We are on our twelfth circuit when we spot Inder Singh. He's standing between two young women who're wearing stilettos and miniskirts with bare midriff tube shirts. It doesn't take a Svengali to understand the setup. We park and head back up the block in his direction.
This is a run-down area of Spokane with not a lot of traffic but what there is seems to be cruising the young women strategically positioned up and down the street on both sides.
A car approaches Inder's station. One of the girls leans and talks in the passenger window, climbs in with the driver, and the car crawls away, careful to obey all traffic laws. Can't blame the driver; it would be a damn poor time to get stopped with a young woman who is probably a minor slouched down in your passenger seat. Now Inder sees my face and frowns at me.
"You're taking over my corner, is that it?" he chides me.
"I want to meet some of Cache's friends. I need your help."
"I will help Cache. I won't help you."
"That's fair. I need some introductions to a few girls who attended parties thrown by Judge Wilberforce. This would have been while Cache was living and working there."
"It's no problem. I can take you to twenty girls if you want."
"Maybe three or four. If we could get them all to meet me at a restaurant for five minutes? I'll pay each one a hundred bucks for five minutes of their time."
"Pay the man who brings them. Got it?"
"Sure."
There's a Troxell's Restaurant down on the next corner, and we agree to meet there. Inder will bring the women.
Marcel and I head up the sidewalk, when here comes a prowl car right at us, two cops giving us a long, mean look. Then they turn away and drive on. Another block and we come to an ATM. I make a large withdrawal; there are payments to be made. Marcel makes a withdrawal from his account, too, and passes his bills to me. Now the police car comes back by just as Marcel retrieves his ATM card from the machine's slot. The cops slow way down and almost stop. Suddenly their red-and-blue lights flash, sirens wail, and they are gone. Not a minute too soon, either.
"That's all we need, getting run in for solicitation, Ace," says Marcel.
"Well, we could always call Larsyn to defend us. Ten years in prison sounds about right."
"Larsyn. I'm not done with him," Marcel mutters.
I don't ask what he means by that. I don't want to know.
Then we enter the restaurant, a working person's cafe with burnt coffee you can smell as you enter. Overhead are rows of fluorescents that flicker across the ceiling like some secret code.
We find a table halfway back, large enough for eight, and order coffee.
They begin arriving, two's and three's. They aren't as young as they all looked when we were driving up and down. Or maybe they are, but the life has assaulted the clear complexions and unwrinkled faces and abandoned them behind soul-killing mascara and too, too red lips. I am sorry for them and want to help—as presumptuous as it sounds. I assuage my need to cure the world's ills by reminding myself, for the ten-thousandth time, those ills weren't created by me, and it's not my job to fix them. I'm the complete Catholic at this moment, full-on guilt and all. It will keep. Right now it's time to make my move.
They've settled around, nervously tossing back and forth Yes's and No's in response to questions about money and men. Finally, the bravest of them all looks at me and says, "Well, love, put up or shut up."
I pull out the ATM twenties and hold them up, "I need your help."
"Money first," says the tallest blond of the seven blondes. "Then we talk."
Who can argue? "Money first" is how it's done in their world. I separate the bills into seven stacks, which Marcel distributes, beginning with the nearest woman. Now we're all paid up.
"Cache Evans needs your help."
"We wanted to help like forever," says the blonde who, I'm beginning to realize, is actually a guy. "But nobody asked."
"Now we're asking," Marcel replies.
"We need to know which of you is HIV positive. If you're not HIV positive, you can leave and thanks for coming here today."
The tall one, standing up, asks, "Do we keep the money?"
"Totally. You were willing to help. That's what I paid you for."
Three workers leave. The women now number four remaining.
"I'm going to pass around a yellow pad of paper. Please write your full name and the name of your HIV doctor on the top page. I'm asking you for this because I need to talk to your doctor. Also write your cell phone number there, too. If I need you then I'll need to call you in a hurry."
"You sure you're not the police?"
"No, I'm a lawyer. And I'm Cache's father."
"Cache ain't got no father."
I smile. "She does now. Would you really think I'd claim to be her father if I weren't?"
"No."
"Uh-uh."
"Well, then. Please give up your details on the pad."
Marcel and I wait as the legal pad makes its way around the table. Five minutes later, we thank everyone and tell them they can leave.
"Fastest hundred bucks I ever made," says one.
"You mean on your feet, Roberta."
"Oh, whatever, Joanne."
They giggle and push each other in jest as they file out of the eatery.
"What do you say to some breakfast, Marcel? I'm starving."
"Do we have any money left?"
I tell him we do.
"Then order us the blue plate special. I'm going to the men's room and try to wash this place off me."
I get it. He made skin-to-skin contact with several of our visitors.
Old habits, even knowing what modern medicine says about suppressed viral loads.
Seven o'clock that same night finds Verona and me, plus Leo and Lucky, in front of the TV watching an animated movie about despicable something-or-others. Leo laughs uproariously, and that's all that matters. He hasn't asked about Inder Singh not even once. Marcel knocks on the door, and I let him in. We retreat to the dining table in the adjoining room of my suite.
"I made contact with all the doctors," he says. "They all helped us."
