Criminal That I Am (12 page)

The sidebar motion is brief—in quiet voices, the government makes the motion and the judge accepts it. All of it is recorded by the court reporter. It's over almost as soon as it starts and then the group disbands.

The proceedings are otherwise rote. The judge is tough in his words but ultimately recognizes Cameron's need for rehabilitation. The government makes no statement. Co-Counsel gives an impassioned presentation about how Cameron now has a support system that will help him get his life on track. And then Cameron stands up and tearfully apologizes for what he has done and pleads for an opportunity to make things right.

The judge delivers the sentence: sixty months. He indicates that Cameron should be given rehab at the earliest opportunity. He also recommends that Cameron serve the remainder of his sentence at a low-security prison camp. All said and done, given the time he's already served, plus the credit he will receive for good time and for completing rehab, this means Cameron will be released in about two more years.

And then, it seems, it's all over. We file out of the courtroom and meet briefly with his family to discuss the outcome.

During the meeting, his mother leans over to me and says, “He looked great in his suit, didn't he?”

“He did,” I say. “You did a great job.”

“Did you see how healthy he looked? Better than he has in months!”

I nod and smile, but say nothing.

W
hen I see Cameron later that evening, he is the happiest I've ever seen him. In a couple of months, he will be transferred out of MCC.
He will finally escape the scrutiny that this ordeal has brought him and can begin thinking about starting over in earnest.

I'm also about to start over. In a few short months, I will be leaving law practice behind to start a new teaching job at a law school in the outer boroughs. Even before this case I felt I had my fill of practicing law. But Cameron's case and the lengths I have allowed it to take me make obvious to me that I need to get out.

I arrive home that evening to an inbox full of congratulatory e-mails: news of Cameron's sentencing has made him the fifth most googled person of the day. I hold off on responding. Instead, I put on sweatpants and melt in front of my television, emptying my DVR of months of unwatched television programming.

At around eleven p.m., my BlackBerry announces a new e-mail has arrived containing the sentencing transcript that I had ordered earlier that day. I decide to peruse it on the device as I watch TV, scrolling through several pages at once.

My eye catches something and I scroll back. I look twice more. Then I stand up, go to my computer, and pull up the full document.

I'm sure I'm reading it wrong. But this transcript contains the entire contents of the sidebar motion, including an official statement by the government that Cameron is cooperating.

The day has been going so well that instead of panicking, I decide this isn't what I think it is. The sidebar is included in
my
version, I tell myself, because I am on the legal team. There is no way it is included in the public transcript.

I try to go back to watching television. After a few minutes, I shut it off and sit at my computer. As soon as I see that everything's fine, I say to myself, I'll go to bed.

I scour press stories online about the sentencing—there seems to be no mention of the sidebar motion. I check every twenty minutes for new stories. Nothing.

I continue in this manner for over an hour. Then I see the
New York Post
has published a front-page article about Cameron. And there it is: Cameron's cooperation and the full text of the sidebar motion in quotes. Of the hundreds of news outlets that cover Cameron's sentenc
ing, it is the only publication that chooses to print what was obviously meant to remain off the record.

This is what I get. I am being punished.

I try to sleep, but I can't. The night seeps into the next day and with it comes a flurry of activity aimed at damage control. In addition to the usual fare, we've asked the government to take the extra step of seeing to it that Cameron is transferred out of MCC as soon as possible, rather than in a matter of months.

I brace myself for what will happen next. Cameron Douglas's father has his regularly scheduled visit with Cameron that morning, and so the legal team asks him to alert Cameron as to what's happened so that he isn't caught off guard.

I am charged with checking up on him that evening. I am dreading his arrival in the attorney room. But when he enters, he is surprisingly chipper.

“You look awful,” he says to me. “Did you go out last night or something?”

He doesn't know. It turns out that Cameron Douglas's father misunderstood what we were asking him to do. So Cameron is taking this news in for the first time as I explain what has happened and show him a copy of the paper.

His reaction is predictably angry. I explain to him that the passage was not supposed to be in the transcript—the whole point of a sidebar is that it is conducted outside of the public.

