Criminal That I Am (19 page)

That's obviously bad news for Cameron, but I don't represent him anymore. “Why does that matter to me?” I ask.

“Because of
Giglio.
”

Giglio.
Of course.

Giglio—
not to be confused with the word “gigolo”—refers to the 1972 U.S. Supreme Court case
Giglio v. United States.

In
Giglio
, the Supreme Court considered the appeal of John Giglio, who had been convicted of bank fraud. The key evidence at trial was the testimony of a cooperating witness. The government had at one point offered the cooperator immunity in exchange for his testimony; however, the prosecutor who made this offer left the case and did not share the fact that he made this offer with his successor. As a result, the government inadvertently withheld the offer of immunity from the defense. And at trial, when cross-examined about whether he had ever received any offer of immunity, the cooperator lied and said that he hadn't.

The Supreme Court granted Giglio a new trial. It held that the government is constitutionally required to provide the defense with any evidence that reflects upon the cooperator's propensity to tell the truth. This can include promises of immunity, past crimes, or any other prior bad act by the cooperator.

Such as, for example, receiving contraband from his attorney.

The defense is then entitled to cross-examine the cooperator about these so-called
Giglio
disclosures. Thus, should the Escaleras go to trial, testimony about what I've done will certainly be presented to the jury. On the record. In open court.

That line of questioning is never short-lived, I think to myself.

My attorney finishes my thought: “Given who is involved, there will obviously be some press attention.”

I now have two cases to follow: one in federal court and one in the court of public opinion.

I want to hang on to any possibility that this is not going to happen. I remember the news article from September. “There was an article a few months ago that said they had plea deals on the table,” I tell him. “Do you think it's still possible for them to plead?”

“That's not something the government would ever share with us. But I imagine it's possible.”

“Do you think they will plead?”

I hear him thinking. “You know, if they've been offered a plea, it's possible. But it's also a real possibility that they won't.”

I thank him and hang up. I still have the receiver in my hand when
I dial Best Friend.

“So, there's a new development,” I tell her.

“What do they want now?” she asks in exasperation.

“Actually, nothing. But it turns out that even if my case goes away quietly, if Cameron ends up testifying, then it will be all over the news.”

“What? Why?”

Best Friend is a lawyer but has had the good sense to stay away from criminal law. “Because of
Giglio
,” I say.

“Wait . . . did you just say gigolo?” She says this with such seriousness that it indicates she believes my case somehow involves prostitution.

This makes me laugh uncontrollably. Perhaps that is all there is to do as the situation develops.

“Not gigolo,
Giglio
,” I sputter. And then, because I can't help myself, I add, “Either way, there is a decent likelihood that someone is going to get fucked.”

A
nd so, due to the requirements of our Constitution, my fate becomes wrapped up in the impending trial of people I've never met. Perhaps fittingly, Cameron's fear about taking the stand has now become mine, too.

As I await my own court date, I check the docket sheets for David and Eduardo Escalera on a regular basis to see if there are any developments. A few days before Christmas, two weeks before I am set to go to court, the trial judge sets a trial date for the Escalera brothers for February 14, 2011.

But trial dates often change. It's not uncommon for a case to have a trial date even though the parties plan to plead guilty. I remind myself of this when I learn of this development.

Still, the discovery prompts me to visit the Bureau of Prisons' inmate locator, which provides the whereabouts of every federal inmate. Because the government will seek Cameron's transfer only if he will need to testify, I'm checking to make sure he is still in Pennsylvania.

When I enter Cameron's name into the website database, it lists the name of his facility in Pennsylvania. I breathe a sigh of relief.

My fear of complete ruin does not alter the fact that Christmas
is coming. Because of travel restrictions related to my pending case, I'm unable to visit my parents as I normally would. My mother and I have shamefully continued the ruse with my father and have devised an excuse to explain my absence.

“But you didn't make it last year either,” my father says over the phone with disappointment.

This is true. Although I had plans to take vacation days around Christmas, because of the demands of Cameron's case I decided it would make more sense to stay home.

“I know, I'm sorry,” I say. And then, I institute the agreed-upon plan. “It's just, I have to work on my research paper for my job talk next fall, and I can't lug all of the sources with me.”

I am supposed to be working on a research paper, this is the truth. But it's not true that I have pulled a single source, much less any that could not fit into a standard carry-on bag.

But I know that my father will adhere to logic and agree that any obligations I have toward my job would trump a personal visit. This is why my mother and I hatched this excuse in the first place.

“Okay,” he says. “I'm disappointed, but I understand.” He sounds sad.

“Dad, I just can't make it,” I say.

A few days later, I receive a Christmas card from my parents, penned in my father's hand.
Though your mother and I will miss you
, it reads,
we are so proud of you for all that you are doing in your new profession, and we wish you all of the best with it. Love, your dad.

When I consider the card against the events of the past few months, I impulsively crumple it up and throw it in the garbage. His praise is so vastly misplaced on me that I don't even want to look at it.

I linger by the trash can as though the card might come out when I am not looking. I can see it sitting on top of all of the other refuse, my father's familiar script peeking out from inside. I reach down to grab it, and then rip the card into pieces. I chuck these into the trash can and walk away.

Moments later, I think better of what I've just done. I'm back at the trash can, observing the pieces I've made of my father's card. Strewn together, they remind me of the makeshift puzzles that my brother and
I used to make when we were kids. We'd draw a picture and then rip it into pieces. The disparity in size between the drawing paper and our small hands resulted in scraps that more or less approximated the size of puzzle pieces. Using some illicitly obtained Scotch tape from my dad's desk drawer and working with the precision of art historians, we would reconstruct our drawings, adhering each piece to the last until our artwork would be fully restored. These were then presented to our mother, who declared them a waste of tape.

