30 Days of Justis

by John Ellsworth

  "It cuts both ways. While it might rule her out, it can't say it was or wasn't her if it's the same virus as the dead guy."

  "That's how I read it. Tell you what; I'll find a medical expert and see if I can come up with something."

  Marcel waves his hand dismissively. "You kidding? You think the other lawyers haven't already done this?"

  "It doesn't show up in any appellate briefs."

  "You've got to be kidding me! Any eighth grader would know to ask this."

  "Maybe her lawyers knew but just didn't raise it," I say, always the conspiracy theorist.

  He leans back. "You're saying maybe her lawyers were in bed with the prosecutors? Why would that happen?"

  "Because the dead guy's a judge and the prosecution needed someone to pin it on. How's it look if the prosecution reveals he was a serial purchaser of sexual services?"

  "Was he married?"

  "He was. Plus, he had three daughters by a prior marriage."

  Marcel grimaces and shakes his head. "Of course. But it had to come out at trial that he'd been with someone. How did that look?"

  That one I already know. "His wife was threatening divorce. Cache knew about this."

  "And he was claiming he was innocent, that she blackmailed him."

  "Exactly. The fact he was using prostitutes, that can't look good to anyone in the prudish judicial world he inhabits. So they need someone to take the fall. That turns out to be Cache."

  "Because she's a nobody and can't fight back."

  "They sacrificed my daughter to protect the judge."

  "Were viral samples taken from the judge?" Marcel asks.

  "I'm sure they were."

  "Of course Cache was sampled, too," he says. He already knows the answer.

  "Of course."

  "So were the comparisons made between the two samples?"

  "We'll be finding that out this morning."

  "How?"

  "I'll be meeting with the gal who prosecuted Cache. I intend to pin that down."

  "Good luck with it. Either way it falls, it's something they're not going to want to discuss with you."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning if the samples weren't taken and compared, someone dropped the ball big time, prosecution and defense. And if the samples were taken and weren't compared, then both the prosecution and defense were in on some cover-up."

  "You're reading my mind, Marcel."

  "Which isn't all that hard to do, boss, as well as I know you."

  "I'm sure. There's also another angle I'll be asking all trial lawyers about."

  "What's that?"

  "It's something I need more information about. But it could set our girl free."

  "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get to it."

  "Let's."

  Fifteen minutes later, just as I'm leaving the room, I get a call from the Purdy area code. It must be Cache.

  "Hello, daughter."

  "This is Warden McCann. I'm calling about your client, Cache Evans."

  My pulse jumps. "I'm listening. How can I help."

  "Your daughter has been taken to the hospital, where she's been placed on life support, Mr. Gresham. You need to come now."

  "What hospital?"

  "Saint Anthony Hospital. That's in Gig Harbor. Canterwood Boulevard, tell the cab driver."

  "What happened?"

  "We found Cache in her cell this morning hanging from the bars. She'd made a noose out of her mattress ticking and tied it around her neck. She was unconscious and wasn't breathing. Nurse Okijura performed CPR until the EMT's showed up. They got her intubated and rushed her to the hospital. She's under twenty-four-hour guard, of course."

  "Of course. After all, she might suddenly jump up and run back to the effing prison where you negligently let her hang herself!"

  It took me away like a wild river overrunning its banks. They had been negligent. Who wouldn't foresee a death row inmate trying to hang themselves just to get it over with? Certainly, this fool on the phone didn't see it. I catch myself in the middle of my rant. I'm going to need to apologize now that I've aired my grievance.

  "Look, I'm sorry for that."

  But I'm talking to myself. Every time I talk to this prison by telephone, they end up hanging up on me. This one I had coming.

  “Marcel, trouble with Cache. She attempted suicide. We’re going to split up. You stay here and work up the interviews. I’m off to her hospital.”

  “Roger that.”

  I throw a few things in my bag and head downstairs for a ride to the airport.

  Four hours later, I'm in Gig Harbor roaring up Canterwood to St. Anthony Hospital.

