Criminal That I Am (6 page)

W
hile he has a team of lawyers and a fleet of friends and family to support him, Cameron insists on my involvement in almost everything.
I in turn am only too willing to become involved. When I can't make a group meeting, his conduct afterward is described to me as obstinate, unruly, distrusting. Cameron demands to know my whereabouts, refuses to agree to anything without me.

“Jen, please, you can't do that again,” he tells me of my absence.

In addition to the hefty legal work required for his case, he begs my help on decidedly nonlegal matters. On his behalf, I enthusiastically pick out a birthday card for his little sister, arrange for his reading material, contact the kennel that houses his dogs. I field phone calls from concerned family and friends. I accompany his mother to select his suit for court.

I eagerly accede to his request to see me as many as five days a week, but in reality I sign over to him every waking moment. I visit him on a Friday and a Sunday, and on the intervening Saturday, my phone rings.

“Aren't you happy to hear from me?” he asks sheepishly.

“Of course I am,” I say. “But I just saw you yesterday, and I'm going to see you tomorrow. Is everything okay?”

“I'm bored,” he says.

In his demands for my attention, I sense in Cameron a childlike craving to be cared for. He reminds me of a toddler in need of a nap, his arms stretched upward, begging to be held. I sometimes wonder if this is an actual remnant from his unorthodox childhood; the mere speculation is enough for me to feel as though I should try to make up for the difference.

Thus, over time, I take on Cameron's pleas and wants as though my very existence lies in the balance. And, maybe, to some extent, it does: I have so conflated my life with his that I begin to have difficulty discerning where his demands end and my own needs begin. To fulfill somehow becomes fulfilling, to bind myself somehow feels liberating. Even as I do it, something deep inside tells me to stop. But I still push my way in further, irrationally believing that in losing myself in Cameron I can somehow be found.

I embrace the virtual overlap of him over me. I readily accept that Cameron will be my first and last thought of the day. I don't think much of it when my cleaning lady points out to me that I have inadvertently
made her check out to “Cameron Douglas.” I don't find it strange that on the few occasions when I force myself away from him, I'm sure to place my cell phone closely at my side. Even when I am where I'm supposed to be—with friends, with family, on reluctant dates with upstanding gentlemen—Cameron is there, too.

And so, whatever romance there comes to be between us, always underneath is something darker, more potent. Our dysfunctional exchange of needs creates a thick rope of codependency; it harnesses me to Cameron completely, inexorably. In the end, only the most power­ful government in the world will be able to pull me away.

L
ike many unconventional romances, ours is over far too soon. Unlike many unconventional romances, ours is cut short due to our having collectively committed a federal offense.

Much is made in my case about my relationship with Cameron. The government refers to ten weeks' worth of e-mails and phone calls following Cameron's transfer out of MCC as evidence that I committed my crimes out of love.

I don't think that it was love that motivated me to turn to a life of crime, at least not exclusively, and certainly not in the moment. The government doesn't seem to care about the distinction, and I suppose in the end I don't either.

In our first meeting, my lawyer asks me about my relationship with Cameron. “Don't be embarrassed,” he tells me. “I just need to understand it for when you are asked about it.”

“I'm not embarrassed,” I tell him. It's something I find myself repeating over and over again during my case. In truth, I am still not quite sure which part of having feelings for Cameron is supposed to be embarrassing. The fact that I started a relationship with a client? The fact that he is the son of a celebrity? The fact that he has dabbled both personally and professionally in the narcotic arts? None of this seems particularly shameful to me, although it's been made clear to me that it probably should.

In an appeal for leniency, my lawyer will explain to the government that my personal circumstances contributed to my feelings for Cam
eron and my decision to commit crimes on his behalf. He will explain that I had recently undergone a painful breakup; that I was miserable both personally and professionally; that I was planning a career change in the hopes of finding a more fulfilling existence. These statements are all true. What they imply, however—that had I not been an unhappy mess when I met Cameron, I would not have developed feelings for him—is probably not.

