Dworkin’s main thesis is about the unity of value. In order to acknowledge the value in our own lives, he says, we have a duty to preserve that same value in others. There are therefore times when we are morally required to help those around us in need.
This idea is not particularly earth-shattering, but it is something that is not embraced by the law. The criminal law sees virtue only in declining to act. Crimes are usually defined by affirmative acts—pulling a trigger, picking a lock, placing Xanax pills in a bag of pretzels. Doing nothing is almost always the lawful thing to do.
This is true, by the way, even if doing nothing will certainly cause someone else harm. We know this from the notorious noncase of David Cash, an incident relayed in many criminal law textbooks, in which young Mr. Cash walked into a casino bathroom to find his best friend physically struggling with a seven-year-old girl. When he left without saying or doing anything, when he allowed his friend to rape and kill the girl without calling the police, when he told the press afterward that he was “not going to lose sleep over someone else’s problem,” he was not guilty of any crime. The law says that the hands that remain idle, even in the face of evil, are still considered clean.
I already know all too well that what I’ve done is a crime. But as I read these passages I find myself wondering—hoping—if in giving Cameron his medication there might be anything philosophically redeeming in what I’ve done.
But I don’t turn up anything. Dworkin writes that our duty to help preserve another’s value must never come at the cost of our own. He likens our relationship to one another as swimmers in an Olympic-sized pool, racing in separately demarcated lanes. If a swimmer is drowning in the next lane and you can help him without losing much ground in the race, Dworkin says, you have a duty to save him. But when the risk of loss to you is larger than the harm suffered, when the sacrifice would diminish your own value, the duty no longer exists.
When Cameron was struggling in the adjacent lane, I did not keep him from drowning. I did not preserve his value, and I certainly did not preserve mine. What I did was rush to his side, look him in the eye, and tie a brick to us both.
Not even an abstract theory of morality can relieve me. I have no grounds for mitigation, no asterisk for what I’ve done. My crime is what it has always been. I am left with nothing else, only slight solace when Dworkin points out: “Only a few people are fully satisfied with their own character and record, and they are fools.”
I return to Dworkin’s swimming metaphor several months later when I am actually swimming in the lane of a lap pool. I find myself observing the woman in the neighboring lane. We stroke in tandem, our heads bobbing underwater and above in synchronicity. Our movements become so closely timed that we seem to come up for air at the same moment. Our breaths are divided between us. She breathes my air, and I breathe hers.
It reminds me, somewhat strangely, of the weekend I spent locked in the attorney room when Cameron was sent to the SHU. How in the dry air of the sealed room, his cold became mine. How our breaths were divided between us, he breathed my air and I breathed his.
Con • spir • a • cy—(n) from the Latin conspīrarē, “to breathe together.”
I did not save Cameron from drowning. I did not save myself either. But when I saw him suffering, I did not continue in pursuit of the finish line. I lifted the divide. I swam over. And while everything after was unmitigated disaster, a minuscule fact does remain: I did not keep swimming. I did not look away.
It is a triumph of the most intimate order, the tiniest of victories only in that my impulse was arguably the right one. And while this fact is but a grain of virtue in a desert of wrongdoing, I decide it portends something of note in my journey forward.
It is proof of promise. Reason for hope.
CHAPTER 12
Recognizance and Release
It takes some time, but I eventually begin to discover some actual virtues of accepting responsibility. These are far from monumental; most of the damage remains done. I am still without direction. Having declined to make any real career moves, the drain on my bank account is unceasing. And I am mostly a criminal recluse, convinced that I remain unfit to rejoin society in earnest.
But owning up to what I’ve done does allow me to see my circumstances for the justified outcome that they are. I find that it is much easier to watch something slip through my fingers when I have only my own hand to blame.
Accepting responsibility also makes more bearable the public verdict about what I’ve done. I do not agree with what people say, but I can better understand why they are saying it. On the sole occasion that I bother to google my own name, the suggested search terms are “Cameron Douglas,” “bra,” and “arrested.” The search results are not particularly complimentary. There are hundreds of news articles. Lots of blog entries. On one lawyer’s message board, unable to discern how I have managed to escape prosecution, a group of lawyers posit that I must have performed sexual acts upon Some Prosecutor. This in turn inspires extensive speculation about my sexual skill set, which the commenters agree must be quite advanced. This seems a bit generous, but I do not chime in to say so.
Looking at the product of my google search, I see that criminal reprimand exists well beyond judges and courtrooms. It also becomes something entirely different when it is exposed to the public. I am right to have feared the arrival of the Escaleras’ trials, not only because of the professional ramifications, but because it has placed my conduct before what appears to be a mostly unforgiving public.
