background are trees and a large, manicured lawn, but I don't recognize the location.
I go to put down the photo, then do a double take and pick it back up. One of the men looks like a young Victor Markham, a very wealthy, very influential local industrialist. I've never met Markham, but his son's girlfriend was the young woman that my client, Willie Miller, was convicted of murdering years ago. Even though my father prosecuted the case originally, I until now was not aware that he knew Victor Markham as a younger man. It is a strange thing for him not to have mentioned.
It is the Miller case that finally draws me away from the house. I put the picture in my pocket and leave. I have to go out to the prison this afternoon and see my client, to keep him up-to-date about what is going on. He's the one who very well might receive the lethal injection, so I think he has a right to know.
After driving Tara home, I head out to the prison, which is about twenty-five minutes from Paterson, near Newark Airport. It seems a sadistic placement, as the prisoners must constantly listen to those living in freedom literally soaring off into the sky. It must make their cagelike existence seem that much more confining. On the other hand, they never have to eat airline food.
Visiting death row is something I don't think I'll ever get used to, and I don't recommend it at all. The first thing I notice about it, the first thing I always notice about it, is that it is so clean. It's ironic. The people housed here are deemed the filth of society, not even worthy of life, yet their “house” is kept clean with a zeal unmatched this side of Disneyland.
The place seems entirely gray, as if I am looking at it through black and white eyes. The stench of hopelessness is everywhere; it feels like the animal shelter in which I found Tara. Everybody in cages, just waiting until it's time to die, knowing no one is coming to set them free.
I go through the process of checking in and wait until the guard, Danny, comes to bring me to the cell block. Danny and I are by now familiar with each other, and I am struck by his ability to maintain a sense of humor in these surroundings. He's not Jerry Seinfeld, but he's okay.
We walk down a corridor flanked by cells on both sides, just like you see in the movies, and the prisoners call out taunting comments about the legal profession in general and myself in particular. None of it is flattering, some is positively brutal.
Danny is amused by it. “They're getting to know you pretty well.”
I just nod and walk faster; I'm not in the mood for banter.
I'm finally brought to Willie Miller's cell, the small iron box where he has spent the last seven years. He is heavily muscled and keeps himself in outstanding shape by working out. I don't have the discipline to exercise even though I know it will help me lead a longer, healthier life. Willie's about to be put to death and he never misses a day.
Willie never acknowledges my arrival until I'm inside the cell, and this time is no exception. I'm waiting for Danny to open the door, but instead he pulls over a metal chair and positions it outside the cell.
I'm puzzled, so I give him my puzzled look. He explains, “No direct contact with visitors during the last two months.” He's referring to the time left in Willie's life, and on Willie's behalf I'm thoroughly irritated.
“I've been frisked and put through a metal detector. You afraid I'm going to slip him my teeth so he can bite through the bars?”
“Rules are rules, Andy.”
I can tell that he feels bad, and I feel bad for making him feel bad. But I keep going, 'cause Willie feels worst of all.
“Are you sure? Rules are rules?”
“That's right.”
“Have you got a pen? Because I want to write that down. ‘Rules are rules,’ ” I repeat. “What a great line. Is it okay if I use it at cocktail parties?”
He's not in the mood for my bullshit. “Call out if you need me,” he says, and then walks away.
I turn to Willie, who is on his cot all the way across the length of his home, which means he's eight feet away from me. “How are you doing today, Willie?” It is an innocent question, but it presses a button.
He stands up and walks toward me, challenging. For a brief second, I'm glad Danny didn't let me in the cell.
“What the hell is the difference? You think next year anybody is going to say, ‘Boy, I wonder how Willie felt fifty-seven days before they killed his ass?’ ”
“What is it about death row that makes people so damned cranky?”
Willie looks at me for a moment, then starts to laugh. The weird thing is I knew he would. I know and like Willie, plus I think he's as innocent as the rest of my clients.
“Man, you're a lunatic, you know that? Of course, if I had me a lawyer, instead of a lunatic, I wouldn't be here.”
This has become a familiar refrain, and I respond in kind. “Need I remind you that I was not your lawyer when you were sent here? I have merely been handling your appeal. A small but significant point.”
Willie looks around at the cell. “You don't seem to be appealing too well,” is his logical reply.
“That's because the Supreme Court has become a major pain in the ass in this area.”
“More white bullshit,” he says.
“Did you ever hear of Clarence Thomas?” I counter.
“No, who's he play for?”
I laugh so loudly that it rattles through the corridors. Willie knows damn well who Clarence Thomas is, he's been reading up on everything about his case, including who might someday be ruling on it.
As if satisfied that he got me laughing, he gets right to the point. It's a point we've gone over before.
“We gonna get the new trial?”
“The Court of Appeals ruling should come down at any time.”
“We gonna win?”
“I think so,” I say. “But even if we get it, we're still in deep shit.”
“I'll just lose again?” he asks.
I pretend to be puzzled. “Lose? Did somebody say ‘lose'? I know I've heard that word, I'm just not familiar with it.”
“Make sure it stays that way.”
The specifics of Willie's case really haven't come up between us, since all I've had to concern myself with is the technical aspect of the appeal. We're pursuing a number of arguments, but our best one is the fact that one of the jurors on Willie's case openly lied in concealing the fact that her brother was a cop. More significantly, that brother had been killed in the line of duty six months earlier. That does not tend to make one friendly to the accused.
But if we get a new trial, we're going to have to move quickly. I decide to put my toe in the water, mainly because there's not much else to talk about. “You know, you're going to have to help me more than you helped your last lawyer.”
His antennae are up. “What the hell does that mean? I got nothing more to tell you than I told him.”
“That's because I haven't started my subtle, probing questioning yet.”
“Why don't you just ask your father? He was damn sure he knew everything that happened that night.”
It is not exactly unprecedented for a death row inmate to hold a grudge against the prosecutor that put him there, and Willie has been open about his hatred for my father. Because of those feelings, it took longer than usual for Willie and me to establish a mutual trust.
He obviously has not heard about recent events, and I see no reason to conceal them. “My father died last week.”
Willie's face reflects his feelings, or lack of feelings, at hearing this news. No guilt, no triumph, no nothing. “I'm sorry for you, man,” is what he says.
I nod my thanks. “Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“Okay,” I say. “Let's start with an easy one. Did you kill her?”
I almost never ask this question, since if the client says yes, I am then prohibited from allowing him to say no at trial. It's called suborning perjury. The reason I ask is because I know what his answer is going to be. That doesn't make it any easier to hear.
