and we are hit full-on in the face by a dope haze. I've been around, and I've been where my criminal clients hang, and I know the smell of vaporized rock and burnt weed. You never forget that toxic scent.

  "Amy!" our host shouts at a woman reclined on the only piece of furniture in the room, half of a sectional couch. "Get Leon Russell out here."

  "He's in back. You get him."

  "Bitch, I ain't goan tell you twice. Little Leo, front and center."

  The woman drags herself up off the couch, glaring all the time at our host, then lumbers out of the room through a door that appears to be a dark hallway. She returns moments later holding the hand of a small boy. He sees us and turns away. She jerks his arm and all but drags him to us.

  "Easy," I say, dropping down to one knee. "What's your name?"

  He looks away. I don't blame him.

  "Your mama told me to come see you, Leo. I'm your grandpa."

  Now he turns his head slightly toward me. Then he jerks away and it's only by leaping after him that the woman can grab his arm and drag him back around to us.

  "Would you like to get some ice cream?" I ask. "It's hot in here." It is hot. It's July in Spokane, and muggy in here where there's obviously no air conditioning and the windows are all shut.

  He nods without looking at me. "Ice cream."

  I look at the black man, who has taken up a position on the divorced sectional couch.

  "Can he come with us?"

  "Hell no, man. I doan know you."

  "I'm Cache's father."

  "Cache ain't got no father. Leastways thas what she told me."

  "I didn't know I had a daughter until she called me from prison. Right now she wants me to get to know Leo here."

  "How we know you gonna bring ‘em back?"

  "You'll have to trust me. I have no reason not to return him."

  "Hell no, dude. Ain't nobody leavin'."

  "How about I leave a cash deposit here until I bring him back?"

  "Like payin' bail to the judge?"

  "Like that, yeah."

  "How much we talkin'?"

  "I've got five-hundred cash."

  "Done. Lessee the Benjamin's."

  I pull the money clip from my pocket and peel off five-hundred-dollar bills. I hand them over to the man, who by now has taken up a position between my grandson and me. He's staring at my money clip. It's still got green bills.

  "How much more you got?"

  "Another five-hundred. I stopped at my ATM last night and today."

  "You pay up another five bills and you doan even gotta bring him back."

  "Pay him, Michael," Verona exclaims from beside me. "Pay the damn money,"

  "You're honestly selling me my grandson?"

  "Thas right. One thousand dollars."

  "Here we go." I unclip the remaining bills and pass them to my grandson's seller. He riffles the bills and nods. He reaches down and takes Leo's hand and places it on my own.

  "Go on, now, Leo. This here's your grandpa."

  Leo doesn't make any response. With his hand in mine, I move toward the front door.

  "Don't you come back up in here, fool," we're told. "His old man gonna be pissed."

  "Let him be. I can handle Mr. Singh."

  "Mr. Singh? Who dat?" the man cries and then lapses into a long, knee-slapping laugh. "Get on now. Outta here."

  We make the front door and head down the stairs. Leo resists the stairs, so I pick him up under one arm and double-time down to the street door. Across to my SUV we gallop and, once we're inside, Verona buckles Leo into the seat beside her in back. Now it's Lucky, Leo, and Verona.

  It's done. We have our grandson, and no one knows where we're headed.

  "Ice cream," Leo reminds us. I find a Dairy Queen on my phone and head that way. We eat and then Verona runs into a Target store. Fifteen minutes later, she emerges with a child's car seat. She expertly installs it—she should know how after raising Dania and Mikey through their early car seat days. We plunk Leo into his seat, and away we go. Traffic is light, but I don't hurry. I've got my grandson with me.

  Thirty minutes later, we're headed upstairs—me, Verona, Leo, and Lucky—in the elevator just down from the Davenport's main desk. Once we're inside our room, Leo takes the measure of Lucky.

  "Is he yours?"

  "He is. And I can tell he likes you already."

  "I like him, too."

  "He needs some essentials," says Verona. "He needs clothes, underthings, toys, coloring books—stuff like that. I'm taking him to the mall."

  "Sounds good. How about a suit, too. Something in blue he can wear with a white shirt and bright tie."

  "You're thinking court appearance?"

  "I am. It never hurts to have them there."

  "Done. Okay, Leo, let's go the mall. We need some clothes and toys for you."

  "Where's my daddy?"

  "We think daddy's at work. But for now, let's have some fun. A shopping spree sound good to you?"

  "Can I get a truck?"

  "Sure, one truck coming up."

  "Up the stairs?"

  "No. Well, let's go get one."

  "Okay."

  After they've trundled off, I set up my laptop on the desk beneath the window and phone down for coffee and pumpkin pie. As I'm waiting, I'm thinking about the habeas corpus petition I'm putting together. In it I'm going to list Larsyn keeping Cache from testifying; Judge Maxim paying off Larsyn; virus differentials—though I haven't spoken to Dr. Riddell yet I think I'm going to strike paydirt on this one; and the other girls' affidavits who had sex with Judge Wilberforce. There will be more as I go along, but all in all it looks like the state had no proof beyond a reasonable doubt at trial because Cache wasn't the only girl with Judge Wilberforce. There were lots of others, maybe the same viruses, maybe not, but we'll never know. So why wasn't this raised at trial by the defense? My argument will be made that Cache was chosen as the fall guy because she had no family in the area, was homeless, had no money/power, and no one cared about her.