At the same time, I do not posit that ours is the greatest love story of all time. Or even, really, a love story at all. I labor under no misapprehension that had my crimes not been discovered, we would in any real sense remain together. I am not the one who got away. I am only the one who got arrested.

CHAPTER 3

Welcome to Cowboy Country

O
ne might find it fitting that my conspiracy was born within the confines of the walls of the Metropolitan Correctional Center in downtown Manhattan. Crime is its entire reason for being.

Here is the lowdown on MCC: Built in 1975, it is a maximum-­security federal pretrial detention center that houses almost eight hundred inmates, most of whom are awaiting trial or sentencing. The prison has housed some of the most dangerous criminals in modern history, including crime boss John Gotti, drug kingpin Frank Lucas, and a number of al-Qaeda operatives.

Although I have spent a lifetime in relatively restrictive institutions, MCC presents something of another order. When I am within its walls, I'm immediately reminded of the experiences I've had at military checkpoints in more conservative pockets of the Arab world. After taking detailed stock of my person, the corrections officer on duty invariably examines my attorney credentials with the same suspicion and incredulity as does the Syrian soldier inspecting my U.S. passport. Both men are outwardly dubious at the presence of a woman unaccompanied by a man. Both begrudgingly grant me permission to pass, yet leave me with the persistent feeling that I've done something horribly wrong in simply being alive.

I must add that for all of the import surrounding its role in the war on crime, MCC is in many ways lacking in the rule of law. While the
facility possesses an extensive set of rules, these are never followed the same way twice. The quality of an attorney's visit is entirely contingent on the mental stability of the corrections officer on duty. The odds of an efficient visit are not great. On the majority of occasions that I visit, it feels as though I have entered what I imagine to be the same regulatory framework that exists in the rogue outskirts of Taliban-friendly Pakistan. Complete cowboy country.

Sometimes my lawyerly skirt suit satisfies the dress code. Sometimes the very same suit is deemed indecent, and now I must run to a nearby clothing store to purchase something to pull over it.

Some days the corrections officers are stern but professional. On other days, entering the facility is the criminal justice equivalent of walking past a construction site. In confined and controlled spaces, I'm berated about my marital status, my ethnic origins, my availability later for a drink.

The worst days at MCC are those where I am forced to encounter an elite category of corrections officers seeming to specialize in psychopathy. One officer in particular, whose height I will estimate at six-foot-ten and his weight at 450 pounds, deems it unnecessary to use words. Instead, he chooses to communicate by pounding his enormous fist against the door, causing it to shake so violently that it looks as though it might break.

This gargantuan man comes in a set of two with another officer who is smaller in size but crueler in conduct. He barks orders in such close proximity to my face that I'm able to assess the shoddiness of his dental work.

This dynamic duo does not take much time to make clear their fervent hatred of Cameron and, by extension, me. One evening early into the case, both men are sitting just outside our attorney room, whooping and laughing so loudly that I can barely hear what Cameron is saying. Their conduct seems purposeful, as they eye Cameron in a manner that emphasizes he is powerless to do anything about it. Cameron, too, recognizes that he is being mocked; though he says nothing, his ears are red with anger.

This is bullshit, I think. I get up and walk to the door. “Excuse me,” I say.

The laughter stops. Two angry sets of eyes look at me.

I swallow. “It's just, I can't really hear what my client is saying. Would you mind keeping it down a bit?”

Their eyes are still fixed on me, but they remain silent.

“Okay, then,” I say with awkwardness. “Thank you.” I'm anxious to shut the attorney room door, which serves as the only barrier between these frightening individuals and me.

And thus our beef is born. Apparently, these two men—Cameron and I come to lovingly refer to them as “Fat Fuck” and “Mean Fuck,” respectively—don't take well to being asked to do anything and are sure to make us pay. Whenever they're on duty they are sure to place us opposite the venue of their private comedy hour. They permit other inmates to use the restroom, but when Cameron asks he is told no. They continually interrupt meetings to berate Cameron for petty issues, like when he leans in his chair or uses my pen. When in order to show Cameron a chart I sit diagonally from him rather than across, I earn a bellowing scream that echoes in the pit of my stomach along with a fat punch to the glass door. In dreaded elevator trips, I am alternatively harangued by both Fucks about my meetings with Cameron and the status of his case. One time, presumably by accident, Mean Fuck smacks me in the face with the attorney lobby door, causing me to fall over. He does not say a word, he merely steps over me and goes along his way.

