30 Days of Justis

by John Ellsworth

  Then she spends another seven or eight minutes reviewing what she says the Strickland case really means and how I'm misrepresenting it here today—on purpose—in my effort to mislead the court.

  To my surprise, she then adds, "I hate the death penalty personally and would gladly join in counsel's motion if I found it compelling and an accurate statement of the law. But I don't. So I have to ask the court to leave the execution warrant untouched."

  After sucking all the oxygen out of the room, she finally sits—much to my enormous relief. I'm allowed three minutes for rebuttal, but I can only flail away and sound almost incoherent. I'm rattled, and everyone knows it. Plus, I'm getting weaker by the minute—even woozy, perhaps on the verge of passing out. I remember Dr. Fox's warning about stress and then, in spite of my commitment to Cache to fight until I'm dead if it takes that, I have to sit back in the wheelchair and tell the court I'm finished.

  The court takes the case under advisement. I want to cry out, "When can we expect to hear from you?" but I know better. Attorneys don't cry out at judges. Especially not when attorneys have just handed their child's life to them. So I sit in my chair, my eyes closed, trying to slow my heartbeat. And it works. After just a few minutes the thumping pulse in my neck has retreated and my heartbeat has slowed.

  The judges have cleared out. The U.S. Attorney is packing her briefcase. Then she turns to me. "I really wanted you to prevail," she says. "I hate this goddam case."

  "You should have told them so," I tell her.

  She flattens her mouth into a scowl. "But then I wouldn't be doing my job. And if I don't do my job I can't pay my rent. I hate this goddam profession. I'm working in clay, Mr. Gresham. I'm trying to learn how to throw pots and move to Taos. I'll sell my crockery and smoke peyote."

  "What the hell?" I mutter.

  "I'm sorry you lost. But you did."

  "Thanks. I'd buy one of your pots, just for that."

  Marcel comes up behind me. I can feel his hands grip the wheelchair.

  Ever so gently he says, "Ready, Boss?"

  He knows, damn, he knows.

  I blew it. I shouldn't have tried this. I should have turned over all the stones and found competent appellant counsel to represent Cache here today. My thoughts weren't clear at any point, and my voice was weak. Even my right hand won't stop shaking. What the hell is that about?

  "I'm ready. Wait. How bad was it?"

  "I think you did fine, Boss."

  "Thanks, Marcel. You never fail me, do you." It isn't a question. We both know what I mean. He's constant, and he's loyal to a fault. But he did try to talk me out of coming here today. He did tell me he was hoping I'd let him interview a couple of appeals lawyers and pick one that would be aggressive and intelligent on Cache's behalf. The winning ingredients. But I wouldn't let him do it. I objected and pitched a fit and said I was going to defend Cache, that no one else could do it like me.

  Wrong. Just about any first-year law student could have outdone me here today.

  "Okay," Marcel says and wheels me back from the table, swings us around, and begins pushing me back up the aisle. At the doors, the last remaining bailiff, who has been waiting patiently for us to clear out, pushes open the door and gives us a kind smile.

  "Good luck, Mr. Gresham."

  "Thank you."

  Then we are outside, where it is overcast and rainy—gloomy to the point where I seriously think about just getting on a plane and going home, unable to face Cache and admit how I've let her down.

  Marcel opens his umbrella and shields me from the heavens.

  Lord knows I need it.

  DAY 28/30

  After court yesterday I returned to the hotel and collapsed into bed. I was whipped, and I was ashamed of how I'd let my ego run away with me and maybe sent my daughter to her death. I was complaining about Larsyn's negligence when my own might have just been enough to finish her off—a horrible thought.

  Early today, Marcel took Millie and Leo to Purdy in an attempt to let Leo visit his mom for what will be the last time. Verona tells me this as she's bringing me orange juice and a danish. I have no appetite and beg her not to open the drapes when she turns to them. "I can't stand the gray Seattle skies today," I tell her. I know I'm depressed and wonder when I'll see the sun again. Right now, a week in Scottsdale sounds very inviting.

