30 Days of Justis

by John Ellsworth

  "You're on Seattle Daily, am I right? I've read lots of your stories. Welcome to Purdy." She extends her hand to shake with al-Hatari. She doesn't offer me the same courtesy, and I don't give a damn.

  "I've been with SD four years now. Before that, it was the Post. So I've got Seattle down pretty good."

  "Why are you here for a deposition, Ms. Al-Hatari? This is a legal moment, not a news moment."

  "I asked Mr. Gresham if I might tag along and he had no objection. So here I am. I do hope the State of Washington won't object to my presence."

  "Oh, not at all. Please feel free. Mr. Gresham, we have our press room reserved for noon for your session. It's not all that large, but I think you'll find it works for you."

  So. We're going to be allowed to go ahead with our video session. I'm very relieved. We spend maybe five minutes more with Warden McCann and then we're shown to the door. The secretary in the outer office hangs up the phone on her desk. "Security will be here in five minutes. They'll escort you to the press room so you can set up."

  Sari says, "I'll alert my team. They're in the main reception area. Will you let security know they're to be brought to the press room as well?"

  "Done. Give it ten minutes, and you're all together."

  It's a huge relief, and I take one of the black vinyl chairs for a minute. What do we hope to do today? We're going to capture Cache's version of the Judge Wilberforce era. We're going to get the news out that she was raped by Judge Wilberforce and tested HIV positive not long after. There's no one from the other side here; we didn't want anyone else. This also looks like a deposition to be used in court so far as the warden knows. In truth, it's a news story with video.

  I lean forward, hands on knees, and shut my eyes just to collect myself. The significance of what we're about to do isn't lost on me. I feel it through and through, and I'm anxious yet again. At just this moment I'm aware there's a dark shroud being pulled across my brain, and I pass out.

  DAY 25/30

  "Exhaustion," Verona says, standing far above me, looking down at my face.

  Ever so slowly I fight to understand. Then I see. I'm in a hospital bed. I struggle to shift upright in the bed. Something has gone terribly wrong.

  Verona stoops to place her hand on my forehead. "Easy, Michael, don't try to sit, please."

  Two nurses are off to my left; one I can see and one I can only hear, but I recognize the sound of vitals monitors recording and reporting my condition.

  "Where?"

  "St. Anthony Hospital. You passed out, and they've been worried it's a stroke. We're waiting for test results."

  It begins returning to my mind. "What about Sari and Cache? The video?"

  "Sari went ahead and got the story. I've spoken with her. Amazing woman."

  "What about the court?"

  "The story ran last night on the Seattle Daily online news. Marcel took a call on your phone. The Court of Appeals has listened and heard. They've set oral argument on your motion for the day after tomorrow. But you won't be there."

  "Like hell, I won't. Wild horses can't keep me away."

  "Doctor's orders. You'll be here several days until they release you."

  "How is Cache?"

  "I went in last night," a voice says from my right. I try to move my head to the right to see, but it doesn't move. It feels locked up.

  "Millie?" I manage to say. "Is that you?"

  "It is, Michael. I saw our daughter last night. She's doing better. She was quite rattled when I watched the video on the Seattle Daily website. But she's doing a lot better now. Just really worried about her dad."

  Her dad. That resonates in my heart. I miss her and know I've let her down. I try to raise my hand, my right-hand, to push up and out of bed, but my right-hand doesn't work. Then I realize I might have a string of saliva running out the right side of my mouth. I sense that it's there more than I feel it. What the hell is going on with me?

  "Michael," Verona is leaning down again, "you've had a mini-stroke. They did an MRI, and they've done blood tests. But you're going to recover a hundred percent."

  "I've got to get to court. Cache is counting on me."

  "You're not going to court. Now lie back and rest."

  Now a white-frocked doctor sweeps into the room. She scans my entourage and says, "Whoa, who are all you people? Mr. Gresham needs rest right now."

  "I'm the wife," says Verona. "So, I'm staying."