This provides cold comfort. He is silent as he composes himself. Then he says, “Jen, how could you let this happen? I told you to go up there just to make sure you were looking out for me.”

I would normally lodge a defense on my behalf, but he is only saying what I have been thinking all day. “I know,” I say.

This does not make him feel better.

I tell him that we are making arrangements to have him transferred out of MCC in advance of the usual months-long waiting period. “Do you think you'll be okay until then?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment and nods. I suppose he knows he has to be.

I look at the clock—the prison count is already under way, and so
we must remain in the attorney room for another half hour. I start to make small talk and he interrupts.

“Would it be all right if we just didn't talk right now?”

“Of course,” I say. “I know all of this is difficult.”

We sit in silence. I do not look up and suspect he is doing the same.

When the prison count is over, I tell him that the rest of the legal team will be there in the morning to check in on him again. He asks me to tell them not to come. “I am going to take the Remeron,” he says, “and sleep as long as I can.”

I nod in agreement and offer a carrot. “I can come tomorrow evening to check in on you, if you want,” I say.

“Okay,” he says without looking up.

Another carrot: “I can actually come as many days as you'd like before you get transferred. I don't have much more to do before I'm done with work.”

“Okay,” he says again.

The next time that I visit him, racked with guilt, I provide a third and final carrot. It is contained in a long green balloon, the type that is often blown up and twisted into balloon animals at children's birthday parties, tied with a secure knot.

I
continue to visit Cameron daily until he is transferred a month later. Although I am at first wary about how the disclosure of his cooperation will play out, I notice that in a matter of days he is back to his chipper self. I ask him how things are going on the unit, and he is surprisingly upbeat.

When he is designated to a facility in Pennsylvania to serve out the remainder of his sentence, his case officially approaches its close. I am outwardly relieved for Cameron, happy for him that this difficult chapter of his life is over. But when by myself, I discover that I am utterly broken up over his departure. That for all of the stress his case has provided, I still don't want to return to my stale existence—to any existence, really—without him. My feelings are too raw to hide, and so when I am at home pulling materials together about his new facility, the thought crosses my mind that he will no longer be a part of my life, and I spontaneously burst into tears.

When I arrive at MCC on what I believe to be his last day, I am stoic. I'm sure to display enthusiasm when I show him the materials that I had collected the night before. We revel in how much nicer his new facility will be. When we talk about his new life, I swallow the thought that it will be separate from my own.

I try to avoid looking at my watch to see our few remaining minutes pass, but I can't help myself. When I look up, the expression on Cameron's face indicates he is about to ask for something. “Jen, will you come visit me?” he asks.

I am steeling myself not to cry. “Of course,” I say. “Just give me a call whenever you want me to come down.”

“I mean a personal visit. Not an attorney's visit.”

“Yes, Cameron, I will.”

The corrections officer comes to the door to tell us that it is time. I begin to collect my things.

“Well, Jen. I guess this is good-bye. I'm going to miss you.”

I look away in the hopes that this will make things easier. It doesn't. I can feel that tears are on their way.

I clear my throat to speak. Through the glass door, I see the corrections officer gesturing that he has summoned the elevator to take me back to my old life. It's time to go.

I turn to him and blurt out, “I love you, Cameron.” I am shocked at my own outburst, and, in a quick glimpse through my tears, see that he is shocked, too.

The milk has been spilled, there is no point in saying more. The corrections officer is now yelling, and so I wipe my face as I run to the elevator. I don't look back, and I wait until I am several blocks away from MCC before I start crying again.

I
t turns out this is not Cameron's last day.

I find that out the following afternoon when his mother calls to ask if I might go down and relay a message. I debate making up an excuse, but the truth is my desire to see him one last time outweighs my embarrassment.

By now, our routine is familiar. He is smiling as he walks into the
attorney room. I am feeling sheepish, but as soon as I see him, I am happy that I came.

He has lots of swagger as he sits down. “Well, hello, Jen.”

“Hello, Cameron.”

“So, you love me, huh?”

“Yes,” I say. “I guess I do.”

“Well, I love you, too,” he says.

“Well, that's good,” I say. And it is.

