The Empowered

by Craig Parshall

  I told him that I wouldn’t think of crossing him, but I asked if I could pray for him. He shrugged and said, “You may, my son.”

  After we bowed heads and I asked God to help him achieve clarity and peace of mind as well as peace in his heart, he looked up, said, “Well done, my son,” and then quickly consumed a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Returning to his previous conversation, he added, “You notice I refer to being shot with arrows. Of course, that was the technique—arrows from my crossbow—that I also used on that rotten neighbor of mine.”

  When Heather arrived, visitation hours gave us a little less than an hour, so I had to talk fast.

  But before I could speak, Heather leaned in and asked in a low voice, “How are you?”

  I quickly passed it off, ready to dive in. But she wouldn’t let it go. “No, really,” she said, her voice trembling a little. I could see a glistening in her eyes. “How are you really doing in this place? It has to be so hard. . . .”

  “Yes. Harder than I would have imagined.”

  She nodded.

  “What’s even harder is that if I don’t get released immediately, it could change everything. My credibility to law enforcement. My mission. What I said publicly at the ABA. And most important, I won’t be able to convince Deputy St. Martin, and perhaps even Sheriff Haywood, about a boat full of girls, taken captive by monsters, motoring right past them.”

  I gave her a confident smile even though my heart was sinking under the weight of the family court document that Dr. Schlosser had shown me. Which in turn had raised a logistical question: Who had provided that court document about Heather’s adoption to Schlosser? For that matter, who was the motivating force behind this mental commitment proceeding against me? Sheriff Haywood seemed genuinely apologetic when he told me, “This is out of my hands.”

  Heather interrupted my stream of consciousness when she asked, “What’s the plan?”

  “It’s called habeas corpus,” I said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Latin for ‘bring forth the body.’ Forcing officials to produce an imprisoned person who is being kept illegally. An old English Common Law procedure. Today that right is protected by article 1, section 9, clause 2 of the US Constitution.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t go to law school. Break it down for me.”

  “Better than that. I’ll dictate it.”

  I grabbed my cell phone and started laying it all down. Heather would have to type it up. After I hand-drafted a declaration on the legal pad and signed and dated it, I told her, “Attach this to the end of the petition for habeas corpus.”

  Then I quickly used the phone to do five minutes’ worth of legal research. I found what I was looking for, jotted it down on another piece of paper, and stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Now the tough part,” I told her. “After you type this up, you need to get it to the clerk for the US district court in New Orleans and request an emergency hearing.”

  She looked overwhelmed.

  As I handed my cell phone back to her, I added, “And the court hearing has to be tomorrow.”

  Before she left, I told her, “Heather, no matter what happens—no matter what comes of any of this, or even what might come between us—just know how proud I am of you. And what an extraordinary woman you are.”

  Her chin trembled a bit. We heard the night nurse call out that the visiting period was over. “You have to go,” I said. “God bless you.”

  40

  In the rush of my final instructions to Heather, I gave her my old federal court PACER number and described how to electronically file my petition for habeas corpus with the court. One good thing about electronic court filing: you don’t have to wait until the courthouse opens up in the morning. Heather assured me she would get it done that evening. I was glad our hotel rooms in New Orleans were still good for a while. She had a bed to sleep in.

  Heather was smart, so I knew she could handle the logistics: filling out the petition on my laptop, printing out copies of the legal document in the business office in the hotel, and e-mailing it to the US District Court for the Eastern District of Louisiana, with a copy e-mailed to Morehaven. She also had to serve a copy personally on the sheriff’s department and on the hospital director the next morning, and then hopefully visit with me again to give me a status report.

  The night nurse gave me a little paper cup containing what she said was an antianxiety pill and ordered me to take it. I refused. I was aware of the groggy side effects with some of them.

  “I have to be in court tomorrow,” I said. “Need to be sharp. At my best. Tell you what, if the court hearing doesn’t go on, or if it does and they send me back here, then I’ll take it as ordered. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  She wasn’t amused. She called the male aides and told them to force-feed me the pill. In response, I warned her that after two decades as a defense lawyer I knew a few things about making life miserable for people who violated other people’s rights. I told her to call the director or even Dr. Schlosser to get authorization to give me a pass on the medication.

  Eventually the issue went away. I wasn’t sure why. But I thanked God for it. The last thing I needed at that moment was fuzzy-headed thinking.

  I was wakened early the next morning, and the staff introduced me to the usual routine. Bed check, breakfast, and a meeting with a psychiatric nurse, this time going over medical insurance, more background information, how I was feeling, my sleep patterns, my sleep the night before, medical history, social relationships, work history.

  But my mind was somewhere else. I was a captive. No outgoing contact or phone calls. Where was Heather?

  I was placed in a small group therapy session. I knew I had to volunteer some limited insights about myself. A modicum of cooperation, and I complied, but without specifics. After all, those poor, confused souls shouldn’t have to hear my stories about demons. I was pained to see the broken minds and ruined lives that were seated in the folding chairs in that circle. I remembered what the Bible says about the whole creation groaning as a result of humanity’s collective break with God. Brokenness comes in many different forms.