  I'm avoiding. Who wouldn't? Yesterday's gone, however. Somehow I need to get off the pity pot and pull myself together.

  Verona stands beside the bed, looking down at me. I'm wallowing in self-hatred, and she knows it.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "I've been better."

  "I mean your arm and leg, the side of your face. Is it getting any better?"

  I test those limbs; I test my face, moving my mouth side-to-side and feeling my cheek for drool. There is none, and my leg and arm and hand seem to be functioning as meant.

  "I think I'm all systems go. Except I don't want to go."

  "Well, save your energy today. Because the day after tomorrow you have to go. You have to be there for Cache when she leaves us."

  "Oh, my God."

  "You're her dad. You did everything you could. I'm sorry it went so bad, Michael. But also, we tried to get you to find another lawyer. I need to say that to you, as your wife. You wouldn't listen to reason. You were self-will run riot. Now Cache pays the price. There, I've said it. I've been honest with you. Now let's get started and build you back up again. You don't deserve to suffer for this. You did so much. You tried your heart out, and it finally put you in the hospital. No one could ask any more of you. So let it go, Michael. Let yourself rest and recover now."

  "Where's my phone, Verona, in case the court calls?"

  "Did you hear anything I just said?"

  "I did. I've taken it in. But I'm just going to have to live with much of it for a long time and work through it. I can't just let it go, as you put it. That doesn't work for me."

  "You need to beat yourself up, is that it?"

  "Seriously, where's my phone. They could call at any minute, and I've got to answer."

  "Your phone is right next to you on the nightstand. I've got it plugged in, so it's fully charged. We love you, Michael, all of us. We want to be there for you. And we have been."

  "All right. I think I need to stop talking now and just rest."

  "Eat your pastry, Michael. Drink your OJ."

  "I would like some coffee and a big glass of ice water."

  "I have coffee in the other room. It's still hot. And we have ice. Marcel brought us a bucket earlier. He knows you pretty well, Michael. You've got yourself one hell of a pal there."

  "Please. Just let me have some coffee and water. I'm drained right now."

  "Okay, message received. I'll shut up."

  "And the TV clicker. I'd like to watch the news."

  "It's on your nightstand, next to your phone. Can you reach it?"

  "Okay. I can. Let's talk again later, Verona. Thanks for being gentle with me."

  "I don't know what horse you're used to riding, mister, but that wasn't gentle. That was truth-telling time."

  "Okay. We'll talk later. Thanks."

  Everyone will need to have their say. Starting with Verona.

  And ending with Cache.

  DAY 29/30

  Still no word—the court hasn't called. I don't know any more today than I did the minute I was wheeled out of court two days ago. And it's driving me insane.

  Purdy did allow Leo to visit his mom. She cried the whole time and didn't try to hide it from Leo. All restraint is gone, Millie reports. She also reports that Cache is very subdued and very pale-looking. As if the blood has drained out of her skin. She's ghostly, to use Millie's words. Naturally, she's very worried about her daughter's health. I'm not going to point out the irony. I won't even go there.

  Today I call Cache and get put through. I explain the whole process—my getting sick, the court, what happened in court, and how I see it coming down. I don't pull
my punches. She deserves to know the truth.

  "Michael," she says when I've run out of things to say. "Don't ever hold any of this against yourself. Promise me that. You've done a fantastic job for me. No regrets, father."

  "Thank you, Cache. I’ll try to take that to heart."

  We chat on as if there's nothing unusual going on. Except, oh yes, she did tell the social worker they could have organs, skin, whatever they can use. She told them to take what they want. She has no regrets and is pleased with her decision.

  I spend the day in blue jeans and a thin sweatshirt. My moccasins brush noisily on the carpet as I move around the suite looking for something to do. I am every bit as much in prison as my daughter. There is just no escaping the horror of knowing your loved one is going to die tomorrow. And that—that—you couldn't make it stop even though you had the chance.