He gets out of his seat and walks over to me. The act is so unexpected that I feel as though I am watching him move in slow motion. When he leans over my chair, I am acutely aware that I have never been this close to him. His breath smells of toothpaste, minty fresh. He has tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose. He seems taller, greater, than when he is sitting across from me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He grabs me. And kisses me. And I kiss him back.

I like this good-bye much better.

W
hen Cameron is finally transferred from MCC to his facility in Pennsylvania, the issue of his cooperation has become an ancient relic. Once he is gone, I marvel at how the advent of the newspaper article did not in the end seem to impact Cameron's safety. That even when the very worst came to pass, he managed to escape unscathed.

I do not consider the thought for very long, at least not then. The thought will come back to me much later, when I learn that Cameron shared the contents of one or both balloons with his circle of friends. Whether this was in putative exchange for protection or forgiveness, or for neither of these things, I will never know for sure. What I do know is that in sharing both his medication and my identity, Cameron manages to expose our crimes to his fellow inmates, men whose names I do not know, one of whom is a government informant.

CHAPTER 5

Reckoning

I
am often asked if my experience as a defense attorney provides some useful familiarity to my own criminal case. It doesn't. Inherent in this question is the presumption that ushering someone through the criminal process is the same as personally living the experience. It isn't. When my turn to walk the line arrives, everything is starkly, painfully new.

I am asked, too, if my interest in the study of criminal law makes this experience valuable from an anthropological perspective. It doesn't. Inherent in this question is the misguided supposition that I somehow stand apart from other criminal defendants, that the process is something I can look at in the abstract. It isn't. I'm not Barbara Ehrenreich researching the reality of the minimum wage in
Nickel and Dimed
, nor am I a supermodel in a fat suit waddling around town marveling at the plight of the overweight. I don't go home at the end of the day to a “real” life. This
is
my real life.

There are no upsides. The only thing I allow myself to think about when my criminal case arrives is getting out of it. There is an adage that says: “You're not sorry for what you've done, you're only sorry you've been caught.” This couldn't be more right. When my future flashes before me as nothing more than a blank page, I'm exceedingly sorry that I have been caught. I leave other regrets for another time.

I discuss with my lawyer the best way to make all of this go away.
While I was blithely playing Clara Barton, I didn't consider what I was putting at risk. Now all that I can think about is nailing down whatever I can before it is ripped away.

I consider the full gamut of possibilities, starting with the fact that my target letter does not technically require a response. I don't have to admit my guilt simply because the government asks me to. One possibility is to let things play out, force the government to make its case against me.

But this is not a realistic option. I am, of course, guilty in the most patent sense. More importantly, I have no idea what evidence they have of my guilt. I don't yet know that Cameron shared his medication or told anyone where he got it, and so for all I know they have play-by-play video footage of everything I've done. If this is the case, all the government needs to do is assemble a grand jury and press play.

A grand jury indictment would be calamitous. It makes the matter not just public, but because of Cameron's involvement, very public. This publicity would ignite a chain of events—loss of job, loss of license, loss of reputation, loss of sanity—that could not be undone. I would like to avoid the press altogether, or at least put it off as long as I can.

To play by the government's rules means the matter will remain private. Because this is what is most important to me, it seems the best course. I hold out hope, too, that by being forthright they might let the matter go. So for reasons that are entirely self-serving, I agree to sit down with the government and give them an honest recounting of what I've done.

A little over a week after the feds arrived, I am to meet with the government under the terms of a proffer agreement. The agreement does not offer me immunity or even leniency, but it allows me to tell my tale without immediately being placed in handcuffs afterward. Based on the disclosures I make, the government will make a decision as to how to proceed.

I wake up the morning of my proffer session as though it is just another day in the life of the law. As I have many times before, I get dressed and head down to the U.S. Attorney's Office. Though this pre­sents the first time the proffer session I'm attending is my own, for some
reason preparing for it is no less tedious. As I walk toward St. Andrew's Plaza in downtown Manhattan, I recoil at how much I have wanted to leave this world, only to end up in the worst possible place in it.

I am in the midst of this thought when I hear a young woman's voice.

“Professor Ridha!”

I turn and see one of my students from my class last semester. She is running toward me in her crisp suit, her face full of sunshine.