Knowing this, I never bother googling myself again. But I do make peace with the awful things that are being said. And, more importantly, I reap their unexpected benefits. When the worst thing you’ve ever done is depicted in the most terrible way possible and broadcast across the globe for all to see, it stands to reason that there is really nothing left to hide. When you’ve disappointed and disgusted everyone you’ve ever known, there is really no one left to please. When the worst possible things have been said about you, there is really nothing more that can hurt you.
And so herein lies the greatest virtue of accepting my reality. Here, finally, is freedom. Even though I am at the bottom, even though I must crane my neck to see salvation, there isn’t any further to fall. It is an underrated truism that comes to guide my journey forward: when the very worst has come to pass, there is really nothing left to fear.
Cameron is released from solitary confinement in the spring of 2012. I learn this one evening when my cell phone rings, the number listed as “Unknown,” the caller on the other end a recording by the Federal Bureau of Prisons.
The shock of the phone call distracts me so much that I do not hear the number I must press to accept the call. After all the time that has passed, I have pushed this information from my mind. I know only that pressing one number accepts the call, and pressing another declines this and all future calls. I can’t remember what either number is.
I look at the keypad and decide to start in the middle. When I press 5, I suddenly hear breathing on the other end.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hey. It took you a while.”
I haven’t heard Cameron speak in close to two years. He sounds different from what I remember. His voice is quiet and flat, almost despondent. The telltale bravado seems far away.
“I forgot which button to push,” I say.
I suppose there is a moment that exists between all co-conspirators when they finally meet again. I have on many occasions pictured this moment, one in which I am finally able to confront Cameron about everything that’s happened. On bad days, I fantasize about screaming at him and perhaps finally punching him in the face. On better days, I want to tell him that we owed each other better. But now that he is on the line, I draw a blank. I have no idea what to say.
He doesn’t seem to know what to say either. The line is quiet for several moments. When the awkwardness becomes unbe
arable, I finally say, “How are you holding up?”
He begins to talk. Just as I did long ago in an attorney room, I silently listen as he tells me about the atrocious conditions of solitary, about his new lawyer, about his appeal. He tells me about his new correctional facility, that it is rougher than his old facility, that he is playing flag football.
As he talks, I feel a seeping unhappiness. Speaking with Cameron reminds me of everything that’s happened, everything I’ve done.
At some point, a once-familiar female recording can be heard on the line. “This call is from a federal prison,” she warns. In the time since I’ve last heard this recording, quite a lot has happened.
“I forgot about her,” I say, referring to the recording. “How’s she been?”
He laughs. “She’s good,” he says.
Perhaps because I have cracked a joke, he seems a little more at ease. His voice softens. “I was really worried about you,” he says.
I feel tears forming, the kind that arrive when the moment is otherwise too overwhelming to endure.
“Oh” is all I manage to say.
“I miss you,” he says.
“Oh,” I say again.
There is silence. I swallow.
“So much has happened,” I say.
“I know,” he says. He does not elaborate.
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” I say.
More silence.
“And it’s nice to hear your voice,” I say.
“Yeah, you, too,” he says.
He pauses. “Jen?” he asks.
“Yes?” I say.
“Do you think that when I come out I could come live with you?”
At first I think he is making a joke. But then I remember reading an article about long-term solitary confinement, how it can cause inmates to develop delusionary thoughts. I remember, too, the psychiatrist’s recommendation that Cameron never be placed in solitary. I proceed with diplomacy.
“Cameron, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I say.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Well, don’t you think you should focus on getting out first?” Though he is challenging his sentence, his release is otherwise set for 2017.
“I guess.”
The recording chimes in again. There is not much time left on the call.
“Hey,” he says. “I love you.”
By this time, I have long come to terms with the fact that this can’t possibly be true, at least not in any conventional meaning of this phrase. But Cameron often uses “I love you” as a proxy for words he does not want to say. Being on the receiving end of Cameron’s proclamations of love is like being in an Albee play: tones bear more meaning than words. In the brief romantic time we spent together, I learned to decipher the difference between an “I love you” that means “I am sorry,” an “I love you” that means “you are going to hate what I am about to say,” and an “I love you” that means, to a certain degree, “I love you.” When I hear the expectant tone in his voice, I know that Cameron is asking more than telling, and what he is probably asking is whether or not I forgive.
It is finally my chance to say my piece. As I search my thoughts, however, I discover I have no piece to say. I know by now that our collusion is necessarily equal parts of him and me. I know that I am not a wronged party as much as I am a party in the wrong. I know that the forgiveness he seeks is not really mine to withhold.
My answer is thus preordained. “I know that,” I say. And then, before the phone cuts out, I add: “I love you, too.”
This is not the last time we communicate. We will intermittently exchange letters and e-mails. I will write him to let him know that a tabloid reporter showed up at my apartment door asking about his dad. He will e-mail me to let me know that he has moved facilities. He will write to me when he is placed in solitary confinement a second time, for drug possession. He will write to me when he is placed in solitary confinement a third time, for reasons he does not explain. Each time, I will write him back to tell him to hang in there, that I wish that all of this had ended differently.