I stop reporting the misdoings of Fat Fuck and Mean Fuck, only because it turns out to be a complete waste of time. There is no real recourse in cowboy country. I observe some of the most aggressive defense attorneys in the city completely cower where the imposition of authority of MCC is concerned. It seems to be generally accepted that life at MCC is distinct from that in civilized society, that one must simply grin and bear it.

When I later confess my crimes to the prosecutors in my case, one politely cautions me. “We know that things are done a little differently at MCC,” she says. “Don't feel as though you have to edit your experience there.”

“I won't,” I say. But even then, I don't bother mentioning Fat Fuck and Mean Fuck. By that time, their misconduct constitutes a drop in the bucket of transgressions that surround Cameron's case. This
includes, I suppose, my own. When it's time for me to answer for my misdeeds, no solace can be had in pointing to those of others. When my reckoning arrives, it is for me and me alone.

N
ot long after our beef begins with the Two Fucks, I tell Cameron, “We've got to get you out of here.”

He enthusiastically agrees.

It's after the Christmas holiday, January 2010, and we're preparing to make a motion for Cameron's bail. The government opposes the motion based on the not altogether unreasonable premise that Cameron was already awarded bail but violated the terms. We are nonetheless trying again, based on the argument that Cameron's bail violation was not really his fault.

As specious as this may sound, as a medical matter it is true. When DEA agents arrested Cameron, they recognized that his heroin addiction was of some medical concern. They took him to a nearby hospital, where the on-call physician advised that he take a detoxification medicine to avoid severe withdrawal. Cameron had this medicine in his possession when he left the hospital. DEA agents then took him to MCC, where he spent the night.

The day after his arrest, he was granted bail in the form of house arrest, which he served at his mother's house under the supervision of a private security company. But when he arrived, the detoxification medicine was nowhere to be found. When I join the case months later, it's still not clear where the medicine ended up, whether it was lost in the shuffle between MCC and his mother's house, or whether the security company confiscated it. All that's clear is that no one seemed to know what to do next.

Thus, against medical advice, Cameron was left to undergo severe heroin withdrawal without medical supervision. The psychiatrist, out of the country when all of this happened, later explains to us that this situation is physically untenable, that opiate withdrawal causes the brain to turn against itself. The withdrawing addict, believing he is about to die without using, becomes suicidal.

Cameron did not attempt suicide. What he did was call one of the
prominent ladies in his gaggle—Mother Goose, if you will—to put him out of his misery. Mother Goose was also a heroin addict and so had some handy to place in a glassine envelope and stuff into the battery cartridge of an electric toothbrush. The toothbrush was delivered along with some other toiletries to the security guards at Cameron's mother's house.

It probably would have worked but for Cameron's desperate need for the drugs. The symptoms of heroin withdrawal do not allow for subtlety, and so when he berated the security detail about the imminent arrival of his toothbrush, suspicions were raised. No one really needs a toothbrush with that much urgency, and so when the toiletries arrived, the security guards examined the battery cartridge and contacted the government.

Cameron was sent to MCC that same day. Upon processing, MCC assigned him to a detoxification protocol. Two weeks later, he was clean.

When I hear Cameron tell the story of how he ended up at MCC, I marvel at how avoidable it all seems. I'm also dumbfounded by his decision to have someone smuggle him heroin while he was under house arrest.

“I mean, if anything, why not just have her smuggle the medication? You were supposed to have it anyway.”

“She didn't have my medication.”

“I know, but she could probably get her own. It just seems less egregious to bring you what was prescribed to you rather than a street drug.”