  "I'm the almost-wife," Millie says with a tone of sarcasm. "I'll be leaving."

  The doctor smiles and pulls up a chair to my bedside. "I'm Linda Fox. Do you know your name?"

  "Howard Hughes."

  "Seriously?"

  "Michael Gresham."

  "Well, Michael, you've had an incident. I'm calling it a mini-stroke. A TIA. Now, what month is it?"

  "January."

  "And what state are you in?"

  "Disappointment. And pissed at my body."

  "State, please."

  "Washington. State of."

  "Month, for real?"

  "July."

  "Do you remember where you were when you passed out?"

  "Prison at Purdy. We were getting ready to take a video interview."

  Dr. Fox looks to Verona, who confirms my answer with a nod.

  "I have to be in court, doc. The day after tomorrow. This is no BS. I'm going to be there."

  "No, you won't be there unless you leave the hospital AMA. Then I can't help you."

  "There's no one else. My daughter is on death row. I have one last chance to convince the Court of Appeals she was railroaded. I've got to be there."

  "Your cognition is excellent. That's a good sign."

  She didn't reply to what I just said. She simply changed the topic. Nice.

  "I need to see Marcel," I mutter.

  "Marcel's with Leo downstairs," Verona tells me.

  "Please get him up here. We need to talk about one last thing I need for Cache's case."

  "Michael," Millie says from my right, "you want to see Marcel to plan an escape. You're not fooling anyone. Now instead of insisting on going to court, start thinking about a lawyer to fill in for you. That's what you need to be doing."

  "I concur," says Verona.

  They should know this can't be done. "I don't know anyone. I don't practice here so I don't know a soul. Doc, I'm a little bit tightened up in my right arm. How long until that goes away?"

  "With a TIA you're talking several hours to a day or two."

  "Do I have to stay here with a TIA?"

  "Ischemic stroke patients can usually leave in three-to-six days. TIA, at one end of the scale, maybe two days."

  "If I'm out by tomorrow night, why wouldn't I be able to appear in court the next day?"

  "Michael, you've been under a huge amount of stress. And the worst thing for stroke victims to engage in is worry and stress. Stress can precipitate another incident; next time maybe worse. So you're going to need to listen to me and humor me. When and if you leave here tomorrow, it won't be with any hope of you going to court. That would be against medical advice. AMA. Now hang in there. I'll be back later to see how you're doing. We can talk more then."

  "Okay."

  Ever so slowly, now, the assault begins from Verona and Millie. Explaining—very slowly, so the stroke victim understands—my future if I insist on going to court. They are stressing me out with their words, so I stop listening.

  My turn to change the subject. "I need to see the court order setting the emergency hearing. Can someone get that for me?"

  Verona sighs and crosses the room. A long, countertop runs along the windows. She lifts my laptop from it and brings it over. She takes the chair the doctor had occupied and flips open the laptop. "Okay. Where do I sign in."

  "It's called Pacer. I've got a bookmark on my toolbar. Click that. It will automatically enter my user ID and password."

  She takes a minute or two and then says she's ready.

  "What to do next?"


  I explain the search feature for a Pacer case, and she executes it flawlessly. The court order appears onscreen.

  "Read it, please," I ask Verona.

  She reads. It's very short and to the point. The court has granted my motion to amend Cache's appeal and to allow follow-up argument. The argument is less than forty-eight hours away. Counsel are ordered to attend.

  "Marcel. Please get him." I say this to the ceiling. Whether Millie goes and watches her grandson while Marcel comes up here, or whether Verona goes doesn't matter. I just need Marcel. "It's part of finding someone else," I add. This pleases Verona, who raises a hand to Millie.

  "Let me go see Leo," Verona says. "You must want to say some private things to Michael about your daughter."

  Millie doesn't respond. With Verona gone, the room is hushed. I can hear Millie's breathing.

  Now she says, "I apologize for keeping Cache from you. I'm crying inside and horrified at what I've done. You may never get to know her and I could never forgive myself for that."

