Rogue Lawyer (9 page)

Protocol requires that the condemned man be handcuffed at 9:45 and escorted for his final walk to the death room. There he is strapped to a gurney with six thick leather bands, from his feet to his forehead. While he is being strapped down, a doctor pokes around his arms looking for a suitable vein while a medic of some variety checks his vital signs. Ten feet away, behind glass windows and black curtains, the witnesses wait in two separate rooms, one for the victim, one for the killer.

An IV is inserted and secured with tape. A large clock on the wall allows the unlucky soul to count down his last minutes. At precisely 10:00 p.m., the prison attorney reads the death warrant, and the warden asks the condemned if he has any last words. He can say whatever he wants. It's recorded and available online. He'll say a few words, maybe proclaim his innocence again, maybe forgive everyone, maybe beg for forgiveness. When he's finished, the warden nods to a guy hidden in a nearby room, and the chemicals are released. The condemned begins to float away and his breathing becomes labored. Some twelve minutes later, the doctor pronounces him dead.

Link knows all this. Evidently, he has other plans. I'm just a guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.

At 9:30, all electricity at Big Wheeler is cut off—a complete blackout. They would later trace the power failure to a utility pole that got chainsawed in two. The backup generator for Unit Nine—death row—failed to start because its fuel injectors had been vandalized.

At 9:30, we don't know this. All we know is that the Boom Boom Room is pitch-black. Link jumps to his feet and says, “Get out of the way.” He slides the desk to jam the door. There is a quick flash of light above us, and noise, grunting. A panel in the false ceiling opens up and a voice says, “Link, here.” The flashlight sweeps down and through the room. A rope drops and Link grabs it. “Slow, now,” the voice says, and Link inches upward, literally hanging on for his life. There are sounds up there, grunting and scuffling, but I can't tell how many men are involved.

Within seconds Link is gone, and if I were not so stunned I would laugh. Then I realize that I'll probably get shot. I take off my coat and tie and stretch out on the Army cot. Guards kick the door open and burst in with guns and a flood of light.

“Where is he?” one guard barks at me.

I point to the ceiling.

They yell and curse as two of them yank me up and drag me into the hall, where dozens of guards and cops and officials are running around in complete panic.

“He's gone! He's gone!” They are yelling. “Check the roof.”

In the hall, and in the midst of an incredible racket, I can hear the thumping of a helicopter. They drag me into a room, then another. In the chaos I hear a guard yell that Link Scanlon has vanished. It takes an hour for the lights to come on. I am eventually arrested by the state police and taken to the nearest county jail. Their initial theory is that I am an accomplice.

The pieces soon come together, and because I am being partially blamed for the escape, I have access to the information. I'm not worried about the charges; they can't stick.

At 9:30 that night, there were two news helicopters buzzing around the fringes of Big Wheeler. The prison officials and police had warned them to stay away, but they were close by. In a show of muscle, the state police flew in two of its own helicopters to secure the airspace over the prison, and this proved helpful when the trouble started. It also proved distracting. There was a tremendous amount of smoke hanging over the prison as six different fires were blazing at one time. Witnesses said the noise was deafening—four helicopters in the area, dozens of emergency vehicles with sirens, radios squawking, guards and police yelling, guns being shot, fires roaring. On cue, and with impeccable timing, Link's small black helicopter arrived from nowhere, descended through the clouds of smoke, and snatched him off the roof of Unit Nine. There were witnesses. Several guards and prison employees saw the helicopter as it hovered for a few seconds, dropped a line, then disappeared back into the smoke with two men swinging from the lifeline. A guard in a tower at the unit managed to fire a few shots but hit nothing.

One of the State's choppers gave chase, but was no match for whatever brand and model Link leased for the night. It was never found; no record of it was ever traced. It flew low to avoid radar; air traffic control did not see it. A farmer sixty miles away from Big Wheeler told authorities he saw a small helicopter land on a county road a mile from his front porch. A car met it, then both disappeared.