  I know what room she's in as I rush inside the hospital. I know because I called the warden back and apologized for what I'd said. We talked and agreed it was a difficult time and she gave me the room number—ICU, actually—where Cache could be found.

  Up two floors and down two hallways and around. Then there it is. ICU.

  At the desk, I give them her name, but they all look at each other and refuse to tell me where Cache is undergoing treatment. Then I get it: her location is confidential because it's the department of corrections policy not to divulge inmate identities. So I shake my head and plunge ahead, passing the glassed-in ICU suites, slowing to see if Cache is there. Then, at the far end, on the far right, I find her all alone in an ICU suite. All alone insofar as other patients. But there is a nurse with her, and she's standing with her back to me studying the vitals console. There's also an armed guard leaning back in a chair just outside her room. He gives me a sour look as I approach. He touches his gun.

  "I'm her dad. And her lawyer."

  “ID.”

  I flash my driver’s license and D.C. bar card.

  He nods. I'm surprised that's all it takes for me to be allowed to pass.

  I approach the nurse from behind.

  "Hello," I say just above a whisper. The nurse doesn't startle but turns her head to see me.

  "You must be her dad. Warden McCann said she was going to break with policy and get you in to see her."

  I realize that my call back to the Warden paved the way for admittance to Cache's ICU suite.

  "Tell me the truth," is all I can say.

  "She's been on the ventilator since she arrived. Her vitals aren't what we like, but she's moving blood. She hasn't been scanned yet for brain activity. That will happen in the next forty-eight hours."

  "To see if she's worth keeping alive."

  "To see if your daughter is brain-dead. If she is, they'll have me shut off the vent. If she isn't, then no one will be able to tell you how long she'll be here and in what condition she'll end up. I've seen hundreds of these cases."

  At that exact moment, I'm pierced by a sudden thought, a sudden terrible thought. Which is this: what if the state decides to remove the ventilator that's keeping her alive as a way of carrying out the death sentence?

  "Mr. Gresham? Did you hear me?"

  My eyes come back into focus. A second nurse has come in. Except her name tag says she's an M.D.

  "Yes, I'm Michael Gresham."

  "I'm Rachel Cardoza, Cache's staff doctor."

  "You've done many of these cases?" She's very young.

  "Internal medicine. Johns-Hopkins, two-thousand-four."

  "I'm Cache's father. We only met a couple of days ago, so can I hug her? I've never touched her."

  "Sure. Hug away. She might even know it."

  I approach the bed from the left side. My daughter's head is turned slightly to her right, enabling me to run my eyes along the breathing tube until it disappears inside her mouth. My lips pass over it as I lean across and kiss her lightly on her forehead. My hand passes over her and I clasp her left upper arm and give a squeeze, enough to let her know I'm here.

  I feel like I've known her forever.

  Then I straighten up and backhand the tears from my eyes. She's desperate, and I'm desperate with her.

  Which Dr. Cardoza must s
ense. "Would you like some coffee? I'm heading back to the nurse's station, and I can have someone bring you a cup. Or soup? Maybe half of someone's sandwich? The refrigerator is always full of some pretty good stuff the nurses bring in."

  "Coffee, please. That would be great."

  "Well, listen, Cache is wired into the ICU's network. If she has any kind of event, someone will come running. So even though you're here alone with her after I leave, you're really not. Someone can be here almost instantly."

  "I appreciate that, Dr. Cardoza. And I appreciate your generosity with other people's food."

  I couldn't help it. I was once told I was a lot like my mother, that she had a slightly twisted sense of humor, too.

  She's laughing as she strides out of the ICU and I follow her with my eyes along the glass wall to where she disappears behind many panes of glass. I think of alternate universes, for some reason, and it connects in my mind that Cache now exists in a new universe—a universe where she might have a spark of hope.