He thinks about my logic for a moment. “Yeah, I guess that makes better sense.”

T
hough it won't be easy to win bail the second time around, we don't consider it impossible. And so when Cameron pleads guilty before the magistrate judge—the presiding trial judge is tied up in a terrorism trial—we also submit papers asking that he be granted bail.

The circumstances of Cameron's plea make it an ideal time to ask for bail. Because he has pleaded guilty before the magistrate judge but not yet appeared before his trial judge, his plea is not considered “official.” This could make all the difference, as there are different legal standards for bail depending on whether or not the defendant has given
an official plea. As one might expect, it is easier for a defendant to receive bail before he officially admits to committing a crime—that is, pre-plea—than it is post-plea.

The magistrate judge orders a bail hearing. Sensitive to Cameron's status as a cooperator, he agrees to hold it in a closed courtroom, away from the bustle of the magistrate's court.

But on this day the case takes a turn.

After hearing arguments from both sides, the magistrate judge agrees that Cameron should be awarded bail in order to undergo drug treatment. He also goes so far as to set the conditions of Cameron's release, including a $1 million bail bond to be signed by both of his ­parents. But there's a significant catch: because a bail decision might be different under the post-plea standard, and because Cameron is really only pre-plea as a technical matter, the magistrate judge freezes the bail order until the trial judge has a chance to weigh in on the matter. In the meantime, because of Cameron's status as a cooperator, the judge orders that all of the proceedings and paperwork in the matter be sealed from public view.

It is a pyrrhic victory. Cameron is no closer to going home, and yet we have to concern ourselves with the minutiae of his bail paperwork. He flashes me a defeated look as a U.S. Marshal escorts him from the courtroom to the inmate holding area.

I begrudgingly assist Co-Counsel, an attorney from Cameron's original legal team, with pulling together information for Cameron's bail bond and ensuring it is placed under seal. Cameron Douglas's mother, who is present at the hearing, signs the bond and goes home. But this is not enough: Cameron Douglas's father must sign it, too.

In the four months that I have been on the case, I haven't had much occasion to communicate with Cameron Douglas's father. He receives regular telephone updates on the case from the legal team, and I participate in these if I am asked to. But this will be the first time I will meet him in person.

Any other day, I would be curious to meet the man whose sink sex scene haunted my preadolescent mind. But I'm drained by the day's events and disappointed in the outcome. I would much rather go home, throw myself under the covers, and put off meeting him to another day.

Co-Counsel and I wait for his arrival at one end of the courthouse. When he enters, he is dressed in black skinny jeans and a black leather jacket, appropriate attire for a man who once starred in sexy films, but odd to me in terms of “dad” clothing. In sizing up the ensemble, I can't help but think of my own father, who tends to favor muted wool sweaters and thick corduroy pants. I try to picture my dad in a similar get-up and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Cameron Douglas's father is not one for remaining under the radar. He walks with purposeful strides and greets every person he encounters, each of whom are outwardly excited by the recognition. As I look on, I wonder what it's like to affect someone by simply saying hello. It appears exhausting. But after I watch for a while, I notice that the relationship might be symbiotic: just as the strangers are touched, Cameron Douglas's father seems touched that they are touched. Perhaps in the end, like everyone else, Cameron Douglas's father just wants to be liked.

After he's done with the receiving line, Cameron Douglas's father walks toward me and extends his hand. In returning the gesture, I give him a quick once-over. I'm struck by how he simultaneously manages to resemble his son but also look so different. Their facial features are exact replicas, as though someone has copied the father's face and pasted it onto the son. But Cameron has fair coloring, and his father's looks are darker, more distinguished. Cameron is built like a natural athlete—tall and broad—but his father's build is that of an actor: smaller in person than what appears on-screen. And while Cameron exudes a rugged masculinity, his father's appearance is more manicured, almost delicate.

My stargazing is cut short by the reality of the circumstances. Cameron Douglas's father signs the bond and then indicates that he would like to talk about what happened in court. I internally cringe. This conversation is not going to be an uplifting one.