Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  “Woman”?

  The deep voice belonged to a huge brother in the back. He stood up slowly and walked toward Charles. Charles was six-one but gave up at least three inches and a hundred pounds to the guy. Even in a jumpsuit, the man looked buff. He had broad sloping shoulders, massive hands, and a huge forehead that hung like a cliff over his eyes. He sported a buzz cut and a scruffy mustache that merged into a close-cropped Fu Manchu. Despite the dimness of the cell, his gold tooth glistened when he spoke.

  Charles didn’t like the implications of the nickname. And nobody had to tell Charles that this man was the de facto leader of the holding tank. He stood just a few feet away, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  “Now . . . whatcha in for . . . woman?”

  “Woman.” Fear gripped the preacher’s brain. He had never been in prison before, but he knew all the stories. “Woman.”

  God, help me, he prayed under his breath. Simple, quick, fervent.

  “I told you, bro. Resistin’ arrest and violatin’ a noise ordinance.” As the words came out, Charles was struck with how wimpy the charges sounded. “I’m a street preacher,” he added, hoping this felon might at least have some respect for a man of the cloth.

  Hoots and whistles came from the white boys in the cell, followed by some vulgar comments. They were clearly not impressed.

  “Pop ’im, Buster,” one of the blacks suggested. Charles was amazed at how quickly alliances shifted in this place. A few of the brothers stood, and others started forming a circle for the outside ring of a fight. “Guard your grill, bro,” someone suggested.

  Charles had no intention of guarding his grill. The last thing he needed was a fight with the block of granite in front of him. What had he done to agitate this guy?

  “Shut up,” growled the man they had called Buster. He was talking to the other men in the cell but staring straight at Charles. There was instant silence. Buster moved a few steps closer, within striking distance. Charles tensed, ready to duck and dodge and weave, if necessary.

  “If you a street preacher, why they callin’ you professor?”

  Good question, Charles thought.Maybe this guy’s smarter than I thought.

  “I teach constitutional law at Regent Law School,” Charles said, putting on his best air of professorial authority, despite his nervousness. “I teach law students how to spot and exploit violations of constitutional rights. You know, like Johnnie Cochran.”

  The name of Cochran evoked the desired awe among some of the felons in the cell. But Buster just furrowed his huge brow, still looking skeptical.

  “And I’m Judge Ito.”

  Charles fought back panic and rose to his full professorial stature. He calmly looked the big thug right in the eye, but stayed on the balls of his feet, ready to duck if necessary. At least this time the big gorilla had not called him a woman.

  “The Fifth Amendment of the Constitution guarantees criminal defendants the right against unreasonable searches and self-incrimination. It applies to the states by virtue of the due process clause of the Fourteenth Amendment.” Charles spit the words out rapidly, confidently, like a computer, all the while keeping a wary eye on his new nemesis. “Rights like Miranda warnings are actually the outgrowth of case law by the Supreme Court, in particular, the case of Miranda versus Arizona, decided by the Supreme Court in 1966, with the majority opinion written by one of my all time favorites, Justice William Brennan, may he rest in peace.” Charles paused to catch a breath. He saw the confusion in Buster’s eyes.

  “You any good in court?” Buster asked, still clenching and unclenching his fists.

  “Only the best teach. The others do what we train them to do.”

  “If you train the public defenders, I wouldn’t be braggin’,” one of the long-haired white kids said from the other side of the cell.

  Buster shot the kid a glance, and Charles sensed a chance to reconfigure alliances. After all, this guy Buster was a fellow member of the darker nation.

  “They’re only as good as the cases they get,” Charles said to the white kid.

  Buster unclenched his fists. “The cops violated my rights.”

  “Word up,” said one of the brothers standing in the outer circle. “Mine too.”

  Buster shot him a glance, and the man shot his palms up—I’m backing off.

