“Wired, not tired,” said Nancy as she moved toward the door. “I saw the Post-Dispatch piece,” she added, sticking her head out into the hallway and looking both ways, then leaning back into his office. “Don’t plead him out,” she said with a comradely smile. “And, uh, let me know if Stacy has a boyfriend I can bill some time to.”
Adding insult to the ignominy of working for Boron, yet another Arthur memo arrived advising Watson that the management committee had appointed Arthur as the firm’s public relations officer on the Whitlow matter. All outside calls for Watson were to be routed to Arthur’s administrative assistant, who was to supply the standard formulation Watson had read in the Post-Dispatch. If contacted by the press, Watson’s instructions were to say only that he was unable to comment on the case at this time.
But that hadn’t stopped the mail. The citizenry had strong feelings about lawyers, especially lawyers who could sit at the defense table with a hate killer. The mail had started trickling in the day after the newspaper ran the first story about his appointment. Some handwritten, some typed, most anonymous, even a couple of E-mails.
The first letter came in a blue envelope, typed on matching blue watermarked bond, no handwriting anywhere:
Dear Mr. Watson:
The Post-Dispatch says about you are going to be a lawyer for that white hate killer who shot Elvin Brawley. Maybe you should think how your kids would feel if an African-American called you a honkey and blew a hole in your chest? Then think how Elvin Brawley’s kids feel because the man what you are defending has broken the Commandment Thou Shalt Not Kill by murdering their Dad.
For my ownself, I will wait until Judgment Day, because I want to see you stand up in front of the human race and explain yourself to your Creator.
May God damn you to Hell for all Eternity,
Concerned Citizen
The second came inside a hand-addressed envelope, but the letter had been typed on lined notebook paper.
Dear Joseph Watson:
I have no legal background, but maybe you can explain a thing to me. Why ain’t Mary Whitlow on trial for adultery stead of Whitlow being on trial for shooting a colored in bed with his wife?
Is it the end of the world?
Confused in Florissant Mo.
He tried Rachel again. Busy. He reread his fan mail with a twinge of anxiety. Concerned Citizen’s prose gave off the odor of a threat—oblique, to be sure, but ardent nevertheless. Was the writer suggesting that he would show Watson’s kids how Elvin Brawley’s kids felt? Perhaps help Watson shuffle off his mortal coil, so God could damn his soul to Hell for all eternity? He decided the letter was mostly cathartic anger, not a threat, which allowed him to resume thinking about Dr. Palmquist again.
If he went back to the Gage Institute he would be late getting home. Very late. Which meant he should sample storm conditions on the home front, perhaps issue a warning; then, later, decide whether to actually go to the institute. He called Sandra at home. She answered, but her voice was promptly drowned out by barking dogs and screaming children.
“Uh, San?”
“Just a minute,” she hissed, “the dogs are chewing holes in the kids’ new clothes.”
Watson held the phone away while his wife screamed at the kids and swatted the dogs with a rolled-up newspaper. Then she screamed at the dogs and swatted the kids with a rolled-up newspaper. He could hear his son, Benjy, yelling over the racket.
She came back on the line, only to be drowned out by the dogs again.
“San, put the dogs outside,” he pleaded.
“You’re the one who wanted a dog,” she said.
“I bought Lilith, one dog,” he said. “You bought Hannibal. Not me.”
“Because no one played with Lilith,” she said. “Everyone just ignored her.” Pause. Long enough for them both to think: the same way everyone ignores me. “You can’t buy an animal and ignore it. Now, I feed them. I walk them. I groom them. I worm them. I get the kennel arrangements when we go to the Ozarks.”
More barking and screaming.
“San, a bunch of stuff has come up.”
“You mean, stuff that doesn’t usually come up?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got that appointed case now, and …”
“You mean, the hate killer?”
“San, he’s not a hate killer. Not the way you think.”
“Did he kill that deaf, black poet? The computer artist?”