"Without releases?"
"They called the patients on their cell phones and got verbal OK's. It's all legal, boss."
"What do we know?"
"We know that three of the four women have the same virus Judge Wilberforce had."
I shake my head. "Wow. Three names that might've passed the virus to the so-called victim."
"Yes, I faxed everyone the judge's autopsy and blood studies. All matches except for the one named Mickey."
"The guy."
"Exactly. I called him and told him we wouldn't be needing him. I have an appointment to meet the rest of them tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, Troxell's Restaurant again."
"I've got the affidavit template ready. Let's plug in the names and print out the papers. You'll take them and get them signed in front of a notary."
"Where do I get a notary?"
"The hotel concierge has a notary on staff. She'll be accompanying you."
"That must've cost s fortune."
"Actually, it didn't cost a penny. This hotel is incredibly helpful to its guests."
"Amazing place."
In another twenty minutes I have all the affidavits printed and in a folder in Marcel's hands.
"Take care," I tell him.
"You know me, boss. I'll take it any way I can get it."
"Speaking of, have you seen Dr. Riddell again? Any plans?"
"Dinner tomorrow night. I think she likes me."
"I'd guess she does. What's not to like?"
"Flatter me, boss."
"One more thing, before I forget. Brent Massingill? Dean Driney?"
"Massingill teaches social studies at Serenity House. He lives about a mile west of there. Driney is listed as an Independent insurance agent in Seattle. Name, address, phone. They're both easy."
"Good. A couple more days and we'll go."
/> "Your call, Boss."
I smile.
"I've got a one-eyed character in goggles to get back to. Consider yourself free to wine and dine the ladies."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"G'night, boss."
"Call me tomorrow when it's done. The habeas corpus papers will be ready to attach and have you walk over to the federal court. The game is afoot."
"Afoot? Shakespeare?"
"Gresham."
DAY 17/30
Today is cloudy with intermittent rain. I am watching the clouds roll by at 5:30 a.m. and finishing the argument I'm going to say to the district court if the judge agrees to hear my petition for habeas corpus.
Basically, I'm going to be all about the conspiracy to convict my daughter of first-degree murder.
I pull away from my laptop and study the rain. It's heavier, raining at a slant, and I am finished with the keyboard. Time to see my daughter and take my grandson along. Maybe they'll let her see him one last time before the execution. I'm going to try. It's also Leo's birthday; I owe him no less than to try for a visit. Maybe even get a picture of him and mom together.
I'm still enjoying the early morning quiet when there's a loud knocking on my hotel door. I open and find Marcel standing there with his folder. He's dripping wet, but the folder was evidently carried inside his shell jacket and is dry.
"You aren't going to believe it," he says as he comes into my living room, water beading on the tip of his nose. "I talked to the women last night. Two of them told me Franklin Lemongrass came to see them during the trial. He paid them off to disappear, so Larsyn had an excuse for not calling them to testify."
"They told you this?"
"They told me they were paid off. The second half is my conclusion."
"It's probably accurate. In fact, I'm 100% sure it's accurate. We can argue your conclusion. But first, we need a supplemental affidavit for the women about being paid off."
"No need. I got on your pleading on Dropbox and opened it up. I added an extra sentence to the affidavit that now includes being paid off by Lemongrass. It's all right here, boss," he says, and he hands me the file folder.
"You're a genius. Thank you."
I read through the affidavit. The extra part he added is perfect. It's also very short and makes the point the affiant was paid off by Lemongrass to hide away during the trial. I'm excited to have it.
Marcel wants coffee. I call downstairs for a pot.
"So what do you need from me today, boss?"
"I need you to ride over to Purdy with me. I'm going to try to get Leo in to see his mother. If I can't, I'd like him to wait outside with you while I have a visit."
"Who's driving?"
"How about you. I'll ride in back with Leo and keep him involved in games and books."
"He already has games and books? You guys don't waste any time."
"Think Verona, Marcel. She's always on the front line."
"Love that woman. You're a lucky man, boss."
"What about you, Marcel? Seeing Eleanor Riddell again?'
"Tomorrow night. That's the second night this week."
"Just don't get her pregnant."
"Boss, she's fifty years old."
"Yes, but you're inordinately virile, Marcel. Keep your distance. Protected sex only, chum."
"Good grief."
Our coffee arrives, and we enjoy just sipping and looking out at the rain. We've been together a long time. I don't know what I'll do with myself when our run comes to an end. I think about that sometimes. It's very difficult because he could fall in love or decide to move away or any number of things that would take him away. He's irreplaceable, though I have a son in D.C. who I would try to enlist maybe in a new law practice. I'm working on that.
The deputies manning the front office of the prison are sympathetic. Leo will be allowed inside with me to visit his mom. Ten minutes later and we're all three together as Marcel says he'll wait in the lobby. He's giving us family-space.
She starts crying the second she enters the conference room and sees Leo. But she keeps it under control for Leo's sake. He's in love with his mom and runs to her, flinging his arms out wide and hugging her for all he's worth. It's such a touching moment that I have to look away to avoid breaking down.
"Today's his birthday, Michael."
