30 Days of Justis Page 6

  "I've seen enough to know I would most likely have done the same. A tough case to begin with. Plus, the trial judge was the dead judge's uncle. Figure that one out."

  "Why didn't this Kelly Larsyn ask for a new judge? Why didn't he claim the new judge was prejudiced by the death of his nephew?"

  "I've read the file like I said. It appears Kelly did, in fact, do that and Judge Maxim turned him down."

  "Maxim? I thought the dead judge was named Wilberforce."

  "Mother's married name. Judge Wilberforce's mother and trial judge Maxim were siblings."

  "Got it. Complicated little case about judicial incest."

  "I don't know about that. But it reeks of conflict of interest. That much I do know."

  "But that was raised on appeal, right?"

  "Yes, but the appeals court reject it as a reason for overturning the trial court. They relied on the trial judge's freedom to do what he thought was right. Plus, they said the record reflects no judicial prejudice in favor of the state."

  "And he thought it was best if he stayed on the murder case about his nephew. This stinks from here to Florida."

  "Agree, but it's a dead issue. We have to move on."

  "So what do you do next?"

  "It's too soon to tell anything about Cache. So I'm going to stick around the hospital. There's a possibility they'll be doing brain scans today. I want to be here for that."

  He whistles softly. "They're going to assess whether she's brain dead."

  "Exactly. I can't leave her alone just now."

  "No, no, you stay right there with your daughter. Don't worry about my side of the street; it's covered."

  "I know that. But I need you here tomorrow."

  "Done. I'll cab over from the airport."

  "St. Anthony Hospital. Gig Harbor."

  "See you there."

  I hang up and am left with the feeling that I'm more alone that I've been in a long time. But then I stuff it down. I need to focus on my daughter and how she's alone except for me. And what of her mother? What about Millicent? I go online and locate the business where I think she works. I call them, but they've never heard of Millicent Evans. Not surprising; I have no idea what Millie's last name is now. She could've remarried after Evans or whatever. But I keep calling around, hoping "Millicent" triggers recognition in someone. A half hour later I'm still dialing when it suddenly occurs to me that Kelly will have Millicent's number. I call his office, and his secretary gets clearance to give me Millicent's number. She also advises me that Kelly has already called the mother. She is said to be on her way up from San Francisco, where she now works in a different genetics lab. She's no longer in La Jolla.

  I wonder how I'll react when she arrives. What do you say to the woman that hid your daughter from you for almost thirty years? Do I start screaming and jumping up and down and threatening her? Or do I listen to her and try to understand why she did it? Clearly, I need to know her thinking. I mean, my God. Cutting me out of the picture was a big flipping deal. There better be some major reason for it. But in the end, no reason she can come up with will excuse what she's done. I'm furious.

  So I wait in my recliner alongside Cache's bed, sweeping my feet aside as the nurses come and go to take vitals and administer drugs. The more I know about all this, the less I know. Brain injuries are never pretty and more often than not are devastating where there has been a lengthy denial of oxygen. I say yet another silent prayer and continue to browse on my laptop for Civil Rights cases connected to end-of-lifesaving measures. There isn't a lot, but there's enough to keep me busy looking.

  Around noon, I'm drowsy after a tuna sandwich preceded by an almost sleepless night last night. Just as I'm nodding off again, in walks Millicent looking like she did thirty years ago.

  "Michael," she says, extending her hand, "I didn't know you would be here. How did—how did—"

  "Kelly didn't tell you I was here?"

  "It wasn't Kelly who called me. It was a secretary. How did you know about Cache?"

  "Cache wrote to me. From death row. I dropped everything and came to help. But that's not the first order of business, Millie. Why didn't you tell me I had a daughter?" I'm just able to control my voice. I have no doubt she hears it quaver with rage.

  She stands, hands on her hips, staring back at me.

  "Well?"

