Next I asked him, “How about the late Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia? A brilliant jurist, he stated publicly that he believed in both God and the devil. Was he mentally disabled, or was he just a product of his culture?”
“I’m not an expert in the law.”
“Nor are you an expert in spiritual warfare, right?”
“I never said I was.”
“But you have presented yourself in this court as an expert in the matters of the mind.”
“That is my area of expertise.”
“In that case, can you explain to the court where exactly is the dividing line between the matters of the mind and the matters of the soul?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“So if this court finds that my devotion to opposing evil supernatural forces is entirely a matter of the mind, then it should listen to you. Right?”
“I would hope so.”
“But on the other hand, if this court finds that my devotion against supernatural evil is best explained as a matter of the soul, then your testimony would be irrelevant, correct?”
Dr. Schlosser took a while to consider that. Judge Levall finally had to intervene and ask him if he had any answer to my question.
In the end, Dr. Schlosser said simply, “I do not.”
44
My opponent had rested her case. I hadn’t intended to present any rebuttal evidence. After all, what could I have possibly offered?
By my estimation, there were several ways in which Judge Levall could have justified dismissing my petition and bundled me off to Morehaven with a bang of the gavel. While I felt that I had done a yeoman’s job of casting doubt on my mental health incarceration, it might not have been enough. I had to go further. I had to prove the illegality of my apprehension by the government. A tricky matter.
In any case, at that point the testimony on my habeas corpus petition would usually have been closed and the case submitted to the judge for his decision. Would usually have been. But wasn’t. In a universe governed by a God of surprises, always be prepared to be surprised.
After all, if God can use a town harlot named Rahab to protect the ancient Israelites from their enemies, then anything is possible.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Upon turning around, I was looking into the corpulent face of Attorney Morgan Canterelle.
He whispered to me, “Y’all might want to offer a rebuttal witness, Mr. Black.”
“Any suggestions?” I asked.
“Yours truly,” he said with a big grin. “As a witness to y’all’s sanity. Y’all’s normality.”
Of all the people capable of judging normality, Morgan Canterelle was not at the top of my list.
“Remember,” he added, “I’m the one who picked y’all to address the entire American Bar Association.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I shall explain later.”
I wheeled around to face the judge. “Your Honor, I have a rebuttal witness. Attorney Morgan Canterelle.”
“On what issue?” Attorney Cougin belted out.
I replied, “My sanity.”
Opposing counsel exploded with objections like confetti from a party gun.
Judge Levall looked undecided.
“Your Honor,” I said, “my opponent, by calling Dr. Schlosser, opened the door to this issue of my mental status.”
Levall rocked awhile in his big judicial chair, then glanced at the clock. “I’ll permit it. But please get to the point, Mr. Black.”
Canterelle lumbered up to the stand. When he arrived, Judge Levall nodded to him. “Hello, Morgan,” he said.
“Judge,” Canterelle replied with a smile. “I missed you at the ABA.”
“I was there,” Judge Levall replied, “but tied up in judicial conference meetings.”
Their cordiality was nice to see. But Canterelle was still a wild card with unclear motives. I was now entrusting my case, my freedom, and the welfare of young sex slaves held captive in the bottom of a ship to a lawyer who was still a mystery to me.
I was taking a risk, and I knew it. I silently asked God to protect those victims from any of my mistakes and miscalculations. Legal, strategic, or otherwise.
I began my direct examination of Canterelle. His knowledge of my legal reputation in New York, his relationship with me, his inviting me to speak at the ABA, the ABA session itself, my speech, and the reaction of the audience.
Then I asked, “Attorney Canterelle, based on all of that, have you formed an opinion, strictly as a lay witness and based on your own perceptions of me, regarding my mental state?”
“Yes, sir, I have. Mr. Black, I’ve got to say, y’all are the most unusual person I have ever met. Bar none. And I’ve met some pretty strange folk.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Attorney Cougin gloating.
I found myself in a box. To get out, I had to violate the number one rule of every trial lawyer: never ask a question when you haven’t the faintest idea how the witness is going to answer.
But having no other alternative, I ventured down that darkened alley. “Unusual in what way?” I asked.
He cocked his head. “Well, sir, most folks believe in something. Doing the right thing, maybe. Or stopping things that are wrong. They believe in heaven. Or in hell. Those who believe there’s a God. And those who believe there’s a devil. I’ve met some of each over the years. But Trevor Black, y’all’s one of the few men I’ve met who’s all of that, all wrapped up into one. Crazy? I say right now that Trevor Black’s not crazy. Unless crazy means seeing things that cynical folks, nearsighted people just can’t fathom. I don’t know about demons, Your Honor. But if a person wants somebody to hunt ’em down with a crystal-clear mind and the heart of a lion, then Trevor Black’s the man.”
When I rested, Attorney Cougin was smoldering. Then she hit him with her cross-examination.
“Mr. Canterelle,” she began, “you are a high-ranking member of the ABA. And you are a well-known New Orleans attorney. As we all know, this is the twenty-first century. Are you seriously telling this court that demons are real and they are out there doing evil?”