  Lunch came and went.

  Then afternoon “free time” in the dayroom under the watchful eye of Nurse Aldrich. I leafed through some National Geographic magazines. Looked at the clock on the wall. Praying for some sign that Heather had been able to accomplish my plan with the court.

  But all the time, hearing the voice of Dr. Alex Schlosser in the back of my head. About my susceptibility to suggestion due to my stressful situation. And about God. And demons. And Friedrich Nietzsche.

  There were other thoughts. Mostly about Heather and how she might walk out of my life forever once she learned the facts about her biological father.

  Then dinner. Still no Heather. Then visiting hours.

  That was when Heather finally came in with the small stream of other family visitors and sat down next to me on a vinyl couch.

  “It’s filed,” she said. “Your petition for habeas corpus.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” she began, “I know you wanted a hearing today. But it wasn’t possible. I’m really sorry, Trevor.”

  Considering the dockets in most federal district courts, I wasn’t surprised. It was a long shot. I braced myself for the rest of the story. I asked Heather where we stood, knowing that, realistically, getting a federal judge to hear my petition on any short notice would be extraordinary. Getting it heard in time for me to help stop the next ship loaded with human cargo—that would take a miracle.

  “There’s more,” Heather said. She took a dramatic pause.

  I was glued to her next comment.

  “As far as your petition is concerned, US District Judge Manning Levall will hear it in his courtroom tomorrow. Five o’clock in the afternoon. The last case of the day.”

  I scrambled to rethink my conversation with Henry Bosant. The day before he had told me that in a matter o
f days another ship would soon glide past Port Sulphur. He thought maybe forty-eight hours. Twenty-four hours had already passed. But he also said the ships motored at night, under cover of darkness. That meant sometime tomorrow evening.

  The long gauntlet of obstacles before us was staggering. I calculated that the hearing would need to conclude with a ruling from the bench by 6 or 6:30 p.m. Judge Levall would have to grant the petition and order me released. That release would have to be effected immediately. No complications with my discharge from the hospital. No administrative snafus. With my credibility reinstated, I would connect with Deputy St. Martin and tell him what I had learned from Henry Bosant. And he would have to buy into it and then set up an immediate blockade on the Mississippi.

  High hurdles. Olympic ones. Time for backup. We needed a plan B.

  “Heather, we can’t put all our eggs in one basket,” I said. “You need to call Deputy St. Martin. Tell him what I’ve told you about the juvenile slave trade on the Mississippi, happening right under their noses. But don’t mention Henry Bosant’s name. And tell him that he has to get out there on the river and apprehend any suspicious vessels tomorrow evening.”

  “Me?” she responded. “You do mean me, right? The one Deputy St. Martin thought was too ‘aggressive’ during the meeting? Plus, how do I tell him I’m delivering a message for you—a resident of an insane asylum . . . ?” She caught herself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that last part.”

  “It isn’t pretty,” I said, “but it’s true. At least true until the court hearing tomorrow and then, depending on the outcome, maybe longer than that.”

  Inside, I was wrestling with other things that were true, things I knew but Heather didn’t. Assumed “facts” she believed, and I had too, but that I had just learned were lies. Things about us. I was still convinced that I needed to pick the right time to tell her, and this wasn’t it. Not at a psych hospital. Not like this. But I couldn’t put it off too much longer. It was crushing down on me.

  Heather said she would reach out to Deputy St. Martin on my behalf, calling him the minute she left Morehaven.

  After she left, I ran through the probabilities. Strictly analytical. And from that perspective, the outlook was dismal. Sheriff Haywood and Deputy St. Martin had already been served with their copy of my habeas corpus petition. Which suggested they had almost certainly consulted with the Plaquemines Parish attorney’s office about the case and had been told not to talk. Besides, even if they hadn’t been served, once they saw me taken into custody, all communication with me would end—at least while my legal challenge was pending. Result: Heather was going to be shut out no matter what.

  That meant we had only one chance. I needed to win our habeas proceeding the next day. About the same odds as hitting the jackpot at Harrah’s casino in New Orleans.

  41

  The next day, two Morehaven staffers transported me to the US district court building located on Poydras Street in New Orleans. They hustled me up the elevator to the courtroom of Judge Manning Levall.

  I should have been thinking just then about the finer points of my argument for release from a mental institution. But instead, I had an overpowering thought about courthouse architecture. It had to do with my own legal history.

  The building that housed the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Louisiana had an aesthetic like so many in the federal system: bland, functional, exuding a heavy sense of authority but in an unimaginative office-building kind of way.

  Local court buildings, on the other hand, often have an aged mystique—case in point, the New Orleans courthouse across town. That’s where I had served as cocounsel years before for a wealthy New York client who had business interests in New Orleans. We defended his extortion case in the criminal courts for the Orleans Parish and won a verdict of acquittal. The local paper covered it and printed a splashy headline. Then a victory bash at a local eatery and drinks all around. In retrospect, fleeting glory. A vapor that appears for only a moment and then vanishes.