  "Let's not do this here in Cache's room. For all we know she can hear us." She pushes past me and goes to her daughter. Millie is wearing a white linen coat with a pink button-down shirt, a pair of pleated slacks with a brown belt and brown penny loafers. She's dressed but not overdressed. Her face still retains the youthful beauty that once lured me in and held me captive. I was in love with her all those years ago, and I cannot for the life of me remember what took me away from her. Then it comes to me: I was a ten-year-down-the-road lawyer following law school, with a law practice just on the verge of turning more profit than I'd ever thought possible. That was it: the money lure had taken me away. For the life of me, however, I can't remember what Millie had even wanted. Was I just a fling for her? Or was there something there? I know I'll never know now.

  She bends low and plants a kiss on Cache's forehead. For the first time in her life, Cache has both parents there for her at one time. My heart falls: it's far too late in coming if she never knows. Far, far too late. A hot fist rises through my chest and threatens to choke off my throat. Her broken heart speaks to me and takes me away. How hurt she must have been. The whole moment swirls around me like a dream.

  "How long has she been like this, Michael?"

  "This is her second day. They found her slumped against the bars of her cell, a noose around her neck."

  "A noose? Where did she get a noose?"

  "She made one out of her mattress. It's very common."

  "Why weren't they watching her more carefully?"

  "I guess we both want to know that. Speaking of watching her carefully, what's been your part in the murder trial and the appeal, Millie? Have you been there for her?"

  "Of course. Kelly Larsyn has become like a son to me. We speak every day."

  "He's in Spokane, and you're in San Francisco?"

  "I can be up here in just a few hours. I've always been just a phone call away. I've never missed a court appearance by Cache. Plus, I've attended almost all hearings when she wasn't there. Motions to suppress evidence, motions for a change of judge—that kind of stuff."

  She turns away from Cache and takes the chair beside mine. It is a folding chair with a padded seat, the kind they use in church basements.

  "Who's the guard outside?"

  "Department of Corrections. Cache is still legally under their jurisdiction."

  "Why guard her? She's comatose."

  "It's the law, Millie. He's protecting the public from our daughter, and he's stopping her from escaping."

  "Oh, sure."

  "Again, why didn't you tell me about her?"

  "Tell the truth, I was mad and hurt by you walking out."

  "It was just a fling, Millie. You knew I'd only be in La Jolla for two weeks."

  "It felt like we went past that."

  "And that's your excuse?"

  "I didn't want you to have the satisfaction of being involved in this lovely creature's life. I wanted her all to myself. There. I've rehearsed all of that in case I ever had to face you again. Now you know. I was angry and wanted to hurt you."

  "Congratulations, Millie. You succeeded."

  "But Cache lost. It was a huge mistake I made."

  "Tell Cache that. I'm a big boy, but she's innocent. It was a terrible thing you did to her. I'm her father."

  "How many kids do you have?" she asks trying to change the subject.

  But I'm not going there. I've been screwed over, and I want to hurt her. I want to hurt her enough that it gets the time back that I missed with Cache.

  Which is insane.

  But it's where I am.

  I have become a child in my anger and lostn
ess.

  "I've got a call to make," I tell Cache's mother. "Excuse me."

  After two calls to information, I have the number for the Attorney General of the State of Washington.

  It is time to confront the Assistant Attorney General who's out to kill my kid. His name is on the lawsuit Kelly gave me.

  Time to let him know the awful truth: that he's in grave danger. From me.

  But he's not in. So I leave a terse message: Cache's dad is waiting for you in her hospital room. You would be smart to get here and talk with me ASAP. If you fail to come, I will without notice sue the state, sue the attorney general, and sue you personally.

  Her dad has arrived.

  DAY 5/30

  I've just passed another night in Cache's hospital room. Millie found a motel and cleared out around ten o'clock, leaving me alone with Cache and the night shift and hissing instruments with their blinking LEDs. It isn't that I wake up with the sunrise, it's just that I give up trying to go back to sleep since the four a.m. vitals and meds. Through it all, Cache hasn't stirred, not once. Or emitted any sign that she's alive inside the body we're all watching over.

  I bend down to study her in the dim light. I am intent on memorizing her face. Her neck is mottled with bruises from the noose.

