30 Days of Justis Page 4

  I go online and connect to Pacer. Pacer provides access to all federal courts.

  In the District Court for the Eastern District of Washington, Cache's lawyer, the same Kelly Larsyn, filed for a writ of habeas corpus. A writ of habeas corpus is a court order to a prison official ordering that an inmate be brought to the court so it can be determined whether or not that person is imprisoned lawfully and whether or not he or she should be released from custody. It's that simple.

  And habeas corpus has already been done in Cache's case. The process was drawn out, but in terms of what actually happened during that time, it was less than intense. A simple petition was filed, the government responded, a hearing was held with Cache present, testimony was taken, and the court ended the hearing with a hint it would try to expedite the ruling. It did anything but, actually. It was a full two months before the court made its ruling, holding that the conviction below was well supported by the facts and the law. Was Cache being imprisoned unlawfully? No, said the federal court; due process was followed. So there you were. Short but sweet.

  Where did Attorney Larsyn go next? Where did he turn after losing the habeas case for his client?

  I got Cache on the phone.

  "Your dad here, Cache. I've looked at the District Court file, the habeas petition and hearing."

  "What's that?"

  "That's when you were taken to the federal courthouse in Spokane. Do you remember that?"

  "I was high. It's all a blur."

  "What do you mean, you were high?"

  "A guard gave me some ‘ludes. I took them and got wasted."

  I know the answer, but I ask anyway. "And what did you have to do to get the Quaaludes?"

  "You can't guess, Michael?"

  "Okay."

  "So what happened at my hearing?"

  "Kelly Larsyn filed a petition for a writ of habeas corpus."

  "Which is what?"

  "Literally translated, a writ of habeas corpus is a court order to ‘produce the body.' It's usually filed by people in prison."

  "I still don't remember. Did it help me?"

  "Only in theory. Unlike other countries where you can be thrown in jail and held forever without a trial, in the U.S. the habeas petition is a check on the government against doing that. That's how it helped you. But only in theory."

  "Like those guys at Guantanamo? Like fourteen years with no trial? George Bush had those guys arrested. Now he's down in Dallas doing watercolors while those poor assholes in Guantanamo are still playing soccer with a head of cabbage."

  She is definitely my own flesh and blood.

  "Your habeas petition had some interesting points, actually."

  "Such as?"

  "There was no proof beyond a reasonable doubt that it was your HIV that killed Judge Wilberforce. That's my opinion, not theirs."

  "Why not?"

  "There are hundreds of photographs in the court file. I haven't seen them yet, but according to what I've read Wilberforce threw lots of parties anytime his wife was away. Orgies, one neighbor said."

  "He started with me when I was thirteen, Michael. It went on constantly because Mrs. Wilberforce had a sick father in Coeur d'Alene and she was going over there lots of weekends and staying with him."

  "I'm sure, He appears to have been active sexually with a large pool of women."

  "Pay to play," she said absently. "That's what they were."

  "Pay to play. I haven't asked this but I should. How did you come to be HIV positive?"

  "Remember I told you about the three boys who raped me?"

  At just that moment, the light flashes on my room phone.

  "Wait one second; I've got a call from the hotel. Be right back."

  "Okay."

  I set aside my cell phone and lift the room phone handset.

  "Michael Gresham. How can I help?"

  "Mr. Gresham, Robb Fordyce from hotel security. I've taken a man into custody who was trying to look in your room through the peephole."

  "Really? How was that working for him?"

  "I know."

  "Why do I always get all the stupid voyeurs, anyway?"

  "Are you all right, Mr. Gresham?"

  "My daughter's in the clink at Purdy. Some guy trying to look in is the least of my problems."

  "I hope so."

  "Well, who is this guy?"

  "He says he's your daughter's husband."

  "My daughter, Cache?"

  "I thought he was saying 'Cass'. Yes, Cache, your daughter."

  "Describe him."

  "Thirty years, average height, skinny as a rail, Indian as in India."

