30 Days of Justis

by John Ellsworth

  "Michael Gresham."

  "Be sure and include that on the form."

  "Wait, you don't understand everything yet. I'm her father, but her mother left me off her birth certificate."

  "Now why would she do that?"

  "Please, that doesn't matter. I just know I'm not on it."

  "Then you'll need to bring your daughter or your wife here to obtain those records, Mr. Gresham."

  "We were never married."

  "If she's the mother we don't need to worry about marriage and such as that. If she can confirm her identity and it matches the birth certificate, then you've got the records. They belong to your child, and that means the parent has access. Have I helped you?"

  I have to admit he has. Another hurdle to jump, but we're very close. I can almost feel the papers in my hands.

  We turn away from the window.

  "All right, I can drive to Purdy and pick up Millie. We can't make it back before this place closes, but we can be here first thing in the a.m."

  "Drop me at the hotel and hit the road, Marcel. And thanks."

  We climb back inside the Highlander. He winks at me, we back away from the curb, and we're headed for the Davenport Hotel. I'll spend the rest of the afternoon swimming with Leo, hanging out with Verona, and drinking Starbucks out of politely small carafes.

  But there will be no relaxing. Tonight, when everyone's asleep, I'll climb quietly out of bed, go to the desk, and spend the rest of the night re-writing the amended appeal I'll be filing tomorrow with the Court of Appeals.

  Then I fall asleep upright in my seat, broad daylight. This has never happened to me.

  I force my eyes open. I shake my head.

  I want to say something to Marcel.

  But I don't.

  DAY 23/30

  Millie took the room next to mine at the Davenport late last night.

  Now, she's up early, rapping on my door—but not loud enough to wake Verona or Leo. I'm wearing cutoffs and a sweatshirt so I can let her inside immediately. A quick hug hello and we pull apart to face each other as the parents of a child about to die for a crime she did not commit.

  She's all business. "Marcel told me what you need. What time do they open?"

  "Eight o'clock."

  "That's two hours. How can I help in the meantime?"

  "Do you have your phone?"

  "I do."

  "Then I'm going to email you the amended appeal I'm working up. You can proofread."

  "Email away. I'm all over it."

  I send the document to her email and moments later we've both gone our separate ways, in a mental sense, no longer aware of each other. At seven-thirty my watch's haptic alerts me; it's time to go to the health department and do whatever it takes to claim our daughter's records.

  I message Marcel, who's knocking on my door moments later. Downstairs we go, stop at the coffee station, then outside, where we pile into Marcel's rental, and off we go.

  It's July 26, and I can feel the time ticking away in my bones. No one needs to tell me the date; my subconscious is keeping tabs on that. My subconscious is playing games with me, too, sometimes counting the number of breaths a person takes in a day and multiplying by her remaining days. A parent should never know the number of breaths a child has left. It's not right.

  We pull into the spot right next to the sidewalk. We're so early the lot is nearly empty. We fidget and make small talk until precisely eight o'clock, when we head for the entrance, hurry inside and rush to the counter before anyone else—there's no one else here—can beat us there.

  The same young man as yesterday greets us from his side of the counter.

  "This must be the mother," he says with a polite smile.

  "I am," says Millie. "I'm here for my daughter's records. I have my passport, my driver's license, and my Social Security card. Where do you want to start?"

  It's only a matter of minutes before Millie has clearance to review the entire file. We're led back to a carrel area, where Millie can sit down and begin reviewing Cache's records on a visitors' computer. The young man—whose name is Tom—stands at Millie's shoulder and helps her find the beginning of the file. Then we're off and running. Millie is intently poring over records screen by screen when she hits pay dirt.

  "Oh my God, here it is!"