Canterelle grinned. “Miss, y’all really think that demons and the twenty-first century don’t mix? This is New Orleans. Y’all ever been to Mardi Gras?”
I heard laughter. It sounded like it was coming from Heather, and also like the sheriff or Deputy St. Martin, or maybe both, were joining her.
Cougin quit while she was behind, probably fearing she could slip even further.
Another glance at the clock—7:42 p.m.
Attorney Cougin must have figured that she could make a closing argument, because she started to rise.
But Judge Levall put an end to that. “Be seated, Counsel. I am ready to rule.”
The federal judge proceeded to remind all of us that the state courts are vested with the authority to decide mental commitment cases, not the federal courts.
“The authority of this court is extremely limited. Very narrow. Particularly in a habeas corpus proceeding. Which is the legal basis that you have chosen to pursue, Mr. Black. This was your petition. And I am constrained to rule within the four corners of that petition, according to the evidence I have heard. I cannot rule out of sympathy for you, Mr. Black, or even out of respect for the way in which you have conducted your very able effort in this courtroom. And I can’t second-guess the decision of Morehaven to confine you or the opinions of the psychiatric staff who want to treat you.”
To most people, that would have sounded like a death knell. Me? I was waiting for the big turnabout. It usually starts with a judge saying, “But . . .”
Judge Levall paused. Then he said, “But . . . this case isn’t about any of that. Although as a side note, I would have found Attorney Canterelle’s lay testimony fairly compelling, if sanity were the issue here. But it isn’t. It’s about the Louisiana state statute that gives the police the authority, on their own impetus, to take Mr. Trevor Black into
custody for the purpose of a mental examination and possible treatment only if a certain condition is met. That condition is that the officer’s determination of Mr. Black’s impaired mental state and dangerous potential must be based on his ‘personal observation’ of Mr. Black. I do not doubt the good faith of the New Orleans police officer who took Mr. Black into custody. But I am convinced it was not based on his personal observation. The habeas corpus petition is granted, and the court orders Mr. Trevor Black to be released forthwith.”
I jumped to my feet. “Forthwith, Your Honor?”
“Yes. As in, this very instant,” Judge Levall replied, then gaveled the case to a close and slipped from the courtroom and into his chambers.
The two Morehaven staffers shook my hand and asked if I needed transportation. “No need,” I said excitedly. “My daughter is here to drive me.” I’m sure they didn’t notice the catch in my voice when I spoke the word daughter.
Heather was at my side and squeezed my hand. “Oh, wow, I can’t believe this!”
Canterelle slapped me on the back. “Congratulations, Trevor. We did it.”
But I was baffled. “Morgan, how did you know about my case?”
“Gossip spreads fast. One of Minerva Sabatier’s loyal followers works here in the courthouse. She called Belle Sabatier and told her all about it. Belle ordered me to do everything I could to help you in this case. To get y’all freed.”
“What do you know about that,” I said. “Belle Sabatier, daughter and heir of a voodoo priestess. What a wonderfully unlikely hero.”
I strode up to the court clerk before she could disappear and asked her for a copy of Judge Levall’s order granting my habeas corpus petition and containing his finding that my apprehension and commitment to Morehaven had been illegal. She promised to e-mail it to me.
45
As the courtroom began to empty, I scanned the room for Sheriff Haywood and Deputy St. Martin. But they were gone.
“The two of them ran out of here like the place was on fire,” Heather explained. “The very second that the judge ruled in your favor.”
Something came to mind, and I whirled around to Attorney Canterelle. “About that favor you were going to do for me, finding the identity of the attorney who sat next to Heather at the ABA . . .”
“I’ve been working on it. But now that I see y’all found her, do y’all still need to know?”
I told him yes. My private reasons for wanting that information had changed by then. But I still needed it, and more than ever. It had to do with my phantom caller with the digitally distorted voice. I had a hunch the caller was the same lawyer sitting next to Heather during my speech, the person who knew about the voodoo ceremony planned at Bayou Bon Coeur and who led Heather to Delbert Baldou.
I pressed Canterelle again to get me the lawyer’s ID, adding that her name might be Deidre.
Canterelle said, “It’s complicated. I located an ID that the lawyer used to get into the session, but the name doesn’t match. Now I’ve got a friend who’s in the facial recognition software business, and he’s running the video that caught the faces of the first few rows in the audience and checking it against a federal database. Y’all should have an answer shortly.”
It was almost eight in the evening when we hustled out of the courthouse and into the dusk outside. As Heather handed over my cell phone, I told her we had to rush to Dead Point along the banks of the Mississippi.
On the way, I called the sheriff’s department for Plaquemines Parish and said I needed to talk to Sheriff Haywood immediately. That I knew he was on his way back from federal court because I had just been with him in the courtroom. I gave my name and cell number and said that if the sheriff wasn’t available, then Deputy St. Martin needed to call me back instead, but that it was urgent and I needed to hear back from someone.
Dead Point was a good hour away. I laid my cell down on the console of the Mustang and waited for a return call.