  I hoof it back up to the nurse's station, and they turn a phone around. I use their yellow pages and make a call to the Apple Store. My credit card is good there: a new laptop is on the way to my daughter's room at St. Anthony Hospital. Now I can work while I wait with Cache.

  I next call Verona and give her the update about her new stepchild. She's aghast at the whole thing. We discuss this, and then we commiserate about our physical separation while I deal with Cache. The other kids are at school, so there's no chance to speak with them. We have homeschooled Mikey and Dania the last two years, but they began demanding to attend public school because their friends went to public school and so Verona and I gave in. Despite the fact that there are people who would like to see us dead, we gave up the safety that came from keeping the kids home and schooling them where we could keep a close eye. Gave it up and sent them off to school entirely without protection. Talking to them every day is a must for me. I'm sorry they aren't around now. But they're not. Verona and I run out of small talk. We say we love each other; we say goodbye.

  I return to Cache's suite and take the chair closest to her. The lights have been dimmed in the room now. The only sound is the whoosh of the ventilator. Cache doesn't move. She reminds me of an Italian sculpture of the Madonna.

  Except this one needs my help.

  DAY 4/30

  I've spent the night in the bedside chair. There were even moments where I drifted into a fitful sleep, only to be jarred awake by staff cruising for patient vitals in the middle of the night.

  I'm sitting there about to go begging for coffee when in walks a dwarf, a man I've never seen before.

  "You looking for someone?" I ask.

  "You Michael Gresham?"

  "I am."

  He hands me a dozen sheets of paper stapled together. I don't read but instead, address him.

  "So, what's this?"

  "You've been served."

  "You're a process server?"

  He shakes his head. He's wearing a blue suit, a heavily starched white shirt, and a red and navy rep tie. Very Old School.

  "I'm Kelly Larsyn. I'm Cache's lawyer. What I've just handed you is the lawsuit that was emailed to me early this morning. It's from the Washington State Department of Corrections."

  "What's the gist of it?" I ask.

  "The state is after a new death warrant. They're asking the court for an order directing this hospital to remove all life support from your daughter. They're trying to convince the court that removing life support would amount to executing the death warrant, that she would die just like the court has ordered."

  "I was afraid this might happen."

  He raises his right hand as a witness about to be sworn. "These buttholes are serious, Mr. Gresham."

  I stand and pull my trousers out of my crack. Long night. Larsyn watches without comment but shakes his head just so.

  I tell him, "This might actually be a maneuver I can use against them."

  "Exactly my thinking. Get them involved in Eighth Amendment litigation and drag it out as long as possible. It keeps your daughter alive, Mr. Gresham."

  "Mr. Gresham's long dead. I'm Michael."

  "Okay, Michael. I'm Kelly."

  "You represented my daughter through the trial and appeal. I must have a million and one questions for you, sir."

  "We'll get to that. But how about some logistics first. The lawsuit you're holding hasn't been filed yet. This is a courtesy copy from the Attorney General's office. But it will be filed today, I am told. Probably around noon. Do you plan on answering it?"

  "I would, but I'm not a Washington-licensed lawyer."

  "File for pro hac vice. Her lawyer just for this one case."

  "I was getting to that. Will you act as my local counsel if I do?"

  "Of course I will. I've gotten to know Cache very well over the past couple of years. She's like a daughter to me. I love this kid, and I'd do anything to help her."

  "You would? How about joining me as co-counsel in the litigation that's bound to be created by her situation?"

  "Really? You'd want me? I'm the lawyer who lost her trial and her appeals. You're saying you find my track record appealing?"

  "Felony cases usually are lost at trial, has been my experience. I don't hold it against you. Although I do wonder why Cache wasn't allowed to testify about her rape by Judge Wilberforce."

  "Because the judge who tried Cache's case is Judge Wilberforce's uncle. He's the chief judge and all but anointed his nephew to get him appointed to the bench. Any other questions?"

  "Nope, you just answered the only one I had. So let's get to work."