  I'm looking over her shoulder and see the same thing. Cache's first visit with Dr. Henry Easter is viewable. We speed read. It appears Cache first saw Dr. Easter in 2002. He examined her at the hospital following the rape by the three boys. He worked up the rape kit, took a blood draw and took another about ninety days later. Both were negative for any virus. As an additional precaution, he also tested the blood of the three criminals who raped my daughter. Their results are posted in her file although their names are redacted. The smoking gun—first smoking gun—is that all three tested negative for HIV. They weren't infected, in other words. So the prosecuting attorney's case, which was linked to the three boys as the presumed source of Cache's presumed infection with HIV just evaporates.

  The prosecutor had no case; he only made the jury believe he had a case. Even better, Cache returns for another blood test six months after going to live in Wilberforce's house—a common safeguard to follow-up on the previous tests—and now she's HIV positive. The only thing that's changed in the interim, according to her history, is the rape by Judge Wilberforce. Given her history, and given the results of her three blood tests, the judge is the HIV carrier who infected my daughter. Millie looks up at me, tears in her eyes.

  "They all lied," she says in a voice that breaks off.

  I lay my hand on her shoulder. "They did lie. Here's the smoking gun. Now, why didn't Dr. Easter report the new finding, the HIV infection, to CPS? Wouldn't they have moved Cache out of that environment?"

  Millie, ever the scientist, answers me. "Maybe he did report it. Maybe CPS just failed to act."

  I'm scanning further down the doctor's entries. "Ah, here we are. It appears that he told CPS. June DeWitt got back to him and told him she was going to change Cache's placement. According to the doctor's next note, she advised Dr. Easter that she had informed the court authorities of the infection. Evidently, they ignored her, or her message got lost because nothing happened after that."

  Marcel speaks up. "Or maybe they were already protecting Judge Wilberforce. Maybe that's why nothing happened."

  "Good grief." I can only close my eyes and let this sink in. My gut tells me that Marcel is right. I've seen entire athletic teams of young girls sexually abused by their team doctor, and the entire thing gets covered up while the abuse is allowed to continue. The whole idea just sickens me. Cache's case is just one more.

  "What do we do?" she asks. Her voice is small and far away.

  "We show this file to the Court of Appeals. Then we walk our daughter out of the Purdy prison."

  She throws her head back, and a long cry of joy fills the small room. Tom comes to see that everything's all right. We tell him which records we need and he inputs a passkey and prints them out for us. Two sets. She has hers, and I have mine.

  "Now I need to go back to my room, to my computer. And I need you two to leave me alone to work. In the meantime, so that it's quiet around there, do you suppose that you, Marcel, could figure out something to entertain Leo while he and Verona give me some space?"

  "Done, Boss. That river running through town. I think I'm taking Leo fishing."

  "Excellent. Millie?"

  "If I'm done here then I'm going back to Purdy. I'll bring Cache up to speed on what we've found. That should give her some hope, something to hold onto."

  I tell her I agree and we load back into Marcel's Highlander. Then we're headed back to the hotel. Valet parking takes over the vehicle while the three of us rush for the elevators.

  There's no time to waste. I have no idea if the court will even entertain having a look at this newly-discovered evidence, but considering the fraud that was perpetrated on the jury and considering that a life
hangs in the balance, I don't see how they can refuse. I know that I couldn't if it were me sitting there in a black robe. I'd just have to look.

  Now to write the motion to amend the appeal—newly-discovered evidence with Dr. Easter's records attached.

  A half-hour later, Verona and Leo are walking out with Marcel, who hasn't yet told my grandson where he's going, only that he has a great surprise for him. Verona's only condition is that they stop in the gift shop downstairs for sunblock. She is already taking care of Leo like one of her own. He is, when you come right down to it. He is by default. There's just no one else.

  Millie follows them out the door, telling Leo that she'll see him again soon. Leo is somewhat quizzical; it's clear he's not entirely sure who Millie is. Attribute that to Cache's refusal to see her mother in the past. But Millie, God bless her, is trying. She tells Leo she's going to see his mother; is there anything Leo wants to tell her? "I miss her," says the little boy. "I need to see her real soon."