Heather said, “Back in that courtroom . . . that was so amazing.” She was smiling. “So that was what you did, all those years as a lawyer?”
“Something like that. Never represented myself before, though.” Then I smiled back. “By the way, a lot of the victory belongs to you. Nice work on the petition.”
I saw a wide grin from Heather.
But inside I was in turmoil. I wondered when it would be the right time. When I would tell her what Dr. Schlosser told me. What those legal papers said about her biological father. And what they failed to say about me.
And then I thought about Ashley Linderman and wondered when I might expect a call back from her.
A half hour into the drive we passed a gas station with a small sundries shop. It was getting dark, so I dashed in and bought the biggest flashlight I could find. I told Heather, “There are no lights out there at Dead Point.”
For the second time in two days we took the turn off of 23 and onto Diamond Road, with the Mississippi River to our left, and then to the dirt road cutting through low scrub brush until we could see the rusting metal sign arching overhead announcing River Bend Cemetery. This time the gate was closed. Heather scampered out of the car and opened it. Then the bumpy ride over the rough terrain that had once housed the caskets and crypts of the departed, before flood tides finally forced the graveyard caretakers to dig them up and relocate them.
We arrived at Dead Point but hadn’t received a call back from either the sheriff or the deputy. I jostled the Mustang across the field and stopped close to the banks of the Mississippi, and we jumped out.
In the shrouding darkness, we would have to listen for the sound of ships approaching, knowing there was a chance we had already missed the awful one, the vessel carrying its young cargo. We had no idea what kind of boat we were waiting for. Our informant, Henry Bosant, hadn’t told us. At first we heard only the lapping of waves against the shoreline and the wind in the trees, but nothing else. The moon was poking in and out of a thick blanket of clouds, and the river itself was almost invisible in the inky night, yet we knew it was there because we could hear it rushing along the banks.
Heather and I stood silent, fixed at attention. Waiting.
I put a call into the sheriff’s office again, received the same message, and told the dispatcher that it was urgent and they needed to meet with me at Dead Point immediately. Then the same reply, that my call would be noted and that Sheriff Haywood and Deputy St. Martin “would be advised.”
More waiting. Then a sound. In the distance, the low hum of a boat engine approaching and the swishing of a wake as a river craft cut through the water.
I held the big spotlight in my hand but hadn’t turned it on.
Heather asked if we should turn on the Mustang’s headlights.
“No, too wide a beam. And I don’t want to alert them to the fact that a car is at the banks of the river. Flashlight’s better.”
As the boat was approaching, I noticed a periodic beam from the vessel’s bow light flashing on and then turning off. They must have been checking their bearings on the river but didn’t want to keep the light on, possibly to avoid detection.
By the sound of the engine, this was no oceangoing ship. It was a smaller craft. I knew there was a chance that this boat had nothing to do with child sex slavery or some bloody voodoo cult.
When it sounded as if the boat was parallel to our position at Dead Point, I ran up, right to the water’s edge, with Heather close behind me. The clouds parted a little and I could make out the outline of the craft in the darkness. It looked like a long fishing boat or a trawler, with a cabin area belowdecks. There were a few portholes along the starboard side, facing us. A dim light shone in the cabin, but something covered the porthole windows.
My index finger was on the slide button of my big spotlight. I pointed it straight at the outline of the boat and clicked it on. The beam cut through the hot mist rising off the river and lit up the boat.
There, within a porthole, a hand was holding open a curtain. Then
a face peering out. I looked closer, keeping my beam fixed on it. It was a young girl. Her eyes were half-closed and her mouth was wide-open, face contorted in a scream, hands waving next to her face, pleading.
I heard Heather yelp next to me. “It’s a girl. They’ve got a girl. . . .”
Then some confusion in the porthole. Something was happening. The girl’s face appeared again, but only for a moment. She was struggling with someone. She was yanked to the side and I saw who had done it. For just a fleeting second a man’s face was in the porthole, staring out with a fierce expression; then he pulled the curtain shut and the lights went out in the cabin.
Feeling numb and gut-punched, I clicked off my spotlight. Heather was weeping softly next to me.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do.” But those words seemed so pitifully inadequate and pathetic. Even cold.
Was I growing callous to the depravity that I had been fighting ever since my spiritual awakening? I prayed to God that wasn’t true.
I looked at Heather. She was still staring at the dark flow of the river rolling past us. She was sniffling, trying hard to hold it back. Suddenly she burst into tears.
Heather turned to me and sobbed in my arms. I held her yet felt a catastrophic tension pulling me in two. Wanting to share with her everything that the Lord had shown me about the separation of the darkness from the light, and that even with all the horror and wretchedness of the devil—and the struggles against the world and the flesh—there was still hope because it had all been overcome by Christ the King, whose power was so cosmic that even the grave couldn’t contain it.
But Heather was not my daughter to console, I told myself. Genetically, biologically, and in every way in which a father and daughter can be linked through the mystery of conception and birth—I was none of that, merely a third party. Just a friendly stranger to her now. Even an unwitting impostor. The truth of that still had to be spoken to Heather. It would lie in my mouth like poison until I said it aloud.
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