  Her long history of arrest for prostitution beginning as a juvenile will break hearts, as will her affidavit recounting Judge Wilberforce's serial rapes when she was thirteen.

  With all this in mind, I'm sure she gets a new trial if—and it's a big if—I can get the federal court to even look at the petition. They might refuse on jurisdictional grounds since the case has already been before them once. My ace-in-the-hole with that is my own affidavit of Larsyn's fraud on the court when he appealed and petitioned the first time through. More than anyone, he knew Cache had been screwed, and he knew he was the one who did it. Of course, he brought up none of those things on appeal. That would have cooked his goose and ruined the ove
rall plan. I am ready to make war by the time my coffee and pie make it upstairs to my desk.

  Now I can dig in. Lucky wanders in from the bedroom and lies down beside my shoeless feet. He settles his head across my toes and sighs. Sleep comes over him in minutes, and I'm careful not to move my feet after. I like him there on me. I like Leo here, too. And of course, Verona.

  My family is enlarging.

  Now if I can just count Cache as one more among us.

  DAY 16/30

  Marcel and I show up for our appointment with Dr. Eleanor Riddell at seven-thirty the next morning, which is just after she has completed her hospital rounds. We meet in the cafeteria, as arranged. I'm wearing my Cincinnati Reds T-shirt for her to find me. No, I'm not a Reds fan; I found it in the Davenport Gift Shop though no one there could explain why it was on the shelf.

  We're waiting at a table along the far windows of the cafeteria, both of us with our chairs turned, surveilling the entrance.

  Sacred Heart Children's Hospital is where Cache was taken in, diagnosed, and treated for HIV when she was a young girl. Last night I spoke with Dr. Riddell, and she remembered the case without stopping to think, remembered Cache, and told me she had information about Cache's trial. She also told me that Cache was fourteen when she first began treating her.

  Our wait is rewarded in just five minutes. She said her hair was orange and, indeed, it is, as we see when she enters the eatery. She walks with a heaving limp, and I wonder how she can still get around the hospital like that as it must be painful. She reaches our table and smiles at us.

  "The hair is a rinse," she announces, "unlike the hair, the limp is real. Osteosarcoma, long bones, right leg."

  "I—I—" I have no idea what to say.

  "Bone cancer," she says, slapping the diseased leg as she speaks. "You, grab another chair," she directs Marcel, who's already on his feet doing just that.

  "And you must be Mr. Gresham."

  "Michael, please."

  "Eleanor, please. Thank you for the chair, Mr.—"

  "Call me Marcel. I'm the investigator."

  "Of course you are, dear. You even look like a cop. Were you?"

  "Oh yes. Scotland Yard, Interpol—many of them you would know about."

  "Be a dear and fetch a coffee, lots of half-and-half, none of that powder crap. Now, Mr. Gresham, you want to talk about Cache Evans? Is that it? Don't worry about HIPPA. HIPPA can eat my shorts when it's like this. Anyway, I've followed her case in the newspapers. Do you know why they never called me to testify?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was all set to testify in her trial, but no one ever called me."

  "Who was supposed to call you?"

  "The dwarf. Landon?"

  "Larsyn?"

  "That's the one. Little bastard never called me and never called to apologize for the afternoon I waited around in the hallway outside the court."

  "You were actually there?"

  "Of course. I wanted to see it for myself. But they said I couldn't come in because I was a witness and witnesses were excluded from the trial testimony part."

  "I understand. That's commonplace."

  "Why didn't he call me, though?"

  "Would you sign an affidavit about what you just told me?:"

  "Of course, Michael. What all will it say?"

  "That depends on you. What medical testimony did you have that would've helped Cache?"

  "Well, your daughter contracted HIV at a young age. It was thought, by me and others, that it was those goddam boys gave it to her. I thought her life was going to get better because CPS placed her with Judge Wilberforce. It turns out that rotten no-good started in on her."

  "Started in on her?"

  "Rape, Michael. Good old-fashioned rape of a minor. He should've had his nuts cut off."

  "Can't argue with your treatment plan, Doc," I tell her with a smile. "Now what medical testimony were you waiting to offer?"

  "One thing. The state was proving that it was Cache who gave Wilberforce HIV. But what if he gave it to her? What if she was negative when she went to work for him? Or what if she was positive when she went there but I started her on the HIV cocktail before he raped her? Her virus would've been suppressed by the drugs I was giving her. She couldn't have given him anything. Except maybe the clap. The bastard deserved AIDS, and he got it. Good riddance. But there's a chance it didn't come from Cache. Do you follow me? Why wasn't that introduced at her trial?"