An investigation dragged on and three officials got fired. It was eventually revealed that (1) the Boom Boom Room is part of an old section of Unit Nine and was built back in the 1940s; (2) its roof is three feet higher than the rest of death row; (3) between the ceiling and the roof there is a crawl space crammed with ductwork, heating vents, and electrical work; (4) the crawl space winds around and branches off, and one section of it leads to an old door that opens onto the flat roof; and (5) the two guards who had roof duty that night had been dispatched to help with the riot, so there was no one on the roof when Link made his dramatic escape.

What if the guards had been there? Given the skill and expertise of the operative who fetched Link, it's safe to speculate that the guards would have been shot between the eyes. This Spider-Man, as he was nicknamed by the investigators, is already a legend.

There are a lot of what-ifs but few answers. Faced with certain death, Link Scanlon figured he had nothing to lose by attempting a ridiculous escape. He had the money to hire the right commandos and equipment. He got lucky and it worked.

There was a possible but unconfirmed sighting in Mexico.

I haven't heard from my client and don't really expect to.

In addition to Big Wheeler, there are a dozen or so prisons in this state, each with a different security classification. I have clients in most of them, and they write me letters begging for money and demanding I do something to get them out. For the most part I ignore this correspondence. I have learned that a letter from me only encourages an inmate to write again and demand more. For those of us who defend criminals, there is always the possible scenario in which an ex-client with a grudge shows up after years in the pen and wants to discuss mistakes made at trial. But I don't dwell on this. It's just part of the job and another reason I carry a gun.

To keep me in my place, our esteemed prison officials ban me from visiting any prison for an entire month after the Scanlon escape. However, as it becomes clear that Link outfoxed them with no help from me, they eventually relent.

There are a few clients that I visit occasionally. These little road trips get me out of town for a day. Partner and I are driving to a medium-security facility affectionately called Old Roseburg, named after a governor from the 1930s who himself was later sent to prison. He died there, in a slammer bearing his own name. I've often wondered what that felt like. According to legend, his family tried in vain to get him paroled so he could die at home, but the sitting governor wouldn't allow it. He and Roseburg were blood enemies. The family then tried to change the name of the prison, but that would have ruined a colorful story and the legislature declined. The prison officially remains the Nathan Roseburg Correctional Facility.

We are cleared through the main gate and park in an empty visitors' lot. Two guards with high-powered rifles watch us from the tower, as if we might haul in some weapons or a pound or two of cocaine. At the moment, there's no one else to watch, so we get their full attention.

After Partner was acquitted for killing a narc, he begged me for a job. I wasn't hiring at the time, and I haven't hired since, but I couldn't say no. He was headed back to the streets, and if I didn't help him he would end up either dead or in prison. Unlike most of his friends, he had a high school diploma and had even managed to pick up a few credits at a community college. I paid for more classes, most at night. He blitzed through a paralegal curriculum and got himself certified.

Partner lives with his mother in a subsidized apartment in the City. Most of the units in his building are packed with large families, but none of the traditional variety—mother, father, children. Almost all the fathers are gone, either locked up or living elsewhere and producing more children. The typical apartment belongs to a grandmother, a long-suffering soul who's stuck with a passel of kids who may or may not be blood related. Half the mothers are in prison. The other half work two and three jobs. Young cousins drop in and out; almost every family is in a chaotic state of flux. The primary goal is to keep the kids in school, away from the gangs, alive, and hopefully out of prison. Partner guesses that half of them will drop out anyway and most of the boys will end up in jail.

He says he's lucky because it's just him and his mother in the small apartment. There is a tiny spare bedroom that he uses as an office for his work—our work. Many of my files and records are stored there. I often wonder what my clients would do if they knew their confidential files were actually kept in Army surplus cabinets in a tenth-floor apartment in a government housing project. I don't really care because I trust Partner with my life. He and I have spent hours in the little room digging through police reports and plotting trial strategies.