  “Look,” lectured Charles, who now had the undivided attention of everyone, “I don’t have time to litigate every constitutional violation that ever occurred. I’ll bet five-O dissed half the brothers in this room.” There were nods and murmurs of agreement. “But if you give me some time and space, I’ll interview those of you who think you may have a constitutional claim. I can’t promise anything, but if you’ve got a case, I’ll help your public defender and maybe even handle a motion to suppress hearing.”

  Several heads nodded. Buster’s was not yet among them.

  “Let’s start with you,” Charles suggested.

  Buster stuck out his jaw and then slowly nodded his head. “’At works for me.” He glanced around the cell at the other men.

  “Give the prof some room,” Buster ordered, and the men who had been standing in a circle around Buster and Charles returned to their earlier spots. Charles and Buster then huddled in a corner of the cell while the others eavesdropped, pretending not to listen.

  By the time he completed the interviews, Charles had determined that only one of the men in the cell had a case that deserved Charles’s constitutional expertise. That man was Buster, who had, according to Charles, been the victim of a gross disregard of constitutional rights by the V-town po-lece.

  Charles knew he would hate himself in the morning if he actually took a role in Buster’s defense. He had participated in the defense of a few criminals during his six years as a law school professor, but they all had credible claims of innocence. The prospect of putting Buster back out on the street repulsed him. But not nearly as much as the thought of trying to survive the night without Buster as an ally. And Charles took comfort in the fact that there was actually little chance of springing Buster early.

  Buster said he had been innocently cruising the main drag in V-town—the inmates’ slang for Virginia Beach—alone in his Cadillac Escalade SUV with tinted windows. He drove a few laps around the block, then pulled over to the curb where a couple of young African American men joined him in the car. After another lap around the block, he dropped them off at the same place where he had picked them up.

  For this innocuous conduct, the cops had pulled him over and begun their harassment. They accused Buster of selling drugs and ran the serial number on his vehicle. They ordered Buster out of the car and then claimed they had seen some small Baggies with a white powder substance in plain sight sticking out from under the front seat.

  Not true, Buster said. He assured Charles that the drugs were tucked safely away in the glove compartment and trunk. He was not a fool, Buster said, and he knew better than to leave the drugs in plain sight.

  It was Buster’s third offense, and he was looking at serious time under Virginia’s “three strikes and you’re out” sentencing guidelines. He had already spent three years of his life in jail on drug charges and was not looking forward to spending the next decade behind bars. “I’m a changed man,” he told Charles. “I learned my lesson this time. You get me outta here, I’ll make like Mother Teresa.”

  Charles listened intently to Buster’s story, nodded his head a lot, and made guttural noises of sympathy as Buster shared his tale of woe. When Buster was finished, Charles wondered aloud whether the police could justify the stop in the first place.

  “Sounds like racial profiling to me,” Charles murmured. “How they gonna justify pulling you over in the first place if not for racial profiling? Truth is, they see a black man in a nice car, chummin’ with a couple of black kids, and they automatically assume you’re a drug dealer.”

  “But what about dem findin’ da brick?” Buster asked.

  “If they didn’t hav
e reasonable suspicion to stop you in the first place, then the crack becomes fruit of the poisonous tree, and the judge will throw out the charges. I’m not sayin’ it’ll happen; in fact, it’s a long shot. But it’s possible.”

  Buster smiled, and the gold tooth gleamed. “Fruit of the poisonous tree,” he mumbled, nodding his head in approval. “I like dat. Fact, ’at’s real good. Fruit of the poisonous tree.”

  After Charles had heard the less meritorious claims of the other inmates, he and Buster returned to the corner of the cell and quietly entered into a pact. Charles would represent Buster on the constitutionality of the stop, nothing more. Buster’s public defender would handle the rest of the case. In return for the professor’s help, Buster agreed to take care of Charles during the professor’s brief stint behind bars. Sensing that Buster really wanted his help, Charles decided to push for one thing more.

  “Think you could get a few of the brothers together for a Bible study on Saturday night?” Charles whispered. “I’ll come lead it.”

  Buster furrowed his massive brow, and the eyes hardened.

