I breathe a sigh of relief. Martha gives me hope that one day I will be able to let go of what I’ve done. When, just like her, I will be able to discuss what I’ve done with the same ease as making a grilled cheese sandwich.
I carry this moment with me for the remainder of my case, and for long after. I consider it yet another invaluable lesson from Martha, and yes, a very good thing.
My attorney calls me after his presentation.
“What now?” I ask.
“We wait,” he says.
And so, once again, I wait. I continue to be consumed with worry about my case, my fate. My thoughts also inevitably wander to Cameron, whether he is undergoing the same sequence of events, whether he is also waiting, whether he is wondering if I am waiting, too.
Our communication completely cut off, he still manages to show up in a strange dream. I am running through a hospital, knowing he is there, trying to find him. The hospital has an enormous screen announcing patient rooms and visiting hours in the same way that airports announce arriving flights. I scan the names but can’t decipher any of them. I then rush from floor to floor, frantically throwing open patient room doors, asking hospital personnel where he might be found.
I’m about to give up when I turn a corner and see a door slightly ajar. I look inside. Cameron is lying on a hospital bed, barely conscious, visibly in pain. I’m terrified that he might be dying.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him as I rush to his side. “I’m here, and I’m getting you a doctor right now.”
I run back into the hallway in search of a doctor. I’m shouting for assistance, but none of the doctors around me stop what they are doing. I finally see a doctor, a beautiful woman in a sterile white coat, looking at me expectantly. I go to her, grab her arm. I tell her that Cameron is sick, that he is in need of immediate medical attention, that I need her help.
Though I feel nearly unhinged, the doctor is calm, almost serene. She follows me into Cameron’s room, looks at the manila file containing his chart. “Well, he’s very sick,” she says.
“Do you think you can treat him?” I plead.
“I can,” she says. “But are you sure that you want me to?”
I look at her with confusion. “Why wouldn’t I want you to?”
She gestures at herself, as though to indicate that in allowing her to treat Cameron, he may find her more alluring than me. That by bringing her to Cameron, I might ultimately be harming myself.
I don’t bother considering such a stupid, selfish thought. “Are you kidding me?” I scream at her. “Don’t just stand there! Help him!”
She quietly nods, says she will help him get better, that she will be back in a moment. With her words, relief washes over me. I run to Cameron, put my arms around him. I tell him that I’ve found him a doctor, that she will make him feel better, that his pain will be gone soon.
Cameron leans in close, turns his head toward my ear. As he begins to speak, I am startled. His voice is louder and clearer than anything else in the dream, as though someone has suddenly adjusted the audio levels in my brain. He sounds exactly as I remember, so much so that even in the dream I realize that his voice is something I have otherwise forgotten.
He says this: “Jen, I don’t deserve you.”
And then the dream ends.
In November, the government finally decides what’s to be done with me. They have agreed to enter into a deferred prosecution agreement that will result in the dismissal of my charges in six months.
In keeping with protocol, the government does not provide reasons for the change of heart. If someone told me it was because they determined my conduct was not in the end worthy of prosecution, I would think this might be true. If someone told me it was because disproportionate benefits were conferred upon me because of the stature and prowess of my attorney, I would think this might be true, too. Either way, I am grateful and relieved.
The general terms of a deferred prosecution agreement are these: for the next six months, I am required to remain crime-free. I must report in person to Pretrial Services on a weekly basis, my whereabouts recorded, my employment verified, my urine tested. A home visit will be conducted at my apartment to ensure that I live where I say I live. Also, specific to my agreement, I am required to continue seeing my therapist, a provision based on the not altogether unreasonable proposition that my conduct could have been prevented by regular therapy. After the six-month period passes, if all hoops are jumped, the charges will be dropped.
The next steps are these: I will have to formally admit my conduct to the government. I will have to surrender to the U.S. Marshals and then appear in court for my arraignment. During processing, I will be entered into the criminal justice system, my fingerprints and mug shot taken, my vitals registered. I will be held in lockup as the Marshals work through my paperwork. I will possibly be drug tested. I will then go to court, my rights read, my charges announced, my deferred prosecution agreement filed.
The proceedings, obviously, are open to the public.
I am ready to go into court and get this over with. Unfortunately, Pretrial Services has to approve me as someone they would be willing to monitor, and so there is yet more waiting.
In order to be approved by Pretrial Services, I have to provide answers to a questionnaire and collect a series of documents. It is almost Christmas by the time the questionnaire arrives. Eager to get the process moving, I scan through the form. But when I read what it asks, I begin to cry.
By this juncture in my case, I am prepared for the government to know everything there is to know about me. But I am not at all prepared for extensive personal questions about my family. I am required to provide their ages, occupations, and current whereabouts. It asks how long my parents have been married. It asks whether my father has ever hit my mother, whether anyone in my family has ever grappled with drugs. It asks if I have told my family about my criminal activity. It asks about their reaction upon learning of my criminal activity. It asks what my reaction was to their reaction. It goes on and on for pages.