  "Fine." He extends his hand, and we shake. "I'll get myself back to the office and wait for this thing to get filed in court. Meanwhile, I'll prepare a motion for your admission pro hac vice and get that on file just as soon as the lawsuit is filed by the AG. You should be an attorney of record on the case by five o'clock."

  "I couldn't ask for more. Thanks for every bit of it."

  "You've got it. Now, let's kick some bureaucrat ass."

  "Let's. Thanks for coming by."

  "As I said, I love this kid, and I knew you'd be here."

  "Hey, aren't you going to ask how she's doing?"

  He smiles. "I stopped at the nurses' station. I'm up to speed."

  "Wait. What's the state's basis for wanting to remove life support?"

  I see a pained irony in his eyes. "The assistant attorney general handling the case called me. Off the record, the state doesn't want to pay to keep her on life support. It costs too much to keep her alive. That's their position."

  "Oh, my God."

  "Bean counters."

  He turns and hurries out. I collapse against the wall and slap it over and over.

  They don't want to pay for her! I'm fighting back the tears of a father who has just been told his daughter's life can be measured in dollars, and she's just spent them all. The callousness of the people behind this feels like someone's got their boot on my gut. It actually hurts. I want to swing at someone, reach out and dislodge eyeballs—this is one father who would kill for his kids to keep them safe. Cache is part of my protectorate. And I swear by God I will not let her down. Do they want to see too expensive for the state? Just wait until I cost them millions in court and watch as they try to hang onto their life support, those mean little government jobs that hurt rather than heal in this new age of crazy, out-of-control government.

  I force myself to sit in my recliner and steady my breathing. Concentrate on my heart rate and coax it down from the ledge. Dear Jesus Christ Almighty, I am furious. And I am scared. I cannot watch this one die.

  My phone's haptic thumps against my chest. Marcel's calling. I let it go and continue trying to calm myself. I've had my phone turned off overnight. I'm sure Marcel's floating on the ceiling since he's been unable to track me down. The restriction in my chest loosens a notch. Now I can return his call.

  "About time you called, Gresham," he says in his m
ost unfriendly voice. I know it's only temporary.

  "Cache is in the hospital in Gig Harbor. I flew over."

  "Hospital? What the hell for?"

  "Attempted to kill herself. Choked off her oxygen for who knows how long? I'm with her in ICU. She's vented and unconscious, as you might expect."

  "How'd she do it?"

  "The usual: bedding torn into strips makes a noose. She's found dangling from the bars of her cell."

  "Of course. Don't they always try to hang themselves?"

  "Yes, unless they provoke another inmate in order to get shivved in the heart. That's been known to work every bit as well."

  "Okay. Do I come over or do I stay in Spokane and keep running down witnesses?"

  "How is that coming?" I ask.

  "It's coming. So far I've got five women who'll testify about the judge's parties. ‘Safaris', the girls called the parties; hunting trips."

  "Hunting willing flesh."

  "That's a nice way to put it. I would've called it whoring."

  I let it slide. I know Marcel's heart. He's referring to the men.

  "Okay, it appears there's another development, Marcel. The State of Washington DOC is going to file to remove all life support. They're going to ask the court to allow them to do this instead of the usual execution by lethal injection. They're going to argue that withdrawal of life support is even more humane than lethal injection."

  "Holy Christ!"

  "I know. I cannot begin to believe this."

  "So you're ready to litigate this to hell and back?"

  "Actually, the state is going to file before I have to sue them. I'll be filing an answer and Civil Rights counterclaim and move the case to federal court."

  "I'm not sure I understand all that, but I know you do. Okay, so I stay here, and you stay with your daughter. In the next day or two, I should finish up with the women. Then I want to come to Gig Harbor and have a look at Cache—I've never seen her. Plus, I want to check up on you, Michael."

  "I'm fine. In fact, I met Kelly Larsyn today, and he's going to help me on the civil case. He represented Cache through the trial and appeal."

  "Hell, Michael, he lost both cases. You're sure this is the guy you want?"