His mother, Miss Luella, is partially disabled by severe diabetes. She does some sewing for friends, keeps a spotless apartment, and cooks occasionally. Her primary job, as far as I'm concerned, is answering the telephone for the Honorable Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. As I said, I'm not listed in any phone book, but my “office” number does get passed around. In fact, people call that number all the time, and they get Miss Luella, who sounds as crisp and efficient as any receptionist sitting at a fine desk in a tall building and directing calls for a firm with hundreds of lawyers.

She'll say, “Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. How may I direct your call?” As if the firm has dozens of divisions and specialties. No caller ever gets me the first time because I'm never at the office. What office? She'll say, “He's in a meeting,” or “He's in a deposition,” or “He's in a trial,” or, my favorite, “He's in federal court.” Once she has effectively stiff-armed the caller, she zeroes in on his or her legal problem with “And this is regarding what?”

A divorce. The caller will get “I'm sorry, but Mr. Rudd does not handle family matters.”

A bankruptcy, real estate closing, will, deed, contract. The same response—Mr. Rudd doesn't do those.

A criminal matter might get her attention but she knows that most lead nowhere. So few of the accused can afford a fee. She'll lead the caller through her standard questions to determine whether or not they can pay.

Someone's been injured? Now we're talking. She'll go into her sympathy mode and extract all manner of information. She won't let them off the phone until she's picked them clean and gained their trust. If the facts fall into place and the case shows real potential, she'll promise to have Mr. Rudd stop by the hospital that very afternoon.

If the caller is a judge or some other important person, she treats them with great respect, ends the call, and immediately sends me a text message. I pay her $500 a month in cash and an occasional bonus when I settle a good car wreck. Partner, too, is paid in cash.

Miss Luella's people were from Alabama and she learned to cook the southern way. At least twice a month she'll fry chicken and boil collards and bake corn bread and I'll eat until I can hardly breathe. She and Partner have managed to transform the small, cheap, mass-produced apartment into a home, a place of warmth. There is a sadness, though, a cloud that hangs like a thick fog and will not go away. Partner is only thirty-eight, but he has a nineteen-year-old son at Old Roseburg. Jameel is serving ten years for gang-related crap, and he's the reason for our visit today.

After we do the paperwork and get patted down, Partner and I walk half a mile along sidewalks lined with chain link and razor wire to Camp D, a tough unit. We go through security again and deal with grim-faced guards who would like nothing better than to turn us away. Because Partner is a certified paralegal and carries the paperwork to prove it, he is allowed into the visiting wing with me. A guard selects a consultation room for attorneys and we take our seats facing a screen.

Attorneys can visit anytime, with notice, while the families are limited to Sunday afternoons only. As we wait, Partner, who says little, now says even less. We check on Jameel at least once a month, and the visits take a toll on my confidant. He carries heavy burdens because he blames himself for many of his son's problems. The kid was headed for trouble, but after Partner's acquittal the cops and prosecutors were out for revenge. Kill a cop, even in self-defense, and you make some nasty enemies. When Jameel was arrested, there was no room for negotiation. The max was ten years and the prosecutors wouldn't budge. I represented him, pro bono of course, but there was nothing I could do. He was caught with a backpack full of pot.

“Only nine years to go,” Partner says softly as we stare at the screen. “Man oh man. I lie awake at night and wonder what he'll be like in nine years. Twenty-eight years old and back on the streets. No job, no education, no skills, no hope, no nothing. Just another convict looking for trouble.”

“Maybe not,” I say cautiously, though I have little to add. Partner knows this world far better than me. “He'll have a father waiting on him, and a grandmother. I'll be around, I hope. Between the three of us we'll think of something.”

“Maybe you'll need another paralegal by then,” he says with a rare smile, though a brief one.

“Never know.”