  Later in the day, everyone helps me down to poolside, and we order sandwiches and iced tea. It is warm today and sunny— a beautiful day for August 2. Thirty hours until they take Cache away from us. I try not to think about it.

  Good luck with that.

  DAY 30/30

  Her guard brings me up to speed while I wait for them to bring Cache to the family room the next morning.

  She wakes up at 6:16 a.m. They allow her to take a hot shower in the guards' locker room, under heavy security measures. They allow her to blow dry her hair and apply makeup they keep for the last day death row prisoners. She uses the blow dryer and applies the makeup sparingly. She studies herself in the mirror. "Is there a toothbrush?" she wants to know. One of the guards fetches a new toothbrush from the commissary. It's still in the wrapper—paid for by the guard herself. I want to reimburse her. She gives me an angry look.

  They feed her a breakfast of eggs over medium, English muffin, Canadian bacon, a small T-bone, a twist of orange, and tomato juice. She is ravenous, she tells them. But then she picks at it.

  A priest comes. She refuses to see him. A counselor comes; she agrees to see her. The guards hear it all. She asks the counselor to tell us what she wants for Leo. First, I'm to have custody of my grandson. Second, she wants him home-schooled if possible. She thinks it will be too hard for him to attend school and have to explain why he's living with his grandpa. Kids are death on other kids, she tells the counselor. The counselor is gentle with her and tells her she's writing it all down, that she's sure her wishes will be carried out. Then she dictates a letter to Leo to be opened by him on his twelfth birthday. While the letter was being taken down, the guard had to make rounds on the floor, so she missed out on what was said. I can't even begin to guess.

  At 10:00 a.m., they move her into the final staging area. A physician arrives to examine her. It is the same physician who will insert the needles into her flesh and who will pronounce her dead minutes later. I am told Cache is friendly with the doctor and even jokes to him about which veins to use as she's been an addict and the heroin needle has all but destroyed the common veins. They're scarred, she tells him. She also tells him she was finally able to get on the methadone maintenance program and is proud that she had six months off the black tar heroin until her arrest. I know the black tar heroin is the cheapest heroin available on the street. In my twisted frame of mind, I'm sorry she couldn't get the better grade of the drug, the stuff with fewer impurities. How close am I to going over the edge?

  At noon they are going to allow us to spend as much time with her as we want. They have the family room set up for this purpose. It's a replica of a typical living room in a typical three-bedroom tract home, complete with couch, loveseat, two straight-back chairs, and a wet sink overseen by a Keurig coffee maker. There are K-cups and donuts in the room. And there is a menu of dishes that can be requested at any time in any amount. This is very different from what I've seen before. It's almost humane…but not quite, given the overarching reality that death will follow our get-together.

  Throughout the afternoon and the evening, we laugh, and we cry. Leo needs a nap, and he's put down on the loveseat, where he sucks his thumb and falls asleep under Millie's cotton sweater. His mother sits beside him, stroking his hair while he dreams his dreams. I would love a picture of this for him, but there are no cameras allowed. Even our phones were taken from us when we passed through security. If the court calls me now, I won't be able to take the call on my phone. Out of a deepening sense of frustration, and growing fear, I ask to see the warden.

  She comes to the room and knocks. I'm asked to speak with her in the hallway. She's wearing a suit of expensive blue slacks and blue coat. Her shirt is white, and there's even a necktie, one of many more colors than most men would wear on such an austere day. She's dressed to talk to the press after the execution. I get it. She has to look good for the public. I don't hold it against her; it's her job.

  "What about a last-minute call from the court?" I ask her. "Are they able to connect with you on a minute's notice?"

  "They are. I've called the chambers of the chief judge. They are talking, but the chief judge's courtroom deputy doesn't expect a last-minute call. That's the message I have for you tonight, Mr. Gresham. I'm so, so sorry."

  What can I say? It's unacceptable. I can't say it's okay, that I understand because it isn't. None of it is okay, none of it is understandable.

