Criminal That I Am (10 page)

M
ost people would find these events a reason to walk away. That while it is not right, there is nothing that can be done. The only recourse is to rise above.

Unfortunately, I am not most people. I immerse myself in the fray, sink into its depths.

I will outdo them all.

CHAPTER 4

Meet My Conspiracy

I
t doesn't surprise me when MCC decides that Cameron doesn't need the medication the psychiatrist has prescribed.

It doesn't surprise me when they decide the better course is placing Cameron on a medication that had previously been administered to him but that he was advised to stop taking because it did not ameliorate his anxiety and caused severe side effects.

It doesn't surprise me when a simple web search of this medication, Remeron, reveals that one of its chief side effects is “acute anxiety.”

It doesn't surprise me that the medicine causes Cameron to sleep sixteen hours a day. I suspect it has been prescribed to him because it will keep his waking hours to a minimum. He's over an hour late to our next meeting because he's unable to wake up, and when he arrives, the sight of him is enough for me to involuntarily look away: his face is drenched in sweat, his skin is covered in hives, and his pupils are vertical, like a cat's.

It does surprise me, however, when Cameron asks me if I can personally bring him his meds.

At first, I don't understand. “What do you mean, ‘bring' them to you?”

“Just bring them to me,” he says. “Bring them with you next time.”

“Um, no, Cameron. I cannot bring you your meds.”

He looks at me as though I should explain.

There is no explanation necessary. “No. No. No.” I shake my head for emphasis.

But he persists. “Why not?”

“Cameron, you know why not,” I snap. “The whole reason you are sitting here is why.”

But I have engaged him enough to make his case. “Yeah, but everyone has said I am supposed to have it. There's no reason for them not to give it to me.”

“I know, it's not right,” I tell him. “But this is not the answer. Don't you remember what happened last time?” I am referring, of course, to Mother Goose.

“Yeah, but that was heroin. Even you said it would have been better if she had brought me my medicine.”

How did he even remember that? “Well, I meant it wouldn't have been as bad.”

“Please, Jen. Please.”

“No,” I say. “Please don't ask me that again.”

I
believe the issue to be dead and buried. In fact, it is only lying dormant while I attend to other issues in the case.

We are finalizing Cameron's sentencing papers for submission, a process several weeks in the making. Because his cooperation with the government is a key factor in his sentencing, it's something that is emphasized throughout the submission. However, it still must remain a secret. This makes the filing of his papers a bit of an ordeal.

Trial judges have different rules about making sentencing paperwork public in advance of sentencing. Cameron's judge decides to make the papers public but allows us to redact any references to Cameron's cooperation. Being the most familiar with their contents, I am placed in charge of this task.

I approach this mission with pinpoint accuracy. I black out anything that could possibly be construed as a reference to cooperation. If a paragraph makes a single mention of cooperation, I black out the whole thing. I black out cites to legal decisions where the defendant is a coop
erator. I also black out a sentence or two in sections that are not about cooperation, just to throw the reader off the scent.

I review each page over and over again, redacting as I go. By the time the papers are filed, they resemble a highly classified CIA dossier.

The day after we file, the trial judge makes the redacted version of the papers available for public view. We are told that a reporter from the
New York Post
has already situated himself outside the clerk's office in anticipation.

I am in my office admiring the papers in their final form. It is on this casual pass that I encounter, in the public version, an unadulterated reference to Cameron's cooperation that I've left exposed for everyone to see.

Given everything that's happened up until this point, my first instinct when I see what I've done is to open up my office window and jump out of it. Of course, this will do little to correct the error, and so, with my stomach in my throat, I contact the judge's chambers to see if it's too late to switch out the page.

The judge's clerk graciously offers to run down to the court's administrative office with a corrected page to see if the offending page can be switched out. She reminds me that the press has already been waiting for the papers and so she will see if they've made off with them yet and call me back.

While I wait, I place my head on my desk and sob.

After a small eternity, the judge's clerk calls back to say that she was able to switch out the offending page, making the papers clean of any references to cooperation. She says, however, that a reporter from the
New York Post
has already walked away with a “dirty” copy.

I breathe a heavy sigh. I throw on my jacket and head down to MCC to warn Cameron of what might be coming.

When I tell Cameron what's happened, he is furious. I remain stoic, owing only to the fact that this is my fault. I halfheartedly comfort him by saying there remains a possibility the
Post
will miss the reference just as I did. “Maybe they won't read the papers the whole way through,” I offer.

“Yeah, right,” he mumbles. He wipes his angry face. “Who did this?” he demands.

For a moment I consider hedging, but I know the truth will come out eventually. “It was me,” I say. “Cameron, I am so sorry.”

He does not say anything. He does not look at me.

“Do you want me to ask if I can go?” I ask. The afternoon prison count is in progress, so we are otherwise stuck in the attorney room together.

He shakes his head. We sit in silence.

While we do, I think about the fact that I've managed to negate all of my previous efforts to hide Cameron's cooperation. After the transcript debacle, things seemed to have smoothed over. Now I've made things worse, maybe even gravely so.

I see in Cameron's face that he's possibly thinking the same thing.

When time is up, there isn't much to say. I tell him again how sorry I am. He nods but says nothing.

When I make my way out of MCC, I'm in need of fresh air. I walk to the nearby federal courthouse and sit on its steps. I wrap my arms around my knees and see that my hands are shaking. I am afraid. For Cameron, yes. But I am more afraid for me. I selfishly do not want to bear the burden of causing him harm. I know that my error was inadvertent, that excuses could be made and reassurances could be offered. But I also know that the human conscience does not split hairs this way, it sees only the outcome and its cause. In making the error I've made, I am ultimately hurting myself.