Watson paused. “Probably.”
“OK,” she said. “He’s a killer. Now, does he hate black people?”
“Uh,” said Watson.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “He’s a hate killer. Just a minute. Lilith bit Hannibal.”
He held the phone away, until he heard her voice surface again out of bedlam.
“I think I understand,” she said. “You would rather stay down there late working for a hate killer for no pay instead of coming home to eat dinner with your family. Sheila’s preschool teacher is concerned about her self-esteem. She asked me if the home environment included a strong father figure.”
“San …”
“So what has come up?”
“I—I’m going to be late. That’s why I called.”
“Late?” she said. She dropped the phone on the countertop and screamed some more at the dogs and kids. He heard air whistle by the mouthpiece when she picked it up again. “Late? I thought you said something had come up? And by that I thought you meant something different had come up. Late isn’t different. Late is the same.”
“San, I …”
“I have to go. Your son is being attacked by your dog. Good-bye.”
She hung up. His gaze fell again on STACY.JPG. Did Stacy yell at her significant other when he worked late? No, Stacy would probably be eternally grateful if he worked late trying to excel at his chosen career so he could bring home plenty of bucks for bigger implants and more interesting computer peripherals. And if things got dull, Stacy could check out the Orkin Man’s computer peripherals.
All of his problems would be solved if he had more time and more money.
He tore the flap of the courier envelope. His PIM announced an external call with two short beeps and opened a window in the foreground, wiping out his view of Stacy’s implants. A dialogue box followed, advising him that the caller’s number did not match any entry in his contact database, so it was not Sandra calling back. He picked up the phone. The only other person he’d given the new number to was …
“Attorney Watson?” said the voice of James Whitlow.
Watson paused. “James?” he said uncertainly, unable to decide what to call his client on such split-second notice, knowing only that a reciprocal “Client Whitlow” would be ludicrous.
“They said you maybe was coming over again early tomorrow morning, and I was wondering about some things.”
“I had planned on tomorrow morning,” said Watson. “What’s up?”
“Well, sir. My health is in big trouble here. I was talking to some of the other prisoners about the living conditions. Like the food, which is making us all sick. Also when it gets hot, they won’t let you take off your shirt, and when it gets cold they won’t give you an extra blanket. I’ve got criminally insane cellmates and they scream all night. Anyway, some of the other prisoners’ lawyers got them special diets and extra blankets, and I was wondering if I could get me a special diet, like maybe a little meat that don’t give you ptomaine and the trots. Right now I’m getting what the prisoners call fuck-you meat. You ask the help what kind of meat it is and they say, ‘Fuck you.’ ”
“A special diet?” asked Watson, writing “special diet” on a stray legal pad.
“Yeah. That buddy of mine named Buck. Remember Buck? One of those friends of mine that I told you about. When Buck was in prison, we … or, I mean, he got himself a lawyer and sued the warden saying Buck had a constitutional right not to eat preservatives, because he was allergic to them, and so Buck got meat and y
ou could see that it was chicken or beef, instead of the fuck-you, which is kind of like squares of runny yellow soybean loaf with shiny green scales on it.”
“I’ll have to ask someone if there is anything I can do,” stammered Watson.
“You want the name of Buck’s lawyer? Because Buck’s lawyer got him a extra blanket and two-ply toilet paper, too. The lawyer said two-ply was part of Buck’s constitutional rights. The other thing is there are a lot of Afro-Americans of color in here. I don’t mean anything by that. Some of my best friends are friends of people who have talked to friends of Afro-Americans. You maybe saw on the news where a lot of men of colored end up in here because they are discriminated against or whatever. You maybe also remember that tattoo you seen on my arm, the one we was talking about? I’m getting a little, uh, worried.” His voice was quavering. Watson heard him take a breath. “Concerned, I guess, that one of these men of colored might not understand about how it’s just a joke. So Buck said I might have a constitutional right to get my tattoo taken off before I suffer some cruel and unusual punishment, which is against the law, according to Buck.”