  “Think about it,” Charles whispered quickly. He sensed that was the best he could do at the moment. “Might give us some extra time to talk about your case.”

  They sealed the deal with a soul handshake and announced to the other inmates that Buster had a new lawyer. There was some mumbled cursing as the others realized that the fix was in. But no one dared complain out loud.

  That night Charles slept on one of the few mats in the holding cell. Just before he fell asleep, he cracked an eyelid and snuck one last glance at his protector. Buster sat nearby, eyes open, arms crossed, and a scowl on his gnarly face—just daring anybody to bother the well-earned sleep of his prized new constitutional lawyer.

  7

  THEY HAD NOT HEARD anything for almost two hours, and it worried Thomas. He was tired of the sterile ICU waiting room, the yellow plastic furniture, and the two-month-old magazines. He had seen at least two other families come and go since midnight, yet here he sat, knowing nothing and fearing the worst.

  The operation had started at 11:00 but had not gone well. Dr. Armistead came by at 12:30, very businesslike, to inform them that the appendix had been removed but that Joshua was not yet out of the woods. He referred to multiple system failures or something like that. Thomas had not been allowed to see Josh. Armistead mentioned consulting with some kind of liver or kidney specialists. How those organs got involved, Thomas did not know. But it didn’t sound good.

  Was God punishing him for taking Josh to the hospital? Had Thomas failed in his ultimate test of faith? If Josh didn’t pull through, would there be anyone to blame except a father who abandoned his deeply held beliefs when the pressure was on? How could God honor such flimsy faith?

  For the last hour Thomas had been beating himself up as he wrestled with these questions in prayer. He still had no answers and no sense of assurance that Josh would be okay. More than anything else, he just wanted to be with Josh and resented the doctors for keeping him away from his own son.

  At least Tiger had finally run out of gas. He was sound asleep on the couch, mouth wide open and clinging to his blankie. Stinky had curled up on Thomas’s lap and also slept soundly. She was getting heavier by the minute, but Thomas was not about to put her down. He found security in the warmth of her touch.

  Theresa was not sleeping. She was up and down, roaming the hallways and pacing the waiting room. She would alternate between unjustified optimism and unwarranted pessimism. Right now, she was just sitting and staring. It had been at least five minutes since she had speculated about why they had not heard anything for so long. It had been fifteen minutes since she had stopped an ICU nurse in the hallway, pressing for information that was not forthcoming.

  What else could they do but wait?

  Though Thomas and Theresa had been glancing at the doorway for most of the night, Armistead somehow entered unnoticed. When Thomas caught Armistead in his peripheral vision, the doctor was already standing a few steps inside the room, in his white lab coat, looking grim. Thomas knew. Even before Armistead spoke, Thomas knew.

  Theresa jumped out of her seat, moving toward the doctor.

  “How’s he doing?” she asked.

  Thomas tensed but did not move. He didn’t want to shake Stinky from his lap.

  “It’s not good,” Armistead said evenly, professionally. “We did everything we could, but he didn’t make it; he just—”

  “No!” Theresa screamed. “No! Not my Joshie . . .” She collapsed on the floor, head in her hands, her words drowned out by her own sobs.

  Thomas stood and placed Stinky softly in the chair. Stinky woke, looked confused, and blinked the sleep out of her eyes. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “It’ll be okay,” Thomas mumbled as he tried to absorb the unthinkable. A numbness washed over him. He sat down on the floor next to Theresa and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her head on his shoulder.

  Tiger, who had been startled awake by his mother’s scream, rubbed his eyes and hopped down from the couch. He walked quickly toward his mom and dad and shot a mean glance at Dr. Armistead. He took his special blankie, his comforter, and spread it across his mom’s shoulders. Then he reached out and hugged his mommy’s neck. Thomas embraced them both in a three-person hug. In a flash, Stinky joined them and made it four.

  “Is Joshie okay?” Stinky whispered into her daddy’s ear.

  Thomas couldn’t find the words or the heart to tell her.