At one point, he will write to say that he has “sustained” a broken femur and hand. He doesn’t explain how or why, only that he has had two rods placed in his leg so that he can walk again. Being ignorant of human anatomy, I do an Internet search for “broken femur” and learn that the impact needed to break a bone of its size and density is akin to that from a car crash or a huge fall.
A few months later, it will be reported in the papers that he was attacked after an inmate put a bounty on his head for cooperating with the government. Reading the article, and imagining what may have happened, will cause me to shudder. I will remember my naïve belief that I could somehow protect him from harm. I will be overwhelmed by the seeming inevitability of it coming to pass.
Our correspondence is far from regular. We drift in different seas. Months of silence will pass before one of us sends a Christmas e-mail or a letter remarking on the arrival of summer.
On the rare occasions we interact, we don’t much address what has happened. I never bring myself to ask Cameron about why he did the things he did or said the things he said. At first this is because I decide there is no possible answer that would make things better, that there isn’t enough between Cameron and me for this to matter. Over time, however, I begin to wonder if my epic self-implosion was something separate from Cameron, if by colluding with someone who I knew was everything I was not supposed to want, if by doing the things I knew I was never supposed to do, I unconsciously saw an escape out of a perfectly acceptable life that I nonetheless could no longer bring myself to live. As awful as this selfish thought is, I find enough truth in it that I don’t bother holding Cameron responsible for bringing about what on some level I wanted to bring upon myself.
There are some relationships that stand the test of time. But Cameron and I are not family. We are not ex-lovers in any real sense. We aren’t former roommates or college friends. We are not much more than parties to a relationship between a misguided attorney and her former client, two people who did terrible things.
And yet, due to the realities of the Internet age, I suspect that to one degree or another the connection will always remain. Bound by our wrongdoing, our agreement to stray from a virtuous path is etched in stone. For better or worse, and no matter what happens next, we will forever be known as partners in crime.
The Escalera brothers are sentenced in early summer 2012. David Escalera arrives at sentencing subject to a five-year mandatory minimum. Eduardo Escalera is better positioned: a jury has found him responsible for a drug weight without any mandatory minimum.
Their sentencing falls two years after their arrest. Had they accepted the deal that was offered to them by the government, they would be weeks away from release.
Both men are sentenced to ten years. They are currently scheduled for release in 2019.
Shortly after he is sentenced, I decide to pull David Escalera’s sentencing papers from the court docket. I realize that I have no idea who he is. I would like to read a little more about this person who once unknowingly held my fate in his hand.
According to his papers, David Escalera is in his late thirties. At the time of his arrest, he was living in southern California. He is skilled at handiwork. He was married, but divorced his wife when he learned that the younger of their two small sons was not biologically his. His ex-wife was later deported to Mexico, and for reasons not explained took with her only her younger son, leaving the other boy behind. Because his father is incarcerated and his mother lives outside of the country, Little David is placed in the custody of a family member’s ex-girlfriend.
Little David is ten years old. He writes a letter to the judge that is appended to his father’s sentencing papers.
When I read Little David’s letter, when I realize that he will now sp
end the rest of his childhood without his family, I feel profound embarrassment that I ever considered myself a casualty in this case. Having done nothing to find himself where he is, Little David has a future that is far from assured. I sometimes find myself thinking about him, hoping he is managing, asking what will become of him, wondering if he ever comes to know the sad circumstances through which he inadvertently became his father’s greatest victim.
Summer turns to fall. To the outside observer, my life could be described as “aimless.” It is a matter of fact that I have still not embarked on any discernible plans to move forward professionally. I halfheartedly search job listings. I do not put together a résumé. I do not contemplate any conceivable explanation I could make to a prospective employer about everything that has happened.
These all seem like exercises in futility, a waste of time better spent wasting time. Divested of the trappings of my professional existence and having failed to secure a meaningful income, time is all I have, and I soon begin to relish it.
Each day, I savor every section of the newspaper, even the boring business section. Magazines no longer accumulate into a looming tower on my coffee table; these are now read and recycled the same day they arrive. I make my way through my bookshelf, the unread contents of which are stuffed three books deep.
My home is in impeccable order. My diet root beer–stained rug is a thing of the past. I dust and scrub and mop and spray. I shelve away every item I own in a clear container with a label specifying its class and species.
I take on minor fix-it projects. I nail and hammer and twist. When my toilet inexplicably stops flushing, with the help of an Internet printout and latex gloves, I repair it myself. When I make it function, I experience a feeling of accomplishment no different from when I passed the Bar exam. My toilet did not flush. Now, because of me, it flushes with ease.
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