“I’ll have to ask someone if there is anything I can do,” stammered Watson.
“You want the name of Buck’s lawyer? Because Buck’s lawyer got him a extra blanket and two-ply toilet paper, too. The lawyer said two-ply was part of Buck’s constitutional rights. The other thing is there are a lot of Afro-Americans of color in here. I don’t mean anything by that. Some of my best friends are friends of people who have talked to friends of Afro-Americans. You maybe saw on the news where a lot of men of colored end up in here because they are discriminated against or whatever. You maybe also remember that tattoo you seen on my arm, the one we was talking about? I’m getting a little, uh, worried.” His voice was quavering. Watson heard him take a breath. “Concerned, I guess, that one of these men of colored might not understand about how it’s just a joke. So Buck said I might have a constitutional right to get my tattoo taken off before I suffer some cruel and unusual punishment, which is against the law, according to Buck.”
“I’ll have to see what I can do,” said Watson uncertainly. “Why don’t we talk tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, OK. Like maybe I need some administrative confinement or isolation or something.” His voice was shaking again. “Like soon. Or maybe they could send me off for those brain tests you was talking about and get me somewheres where there ain’t so many Negro-Americans of colored in the prison system. It ain’t just them—I got other problems in here too. Let’s just say it ain’t healthy here, and I need to get out quick. If you want the name of Buck’s lawyer it’s right there in the
yellow pages of the phone book. Big boxed photo says to call if you get a spinal cord injury from driving while intoxicated. Buck’s lawyer is famous and has got him completely off more than once besides getting him the special diet and the extra blankets.”
Watson scrawled “Tattoo removal, blankets, two-ply, Minnesota, administrative confinement” on his notepad, as Whitlow kept talking.
“Buck’s lawyer said you got to file—hold it a sec, I wrote it down—under Section 1983 of the civil rights laws claiming—yeah, here we go—claiming ‘deliberate indifference to medical needs and extreme conditions of confinement.’ ”
“What medical needs?” asked Watson. “I thought you said they were getting you your seizure meds. You said that during our interview.”
“I’m getting my seizure meds,” said Whitlow. “And they even give me the meds for the piss infection. I guess the trots and food poisoning would be serious, indifferent medical needs which could be fixed by serving real food. And maybe getting killed by Afro-Americans of colored would be like a permanent extreme condition of confinement. I think I need a constitutional special diet and relocation.” He was pleading now. “And like I said, it’s either cold or hot. And the crazies in here are giving us sleeping disorders. Buck also said I should see can I get my laptop computer in here so’s I can help with my own defense and do some legal research of my own.”
“Laptop, cold, hot, sleeping disorders,” said Watson. “I’ll look into it, and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Don’t forget about the administrative confinement. Buck’s lawyer also said …”
Outside call. His information manager appeared again on the screen with a double beep. His clients had the new classified number. He’d also given it to Whitlow, Sandra, and—well, Dr. Palmquist needed it, didn’t she? But the information manager was again showing no match.
“I have another call,” said Watson. “We’ll talk about Buck’s lawyer in the morning, OK? Oh, and I called the impound lot for you.”
“Oh, right,” said Whitlow. “Never mind about that. We took care of the impound lot. Which reminds me of the most important thing. Buck found some money. Some good money, actually. Buck’s lawyer said you might need some to get a decent investigator and to pay experts and so on so …”
Watson froze. The other line flashed. “You’re getting money? Enough to hire a criminal lawyer?” he asked.
“Why would I do that? They said stick with you, but that I should tell you they got some extra money for expenses and medical testing and stuff. They said insanity or a mental defense takes a lot of money. They said it was a rich man’s defense and we couldn’t win without we had enough money to do it right.”
“Let me get this other call,” said Watson. “I need to talk to you about this, OK? Don’t hang up. If you have money, I can’t …”
“It ain’t my money,” said Whitlow. “It’s Buck’s money. Remember?”
“Don’t hang up,” said Watson. “Stay there, and I’ll tell you about the impound lot—”
“Fuck the impound lot,” said Whitlow. “We took care of it.”
“We—you took …” said Watson. “Stay there, I need to talk to you about the money.”