I paste a smile on my face. “How is your summer?” I ask.

She is spending her summer interning for a federal judge, a job that I had suggested she might enjoy. She is bubbling with enthusiasm about learning the inner workings of the court and is telling me the things from class that she has seen in real life.

I tell her that I am happy she is getting so much out of the experience. I can remember a time when observing the law in motion made me that excited. Now, as she chirps with admiration about her judge, I consider the possibility that he will be assigned to my case, that I will be required to appear before him, beg for his mercy. I wonder if my former student will be there, too.

This thought prompts me to look at my watch to make sure I am not late for what is waiting for me. I tell her that I unfortunately have to get to a meeting—this is technically true—and sincerely wish her a happy rest-of-summer.

At this, without any warning, she throws her arms around me in a hug. I am not in a particularly hugging mood, but the gesture seems so heartfelt that I surrender to it. We stand there, clutching one another as scores of attorneys file around us, to and from the nearby courthouse, ensuring that the wheels of law continue to turn.

That is who I used to be, I think to myself as I watch them pass. I can tell that my student is saying something, but it is muffled by her hug. I am not really listening anyway. I grab her just as tight and savor giving my old life one final embrace.

W
hen I make my way into the dank and familiar conference room at the U.S. Attorney's Office, I meet the team of individuals assigned to
bring me to justice. First is Burly Man, who is the investigator on the case. When he says hello, I search his face for signs he's seen me half naked. I learn nothing.

Next is a female prosecutor. She more or less resembles every female Assistant United States Attorney I've ever encountered: attractive, athletic, conservatively dressed. If there ever was an Assistant United States Attorney Barbie, her hair would be dyed an inoffensive shade of brown, she would wear a pantsuit in black or navy, and her face would bear makeup so subtle that she could easily be mistaken for fresh-faced. She would carry a tiny copy of the Federal Criminal Code. AUSA Barbie would make herself pretty, but not so much that it distracts juries. She would fight crime, but not in a manner that is considered hostile or distasteful.

Finally, there is Some Prosecutor, the illustrious author of my target letter. He, too, resembles one of two generalized categories of male Assistant United States Attorneys that I have observed. Category One male AUSAs bear the plain and thoughtful attributes of a quiet bookworm. Category Two male AUSAs are objectively handsome and outwardly aggressive. Category One male AUSAs use their legal acumen to prosecute complex securities and tax crimes; their reserved demeanor and high nerd factor lulls the defendant into the false belief that he will get away with it. He won't. Category Two male AUSAs usually prosecute more conventional crimes—drugs, guns, gangs—and use their unpredictable temperament and exaggerated arrogance to scare the defendant into believing that his freedom is contingent on the prosecutor's personal whims. It isn't. Some Prosecutor is a Category Two male AUSA.

I always smile when famous defendants attribute the bad outcomes in their criminal cases to the specific prosecutor trying the case, as though there were a sympathetic, less zealous prosecutor waiting in the wings. They don't seem to realize all prosecutors are unsympathetic and zealous, not because they share some unfortunate birth defect—at least none that has been uncovered—but because apparently this is how it is supposed to be.

I remind myself of this fact before the proffer session begins. Having sat in on dozens of these in practice, I know some of what to expect.
I know that the prosecutors will be stern about being honest. I know that there are only four possible answers to a question posed by the government—(1) yes, (2) no, (3) I don't know, and (4) I don't remember—each of which will put the burden on the prosecutor to develop all of the facts.

I know, too, not to bother trying to get on anyone's good side. It's natural for someone in such a vulnerable position to try to ingratiate himself with the prosecutors. But sucking up never gets clients far, first because a client's likability has no bearing on how prosecutors will choose to proceed and second because prosecutors usually exploit these opportunities to get more answers. Some might also do the dreaded “fake handshake”—extend their limp hand and then refuse to make eye contact when the client actually takes it. I think the gesture is meant to say,
I am extending my hand to be professional but you are a piece of shit.
At least that's how clients seem to interpret it.