Even though the answers are benign, I feel horrible that I have dragged my family into my wrongdoing, that my crimes are essentially their crimes, too. I feel an added layer of guilt because of my parents’ beginnings under a totalitarian regime. I learned over the course of my childhood that the fears instilled by dictatorship don’t easily subside. My father did not discuss the nature of his vote with anyone, not even his children, lest our big mouths broadcast it around town. When my mother mistakenly believed my brother was a missing person—he was in fact behind the football field with the rest of his class observing a fistfight—she still refused to call the police, adamant that if she did we would be placed on some kind of list. And now, I am providing indelible details about their private lives to the government.
Given that the answers are required of my deferred prosecution agreement, my choices are few but to complete the questionnaire and to collect the dozen or so documents required. After the law school’s Christmas party, I use the Xerox machine in the faculty lounge to copy all of the required documents. The next day, I pull everything together and send it off.
A few days later, I receive a message on my cell phone from my putative Pretrial Services Officer. Her voice is kind. She’s calling to tell me she’s received my materials and thanks me for providing them in such an organized manner. Apparently, these tend to come to her in a disheveled state, and I have just made her job much easier. She also wishes me a Merry Christmas.
Her message gives me an odd sense of pride. Perhaps it is the shame I feel in dragging my family through the court system with me. Or maybe it still means something to me to do a good job. Either way, I decide that this is proof that I still have something to offer to the world. I may have faltered in my duties toward society and family. But I am good at being a criminal defendant.
CHAPTER 6
I’ll See You
in Court
My court date is set for January 7, 2011.
The day before, I’m trying to select an appropriate outfit for court. This is a less straightforward task than one might think, particularly given the possibility of press. I do not want to wear something that might attract attention. But if I do end up attracting attention, I must prepare for the probability that what I wear will be recorded in history. It’s going to be hard enough to look back on this day. I don’t need to also lament my appearance.
Earlier in the week, I go to a women’s clothing store and browse through the racks. A salesgirl politely offers her help, but as I consider her young face and innocent smile, I conclude that she would know nothing about whether her store carries anything for an arraignment-like occasion. I decide that my court ensemble is one that I already own.
I examine the contents of my closet in order to start pulling things together. Given that photography is not allowed inside the courthouse, outerwear is of salient interest. I select a black wool coat with fat buttons. I pull out a pair of black pumps with formidable heels: if I am going to be publicly humiliated, I would at least like to do so while looking tall.
I begin to pack my usual going-to-court bag with my belongings and then realize that both the bag and its extensive contents are not necessary. I instead select a small purse of forest green leather and place inside only my wallet and a lipstick.
For my courtroom attire, I decide I should dress less like a lawyer and more like a defendant. I forgo my suits and select a plain black turtleneck and a pleated skirt of green Marimekko fabric. The skirt is born from my ordeal, stitched by my hand as I awaited news of my fate.
I choose a pair of silver earrings, purchased on vacation in southern Turkey in a different lifetime. I grab a pair of black tights. Now my outfit is complete.
Except. I am unsure if processing will require a drug test. I rack my brain through old cases to recall if this is required. I know that these are conducted before sentencing—I have an uncomfortable memory of a mortified client emerging from the Pretrial Services bathroom alongside an officer holding a jar of her urine—but I can’t remember if it is required for arraignment. I am too embarrassed to call my attorney to ask, and so I decide to assume that a test is forthcoming, and with it the dreaded advent of having to pee on demand. After considering the contents of my underwear drawer, I pick out the plainest pair.
I lay all of these items out on my dresser, except the skirt and the coat, which I hang in a nearby closet. The entire collection looks like the adult version of what my mother used to prepare every night in my era of elementary school. In a matter of minutes, jumpers and undershirts and white tights would be gathered and precisely arranged so she could move on to other tasks that would ensure our academic success. At this thought, I refold and straighten everything in a manner more worthy of her, as though this might compensate for something.
Later in the day, my attorney calls to give me a rundown of what to expect over the next twenty-four hours. He tells me that by the close of business, Some Prosecutor will file the charging instrument—a criminal complaint—along with a warrant for my arrest. It’s official: I have to appear in court tomorrow or else I will be considered a fugitive from the law.
“Where do I meet you tomorrow?” I ask my attorney.
He has arranged with Some Prosecutor a time to meet. “We’ll all meet in the courtroom at ten a.m.”
“But wait,” I say. I have already prepared myself for the order of events for the day. “I need to surrender and be processed before I go to court.”
“Oh, right,” my attorney says. “I’ll call him and call you back.”
He calls me back later in the afternoon. Processing had apparently been forgotten. Some Prosecutor has arranged for me to meet Burly Man at the U.S. Attorney’s Office at nine-thirty a.m., who will in turn deliver me to the U.S. Marshals for surrender.