“I’ll have to see what I can do,” said Watson uncertainly. “Why don’t we talk tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, OK. Like maybe I need some administrative confinement or isolation or something.” His voice was shaking again. “Like soon. Or maybe they could send me off for those brain tests you was talking about and get me somewheres where there ain’t so many Negro-Americans of colored in the prison system. It ain’t just them—I got other problems in here too. Let’s just say it ain’t healthy here, and I need to get out quick. If you want the name of Buck’s lawyer it’s right there in the yellow pages of the phone book. Big boxed photo says to call if you get a spinal cord injury from driving while intoxicated. Buck’s lawyer is famous and has got him completely off more than once besides getting him the special diet and the extra blankets.”
Watson scrawled “Tattoo removal, blankets, two-ply, Minnesota, administrative confinement” on his notepad, as Whitlow kept talking.
“Buck’s lawyer said you got to file—hold it a sec, I wrote it down—under Section 1983 of the civil rights laws claiming—yeah, here we go—claiming ‘deliberate indifference to medical needs and extreme conditions of confinement.’ ”
“What medical needs?” asked Watson. “I thought you said they were getting you your seizure meds. You said that during our interview.”
“I’m getting my seizure meds,” said Whitlow. “And they even give me the meds for the piss infection. I guess the trots and food poisoning would be serious, indifferent medical needs which could be fixed by serving real food. And maybe getting killed by Afro-Americans of colored would be like a permanent extreme condition of confinement. I think I need a constitutional special diet and relocation.” He was pleading now. “And like I said, it’s either cold or hot. And the crazies in here are giving us sleeping disorders. Buck also said I should see can I get my laptop computer in here so’s I can help with my own defense and do some legal research of my own.”
“Laptop, cold, hot, sleeping disorders,” said Watson. “I’ll look into it, and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Don’t forget about the administrative confinement. Buck’s lawyer also said …”
Outside call. His information manager appeared again on the screen with a double beep. His clients had the new classified number. He’d also given it to Whitlow, Sandra, and—well, Dr. Palmquist needed it, didn’t she? But the information manager was again showing no match.
“I have another call,” said Watson. “We’ll talk about Buck’s lawyer in the morning, OK? Oh, and I called the impound lot for you.”
“Oh, right,” said Whitlow. “Never mind about that. We took care of the impound lot. Which reminds me of the most important thing. Buck found some money. Some good money, actually. Buck’s lawyer said you might need some to get a decent investigator and to pay experts and so on so …”
Watson froze. The other line flashed. “You’re getting money? Enough to hire a criminal lawyer?” he asked.
“Why would I do that? They said stick with you, but that I should tell you they got some extra money for expenses and medical testing and stuff. They said insanity or a mental defense takes a lot of money. They said it was a rich man’s defense and we couldn’t win without we had enough money to do it right.”
“Let me get this other call,” said Watson. “I need to talk to you about this, OK? Don’t hang up. If you have money, I can’t …”
“It ain’t my money,” said Whitlow. “It’s Buck’s money. Remember?”
“Don’t hang up,” said Watson. “Stay there, and I’ll tell you about the impound lot—”
“Fuck the impound lot,” said Whitlow. “We took care of it.”
“We—you took …” said Watson. “Stay there, I need to talk to you about the money.”
He punched the other line.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Watson,” said a smoker’s voice. “Mike Harper, U.S. Attorney’s office. I’m on the other side of you and this bigot killer Judge Stang sent you for your appointed case. How the Hell are ya?”
“Fine,” said Watson, “I guess.” Watson watched the other line blinking. “I’m on the other line, can I …” The blinking light went dead. “Shoot. Never mind.” He sighed. “I guess they went away.”
“Sorry,” said Harper. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but I prefer a working relationship when it’s possible. So, I thought I’d call, and we could maybe figure out what to do with this guy.”