  Alone at last with my laptop, I pull up my motion to amend the appeal. It's a relatively simple job to plug in the new information and follow that up with what I hope is a compelling legal and humanitarian argument in favor of the Court considering what we've found. Before long, I'm buying my own argument; I don't see how we can lose.

  When I'm ready, and everything's set to file, I log in to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals website and upload my new filing.

  It's not five minutes until I receive a call from the same court, office of the clerk.

  "Mr. Gresham, we've received your electronic filing. We're wondering whether you've heard the news about Judge Crittenden?"

  The elderly judge; the one who said he couldn't support my case.

  "What news?"

  "He's had a stroke. He's in Mercy Hospital. No one can tell us what his condition is."

  "Well, that's simple enough, right? They just assign another judge, right?"

  "Yes, but that will have a definite impact on your daughter's case."

  "How's that?"

  "We're all pulling for your daughter around here. We want her to succeed. Judge Wilberforce's reputation had spread as far west as Seattle. He was a nasty man. But there will be a delay now. A delay that could take longer than your client has to live."

  "Can't we get my new filing heard on an emergency basis?"

  "I'm going to try. I'm going to walk it through and see if we can expedite. But there's no guarantee, Mr. Gresham."

  She has my full attention. More than ever in my life.

  "What's your name, ma'am?"

  "I'm Suzanne Crosby. You can call me Suze, everyone does. I'm going to give you my cell number where you can get through to me, Mr. Gresham. And you can rest assured that I will update every time there's a development."

  "Is there anything else I can do to expedite the hearing on my motion?"

  "Not really. Just let me do my thing now. I'll try to let you know something in the next twenty-four hours."

  "All right. Then I'm finished, I suppose."

  "I believe you've done all you can for your client, Mr. Gresham."

  "Is there any possibility the court will need me for oral argument?"

  "Their practice in cases like this is to rule by abstract. They'll either say yea or nay. There won't be oral argument."

  "Then I'm safe to go to Purdy and see my client? There's not going to be a last-minute demand I appear in court?"

  "Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, no. I can't say positively; I can only tell you how I've seen it done the past twenty years."

  "That'll have to do, then. Thank you, Suze."

  "You're welcome. Goodbye, Mr. Gresham."

  I terminate the call. I'm left staring at the blinking cursor on my computer screen. Who else has the authority, the official power to save Cache?

  The governor, Jackson L. D'Nunzio? He does, but he's a known quantity. Governors always have the power to stop executions. But Governor D'Nunzio has already shown himself to be a man more concerned with appearances than with substance. He cared more about who handled this case than what the case was about. So in the time remaining, I am convinced the governor is not my final recourse. I am convinced he won't lift a finger to save my daughter. Not a finger.

  Color me crazy, but I decide to visit the hospital where Judge Crittenden is treated. I have nowhere else to turn.

  I catch a flight to Seattle and check into the Hyatt.

  I can't locate the judge. No one will give me the name of his hospital. I understand; if it were my loved one, I wouldn't want them bothered by desperate appellants either.

  So I turn to the one last place I know to turn. The press. A newspaper reporter by the name of Sari al-Hatari. She's the one who wrote today's Seattle Daily article about the judge, his illness, and his hospitalization. I'm confident she will have the particulars. I'm praying she'll be willing to direct me to him.

  The Seattle Daily is an online newspaper with a vast number of viewers. Nearly lost among a tsunami of staff writers is Sari al-Hatari, whose regular beat is the City Desk. I call the online news outlet's main number and ask for her. She isn't long coming to the phone; I am very thankful when she takes my call.

  "Ms. al-Hatari, I'm the attorney for Cache Evans, presently on—“

  "Death row in Purdy. I wanted to do a series on her, and my editor nixed it."

  "Nixed it? Why?"

  Her voice is hushed. "I think the so-called victim had a lot of juice around here."

  "Meaning he was protected?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Of course you didn't."

  "What can I do for you, Mr. Gresham?"