  A thought occurs to me.

  "What's he wearing?"

  "Something that looks expensive. Suit, diamond earrings, pencil beard and mustache, ten diamonds on ten fingers, fur coat. It's real animal fur."

  "You know that how?"

  "His coat makes me sneeze. Animal dander always does that to me."

  "What else?"

  "He wants to call his lawyer. Big name criminal lawyer around town. They're always on TV yelling at the cameras. Kelly Larsyn's the lawyer."

  "And he says he's Cache's husband?"

  "Yep."

  "He sounds like a pimp, Robb."

  "He talks and dresses like one, too."

  "What's his name?"

  "He won't give me his name. He says the police have a warrant for him. Do I call them?"

  "Not yet. Let me come down and talk to him first. What room are you?"

  "Down the hall past the front desk. The sign says ‘'Private Do Not Knock.'"

  "Be right there."

  I return to Cache's call, but the line is dead. Doesn't surprise me; those calls are monitored, and I'm confident they cut her off after so many minutes of dead air. I'll call her back after I talk downstairs.

  Into the bathroom, brush my teeth, comb my hair, step back and look. Not so great, especially the facial scarring where I was burned. The scars have been revised once by a plastic surgeon, but they're all white while my skin is dark. Two-tone Michael.

  Downstairs I go. Then a short jaunt past the front desk and I'm standing outside the door with the sign saying, "Private Do Not Knock."

  I push inside. It's a tiny office with a receptionist up front and two doors along the rear wall. The receptionist takes my name and tells me to go right in through door number two. I'm there in four steps and find myself in an office with a desk and two visitor chairs, all wood, all expensive, just like everything else in this incredibly beautiful hotel. Everything reeks of old established money.

  "I'm Michael Gresham," I tell the robust-looking thirty-year-old behind the desk. "And you must be Mr. Fordyce. You're security."

  "I am security. At your left is the man with no name."

  Without turning to make eye contact with me, the young man on my left—wearing a very pricey Armani suit—says, "My name is Inder Singh."

  "You're too light-skinned to be named Singh," Fordyce says in all sincerity, never-mind his racist profiling.

  "That doesn't deserve a response," says Mr. Singh. "I'll be leaving now."

  He stands, and I realize he's taller than me and much younger. He is powerfully built, though I can see why Fordyce called him skinny as he's not yet got the barrel chest and gut of an older man. I have little doubt he could take out both Fordyce and me. He turns and faces me. "You're Cache's father?"

  "I am. So what?"

  "She's my wife." He sits back down.

  "Prove it," I say in a tight voice. "Prove you're married to Cache then we'll talk. Otherwise, I'm going to have Mr. Fordyce call the police."

  "You're planning on keeping me here how?" asks Singh. He is smiling—more like a sneer.

  At which point Fordyce pulls his desk drawer and lifts out a small Glock. He places it carefully on the desktop, so the muzzle is pointing directly at Singh's chest.

  "I'll shoot you dead if you try to leave," says Fordyce.

  I have no doubt he means it.
>
  "A gun? Seriously, dude?" exclaims Singh.

  "They said I needed a partner," says Fordyce, who jerks a thumb toward the front desk. "So I partnered up with Mr. Glock here."

  "Back to my request," I say to Singh. "Please give me proof you're married to Cache Evans."

  "I don't know what that means, man. Do you want to see our marriage license? That would be in Las Vegas at the Wishing Well Chapel on the Strip."

  I ask, "How did you find me?"

  "Cache told me where you were staying."

  "What were you spying on Mr. Gresham for?" says Fordyce. "There are laws against Peeping Toms in Washington."

  "I was looking for Mr. Gresham's room, not spying. I wanted to ask how I could help with Cache's situation."

  "What did you have in mind?" I ask.

  "I've got money if you need money to do the best job possible for her. Do you need twenty thousand? Fifty thousand? Just say the word, Mr. Gresham."

  I wave him off. "Put your wallet away. This isn't about money."