"I know it is. He's here to have you sing happy birthday to him. They let me inside with this." I open my briefcase. Inside are three Dolly Madison chocolate cupcakes I picked up at a 7-Eleven on the drive over. Also a box of birthday candles and a lighter. There will be a celebration.
She is laughing-crying with joy and comes around to hug me. This is the first time a hug has happened at her behest. I'm deeply moved. I have another kid back in the fold. Last night I talked to the three at home in D.C. and let them all talk to Leo. Exciting times for everyone.
While Leo crumbles his cupcake and piece-meals it into his mouth, I use the moment to update Cache. Her brown eyes are dazzling as she looks from me to her son as I go on. His skin is dark, like Cache's.
"So we're headed back to Spokane when we leave here, and I'm going to walk your petition through filing in the federal court and take it up to the judge and beg for an accelerated hearing."
"Is it going to work this time?"
I can only look at Leo as I answer her. "I think so. I'm praying."
"Guess what, Michael? I'm praying too. I didn't know I was a believer."
"Being on death row would make a believer out of anyone."
She lifts her son into her lap and cuddles him. I can see in her eyes that she is saying goodbye. She knows she won't see him again unless I can make magic happen. She is wracked with soundless sobs, but Leo doesn't seem to notice. He's licking chocolate goo from his fingers and pushing off from his mother's chest. Now he looks up into her eyes. "Crying, mama?"
"Just a little, sweetheart. Mama is so happy you're here."
"Me too! I love birthday cake that grandpa brought."
Did I just hear correctly? Am I grandpa now? My skin tingles. I'm a happy man.
Then the guard sticks his head inside. "Five minutes. What's the little guy got all over him?”
"Birthday cake. It's his birthday."
"They let you in here with that?"
"They did. There was a miniature hacksaw blade hidden inside the cupcake."
"Get outta here," the guard says with a shake of his head. But he does pull the door shut and gives us a few more precious minutes together.
"He's one of the nice ones," Cache explains. "He brings me books."
"What do you read?"
"Mostly lawyer stuff. I would've made a great lawyer, just like my dad."
I'm flattered. "We'll have to talk about that. It's never too late, you know."
Leo climbs out of his mom's lap and looks around at the ugliness of the room, the mint walls, the barred window, the air made fetid by the summer rain beading down the window glass. Then his face changes and he picks up the paper from his cupcake. He begins licking it.
"You made my day—Dad."
"I'm glad." It's all I can do not to break down. Dad, indeed.
The door opens and our little family hugs and kisses one last time. Then Leo turns his face to me, "Is mommy coming?"
"Not just yet. Mommy has more to do here first," I tell him.
"Don't cry, Mommy, I'll come back."
"I know you will, my precious. I'll be here waiting for you."
"Okay, bye then."
Leo takes my hand and pulls me back in the direction we came. The guard speaks into his shoulder microphone. "Guard will be right here, Mr. Gresham. They can take you out."
The four of us wait in the hallway until our escort rounds the far corner. Then Cache is taken off in the opposite direction as Leo, and I head back up the hall toward the escort. She turns and looks back at the exact second I do. She waves. I wave back.
Then we collect up Marcel and hurry outside.
&
nbsp; Like always when I get outside the fence of one of these places, I inhale a chest full of free air.
"How did it go?" Marcel asks.
"She was happy. Leo was happy. I'm happy. You two head back to Spokane. I'm off to Tacoma to save my kid."
It's prearranged. I have a hotel in the city where I'll be filing the habeas petition and attending court—if I'm lucky enough to get the court to hear it.
Marcel pulls over and waits until I hail a cab and am driven away. It's only fifteen miles and change to Tacoma.
It's almost two o'clock when I arrive at my hotel. I check-in then head to the federal courthouse on Pacific. It's Thursday. I have high hopes for this afternoon. I have to.
It has to work.
DAY 17/30
We take Leo back to the hotel. Heading for the elevator, we spy Verona and Millie talking downstairs at the Starbucks counter. They wave us over. We catch up on Cache; we catch up on Leo's birthday, and we make small talk about the drive and the weather. Then I head upstairs, alone, to print out my pleading and make copies for the court and the U.S. Attorney. I re-read everything for typos then head downstairs for a cab ride over to the district court. I'm alone; I don't need or want anyone with me. It would only be a distraction. It always comes down to this anyway: me and the judicial system. We're in for a struggle, both of us.
Every other filing is expensive. But the fee for filing an application for habeas corpus is only five dollars. They want everyone to have access to the court for habeas corpus filings. A fair first step for any inmate in the country.
Up to the clerk's filing counter I stride as if I own the place. A clerk across the secure area behind the counter sees me looking at her. I know she's a filing clerk; you can tell by how they look up when you enter the office. No one else looks up, but the filing clerks are always ready to help.
She makes her way to the counter and smiles at me. "Yessir?"
"I need to file this application for a writ of habeas corpus."
"Is this a new filing?"
"It is."
"Got five bucks?"
I hand her a five-dollar bill. She leaves it lying on the counter between us as she thumbs through my papers. It's all there, and it's thick enough to carry the weight that it does.
30 Days of Justis Page 16