He punched the other line.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Watson,” said a smoker’s voice. “Mike Harper, U.S. Attorney’s office. I’m on the other side of you and this bigot killer Judge Stang sent you for your appointed case. How the Hell are ya?”
“Fine,” said Watson, “I guess.” Watson watched the other line blinking. “I’m on the other line, can I …” The blinking light went dead. “Shoot. Never mind.” He sighed. “I guess they went away.”
“Sorry,” said Harper. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but I prefer a working relationship when it’s possible. So, I thought I’d call, and we could maybe figure out what to do with this guy.”
“Release him immediately,” said Watson. “Dismiss all charges and bring this gross miscarriage of justice to an end.”
They laughed together, until Harper stopped abruptly in mid-guffaw and said, “Mr. Watson, I never show all my cards, but this time I have such a great hand I can’t help it. Mary Whitlow is Mrs. Death Penalty. I thought the only fair thing was to give you an idea of the kind of evidence I have on the penalty enhancers. This guy is going to look like Adolf by the time we get finished with him. I sent ya a little sample by courier.”
“Yeah,” said Watson. “I’m opening it.”
“As I was saying,” Harper continued, “I’m just trying to be fair, being as how you got appointed to this back-alley abortion.”
Watson skimmed some of the headings—“Excerpts from Affidavit of Witness Mary Whitlow”—and the introductory paragraphs, which essentially tracked the elements of the offense. Then his eyes landed on a
section entitled “Evidence of Intentional Selection of Victim Because of Actual or Perceived Race and Disability” followed by more numbered paragraphs:
(13) The defendant’s wife, witness Mary Whitlow, will testify that when the defendant, James Whitlow, first met the victim, an African-American and a deaf American Sign Language instructor, at his South St. Louis home, the defendant declared, “Deaf is deaf, I can’t do nothing about deaf. But you ain’t bringing a nigger into my house.”
(14) Upon information and belief, neighbors of the defendant will testify that on recent occasions prior to the charged felony, the defendant had made public statements to the effect that he did not want any blacks in his neighborhood because it would destroy his property values.… When African-Americans came to the neighborhood to look at houses, the defendant displayed a Confederate flag from the balcony of his home.
(15) Upon information and belief, educators and health care providers who cared for the defendant’s hearing-impaired son will testify that the defendant expressed a violent antipathy for deaf culture, for American Sign Language, and for hearing or deaf people who communicated in his presence using American Sign Language, allegedly because the defendant did not want his son to use gestures and instead wanted him to learn to read lips and speak.
“You want to have somebody testify that he wanted his kid to learn to talk and he was worried about his property values?” asked Watson incredulously.
“I win any way I can,” laughed Harper. “Evidence of motive. And maybe conspiracy. We’re toying with amending to conspiracy, and that means we can put the plumber who fixed the kitchen sink on the stand if we want to. And we haven’t said anything about the tattoo described in the police report. The jury will love that.”
“What’s the jury going to say about Mrs. Death Penalty calling military security and reporting a rape, then changing her mind once she gets to the emergency room. It wasn’t a rape, it was an affair. What’s her story today? It wasn’t an affair, it was their first date?”
“She has one story,” said Harper, “her husband pointed a gun at her
head and made her tell the rape story. The jury will have no problem with that. We can prove up the affair and the sign language lessons.”
“Prove them up with what?” asked Watson. “More of her testimony?”
“I’m making copies of some TDD printouts for you. Why am I telling you this?” Harper asked cheerfully. “Do you know what a TDD is, Mr. Watson? A telecommunications device for the deaf. Formerly known as a TTY, or a teletypewriter. It looks like a typewriter only you plug it into a telephone jack. It’s how deaf people talk on the phone. They hook up a TDD to a normal phone line and they type back and forth to each other, or even to hearing people using Missouri Relay, which is provided by the phone company.”
Watson knew what a TDD was because he’d written memos about the Americans with Disabilities Act for employers who were trying to provide reasonable accommodations for their deaf employees.
“The victim had a TDD,” said Watson, thinking out loud.
“Sure,” said Harper, “and Mary Whitlow had one too. So she could keep in touch with her son, who needed special schooling up at the deaf residential school in Fulton,” said Harper with facetious tenderness.