  I wave her off. "Forget it. It is what it is, and there's nothing fixable about that. But apology accepted. I understand. I wasn't all that stable when we had our little fling. In fact, as I remember, I was bouncing off the walls. You took a chance with me, Millie."

  "I did, but you were too good-looking not to take a chance. Besides which, you were my first white man. I was curious. Isn't that horrible to admit?"

  "Not really, because I can say the same thing," I tell her.

  "What, I was your first white man, too?"

  We laugh. The air around us is considerably cleared, and I feel right about Millie again. It's the first time since I got here. The truth is, I've been furious over what she did over all those years. I was cheated—no, it's worse, because something was taken from me—and the truth is that I'll never be able to trust Millie again. Forgiven, yes. But trust? Not again. But that's just between me and me. No sense in telling her.

  Now it's quiet again. We have nothing else to say to one another. Our past has diverged.

  Marcel hurries into the room, a worried look plastered on his face that might indicate I'm in much worse shape than what Dr. Fox just told me.

  "Relax," I say to him. "I'm going to live."

  "How much of you is going to live?"

  "All of me. I can wiggle my fingers on my right hand already."

  "That's good news. And the other good news: we got a new hearing for Cache. Congratulations, Michael."

  I close my eyes and think about that for a minute. He's right. I did do it—but only with Marcel's help, and I tell him. "You were there with me every step of the way, Marcel. Fifty percent goes to you."

  "You're back in court on July thirtieth. Less than two days. Can you make it?"

  "Millie," I say, "would you excuse us now while we talk?"

  She leaves, shaking her head as she goes. She knows what I'm going to need to do.

  "Promise me, Marcel, that you'll have me at the courthouse, seated at that table, when it's time to argue. Will you promise me that?"

  "What, bust your sorry ass out of here? Kidding. I'll do it, of course."

  "No matter what Verona or any doctor says to you?"

  "No matter. I'll have you there, rain or shine,"

  Now I can rest.

  Hours later. Four in the morning and someone is taking my blood pressure. No, it's the cuff has tightened but there's nobody here. Maybe it's on autopilot. Whatever it is, I come awake. I'm feeling much stronger now. I test, and I can move my right arm. And leg. Not completely but better.

  "You awake?" Verona says from somewhere in the dark room.

  "More or less. Where's Leo?"

  "Back at your room with Millie. My stuff's there, too."

  "How's Cache?"

  "They wouldn't let Millie see her. She called ahead. So she didn't go. She's with Leo."

  "Thanks for being here."

  "Thanks for not dying, Michael. I think we need to talk about your future and the practice of law."

  "We'll have to do that at some point. But not tonight; not until I'm well again, okay?"

  She sniffs like some wives do. I know what it means,

  "I love you, Verona, Thanks for being here."

  "I love you too, Michael. And I'm distraught."

  "Don't be. I'm ready to get a full physical and see where I am."

  "That's a start."

  "It's necessary."

  She sighs. "Marcel is taking you to court tomorrow?"

  Long silence. She knows. Did she intuit? Did Marcel tell her?

  "Yes, Marcel is taking me."

  "I knew you wouldn't listen. Well, two things. One, don't die."

  "What's the other?'

  "Two, don't lose."

  DAY 26/30

  They release me the next afternoon. Marcel drives us to the Hyatt. I'm feeling like fifty percent of my old self. Not whole, yet, but I'm feeling pretty good. Maybe a little hitch in my right leg but no one notices. Or no one says anything.

  We ride upstairs to our room. The three of us enter and find Millie asleep on the sofa with Leo seated in front of the silent TV working with his Legos. Millie is instantly awake and sits up.

  "You again?" she says to me.

  "Disappointed are we?" I reply,

  "Grandpa!"

  Before I know it, Leo has jumped into my arms and is hugging me around the neck. This one is easy to love.