To avoid the fake handshake, I walk into the room and quickly take my seat, hands at my sides. While my lawyer makes small talk with the prosecutors—he is a former prosecutor who has left behind an impressive legacy—I am deliberate in not joining the conversation. I am not another lawyer in the room, I know what I am there for, and so I simply look down at the table until the proceedings start.

When we begin, Some Prosecutor says something along the lines of, “Ms. Ridha, I'm sure you know that you are required today to tell us the truth. This is not the time to cover up for someone else's actions. If we discover you are not being forthright, we will take that into consideration in how we proceed in your case. If you are not prepared to be honest, we should not sign the agreement and go forward with this meeting. Do you understand?”

I have heard this spiel perhaps fifty times before. And yet now, when the statement is directed at me, the gravity of my situation strikes me so hard that my legs begin to shake. I have to place a hand on my lap to control the movement. I can't even formulate an answer to his question. Instead, I helplessly look to my attorney. He tells Some Prosecutor that I understand and we both sign the agreement.

I repeat in my head, over and over again: Yes, no, I don't know, I don't remember. Yes, no, I don't know, I don't remember.

Female Prosecutor starts the questioning. “So, why don't you tell us what happened?”

I look at her for a moment with surprise. I consider reminding her that she is supposed to be asking me yes/no questions. But she seems to recognize that I know how to make this easier on myself. At least this is what her face appears to say when I look at her in the hopes she will rephrase.

And so, I have little choice except to start the story at the beginning. My explanation is far from lawyerly. With the onus on me to provide all relevant facts, I simply try to get everything out there. With the more difficult facts, this is done through tears. I keep looking at Female Prosecutor for signs that I've left anything out.

As I tell my version of events, Female Prosecutor and Some Prosecutor occasionally interrupt to ask questions. Burly Man sits and listens. Female Prosecutor has in front of her a large file folder filled with documents. She shows me my pharmaceutical history, which she has obviously obtained by request or subpoena from my local pharmacy. When I subsequently visit the pharmacy I will examine the familiar face of the pharmacist to see if she knows the feds have been asking about me. I see nothing, other than her obvious discomfort at the fact that I am studying her so closely.

The document from my pharmacy contains a listing of all of my other medications that have been administered as of late. For each medication, it also lists the prescribing physician. In the case of a recent antibiotic prescription for a throat infection, the prescribing doctor is my brother. When I see his name on the exhibit, I tear up in shame.

Some Prosecutor has in front of him a legal pad. He seems to be in charge of jotting down any relevant facts from the meeting. In my experience, there appears to be a direct correlation between the amount of notes taken during a proffer session and the seriousness with which the government takes the matter. In those meetings where few notes are taken, the matter tends to go away. But when a prosecutor goes to the trouble of writing extensive notes, this often means he is making his case against you even as you speak.

Partway through the questioning, I steal a glance at Some Prosecutor. He is slightly hunched over his papers, writing in a small, deliberate
scrawl. Easy to read later, I think with a flash of worry. I crane my head to see his notebook. It is bursting with notes, page after page, as though these can barely contain a description of what I've done. I try to count the pages, but there are too many. I have to refrain from asking him to please stop writing down what I say.

I am so distracted that I can't look away. I notice the silence in the room and turn my attention back to Female Prosecutor. She is looking at me expectantly.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “Can you please repeat the question?”

“W
hat now?” I ask my attorney as we exit the U.S. Attorney's Office.

“We wait,” he says.

A
nd so, with an albatross about my neck, I wait. My attorney tells me that there are three possible outcomes. First, in a best-case scenario, the government can simply let the matter go. Second, in a not-best-case scenario, they can offer to enter into a deferred prosecution agreement, where they would bring charges but agree to drop these in six months if I satisfy certain conditions. Third, in a worst-case-I-wish-I-had-fled-to-a-country-without-an-extradition-treaty scenario, the government prosecutes me, full stop.

I sit in my living room, the three scenarios rolling in my head. I have multiple conversations with myself. Can this really go away? Should I quit my job? Will I have to serve jail time? How on earth will I use the bathroom in front of other people?

I also fixate on Some Prosecutor's notes. I develop a detailed fantasy where his office is flooded, and though there is no serious structural damage—I am not a monster—his notebook is submerged in water, its contents now illegible.