I reach down in the garbage again, carefully extracting each piece of the card. I place these on the counter and consider whether they could be taped back together like a homemade puzzle. Deciding that they can, that my father's card can be made whole again, I act quickly and with purpose. I gather the pieces in my hand, walk out my apartment door, and place them in the garbage chute down the hall.

M
y family observes Christmas as a secular holiday, my parents thinking it cruel for us to believe that Santa brought gifts for other children, but not for us. With all of my distractions, I'm having to complete the entirety of my shopping and baking and wrapping in a single day. I could probably have gotten away with not doing any of it—“I have a criminal case pending” is a universally accepted excuse—but my case has pushed me toward last-minute holiday distraction.

I remain tied to inmate locator. I check it on my phone while I stand in line to purchase a snoring toy pig for my friend's daughter. I check it again after I put various batters in the oven to bake. Just for good measure, as I frantically knit a scarf for an otherwise forgotten recipient, I check it each time I take breaks to keep my hands from seizing.

Cameron is still at his facility.

The next day, Christmas Eve, after very little sleep, I make the three-hour drive to my brother's house upstate. I check inmate locator on the road. When I arrive, much later than I had promised my very punctual brother, I ignore the annoyed look on his face and go to the bathroom. While I am there, I check inmate locator again.

Cameron is still at his facility.

Owing both to my late arrival and my brother's cupboards being
bare, we had hoped in vain to find a restaurant open on Christmas Eve. Then we hoped to find a grocery store. Ultimately, we settle on the only place within twenty miles of his home that is open—Walgreens—and use the opportunity to concoct a Christmas Eve dinner consisting entirely of the processed food we were forbidden to eat as children.

As the cashier tallies our frozen pizza and chips and macaroni and cheese, I catch sight of a marshmallow Hello Kitty poised on a stick. My eyes widen: she is reminiscent of marshmallow figurines of Christmases past. Though my brother and sister would scarf these down, I found them far too precious to eat. I would display them on my dresser, until my brother would inevitably walk by and punch in their faces through the plastic.

Christmas Hello Kitty is as exquisite as the figurines from my childhood. She is gently dusted in colored sugar and is decked out for the holiday in a Santa hat and dress. I add her to the pile.

“What the hell is that?” my brother says with incredulousness as the cashier swipes Hello Kitty against the electronic scanner.

“I don't know, I wanted it.”

“Are you actually going to eat it?”

“No.”

He rolls his eyes.

Once we return to his home and consume our fat- and sodium-laden feast—one that ends up being among our better Christmas Eve dinners—I check inmate locator one more time. I have propped up Hello Kitty next to my iPad, and she waits in anticipation of what I find.

Cameron is still at his facility.

On Christmas Day, I vow not to check inmate locator. This is not because I have a variety of social obligations (though I do) or because it is Christmas (though it is), but because I doubt the BOP would transfer an inmate on a federal holiday, and even if they did, they probably would not bother updating inmate locator.

(When we return from Christmas dinner, however, I do take a quick peek at inmate locator. Cameron is still at his facility.)

The day after Christmas, I check inmate locator on my brother's laptop. I forget to close the browser after I do, and so when my brother goes to use the computer he is welcomed by the Bureau of Prisons
home page.

“What's this?” he asks.

I explain to him about the Escalera brothers and
Giglio.

“Jesus, Jennie, how much shit did you step in?”

“A lot,” I say.

Cameron is still at his facility.

The next day, with my need to check inmate locator out in the open, I check it on a regular basis from my place on the sofa. Hello Kitty looks on from the kitchen counter in support. For the entire day, Cameron is still at his facility.

I begrudgingly head home, if for no other reason than I have to prepare for court the following week. It takes me some time to pack up all of my things and load them into the car. By the time I get on the road, I realize that I have not checked inmate locator. I stop at the next exit and retrieve my iPad for this purpose.

Cameron is listed as being “In Transit.”

I sit in the car for several minutes, deciding what I should do, whom I should call. It does not take long for reality to set in: this trial is happening, and there isn't a thing I can do about it.

I push the iPad back into my purse and happen upon Hello Kitty's backside. I had thrown her in with my other belongings as I was packing. When I turn her over, I see that her marshmallow face has been punched in through the plastic.

I roll my eyes and observe the damage. Her smooshed face expresses bewilderment, and she looks like a crossed-eyed baseball mitt. Once a beautiful delicacy, her fall from grace has been swift and complete.

I look her over and decide there is nothing to salvage. I unwrap her plastic covering and take a large, satisfying bite out of her head. I throw her remains into my purse. Then I drive home.

C
ameron stays at a transit facility for a full week. He is transferred to MCC two days before I appear in court.

I know that when Cameron arrives at MCC, he will be placed in the SHU until he is assigned to a unit. He is thus sitting in the SHU when
I arrive at the U.S. Marshals Service for processing. He has also very likely encountered the newly incarcerated defendants who are being processed at the same time as me.

I watch the defendant ahead of me in line, the Russian guy charged with a drug crime, as he is being processed. His young face makes me think he is close to Cameron in age. He will almost certainly see Cameron later in the day. For a moment, I think to myself, If you want to relay a message to Cameron to ask about the Escaleras' trial, this is your opportunity.

But I have no message for Cameron. There is no information he can provide that will improve this situation. And though it's only been a few months since we've seen each other, and I've essentially thought of him in one way or another every day since, to communicate with him now somehow seems socially out of bounds. The thought crosses my mind as the Marshal presses my hands onto the fingerprinting machine: it did not take long for him to become someone I once knew.