A Shout and A Snap

I’m starting with an announcement and reminder that I am having a reading on June 8 with 3 other writers whose work I love and if you can come, or know someone who lives in LA who would like to come, here’s the info. A reader responded that they would put it in their calendar and I loved that so much (their calendar!) that I thought I needed to rise to the occasion and promote this properly. So here it is, I will post it again in the coming weeks. I hope you can make it.

This week was crazy at work because my boss recently won a judgment for our client whose husband was killed in jail by the staff. There were NY and LA Times articles and a TV appearance which means that people called in with their cases seeking representation. What they usually end up getting is someone who listens to them for 15 minutes and that someone is me. It reminded me about a guy who called in last year, someone who had been in prison more than half his life, but knew he had been treated wrongfully and I wanted to share it again.

Civil Rights

“Let me talk to John,” the guy said, not at all hampered by the 30-second inmate announcement that preceded him. “I got a case in a couple days, and I need him to help me with a few things. I’m gonna get a shitload of cash once this is over. Tell him he stands to make a good amount. I’ll share it 50-50.”

“Uh, well…” I said.

“What, he don’t like money? He’s probably gonna make a hundred thousand. Easy.”

“All right. Just a minute, let me get my….” I was looking for a legal pad. Technically I should have hung up already, but I have a problem with that. I work for a civil rights law firm and all our cases have to do with police misconduct which, because we’re in LA, means we’re busy. Most of our clients are either in the hospital or dead, so it was unlikely this was a case we would take. I mean besides the fact that he said the trial was next week. But I can’t just hang up on someone who probably stood in line for 20 minutes with a phone card he had to work 3 weeks to get before he had a chance to tell me his story. The least I can do is listen.

“That’s gonna be a No,” John called out from his office across the hall. He must’ve heard the Nurse Ratchett recorded inmate announcement on my speaker phone. I got up and closed the door.

“Okay, why don’t you give me all the details of the incident and I’ll write it up and we’ll see if Mr. Bernard can help you.”

“Oh he gone want to, I’m telling you.”

“All right. Who am I talking to?”

“This is Cedric, C-E-D-R-I-C Ray, R-A-” – I could have told him he didn’t need to spell it but he wasn’t about to stop—"Y Allen A-L-L-E-N.” He had me at Cedric. That’s a good name. A name like that required some flourish. My heart was already sinking because I knew I was going to have to tell him we couldn’t help.

I’m not great at this job. Certain things I can do fine. I can do intakes, write up discovery, documents to produce, interrogatories. I can ask direct questions and think a few steps ahead, but there’s certain things I can’t block out. My feelings for one. I can’t look at photos or watch police body-cam footage. It stays with me. John says I’ll get used to it and I say I hope that’s not true.

Cedric told me he was born in 1947 and had been incarcerated since 1982.

“Why are you in prison?” I asked him.

“Huh?”

“What did you do to end up in prison?”

“I was a junkie,”

“Oh,” I said. “Shit.”

“You got that right,” he said.

We both were quiet for a few seconds while the Nurse Ratchett voice said her spiel all over again. “So, what do you want Mr. Bernard to help you with?” I asked after it was over.

He described the event, basically a typical soul-crushing episode, the kind that happens all day long in prison, between a guard telling an inmate to do something, the inmate being too slow to respond, and a limb being broken and untreated. It definitely was the not the kind of case we could help with. I’m not sure that there’s any lawyer who would have. I told him that. I told him all he could do at this point was file a report at Pelican Bay which basically was like telling him to fuck off. “Yeah I figured,” he said, “Guess I’ll have to keep all the money myself.” We were quiet for a few seconds. I told him I wished I could help him and then the recording came back on.

The building I work in is an old carriage house, part of an old fire station from the 1890s. It’s a beautiful place, brick walls, wood beams, sky lights. Floor to ceiling book shelves and modern art on the walls. It’s not a scary place even though there’s barely any sunlight in there. Most of the other attorneys who work there are cool. They walk around in bare feet, they bring their dogs, listen to Charlie Parker loud. It has a good vibe, peaceful. I think about this sometimes knowing everything that the walls must hold. Heidi Fleiss ran her business out of there before the law firm took over. Now that’s a video I would watch. At least for a few minutes. Then I’d get used to it.

Cedric and I talked a little more. He said he was getting out soon. “Where are you gonna go?” I asked. He said he was going straight to get some good food, then he laughed at the incredible thought of it. He described the whole meal, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, string beans with almonds, lemon merengue pie. He knew every detail down to the crumbs. We were both laughing at that point. The last Ratchett announcement came back on and he said he had to go. I apologized again that John would not be able to help him. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said. His response hit me harder than if he had said Thank you.

“Ain’t no big th ….” he said, before the call ended.