“Release him immediately,” said Watson. “Dismiss all charges and bring this gross miscarriage of justice to an end.”
They laughed together, until Harper stopped abruptly in mid-guffaw and said, “Mr. Watson, I never show all my cards, but this time I have such a great hand I can’t help it. Mary Whitlow is Mrs. Death Penalty. I thought the only fair thing was to give you an idea of the kind of evidence I have on the penalty enhancers. This guy is going to look like Adolf by the time we get finished with him. I sent ya a little sample by courier.”
“Yeah,” said Watson. “I’m opening it.”
“As I was saying,” Harper continued, “I’m just trying to be fair, being as how you got appointed to this back-alley abortion.”
Watson skimmed some of the headings—“Excerpts from Affidavit of Witness Mary Whitlow”—and the introductory paragraphs, which essentially tracked the elements of the offense. Then his eyes landed on a section entitled “Evidence of Intentional Selection of Victim Because of Actual or Perceived Race and Disability” followed by more numbered paragraphs:
(13) The defendant’s wife, witness Mary Whitlow, will testify that when the defendant, James Whitlow, first met the victim, an African-American and a deaf American Sign Language instructor, at his South St. Louis home, the defendant declared, “Deaf is deaf, I can’t do nothing about deaf. But you ain’t bringing a nigger into my house.”
(14) Upon information and belief, neighbors of the defendant will testify that on recent occasions prior to the charged felony, the defendant had made public statements to the effect that he did not want any blacks in his neighborhood because it would destroy his property values.… When African-Americans came to the neighborhood to look at houses, the defendant displayed a Confederate flag from the balcony of his home.
(15) Upon information and belief, educators and health care providers who cared for the defendant’s hearing-impaired son will testify that the defendant expressed a violent antipathy for deaf culture, for American Sign Language, and for hearing or deaf people who communicated in his presence using American Sign Language, allegedly because the defendant did not want his son to use gestures and instead wanted him to learn to read lips and speak.
“You want to have somebody testify that he wanted his kid to learn to talk and he was worried about his property values?” asked Watson incredulously.
“I win any way I can,” laughed Harper. “E
vidence of motive. And maybe conspiracy. We’re toying with amending to conspiracy, and that means we can put the plumber who fixed the kitchen sink on the stand if we want to. And we haven’t said anything about the tattoo described in the police report. The jury will love that.”
“What’s the jury going to say about Mrs. Death Penalty calling military security and reporting a rape, then changing her mind once she gets to the emergency room. It wasn’t a rape, it was an affair. What’s her story today? It wasn’t an affair, it was their first date?”
“She has one story,” said Harper, “her husband pointed a gun at her head and made her tell the rape story. The jury will have no problem with that. We can prove up the affair and the sign language lessons.”
“Prove them up with what?” asked Watson. “More of her testimony?”
“I’m making copies of some TDD printouts for you. Why am I telling you this?” Harper asked cheerfully. “Do you know what a TDD is, Mr. Watson? A telecommunications device for the deaf. Formerly known as a TTY, or a teletypewriter. It looks like a typewriter only you plug it into a telephone jack. It’s how deaf people talk on the phone. They hook up a TDD to a normal phone line and they type back and forth to each other, or even to hearing people using Missouri Relay, which is provided by the phone company.”
Watson knew what a TDD was because he’d written memos about the Americans with Disabilities Act for employers who were trying to provide reasonable accommodations for their deaf employees.
“The victim had a TDD,” said Watson, thinking out loud.
“Sure,” said Harper, “and Mary Whitlow had one too. So she could keep in touch with her son, who needed special schooling up at the deaf residential school in Fulton,” said Harper with facetious tenderness.
“OK,” said Watson. “They both had TDDs.”
“And guess what? Most of these devices have little adding-machine-size printouts attached to them, in case you want to print a conversation while you’re having it, or review the printout afterward to help you remember what was said. Follow me? Handier than a pocket on a shirt.”
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