Criminal That I Am (8 page)

The cover story is somewhat haunting: the designer Alexander McQueen has committed suicide after suffering from anxiety and depressive disorders. After a few pages more, I see the headline:

SINGING ROLE FOR CAMERON

Then I start to read the story:

The cat's out of the bag—actor Michael Douglas's son is a rat.

Cameron Douglas's shrink let slip the closely guarded, potentially dangerous secret during testimony yesterday at a Manhattan federal bail hearing. [He] confirmed speculation that Cameron was released to house arrest last summer “because he was going to be an informant.”

Defense lawyers asked—

And then I stop reading.

C
ameron has been placed in the SHU.

I find this out when I drag my sleep-deprived self to MCC later that morning. On the Attorney Visit form, the number of his prison unit has been replaced with the letters S-H-U. I assume he has already gotten into a fight over what happened and has been sent there for disciplinary reasons.

It takes a full hour for Cameron to be brought to the attorney room. Accompanied by three corrections officers, he is wearing a bright orange jumpsuit and is handcuffed. The officers explain that because Cameron is now a ward of the SHU, the attorney room must be locked from the outside.

Cameron's face is pale and sweaty, he is breathing deeply. “What happened?” I ask gently.

“You tell me,” he says curtly.

“What do you mean? Didn't something happen?”

“No. They just pulled me out of my cell in the middle of the night and brought me here. I asked them why and they said to ask your lawyer.”

“We told the government not to put you in the SHU and they agreed.”

“Well, I'm here.”

“You're not supposed to be.”

“Please just go find out why.”

I motion for the corrections officer to unlock the door. He lets me out, and then locks the door after me. Before I head out to the elevator, I look back at Cameron. His head is in his hands.

T
he decision to place Cameron in the SHU was made unilaterally by the Bureau of Prisons. He was placed in “Protective Custody” so that no harm befell him on the unit.

Getting to this answer provides its own adventure. As I exit the attorney room lobby, I ask every corrections officer I encounter why my client is in the SHU. No one can tell me anything. Finally, one corrections officer suggests, “Ask his lawyer.”

“I am his lawyer,” I say.

The officer looks me up and down. “I mean his actual lawyer,” he says.

“That's still me.”

“Well, okay. You can call our legal office, they should be able to tell you.”

“Can I call them from here?”

“No.”

I trudge back to my office. On a phone call with MCC's Legal Department, I explain to the attorney on the other end that Cameron's treating psychiatrist has explicitly warned against his being in the SHU.

The woman I speak to in MCC's Legal Department possesses the same congeniality as most of its corrections officers. “Don't you care about your client?” she asks me condescendingly. “Do you want him to get hurt?”

While on a day with decent sleep I might have answered with some diplomacy, today is not that day. “I didn't ask you how to represent my client,” I snap. “I asked you why he is in the SHU and how I can get him out.”

“We are investigating his safety,” she says. “We can't let him out until we are certain that conditions are safe for him.”

“Yes, but doesn't his presence in the SHU essentially confirm to the other inmates that he is definitely a cooperator? Aren't you making him less safe?”

“It's a risk we have to take. We can't let him be a sitting duck. We know that if he's in the SHU he'll remain unharmed.”

I hate that this sort of makes sense. But the psychiatrist was clear about this. “I'm sure that's true of other inmates, but not this one. His doctor has specifically said that he can't be left in solitary.”

Silence.

“Well, can this determination be made today?” I ask.

“No.”

Of course it can't. “When do you think it can be made?”

“Well, it's a long weekend.” She pauses, as though she is looking at a calendar.

I suddenly remember my ski trip. What a naïve fool I was to think that I could have enjoyed a weekend away.

“The earliest will be Tuesday after the holiday weekend. Maybe later in the week. It depends.”

I sigh. “Thank you,” I say, and hang up.

C
ameron Douglas's parents have seen the
New York Post
, and they are beside themselves.

Soon after I finish my phone call with MCC, Cameron Douglas's mother calls me sobbing. She is terrified that something will happen to her son. I try to comfort her as best I can without mentioning that deep down I am worried about the same thing.

She insists on meeting immediately with the legal team. What seems like moments later, she appears perfectly coiffed in our office lobby. I extend my hand to greet her, but she refuses to take it. Too tired to care, I stuff my snubbed hand into my dress pocket.

When we sit down for the meeting, she asks that we conference in Cameron Douglas's father by telephone. He is out of town and has been pulled off a ski slope in order to participate.

The meeting begins as one might expect. There is ample yelling, both from the Douglas in the room and the Douglas on the phone. The Douglas in the room manages to cry and yell at the same time.

We explain that what has happened—that Cameron is now in the very place we said he should not be—is because of a unilateral move by MCC. The Douglases don't understand how it is that their son has been put at risk twice over, first by the article, then by MCC.

I don't find the yelling to be particularly pleasant. It isn't until I have my own criminal case that I develop a full understanding of why clients react this way. In my own case I yell plenty, albeit outside the presence of my attorney, mostly at outcomes for which he bears no responsibility. Sometimes yelling is all one can do, and so one does it, usually at full volume.

Over all of the shouting, we manage to get in that MCC's move is likely temporary, that they've determined that for now he is safer in the SHU, and that as soon as they can confirm that it is safe for him to return they will let him out.

At learning that this is a protective measure, the Douglases change their tone from anger to worry. They don't doubt Cameron should be punished for his crimes, but they don't think he should be physically harmed for them, either.

“I just don't want him to get hurt,” Cameron Douglas's father says.

“How do we even know he can make it through the weekend?” Cameron Douglas's mother exclaims through tears. “He can't even call us to tell us how he is.”

The drama is a bit unbearable to me, I want only for this meeting to end. After a moment, I say: “I will go and see him this weekend.”