When I get off the phone, I roll my eyes in nervous annoyance at the fact that I essentially requested that I be processed. I already spelled out the case against me; now do I have to prosecute myself, too?
There is something in the air the day of my arraignment. When I wake, I’m in higher spirits than I ought to be. Here is the day I’ve been dreading, and yet I find myself poking my head out of my bedroom window, breathing in the crisp air. Although the clouds overhead promise snow, the sun is shining. I look up and tell it, “I am being arraigned today.”
I leave my apartment early so as not to be in violation of my arrest warrant. When I do, an available cab pulls up to my doorstep as though waiting for me to emerge. The driver, an elderly Chinese man, makes pleasant if incoherent chitchat as I direct him to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. When he deposits me near the entrance, he says without sequitur, “I think you might be an angel.”
If he only knew where I am headed.
I arrive at the security station of the U.S. Attorney’s Office at nine-thirty a.m. on the dot. I give one of the three U.S. Marshals standing guard Burly Man’s name, and, per usual, I am instructed to place my purse and coat on the conveyor belt and provide photo identification.
Apparently, there is no immediate answer at Burly Man’s line. “Are you here for a meeting?” the U.S. Marshal asks.
“No, I’m here to surrender,” I say.
The three men stop what they are doing and consider me with what appears to be shock. There is silence for a moment.
“Are you sure you mean surrender, dear?” one of them says.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say. And then, to clarify, I say, “I did something bad.”
They allow me to pass. As I walk toward the main lobby, I glance back and see that the men are watching me make my way. They smile in unison, and I can’t help but smile back.
Burly Man meets me in the lobby. When he greets me, he hardly seems like the menacing man who once stood at my door. Instead, he is pleasant and conversational. In fact, he seems very much like someone who would own and care for two sweet-natured cats.
He first takes me to his office. The walls are papered with newspaper clippings of prominent criminal cases, I presume those that he has worked. He seems to have spent his entire career in law enforcement. He confirms as much when we make small talk on the walk between the U.S. Attorney’s Office and the courthouse. On our walk I note that we do not exit through the main doors of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, but through a basement exit that makes our entry to the courthouse less conspicuous.
“We don’t need to attract any attention to you,” he explains when I am looking around to see where we are.
I look at him for further explanation, but there is none to be had. He is staring straight ahead.
I expect that when I am delivered to the Marshals Service I will be placed in lockup until they are ready to process me. But Burly Man waits with me outside the office until they are ready for me. He regales me with stories of law enforcement—chasing after fugitives, running stakeouts, tracking down defendants. It is in this conversation that I learn Lady Agent was not assigned to my case, but was only present at my apartment as a matter of DOJ policy.
I feel comfortable enough to tell Burly Man, “I sort of wondered why she was so interested in my photographs.” He shakes his head and smiles.
The Marshals indicate they are ready for me. Burly Man escorts me inside. The time for my surrender has arrived. I picture myself being asked to fall to my knees with my hands in the air. Instead, I am led into a large room that bears the stale but familiar smell of MCC. I am so turned around geographically that I cannot tell if this office is somehow connected to MCC or if this is how all lockup facilities in Manhattan smell.
Normally, any reminder of MCC would turn even the sweetest moment sour. But I am distracted by what I see. My only interactions with the U.S. Marshals Service have been in connection with the security they provide at federal buildings. These Marshals tend to be
older, distinguished-looking gentlemen who examine the contents of your briefcase and stow your phone while you are inside the courthouse. I have never been able to reconcile these stern but seemingly harmless men with what I understand to be the bulk of the Marshals’ work: apprehending dangerous fugitives and persons of interest, enforcing federal arrest warrants, and running various tactical missions.
Now that I’ve arrived for processing, the mystery is solved. Here presides an entirely different caliber of U.S. Marshal—each one younger, taller, more rugged than the next. It does not at all stretch the imagination to imagine these stalwart individuals physically fighting crime, wrestling crime to the ground, making crime wish it had been born into something more virtuous. The sight is so unexpected that I can only stare at my surroundings like a teenager.
I am knocked out of my daze when one of these Marshals directs me to a small office. As he sits at a computer, I answer a series of questions he reads from a questionnaire. I give responses about my social security number, my address, my marital status. Some of these the Marshal simply answers for himself. “Do you do drugs? No. Any tattoos? No. Wait, do you have any birthmarks?”
When he asks me for my occupation, because my crime occurred while I was practicing law, I tell him that I’m an attorney. When he asks for my place of business, I explain that I’m now a professor and work at a law school.
“So you’re a lawyer and a law professor?”
“Yes,” I say. I do not add: for now.
He looks back to an earlier portion of the document.
“How are you single?” he asks.
At first, I think this is part of the questionnaire. I’m not sure how to answer. How much space is available on the form?
He sees my confusion and explains with a smile, “I’m saying that you are a perfect package.”
I feel my cheeks burn. “Well, I’m getting arraigned today,” I say. “So, probably not perfect.”
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