  Millie and Verona have some plan in place because they gather up their purses and advise us that Marcel and Michael will be watching Leo for a couple of hours. It surprises me, but the activity in transferring from the hospital to the hotel has worn me down just a bit. Marcel winks at me. He's got this.

  Two hours later I open my eyes. I've drifted off, but Millie and Verona have returned and are talking to Marcel,

  "Casket," I hear Verona say. "About five-thousand for the preparation and burial."

  Now I'm wide awake and sitting up.

  "What are you talking about?" I ask Verona,

  "We went and found a burial plot and a casket."

  "Just in case," Millie says and turns away.

  "Well, stop payment on the check," I tell them. "We won't be needing any of that."

  I'm angry. I also remember I've been told to avoid stress and upset.

  I get up and go in on my bed. I plan to sleep the rest of the day, wake up tomorrow, put on a suit, and go save my daughter's life.

  That's my plan.

  DAY 27/30

  I attend court in a wheelchair. Verona has pleaded with me to find co-counsel, just a warm body to read my short motion and amended brief to the court and let it go at that. But no, I've resisted her—and Marcel—who has joined with her. So, Marcel has requisitioned a wheelchair from the Hyatt and hauled me to court.

  We're just five minutes away from the start time by the time he has me wheeled up to counsel table, and I've spread my papers—my notes to argue—before me. He then goes back on the other side of the bar, and I'm alone at the table. On the table at my right, there is a woman, alone, who neither looks my way nor speaks to me. Fair enough, she looks sickly in her summer suit, even frail and skinny. I determine that I will overwhelm her.

  Now the three judges file in; Judge Crittenden is not among them. Instead, there's a new face, a female judge who, of course, I don't know and whose name I probably won't know until I read the court's written decision sometime after today. The court is brought to order, the case is called, and the chief judge turns to me and nods. "Your motion, Mr. Gresham. You may proceed."

  Suddenly I feel very insignificant, confined to the wheelchair. I'm accustomed to standing and using my height and bulk to convince the court that I am vital, believable and that I deserve to win. A lot of what I do is about attitude. I find that being confined to a wheelchair robs me of some of that and I'm uneasy from the gate. But I push on.

  "May it please the court, what we have here today is a simple Strickland case."

  My train of thou
ght has evaporated.

  I lean forward in the wheelchair, toward counsel table, and appear to be searching for notes. What I'm really doing is trying to remember what was so important before. It must be said today, now. I want them to clearly and thoroughly remember what they've read in the new records I submitted. I can continue.

  "Cache Evans has shown beyond all doubt that Attorney Kelly Larsyn's defense of her in the state court was unreasonable and that she was prejudiced." I lose it again. So I merely add, "Cache Evans is now entitled to habeas relief. Her grievances are major grievances all, any one of which is grounds to set my client free and dismiss the case against her. Which is what we're asking the court to do. That's all I wanted to say here today. Thank you for your forbearance and this opportunity."

  I quit prematurely. I am covered in sweat, and my head is spinning. I'm asking myself what in God's name I was thinking by insisting I be the one to appear in this case today and not someone healthy, someone coached by me from my sick bed.

  But my thoughts, my doubts, are cut short.

  Alisa Edmundson, the U.S. Attorney assigned to argue the case today, slowly climbs to her feet. She catches my attention out the corner of my eye even as I sit and shake and sweat. I make her out to be frail and probably inhibited, and I'm hoping her presentation is short and weak like mine.

  Fifteen minutes later, my case lies smoldering at my feet. Ms. Edmundson has not only turned out not to be frail; she's turned out to be a hurricane. It has taken her less than seven minutes to demolish the facts that I've brought before the court, and to argue that Cache's infection from the three boys was merely delayed, or, alternatively, that there were other people she could've had sex with in any case, and that the assumption the jury made in finding her guilty is the kind of assumption juries always make where circumstantial evidence is involved. At the end of her summary of the evidence, she adds, "As Henry David Thoreau once said, 'Some evidence is very strong. Like when there's a trout in the milk.'"