  "What's it about, then?" asks Singh.

  "It's about luck. Remember the house odds in those casinos in Vegas where you blew ten grand after your wedding? Those odds were six or seven percent your favor. The odds of walking Cache out of prison are half that. Or less. You a praying man, Singh?"

  "I'm a Sikh."

  "So call up one of your gods and tell her we need a rabbit. We don't want to pull empty air out of the hat now, do we, Singh?"

  "No. But I don't pray, either. I helped her other lawyers, you know."

  "How?"

  "I paid them over a quarter million dollars. Are you going to lose?"

  "Where did you come up with a quarter million dollars?"

  "I earned it. My business earned it."

  "That would be what business?"

  "I'm into fornication management." He laughs at this. He's the only one who does.

  "So you're a pimp. Are you my daughter's pimp?"

  "Oh, hell no. That would amount to a conflict of interest. Bobby Z is Cache's pimp. When she's working, anyway. That's off and on lately. I'm her sole means of support."

  I look at him levelly. "Not from now on, pal. You're talking to the lady's father. She's mine to look out for."

  He flops back in his chair. "Whatever. She'll do what I say anyway. You're a day late, Mr. Gresham."

  "So here's what I need you to do, Mr. Singh. I need you to fade into the background. Your face, your clothes, your gemstones—it's a huge loser in any courtroom. I don't want you around, don't want any judge or anyone else connecting you to Cache."

  "No can do, sir. She needs me to keep an eye on you."

  "You're very close to getting your ass kicked by a man twice your age," I say coolly. "You wouldn't want word of that to get out on the streets. Your girls might stop paying you off. Then you'd have to sell all those diamonds they've paid for."

  He tosses his head back and laughs. He's ignoring me.

  "And you thought I was kidding?" I jump up and slam my fist into the side of the pimp's head. It is my best punch. I'm not a little man. He flies to his left, and his head hits the wall. He's stunned. I have my chance to kick his ass.

  But I don't.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" he mutters through his shock. "I love Cache."

  Fordyce has placed his hand on his Glock pistol. He caresses its barrel. Now I understand why Singh didn't stand up and kick the living hell out of me. Smart man, as I'm not so sure Fordyce wouldn't just shoot the son of a bitch if he decided he'd seen enough.

  "As I said, you show up in one of my courtrooms, and I'll break your legs. Do you understand me?"

  He's eyeing the gun. He doesn't respond right away.

  Long silence. Singh rubs his jaw and examines his fingers for blood. There is no blood. I'm just a little upset with myself for losing it and striking the guy. That isn't like me. But Cache isn't like my typical client, either. She's my daughter; I'm surprised that I've developed such a strong protective streak almost overnight. That can't be all bad, considering the road that lies ahead.

  "Do you understand me?"

  Singh shakes his head. "You don't want me in a courtroom, fine. But I do want to help. She's my wife, and I love her. You wouldn't understand, but it's true."

  "Help, how?"

  "You need a witness turned up, Mr. Gresham? Just say the word. I know everyone on the street. Gimme a name, and you'll have them in your office like magic.

  "I've already got an investigator."

  "Who said anything about investigating? I'm talking unwilling witnesses, Jack. I'm talking other whores who screwed our dead Judge Hiram Wilberforce, for openers. That grab you?"

  I stop. Now I'm facing him, and he turns to stare at me.

  "It does grab me. Give me your phone number."

  I hand him my phone, and he enters his number.

  "I can give you a list as long as your arm of the ladies who ever fucked this judge. Guess what? There's beaucoup HIV there, too. Lots of cases. So how do they know it's Cache's HIV that killed the guy? How can they know that?"

  I have no answer. I've been asking myself the same question. Maybe he can be of use.

  "I'll call you when I get to that point, Mr. Singh."

  "Mr. Gresham, I don't want to bust your bubble, but you're already at that point. If you don't realize it then Cache is royally fucked."

  There's no response to that. None needed.