  The night nurse sticks her head in to tell me she's going off. The soles of her running shoes squeak as she hurries inside and erases her name from the small green board. She then writes in white chalk the name of the day nurse. Amanda substituting for Regina. So be it. They're faces in the dark, coming and going, a constant swirl of activity in the face of a looming coma.

  Three hours later, a plump, bald, man wearing thick eyeglasses and carrying a battered red briefcase strolls in. "I'm Franklin Lemongrass," he says without offering to shake my hand. "I'm the attorney general you threatened yesterday."

  "It's a smart thing you did, Mr. Lemongrass, coming here. I was going to sue the shit out of you today."

  He smiles and says in a ragged croak, "Where I come from we sue back. You'd do well never to forget that, Mr. Gresham. I assume you're Mr. Gresham?"

  "I am," I say, and offer to shake, which he ignores. I quickly withdraw my hand, the turtle yanking his head back into his shell. I'll be damned if I ever offer to do that again.

  To my utter astonishment, he backs up to Cache's bed and sits his plump ass down on the thin cover just this side of her feet.

  "Hey, asshole," I cry, "off my daughter's bed! What the hell's wrong with you?"

  He stands but isn't kidding when he says, "Actually we're paying for this bed. I'd hoped the prisoner wouldn't mind sharing."

  "Listen, pal, in here she's the patient, not the prisoner."

  He stands and turns. He lowers his briefcase back onto her bed. This time I don't object; it is somewhat limited in here insofar as furniture. And of course, there is no desk table, so I let it slide.

  "What I've brought with me," he says, opening the accordion top of the briefcase and searching inside with his fingers, "is a consent decree."

  "Consent to what?" I ask. "What does the State of Washington wish me to consent to?"

  "To withdrawal of life support."

  "Are you frigging crazy? You actually think any father would sign that?"

  He turns around, facing me. "Why not?"

  I climb to my feet. I tower over him. He's trapped between the bed and me, and I'm not moving away.

  "Because you assholes left my child unattended. You gave her the chance to hang herself. Your failure to supervise has resulted in injury to her brain. It might even be permanent."

  He smiles. "Permanent is relative, Mr. Gresham."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning she's only got a few weeks until we execute her anyway. It makes good money sense to stop it now, to stop paying for all of this," he motions with his hand, indicating the life support hoses, tubes, wires, and light panels.

  "So the state, in all its wisdom, wants to unplug my daughter and let her die?"

  "Think about it, Mr. Gresham. It's more humane this way. She dies without anticipation. No final moments of terror as she's being strapped to a table to take the needle. No hysterical nights, days, weeks of waiting to die. Nice and easy and she's over," he emphasizes these last words with the snap of his fingers. "Gone, presto, gone!"

  "You know, Mr. Lemongrass, I'm furious right now. I don't want to hurt you, but I'm afraid I'm going to. You should leave."

  He turns away and contemplates the panel of lights monitoring my daughter.

  "It's all too much. Too expensive."

  At just that moment, Millie enters the room. She catches me looming behind Lemongrass just before I attack him.

  "Michael? Who's this?"

  "This is Franklin Lemongrass from the AG's office. He wants us to sign a consent decree allowing the state to withdraw life support from Cache."

  "What did you say? Did I just hear correctly?"

  I shake my head and motion to the human roach. "Ask him yourself."

  After that, Millie takes it up with Lemongrass. He dodges, he feints, he throws a light jab, he throws another, then Millie hauls off and wallops him with a blue streak of cuss words I wasn't aware she even knew. Now Lemongrass is backing up to the room entrance, briefcase in hand, inserting his stack of papers inside the accordion maw as he retreats.

  "One thing," he says, pausing at the door. “I’ll be filing the motion today that will convince Cache's judge we should be allowed to proceed. By refusing to sign you're only prolonging the inevitable. We will execute your daughter, Mr. And Mrs. Gresham. Make no mistake."

  "Asshole!" I shout.

  "Bastard!" Millie shouts.