  8

  STATE LAW REQUIRED that he report suspected child abuse. He had no choice in the matter. And so, after working a double shift, Sean Armistead reached for his cell phone while driving home, called directory assistance, and got the number for the Virginia Beach Department of Child Protective Services. He stayed on the line as the directory-assistance computer dialed the number.

  It did not surprise him to hear the answering machine kick in. He did not really expect anyone to be at the office at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday. He left a message, then speed-dialed another number. He counted three rings before it was answered.

  “Hello,” said a gruff female voice at the other end. The voice belonged to Deputy Commonwealth’s Attorney Rebecca Crawford.

  “I thought you’d be at the office by now. You’re slipping.”

  Sean?”

  “Your friendly neighborhood doc with your weekend wake-up call.”

  “Fat chance. I’ve already finished my workout. It’s almost lunchtime for me, Doc.”

  “You’ve got to get a life.”

  “I’ve got one—remember? I put the guys behind bars that you stitch up and throw back out on the streets.”

  As he listened to her on the phone, she crystallized in his mind. Thirty-eight and fighting the years with every ounce of her strength. Short, blonde hair with a layered cut, the roots beginning to turn brown. Tanned skin abused by too many long summers in the beach sun. The first signs of wrinkles had been ironed out with a facelift at age thirty-five. She had never admitted it to Sean, but he had his sources. She was not a natural athlete but worked hard to whip her body into shape, with fairly impressive results. She was only five-five, with big bones and a slow metabolism. She had to stay disciplined to keep off the weight.

  Her face would be described by most as handsome but not stunning. The angles a little too sharp, the eyes a little too narrow, the cheeks a little too hollow. Regardless, it worked for him. She always applied her makeup with precision, hiding every flaw and accentuating the positives. And her mouth was truly beautiful—full lips, always covered with dark lipstick, and straight white teeth. You found yourself staring at her mouth when she talked, the way you did with Julia Roberts. Armistead had been mesmerized by her mouth on more than one occasion, a trait he was sure he shared with many jurors.

  “So what’s up? You don’t call at seven in the morning to chat.”

  Armistead smiled to himself. All business. He loved it.

&
nbsp; “I think I’ve got an interesting case for you. High stakes. Big publicity. Sympathetic victim.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “A twenty-month-old child died last night in the emergency room because his parents refused to get medical help for a ruptured appendix for three days. We did everything we could to bring him around, but it was too late. Plus, though I can’t prove it yet, I think the parents might have abused this child and their other two kids as well—a five-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl.”

  Armistead paused, allowing the magnitude of his favor to kick in. “I thought you might be interested,” he said.

  “Interested,” Rebecca replied. “You could say I’m interested.” She sounded energized. “Meet me at the office in an hour. I’ll need an affidavit.”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised.

  There was silence for a brief moment. “What’s the kid’s name?” Rebecca asked.

  “Joshua Hammond.”

  “What did he look like?”

  This strange question caught Armistead a little off guard. Honestly, he couldn’t much remember. “Typical two-year-old. Blond hair, I think, pudgy. . . . Why is that important?”

  “It’s not, really. I just like to put a face with my files. On a murder case, I usually tape a picture of the victim to the inside cover of my trial notebook. Helps me remember what the case is about.”

  This side of Rebecca surprised him. It also shamed him a little. He couldn’t remember what this kid’s face looked like if his own life depended on it. The thought that a ruthless prosecutor had more compassion than he did was disturbing.

  “Maybe you should tape your own picture there,” Armistead suggested. “This case is about getting you a promotion.”

  She huffed. “You’re such a jerk sometimes.”

  That’s better. That’s the Rebecca he knew. Combative, biting . . . irresistible. “I’ll make it up to you later,” he promised.

  Rebecca took a quick shower and threw on a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a loose-fitting tank top. Birkenstocks with no socks. She applied liberal amounts of blush, eye shadow, lipstick, and mascara in near record time. She layered on the deodorant and perfume. She was on her way in thirty minutes.