You are saving his life.

There is really only one thing left to try, one last argument to pursue. I remember that while God and State are legally separated, they are never really divorced. And so, seated on the courthouse steps, I pray that I have not placed my client in danger and ruined my own life.

G
od is in the vicinity of State that day, because my prayer is answered: the
New York Post
does not mention my slip in its coverage about Cameron's sentencing papers. And while the
Post
's website links to an electronic version of the brief, it's miraculously not a scanned version of the “dirty” brief they obtained earlier that day, but the courthouse “clean” version.

In the end, I suspect the reporter did not carefully consider the portion of the papers where the offending reference was made. Instead, the article focuses on the celebrity aspect of Cameron's sentencing, citing letters by the famous people who have written on Cameron's behalf.

When I put the article down, I savor my dumb luck that my carelessness has been outdone. I relish that the
Post
has so distracted itself with petty matters that it has let something precious go to waste.

I don't know that I'm about to do the same thing.

S
oon after the bullet is dodged, Cameron resurrects his request that I bring him his meds.

His sentencing is fast approaching, and he is understandably on edge. But I tell him that what he asks me to do is simply not a good idea.

On several occasions, the conversation ends there. But Cameron starts coming up with bolstered arguments about why he needs his medication.

I wonder to myself why I let this conversation happen as often as it does.

In fairness, his condition is real and has been eating away at him for months. He has stopped taking the medicine prescribed by the MCC doctor so that he can prepare for his sentencing, and his insomnia has returned.

I plead with him to hold on for just a few more weeks, when he is sentenced and transferred out of MCC to another facility that will honor his doctor's request.

“It's just a few weeks more, Cameron,” I say. “Just hang on a little longer.”

“Please, Jen. Please. I can't take this.” He begs me over and over again.

In his final plea, he argues that the risks involved are remarkably low, particularly to me. “It could never be traced back to you,” he presses. “I wouldn't tell a soul.”

He looks at me. I don't say anything, but shake my head.

“Jen, even if I did get caught, I would never let anyone come after
you,” he says. He presses his hands to his chest for emphasis. “It'll be all on me.”

I find myself listening to this, and then stop myself. “No,” I say. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

T
hat night as I lie in bed I find myself thinking about what Cameron has asked me.

Breaking the law is not something I regularly contemplate. I consider myself to be mostly, but not entirely, law-abiding. I have made more than one illegal U-turn, jaywalked across more than one street, concocted more than one mix tape. My sophomore year of college, I used a fake ID with relative frequency. I once got a speeding ticket. But on the whole I have stayed within the lines of the law, not out of any great respect for authority but because usually I see no reason not to.

So why am I still thinking about this?

I can't help but think about the pointless hoops that I have jumped through over the past few months at MCC. About the repeated phone calls that remained unanswered or without follow-up. About the amount of time it took to discern why the prescription had not been filled. About all the cowboy-like conduct that surrounded Cameron's session with the MCC doctor.

As I toss and turn with resentment, I feel justified in at least considering it. Two distinct voices emerge: the rational part of my brain, which tells me to stop thinking about it and go to sleep; and the less rational part of my brain, which says there is no harm in following the thought.

This isn't your problem
, my rational brain tells me.
It's not up to you to fix this.

This situation is bullshit
, less rational brain says.
You see how much he needs it. He's been stripped of the ability to take care of himself, and the people charged with providing him care simply won't.

Rational brain counters:
That doesn't matter. It's a crime.

Less rational brain says:
It just doesn't seem that wrong.

Rational brain says:
That doesn't matter. It's a crime.

Less rational brain says:
It wouldn't hurt anybody.

Rational brain whispers:
That doesn't matter. It's a crime.

Less rational brain says:
It would be easy. And it would put an end to all of this.

Rational brain is so muffled I can barely hear it:
That doesn't matter. It's a crime.

Less rational brain says:
But what if no one would ever know?

There is no reply.

I begin to drift to sleep, feel myself letting go. My thoughts begin to dissolve, but one last one seeps in, escorts me to unconsciousness.

How would anyone ever know?

T
he next day, as I am getting ready to see Cameron, I slip two small Xanax pills in my jeans pocket. Remembering the comparison drawn by the psychiatrist, and after doing some quick googling, I determine that these are equivalent to one dose of Klonopin.

I have a bottle of generic Xanax that has lasted several years. I take it when I have to fly long distances and for occasional panic attacks. I mentioned this to Cameron months ago, when I assumed that MCC would be following the judge's ruling. “I take something similar to that sometimes,” I told him. “I bet it will help you a lot.” He remembers this when he asks me to bring it to him.

I decide that I will carry the pills in my pocket to MCC that day. If they're discovered, I will answer honestly that these are mine and offer to dispose of them. If they aren't discovered, I will, knowingly and intentionally, give these to Cameron.

I take a deep breath as I prepare to go through MCC security. This requires going through a sensitive metal detector. Should the detector be activated—and it always is, due to the underwire of my bra—the MCC guard is required to use a wand. I have noted that this wanding is particularly focused on the offending area and usually for a considerable amount of time. Actually, the wand lingers for so long that I sometimes wait for it to make conversation.

It's never particularly pleasant. But today it provides me with a plan.

By placing the pills in my pocket, I know that they will go unnoticed. The guard will be so preoccupied with his comprehensive tour of
my chest region that he will not pay any attention to my jeans. Even if he does, he has never asked me to empty my pockets.

I am proved correct: after what seems like minutes, without any scrutiny to my jeans, he instructs me to pass through.

It turns out I am quite the criminal mastermind.