  "We can get to that. Right now, it sounds like you're dealing in possibilities, not facts. Am I right?"

  Marcel returns with her coffee; she gives him a gracious smile and mouths, "Thank you."

  "Take some notes, Michael."

  I place my recorder between us.

  "That's fine; you may record me."

  "Thank you."

  "Oh, first of all. I saw on the TV she's on death row. That still true?"

  "It is. August third."

  "We can't let that happen."

  "We won't. That's why your testimony is so critical, Dr. Riddell. Now suppose you school me again. I'm turning on the recorder."

  She sits back, stretches out her arms, and yawns. Then she begins.

  "Well, when HIV is successfully suppressed by medication, people with HIV can't transmit the virus to others. This is my observation over hundreds of these cases. It's also based on a study by a coalition of community health and HIV/AIDS organizations."

  "How does that work?"

  "Modern drugs for HIV can often achieve viral suppression, meaning levels of the virus have been reduced to undetectable levels in the blood."

  "Okay, I follow that."

  "But here was the testimony I was going to give that would've walked her out of the courtroom a free woman."

  "Okay."

  "Over one million people in the U.S. are currently living with HIV, according to the CDC. Of those, 86 percent are aware of their diagnosis, 37 percent are on treatment to stop the virus from replicating, and 30 percent are virally suppressed. A study published last year in the Journal of the American Medical Association examined the risk of transmission between a person living with well-controlled HIV and their HIV-negative partner. Among 548 opposite-sex and 340 same-sex couples having unprotected sex, only 11 of the HIV-negative partners became positive over about a year and a half of follow up. Would this testimony have helped, Michael?"

  "So there was a chance that Judge Wilberforce could've given HIV to Cache even if he was taking virus suppressant drugs?"

  "There's a chance. Also, she could've given it to him. The trouble in all this is that no one can say one way or the other."

  "So it can't be beyond a reasonable doubt that she gave him HIV?"

  "No more than it can be beyond a reasonable doubt that he gave her HIV. It's medically unknowable who gave HIV if they share the same virus."

  "You'll sign an affidavit saying this?"

  "Of course. It's the truth, isn't it?"

  "You're the expert. But I can tell you this testimony at trial would have ended the prosecution right there."

  "Why didn't the little guy let me testify?" She gives me a wide-eyed look as if I might know something secret. And I do.

  "I'm working on the ‘why'. Bear with me. I'll email you a copy of my petition for habeas corpus, and you can read all about it there. Does that work?"

  "Works for me."

  She opens her straw purse and peers inside. Then she locates a lipstick, opens a compact and applies a gloss to her lips. With the help of a napkin, she blots her lips. It leaves a kiss on the napkin. She then balls it up and stuffs it into her purse. "Can't be too careful. I won't leave my DNA lying around."

  "No, none of us should."

  "Why, do you know something?"

  I blanch. "No, I just meant…."

  "Michael, Michael, I'm only fooling around. Don't take everything so seriously, Michael. Now what about your friend, here? Have you ever shot anyone?"

  They're off and running. I s
witch off my recorder and begin drafting her affidavit as they go back and forth with more of their getting-to-know-you. I could swear she has a thing for Marcel; lots of women do.

  Thirty minutes later, I look up. It's as if I've been in a dream state with my affidavit writing. Marcel has left the table, and the doctor has, too. I stand and survey the entire dining room. Nowhere to be seen. With what I already had, I'm ready to get Dr. Riddell to sign her affidavit and then talk to Cache's friends who had sex at the parties with her. After I have collected affidavits from them, I'll be prepared to file the petition for habeas corpus. My last chance to save Cache from execution.

  I hunt down Dr. Riddell's office two floors below. Marcel is inside her office, and they are seated side-by-side, this side of the doctor's desk, looking at a book together. Dr. Riddell turns another page. "And this is Florence. The most beautiful silver in Italy. All of Europe, probably."

  I enter the room unannounced. "Dr. Riddell, could I get you to look at this affidavit and sign it?"

  "Of course, Michael. I was just showing Marcel where I was last summer. Have you heard his Rome stories? The mob has taken over the whole country!"

  "I'll have to ask him about that. Here's the affidavit I need you to look over."

  It's still on my laptop. She reads slowly, nodding her head and scowling at some points. "Print it out," she says. "Use my printer."

  We print it out, and she signs. A clerk from the hospital business office has arrived to watch the signing and now notarizes the document. I have what I came to get.

  "Marcel, I know you're enjoying talking with your new friend, but we need to go talk to some other witnesses. Are you ready?"

  "Go into the hallway, Michael. I want to talk to Marcel before he leaves."

  Expelled, I do as directed. Lord only knows what those two are cooking up. Marcel joins me five minutes on. "Ready?"

  "Ready," I say.

  I don't even want to know. My daughter is the only thing in my mind at this point.

  We've driven up and down East Sprague Avenue at least a dozen times, each time turning around at a street sign warning that the area is an area of high prostitution and that if you're there to further prostitution, your vehicle will be impounded. I've never seen anything like that before.