  What a contrast. Now I was being escorted into Judge Levall’s sterile federal courtroom under the custody of two security guards from a mental hospital. Still, I wouldn’t have traded places, wouldn’t have gone back to my old life—not for a billion dollars. I was part of a divine drama. That kind of life never gets dull. Tiresome, perhaps, and often daunting. But never dull.

  I was seated at counsel’s table, representing myself. I had declined the offer of public defender representation. Not the wise thing to do in almost all cases. But this was not the typical case.

  The hospital director, Dr. Manfred Touley, was seated at the opposing counsel’s table next to a parish attorney. In the gallery chairs directly behind him sat Dr. Alex Schlosser, and next to him, Port Sulphur’s finest: Sheriff Haywood and Deputy St. Martin. Behind them, there was FBI Agent Fainlock as well as a New Orleans patrol officer who had spotted me in that late-night diner, along with my soaked clothing and dripping-wet shoes.

  Then the customary parade into the courtroom. First, the court reporter, followed by the judge’s law clerk and the court clerk.

  As we waited for the judge, I thought about my early morning Scripture reading at the hospital. I had asked for, and been given, a Bible to read. I’d picked up where I left off in my reading. I had traveled out of Deuteronomy and by then had arrived at chapter 2 of Joshua. An interesting story about Rahab, the Jericho harlot who protected the Israelite spies from the enemy.

  Rahab, the town harlot. A wonderfully unlikely hero.

  Finally a black-robed Manning Levall strode in from his chambers and sat down at the bench. A handsome man in his late forties, with dark hair and the stiff air of a disciplined jurist, he struck me as a judge not prone to flights of imaginative jurisprudence. Which could be bad for me, considering my unorthodox and imaginative habeas corpus petition. But he also struck me as a judge who read the law, knew it, and would follow it wherever it led, come what may. Which could also be good for me.

  The clerk called the case. My opponent, Nancy Cougin, appearing as attorney for the Parish of Plaquemines and for the Morehaven Psychiatric Hospital, rose and announced herself.

  I stood and informed the judge that I would be representing myself.

  Judge Levall looked over the glasses perched on his nose. “I understand you were at one time a successful criminal defense counsel in New York City. So you’ve heard, I’m sure, the old maxim. That a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.”

  “In most cases,” I said, “that would hold true. But with due respect, not in this one, Your Honor.”

  “That remains to be seen,” he said curtly.

  Then he got down to business. I acknowledged, in response to his pointed question to me, that I would bear the burden of proving that my apprehension under the mental health laws of Louisiana had been unlawful. If I failed, I would be immediately returned to Morehaven.

  “Let’s make this clear. This is not a full-blown mental commitment hearing,” the judge stated. “That is for the State of Louisiana to conduct, not a federal court. This is a petition for habeas corpus alleging illegal apprehension and confinement of you, Mr. Trevor Black. It is for you to prove that. And frankly, you’ve got a high hill to climb.”

  He told me to call my first witness. I turned and glanced at the large clock on the wall. It was 5:17 p.m. I needed to hurry.

  Then I noticed the one friendly face in the courtroom. Heather was seated a few rows back. She gave a restrained wave when our eyes met.

  I called as my first witness the New Orleans beat cop who saw me in the diner. I needed to trim down my examination. Would the court accept, I asked, the fact that the officer was a hostile witness so I could question him through cross-examination rather than direct examination?

  Opposing counsel jumped to her feet and objected. “Police officers by definition are not hostile, representing as they do the interests of the State of Louisiana.”

  The point I had made seeme
d simple enough, almost painfully obvious. No need for a Supreme Court argument on the matter. Judge Levall considered it and agreed with me. So I inserted the scalpel and began to cut—cross-examination-wise, that is.

  Was he the officer who signed the apprehension order against me, I asked, seeking “protective custody” on the grounds that I was a danger to myself or to others by reason of mental illness?

  Yes, he was.

  “On what grounds?” I asked.

  “I had reasonable grounds to believe that you were appropriate for commitment and evaluation, were gravely disabled by reason of mental illness, and were acting in a way that was dangerous to yourself or to others.”

  “I’m glad you’ve memorized Louisiana Revised Statute 28:53 L (1) before coming here today,” I shot back. “But I was looking for facts, not legal conclusions.”

  Nancy Cougin was up again, yelling that my statement was argumentative.

  Judge Levall sustained the objection. I apologized and moved on.

  “According to you, was I a danger to myself?”

  “Not really that,” he said.

  “Oh, then a danger to others?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “How so?”

  “You were implicated in the murder of a limousine driver. His body was found in the trunk of his limo, which you had stolen and driven into the Mississippi River. I would say that constitutes a danger.”

  Judge Levall’s eyes widened at that.

  Rather than object to his wildly speculative answer, I asked, “Did you ever, at any time, see me steal a limo? Any limo?”

  “No.”

  “See me drive any limo into the Mississippi?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Ever me see me lift a hand against the limo driver?”

  “I wasn’t there when it happened.”