  At 7:00 p.m., Cache is returned to her holding cell. It's time for her to be alone with a priest or counselor—they're going to try again to salve their collective conscience by making humanitarian services available to the walking dead.

  We wait in the prison cafeteria, a small group gathering, huddled around a wood table in a room where only one overhead panel of lights have been illuminated for us.

  Time drags, and we've run out of things to say.

  At 11:50 p.m., Millie and I are escorted to the room where Cache will die in ten minutes. The procedure is explained to us; they expect our daughter to feel no pain. Millie is weeping as they explain about the straps to hold Cache down, even though a paralytic drug is introduced after the sedative drug. I can't hold back any longer, either. I am reduced to a tear-stained father with nothing to hold onto. When it's come down to it, none of my religious preferences and beliefs, none of my half-assed belief in the judicial system, can take away my terror and my pain. I don't know if I can do this.

  At 11:55 p.m., we're moved into the viewing area. Millie and I are seated in the front row. Millie takes my hand in hers and holds on tight.

  The U.S. Attorney—the not-so-frail Assistant U.S. Attorney who destroyed my case—comes into the room. She looks every bit as frail and pallid as she did in court, despite the fact the room is dark, and the only light comes from the windowed room where Cache will finally die.

  The warden suddenly comes in and leans down to me. The court has called. The execution is to proceed.

  Cache is brought into the room moments later. She is strapped to the table. There is a rustle and a cry behind me but I cannot tear my eyes away from my daughter. A door behind me opens and shuts rapidly. Someone has left the room. I can only imagine it's the U.S. Attorney's representative; she's finally unable to be a participant in the death she helped bring about.

  Needles are inserted. Cache doesn't wince. She is dressed in a short-sleeve prison jumpsuit gray in color. She looks at the ceiling; she doesn't look at her mother and father.

  Then the door opens behind us yet again, and the lights come on. The warden once again approaches me. She bends down.

  "Michael," she says, using my Christian name, "the U.S. Attorney has reversed field."

  "Meaning?"

  "She just came out and told me to stop the execution. She called the court of appeals. She joined in your motion and your appeal. She said to tell you she'll think of you when she makes Taos. The court reversed and remanded. Cache's writ of habeas corpus is ordered. She's to be released, and the charges against her dismissed. Congratulations."

  Millie slumps against me. She is openly weeping. So am I. The room is clearing, noisy yet hushed. I wi
pe my face and look for Cache. The needles have been withdrawn, the straps are unbuckled, and she sits up. She looks through the glass panes at her mother and father.

  Finally, her parents, together with her.

  The warden has entered the glassed room. She speaks to Cache. I watch her lips move. I watch my daughter collapse back against the table, rolling onto her side, her knees pulled up to her chest in the fetal position.

  Call it being reborn. Call it whatever you might.

  It looks like a rebirth to me.

  My daughter and grandson return to Washington, D.C. with us the next day. She is going to join our family and be with us while she sorts her life. There is no plan; there are no expectations. She is simply going to live now. She has her do-over.

  Cache's guard, the woman who stood outside her cell month-after-month-after-month, has written me a note. I unfold it on the plane and read.

  Mr. Gresham.

  You did Justis.

  Thank you from all of us.

  Epilogue

  Six Months Later

  It is now six months to the day since Cache escaped the needle. Escaped by two minutes. The technician's log reports 11:58 p.m. as the exact moment her hand was removed from the switch. I know this because I have sued the State of Washington and everyone and every entity that came within ten feet of Cache's court case and imprisonment. The lawsuit has brought a pickup truck load of documents and court filings and medical records to my home office where, nowadays, I work on her case. My only case.

  I don't think her case will be my last. I'm finding I want to search deeper and deeper into the how's and why's of wrongful convictions and wrongful sentences in the criminal justice system, especially regarding those inmates on death row. 100% certainty is the only acceptable standard for that place. Maybe I have one more case inside me for the innocent imprisoned and sentenced to death. Or maybe not. I'm still suffering great tiredness from my mini-stroke. Most days I tire before noon and have to turn away from my work.