  "Let him go, Fordyce," I tell the security officer. "He might be useful to me."

  "You get the hell out of my hotel," Fordyce snarls at Singh.

  Singh waves a hand at the security officer. "Forget it. I'm already gone."

  "Then you can go. But if I catch you back here, I swear you'll wind up in a dumpster five blocks away. Count on it."

  "Sure, sure," says Singh. "You can see my hands shaking, right?"

  I stand, he stands, and we leave the tiny office. Without another word, when we reach the front desk he turns left, and I go straight toward the elevators.

  I look down at my right hand. It's aching. It feels broken.

  Suddenly I need a toilet. My bowels are threatening to cut loose all over the gray carpet favored by the Davenport's decorators.

  Upstairs I fly, and I make it into my toilet just in time.

  I know all about fear and how it attacks me.

  My hands are shaking as I perch on the throne.

  I finish up and wash my hands and lift cold water to my face. I don't know when I last hit someone. It's been so long that I don't even remember. Maybe never?

  From the suite's couch along the window, I call Marcel.

  "Where you been?" he asks. "I've been calling you."

  "Hotel security caught someone standing outside my door. I went downstairs to talk to him. It's some guy claiming to be Cache's husband."

  "Okay. What else?"

  "He swears he can produce a roomful of women with HIV who had sex with our dead judge."

  "You get his number?"

  "Yes."

  "Give it to me."

  I read him the number from my contacts.

  "What are you going to do?" I ask.

  "I'm going out to meet Mr. Singh. I'm going to test him and find out what he knows."

  "You're going to test him? How?"

  "I'm going to stick a gun in his ear and count to three."

  "Easy, Marcel."

  "You're running the legal case?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm running the street case. Are we straight about that?"

  Marcel is someone I'd never want to cross. Or insult.

  "We're straight."

  "Good. Now jump into bed and get yourself some sleep. I'll be over in the morning."

  We hang up. Chastised, I order a pot of coffee and turn back to the appellate cases on my computer. After a half hour, I'm tired and very sleepy. My hand still hurts. I think about Marcel. So eager to help. I slide into a deep sleep.

  I'm glad he's on m
y side.

  Marcel would be a terrible enemy to have.

  DAY 3/30

  As promised, Marcel is at my door pounding to be let in. I'm groggy—sleep was long and deep—so it takes me a minute to open up.

  "Come in."

  He's carrying two ventis from Starbucks. Extra cream in mine, which he hands to me. A large gulp; I all but inhale. The brew is dark and cool enough to swallow right down. Now I feel like I can talk.

  "What happened last night?" I ask.

  He takes a swallow of his untreated cup of coffee.

  "Mr. Singh gave me the names of five prostitutes and where I can find their pimps. I'll be on the street today with my recorder."

  "What are we looking for, exactly?" I want to make sure we're on the same page.

  "We're looking for a whole clutch of women—plus one young man—who could have infected His Honor."

  "A young man?"

  Marcel smiles. "Seems the judge was a switch-hitter."

  "Okay. So we can prove other women might have infected him. Women besides Cache. One question: can AIDS be tracked back to one person by DNA or something? Or is the source untraceable."

  "That's a good question for Google," he says. "Grab your laptop."

  My laptop is there on the table between us. I swing it around and make the entry into the search engine.

  "Interesting," I remark to Marcel as I read. "It says here that complex scientific tests known as 'phylogenetic analysis' should always be done in HIV cases to compare the viruses of the complainant and the accused. If the two viruses are different, then this proves that there was no HIV transmission between the two people. If the viruses appear to be similar, it means that HIV transmission from the accused to the complainant could have taken place, but it does not prove it ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.' It is still possible that it was the complainant who had transmitted HIV to the accused—or that both were infected by people sharing the same type of virus."

  "Or by the same person," Marcel says.

  "Exactly. So the test can rule out or rule in possible transmitters, but it isn't like DNA where the exact person can be pinpointed."