  Then he's gone, and we're left shaking with anger. Neither of us can verbalize what we have just seen and heard in any form that makes it possible to discuss. It's an outrage, and we won't even speak what he wants.

  We're sitting silently side-by-side in the two chairs. Millicent wonders aloud whether Kelly Larsyn has seen the consent decree Lemongrass was touting. She absently pulls her phone out of her purse. "I'm calling Kelly."

  "Yes."

  "Mr. Larsyn, please," she says, punching the speakerphone button.

  "Yes, Mrs. Evans," says the receptionist, who evidently recognizes Millie's voice.

  Then Kelly comes online. "Millicent. I was just thinking about you."

  "How so?"

  "Franklin Lemongrass has just filed a motion to withdraw Cache's life support. By the way, is Michael there with you?"

  "He is."

  "Michael, I have the pro hac vice motion on file. I signed your name electronically. Hope that's okay."

  "It is. We discussed it."

  "So the judge's office indicated we'll have a signed order by close of business today."

  "Good enough. How do you want to work the Lemongrass motion?"

  "I've been thinking about that. I think it would be good for you to field this first salvo. Nail them good. Go in with your anger and brilliance I've heard about. You'll cut this son-of-a-bitch wide open."

  "Suits me perfectly. I need someplace to focus my rage right now."

  "Good, good. And Millicent, how goes it with you?"

  "I was here and talked to that little bastard. He wants to execute my daughter by unplugging her. I swear if he gets it done I will execute him right back with my brothers Smith and Wesson. You might remind him of that."

  "That would be a crime to threaten his life. No can do. You don't really want me to anyway."

  "Oh, but I do," she says. "I very much want him put on notice that I'm taking this personally. If he wins, he loses. Tell him that, Kelly. I'm directing you."

  "You're not my client, Millicent, so I'm seriously not going to tell him any such thing. And don't you contact him, either. They'd love to throw your ass in jail. Be good for now. Promise me?"

  "No, I don't promise you. I'm getting some coffee."

  She leaves her phone on the bed, face-up, still connected to Larsyn.

&n
bsp; "You know, Kelly, I want to argue this motion, but I really need you and your staff to go over my written response."

  "Sure we'll do that."

  "Are you being paid yet for this work?"

  "No."

  "What's your fee for processing a case like this?"

  "Fifteen thousand."

  "Do you have a credit card processor?"

  "Eleanor does. She's our office manager."

  "Have her call me. I'll drop my Amex on her and get you taken care of. I want the bit in your mouth every much as mine. I think we'll make a good team."

  "As in you hit them high because you're tall and I hit them low because I'm a dwarf?"

  We're laughing as we say our goodbyes and end the call.

  Millicent returns a while later with two coffees. Mine has cream. Has she remembered after all these years how I take my coffee? Or is she just lucky today?

  "I seem to remember you taking yours with half and half, Michael. Or has that changed?"

  "Hasn't changed. Thanks for getting."

  "No problem. I just needed to step away."

  "I know."

  She sips her coffee as she blows it cool.

  "You haven't changed," I say. I immediately wish I hadn't gone there—too personal.

  "Neither have you. Just as handsome and rugged as ever. Except what happened to your face?"

  I involuntarily reach and touch the scarring on my face.

  "I was burned. Tortured and burned. I didn't give the right answer when asked. Something like that."

  "I can't imagine. You poor thing."

  "Over and done, Millicent. We get older; we come down with scars and droopy skin. It's part of it."

  "Droopy skin, I suppose. But third-degree burns, definitely not. Did you get the people back?"

  I swallow and wipe a napkin across my mouth. "Not yet. But I'm not done, either."

  "Good on you. Mess them up, Michael, whoever did it. Not that you're any less handsome. Here's one old lady who still finds you hot."

  "Well—"

  "In a good sense."

  "Sure."

  "And if you want to take me to dinner while you're here I certainly won't object."

  There, said. That old doorknob just turned.

  "I'm going to be pretty busy," I say. "Lots to do here."