Cameron Douglas's mother looks at me with big, wet eyes. Perhaps due to the pervasiveness of her crying, her voice is that of a little girl. “You will?”

I had already said a mental good-bye to my ski weekend when I was on the phone with MCC. I nod. “I'll make sure he spends as much time outside of the SHU as possible.”

This seems to calm her down. The phone is silent, and I take this to mean that Cameron Douglas's father has calmed down, too.

I'm anxious to get out of the room. I quickly try to tie any loose ends. I ask Cameron Douglas's mother if there is anything she'd like me to relay to Cameron. She asks for a piece of paper and begins writing him a letter.

The phone is still silent, and so I ask the same of Cameron Douglas's father. He doesn't respond right away. It takes me a moment to realize that this is because he is crying.

“Please send him my love,” he manages.

Between the chain of events of the last twenty-four hours and my lack of sleep, I quite frankly want to join him. Instead, I promise that I will update everyone on how Cameron is doing.

As she gets up to leave, Cameron Douglas's mother grabs my hand with both of hers, possibly compensating for the lack of her hand at the start of the meeting. She is thanking me profusely, but my mind is on what's to come. You know your case has taken a turn for the worse when your most immediate task is to make sure your client doesn't have a breakdown and you've just made both of his parents cry.

I
begin my marathon session at MCC the next day around noon and end up staying until ten p.m. I am ready: I have brought twenty-five crisp single-dollar bills for the vending machine. Since we will be locked into the attorney room for the duration, I purchase most of its contents and place them on the table in the attorney room in a sort of prison picnic.

When Cameron arrives, he is still upset about what has happened. He also has a severe cold, owing to the fact that it is the middle of winter and the SHU is not properly heated. But he is certainly communicative, and after some time passes even relaxes a bit. He manages a laugh when I note that the orange shade of his jumpsuit so resembles the color of the nacho cheese Doritos we are sharing that he can just wipe the crumbs on his sleeve.

There are no legal issues on the table, at least not imminent ones, and so I am really there to kill time. We play a series of games, classics such as hangman and tic-tac-toe, and a new one I invent that I call Who Would You Rather Punch? It is both cathartic and educational and invariably involves employees of the federal government.

When I leave Cameron at the end of the day, he seems to be in decent spirits. We agree that I will return the next day for more of the same.

In the cab home, I note that my head is heavy with congestion. In the dry air of the attorney room, I think I've caught Cameron's cold. Still, the day went smoothly. Cameron seems to be doing well enough that I wonder if the psychiatrist has possibly exaggerated his condition.

But the next day, things have changed.

When Cameron is brought into the attorney room, his skin is covered in deep red welts. He scratches these as he slumps into the chair across from mine. He looks at the floor and says nothing.

“I'm back,” I say cheerfully.

He barely looks up.

I try for some chitchat, and while he does engage with me, I can tell that it's a struggle. I relay to him a series of messages from friends and family and ladies of the gaggle in the hopes that these might lift his spirits.

They don't. Instead, he begins to cry.

I have had clients break down on me before, and so I know to remain
silent and supportive. After a moment, I say, “Cameron, you're going to get through this.”

He tries to bring himself back to the conversation, but seemingly can't. The more that he tries to control his emotions, the less he is able to. He begins to breathe deeply. And then it seems as though he can't catch his breath.

“Cameron, just try to calm down and breathe.”

That's when I notice that he isn't having trouble breathing because he is overcome with emotion. He is having trouble breathing because he is hyperventilating.

He has pushed his chair away from the table so that he is turned away from me. He claws the hives on his arms, the skin scratched raw. I can also hear him struggling to breathe, his breaths becoming quicker, almost urgent.

My own heartbeat rushes as I watch this unfold. This situation calls for something far different from legal assistance.

“Cameron, I am going to ask the CO to get a medic.”

“No,” he says. “Please, I just need you to go.”

“Cameron, I am not going to go when you are like this.”

“Please, Jen.”

“I'm not going.” I know I am not helpful to the situation, but I am also not about to leave him while he appears to be coming apart.

He looks at me and sees that I have no intention of leaving. He turns back to the wall. We sit in silence, the only sound is his breath. I watch his shoulders rise and fall in short, rapid movements. After a few minutes, they start to slow.

I think it is all over and feel a wave of relief pass over me. “Do you want me to get you some water?” I offer.

“No, I'm all right.” He is still facing the wall.

“Okay, well, let me know. We can just sit here if you want.”

The calm is short-lived. In a moment, the hyperventilating returns. The attack is apparently not over.

“Please,” he says in between gasps, “I'm begging you to just leave.”

“I can't leave you like this.”

“Just
go
. Please.
PLEASE
.”

His shouting is disturbing enough that I feel my only choice is to go.
I jump up from the table and pull at the door, only to remember that I'm locked in. The fact that my departure is stalled only causes him more distress. I begin pounding on the door to get the corrections officer's attention on the other side of the lobby. When the door is finally opened, I burst out of it.

I leave Cameron in this state of unhinge. I try to catch his eye as the corrections officer locks him in, but he is still facing the wall. As I wait for the elevator, I crane my head to see if he might look up. He doesn't. All I can see is a glimpse of the back of his nacho cheese jumpsuit. It rises and falls, up and down, with no end in sight.

W
hen business resumes after the holiday weekend, MCC determines that it is safe for Cameron to return to his unit.

He's pleased by this development. He doesn't make mention of his anxiety attack. And although I describe the incident to the psychiatrist, I don't bring it up with Cameron.

The following week we appear back in front of the trial judge. He takes the bench and issues his ruling:

First of all, I think the submissions here have been exemplary, strong submissions, both in the papers and in the testimony, and certainly heartfelt.