A door opens on the other side and Jameel walks through it, followed by a guard. The guard slowly unsnaps the handcuffs and looks at us. “Morning, Hank,” I say.

“Hello, Rudd,” he says. Hank is one of the good guys, according to Jameel. I suppose it's some sort of commentary on my law practice that I'm on such good terms with some of the prison guards. Some, but certainly not all.

“Take your time,” he says and disappears. The length of the visit is determined by Hank and Hank alone, and since I'm nice to him he doesn't care how long we stay. I've had hard-asses say things like “You got one hour, max,” or “Make it quick,” but not Hank.

Jameel smiles at us and says, “Thanks for coming.”

“Hello, son,” Partner says properly.

“Great to see you, Jameel,” I say.

He falls into a plastic chair. The kid is six feet five, skinny, and seemingly made out of rubber. Partner is six two and built like a fireplug. He says the kid's mother is tall and lanky. She's been out of the picture for years, vanished into the black hole of street life. She has a brother who played basketball at a small college, and Partner has always assumed Jameel came from that gene pool. He was six three in the ninth grade and scouts were beginning to notice. At some point, though, he discovered pot and crack and forgot about the game.

“Thanks for the money,” he says to me. I send him $100 a month, which he's supposed to use for canteen food and basics such as pencils, paper, stamps, and soft drinks. He bought a fan—Old Roseburg is not air-conditioned. None of our prisons are. Partner sends him money too, though I have no idea how much. Two months after he landed here, they raided his cell and found some pot hidden in his mattress. A snitch had squealed, and Jameel spent two weeks in solitary. Partner would have choked him if he could have penetrated the screen, but the kid swore it would never happen again.

We talk about his classes. He's taking remedial courses in an effort to get his high school equivalent, but Partner is not impressed with his progress. After a few minutes, I excuse myself and leave the room. Father and son need time alone, which is why we're here. According to Partner, the conversations get rough and emotional. He wants his son to know that his father cares deeply and is watching from a distance. Old Roseburg is full of gangs and Jameel is easy prey. He swears he's not involved, but Partner is skeptical. Above all, he wants the kid to be safe, and membership in a gang is often the best protection. It also leads to warfare and revenge and the circle of violence. Seven inmates were killed last year at Old Roseburg. It could be worse. Down the road is a U.S. penitentiary, a federal joint, and they average two murders a month.

I buy a soft drink from a vending machine and find a spot in a row of empty plastic chairs. No other lawyer is visiting today and the place is empty. I open my briefcase and spread papers on a table covered with old magazines. Hank appears and says hello again. We chat for a few minutes. I ask how the kid is doing.

He says, “All right. Nothing great. He's surviving and he hasn't been hurt. He's been here a year and knows his way around. Doesn't want to work, though. I got him a job in the laundry and he lasted a week. Goes to most of his classes, but not all of them.”

“A gang?”

“Don't know, but I'm watching.”

Another guard enters through a door far away and Hank suddenly has to go. He can't be seen fraternizing with a lowly criminal defense lawyer. I try and read a thick brief, but it's too boring. I walk to a window that looks out upon a vast yard lined with double rows of chain link. Hundreds of inmates, all in prison whites, are killing time as guards look down from a tower.

Young and black, almost all of them. According to the numbers, they're in for nonviolent drug offenses. The average sentence is seven years. Upon release, 60 percent will be back here within three years.

And why not? What's on the outside to prevent their return? They are now convicted felons, a branding they will never be able to shake. The odds were stacked against them to begin with, and now that they're tagged as felons, life in the free world is somehow supposed to improve? These are the real casualties of our wars. The war on drugs. The war on crime. Unintended victims of tough laws passed by tough politicians over the past forty years. One million young black men now warehoused in decaying prisons, idling away the days at taxpayer expense.

Our prisons are packed. Our streets are filled with drugs. Who's winning the war?

We've lost our minds.