“OK,” said Watson. “They both had TDDs.”
“And guess what? Most of these devices have little adding-machine-size printouts attached to them, in case you want to print a conversation while you’re having it, or review the printout afterward to help you remember what was said. Follow me? Handier than a pocket on a shirt.”
“And you have TDD printouts from the victim’s machine?”
“Yup,” said Harper with a chuckle. “Good ones, too. Because, every time Mary Whitlow called Elvin to arrange a sign language lesson, or just to make a little lovey-dovey, he apparently kept the printouts. You know—” Harper chortled “—the way you keep love letters when you’re having an affair with somebody?”
“Are the copies in here?” asked Watson, flipping through the papers and looking in the envelope.
“Not yet,” said Harper. “They’re long, skinny things, and I didn’t want to taint the evidence, so we brought in somebody independent to cut them up and mount them for us. You’ll see them soon enough. I can read you a few to tide you over till then.” Harper’s voice moved into a falsetto: “ ‘Elvin, I am ready for lesson three in the sign language syllabus. I’ll pay you for the lesson when you get here. Thanks, Mary Whitlow.’
Or how about this one, ‘Elvin, please come for another sign language lesson. I will have the money as usual.’ And here’s one when they were getting down to the end, probably one of the last things the poor guy read in his life, ‘Elvin, I want another lesson. But also I just want to be with you. No one makes poetry with their hands the way you do. I just want us to be alone together. And next week, James will be gone to Nevada. I want to see you and have you touch me with your signs.’ ”
Watson felt his face burning. Harper wouldn’t make up shit this good, which meant things looked dire for old Whitlow.
“Of course,” added Harper merrily, “you can always put old James on the stand so he can give his version. I wouldn’t mind cross-examining him about how much he likes the n-word. You ever heard the word
nigger
used in a federal courtroom?” Harper laughed. “I’ll try to be sure we got extra marshals on hand, so they don’t try to string him up right there from the chandeliers.”
Watson didn’t know much about criminal law, but he had done enough motions in limine—pretrial motions designed to keep evidence out of the courtroom—to know what was called for here. Lots of paper—motions and supporting memoranda—aimed at keeping bogus evidence away from the jury. If the TDD printouts were real, they would come in—but racial remarks made who knows how long before the murder? What Watson didn’t know was his opponent. In another era, he would have sized up opposing counsel by the cut of his clothes, the make and model of his car, his address, his alma mater, his firm, his military service or lack thereof. Not anymore. Watson wanted to know what kind of machine Harper had, his operating system, whether he used Westlaw or Lexis, his Web browser, his Internet search engines.
“Let me look through this stuff and send you an E-mail,” said Watson. “Is it a dot gov address?”
“A what?” asked Harper.
“Dot gov,” said Watson. “Dot com? Your E-mail address. What is it?”
“I don’t do typing, Mr. Watson,” said Harper with an audible sniff. “I’m a trial lawyer. If you want me to look at something from Westlaw or the Internet or something, mail it to me, or we have a girl here in our office who gets that stuff for us. I can put you in touch with her.”
Watson feared for his life in a jury trial, but in the paper wars that were sure to occur before and after, his opponent had just confessed to being technologically impaired. This realization and the ensuing rush of information dominance made him feel better.
Harper laughed good-naturedly, as if this case was going to be not only easy but fun, too. “Look, if you were one of those pit vipers from the criminal defense bar, I’d have sandbagged you until the week of trial, and then I would have mailed you this stuff two days before I blew it up on overheads and read it aloud to the jury. But I’m not like that. You were appointed to represent this hellpuke, so I thought I’d let you know early on what you’re up against. Maybe if we try real hard, we can get rid of this thing.”
“Get rid of it by—?” Watson asked.
“By pleading this racist hate killer to natural life,” said Harper, “so he won’t be hunting down any more disabled citizens of color.”
“Hunting?” Watson jeered. “In his bedroom? Now he’s hunting disabled people of color in his bedroom? I’ll take your offer to my client, because I have to, and then I’ll tell him not to take it.” He instantly sensed the spirit of Arthur brooding over this conversation, but he couldn’t fight his advocacy instincts.