  A thought crosses my mind. The judge is dead now. Maybe—

  "Cache Evans is not only my client, but she's also my daughter."

  Long pause. "That would make an amazing story. I'd love to run with it."

  "Then let's meet. My entire case, my life, Cache's life will be open to you. I mean it, there's nothing you can ask that won't be fully answered."

  "What are you doing right now, Mr. Gresham?"

  "I'm in my room at the Hyatt. With Judge Crittenden down, I'm out of ideas."

  "How about meeting with me for a few hours? Let's see where this might go."

  One hour later, we're ensconced along the pier where a seafood eatery keeps its outside tables.

  "Cache is twenty-eight, I believe?" asks Ms. al-Hatari. She's something else. Her skin is mahogany, her hair is styled in a short, choppy black cut, and she wears a thin gloss of lipstick that contrasts with refrigerator-white teeth. A beauty, and charming.

  "She is twenty-eight. Unmarried, I believe. She's the mother of Leon Russell Evans, my grandson. He's four, and he prefers ‘Leo.' He went fishing today with my investigator. Leo is now determined his life's work will be bass fisherman. A fait accompli, one could say."

  "He sounds adorable." She studies the folder I've placed on the table between us. "You brought papers with you?"

  I look down at the manila folder in which I've tucked Cache's chart from Dr. Easter. "I've brought records. I made this copy for you."

  "What am I looking for?"

  At this point, I explain to her the dates, the years, the allegations by Judge Wilberforce, the truth of Cache's records. Sari takes it all down. She has asked if she can record me and I've agreed. Ordinarily, I'd say no to the press recording a private conversation, but this isn't ordinarily. This is life and death.

  As Sari slowly reads through the records, I take the opportunity to excuse myself, turn my back on her, and call Millie. She tells me she's seen Cache and she's never seen a more demoralized child than what was left of her after she heard about Judge Crittenden's hospitalization. She understands how a delay could kill her. She's beset at all sides, too, as the social worker was back today looking for an answer about body parts. I cannot even imagine how Cache feels right now. I only want to take her up in my arms and give her a long hug. She needs that, I believe; so do I. My shoulders sag. It is
all spinning out of control.

  Sari clears her throat behind me, and I turn back around after ending the Millie call.

  "So?" I say.

  "This is unbelievable. It's like a huge ball of yarn that you've been unraveling ever since you found out you have a daughter named Cache."

  "Oh, then you read my file memos, too. Now you know our history."

  "I do. I'd like to run with the story. And I'd like to ask my readers to start making calls to the Court of Appeals, demanding action on your motion. It's the least I can do. It's also the most I can do for now. But be certain that as I see openings along the way I'll do everything I can to help Cache's case. No one should die for this raft of lies."

  "I thank you and Cache thanks you."

  "Michael, one more thing. Do you think I could get a video crew into the prison to record an interview with Cache?"

  "I have no doubt we could do that, especially if we convince the warden we're videoing a deposition."

  "That would be incredible. If we can do that we've got a first-page story on our hands."

  "Call your people. Let's meet tomorrow at Purdy."

  "Noon work for you?"

  "Noon is perfect," I tell her.

  We say goodbye, and she hurries off to make her preparations. I hang behind, indulging in a paper plate of fried clams and french fries before I hit the road for Purdy. As I finish eating, I get a call from Verona. First comes the bass fishing update starring Leo. Then we talk about Judge Crittenden's condition and my hurry-up trip and video session back down in Purdy. We hang up after just a few minutes; she knows how anxious I am and how little time I have left. "Vaya con Dios," she whispers. "Be safe, my love."

  DAY 24/30

  It's eleven o'clock when I'm finally allowed to speak to Warden McCann in her office. They've been telling me she's in a conference, but when I enter her office, there's no one else coming out or hanging back. She's alone; I'm not; I have Sari al-Hatari at my side. Introductions are made, and McCann studies al-Hatari.