Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard about guards trying to embarrass and humiliate inmates with the contents of their outgoing mail. He was probably telling the truth.

“What do you want me to do?” I said.

“You don’t have to do much. They can’t read letters if I put ‘legal mail’ on the envelope, can they?”

“They’re not supposed to. Communication between client and lawyer is privileged, even if the client is an inmate.”

“All I want to do is put Bonnie’s letters in an envelope and address them to your office. So I’ll write ‘legal mail’ on the envelope, and underneath that I’ll write her initials. When you see it come into the office, all you have to do is either call her up and tell her to come get her letter or forward it on to her. I’ll give you her phone number and address.”

I thought about it for a minute. All he was asking was to be able to write love letters without being humiliated. But then I thought again about who I was dealing with.

“Sorry, Maynard, can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s probably illegal, and I like life on the outside just fine. If the wrong people found out what I was doing, they’d lock me up.”

“Well can you at least fix it so she can visit me?”

I’d set up jail visits for plenty of clients. It seemed like a reasonable request.

“Now, that I can do. Put her on your visitor’s list.”

“You know something, Dillard?” he said. “I didn’t like you much when I first met you. Thought you was like all them other mush-mouthed lawyers. But at least you try to do the right thing. You been coming up here to see me pretty regular and you been straight with me. I ain’t saying I want to marry you or nothing, but you’re a pretty decent dude.”

I didn’t know what to say. A vicious, cruel, remorseless, murdering sociopath was doing his best to convince me he liked me, and I wondered why.

“Can I ask you a question?” he finally said.

“Sure.”

“How come you do this kind of stuff, Dillard? Ain’t no way you could like it much. How come you defend men like me?”

The question took me by surprise, and I leaned back in the chair for a second. I didn’t want to get into talking about my motivations, and I didn’t want to tell him I was getting out.

“Why do you care?” I said.

“C’mon, Dillard, humor old Maynard. How come you take these death penalty cases?”

“Most of them are appointed. But if you have to know, Maynard, I guess I have this sort of simple philosophy about it. I just don’t think it’s right for a government to pass laws telling its citizens they can’t kill each other and then turn around and kill its citizens. It just seems hypocritical to me.”

Maynard grinned. “You’re a do-gooder, Dillard. That’s what you are.”

“Maybe. Something like that.”

“You’ll take care of the visits, then?” he asked when I didn’t say anything else.

“Yeah, Maynard. I’ll set it up.”

I thought it was the least I could do for a man who was soon to be condemned to die.

June 16

9:15 p.m.

It was after nine o’clock when I finally finished with Maynard. It was almost dark, but it was clear and warm and I could see the stars twinkling above the lights in the jail parking lot. I was tired and wanted to get home quickly, so I took a short cut along a back road that bordered Boone Lake. As I drove along with the windows rolled down, I started thinking about how Angel was getting along at the jail. She was locked up with murderers, child abusers, drug addicts, thieves, hookers, and cons. So was Sarah, but Sarah was tough as nails. It had to be incredibly difficult for a young girl. I imagined what it would be like to be caged most of the day and herded like sheep the rest of the time, to be taunted and bullied by guards and inmates, to be subjected to all kinds of physical indignities, to have absolutely no privacy. And if she really was innocent? The thought made me cringe.

I was about halfway home when I noticed headlights in my rear-view mirror. They were approaching fast. I thought about pulling over and letting whoever was in such a hurry pass, but I was on a narrow, curvy stretch of road with steep slopes on both sides. To my right were rocky cliffs, and to my left, thirty feet below, was the lake.

The vehicle behind me turned its headlights on bright when it got to within fifty feet or so. I had to turn the rear view mirror down to keep from being blinded. I slowed and looked in the side-view mirror. The vehicle was right on my tail.

I started tapping the brakes to try to get whoever it was to back off. They didn’t. I sped up around a sharp curve but almost lost control in a patch of gravel. When I got the truck straightened back out, the vehicle bumped me.

“Why, you sorry son of a…” I slammed on the brakes, and the truck skidded to a halt in the middle of a short straightaway. I kept an old aluminum baseball bat under the seat, and I fully intended to use it to on the person behind me. I reached down and felt for the bat, hoping whoever it was didn’t have a gun.

With a sudden loud crash, my truck jerked forward. I twisted around and looked out the rear windshield over the bed. I could tell that the vehicle silhouetted behind me was a pick-up, bigger than mine, but between the surrounding darkness and the glare of the headlights, I couldn’t make out the color. It was pushing me along the road.

I turned back and grabbed the wheel, trying to hold the truck straight and pushing on the brakes with all my strength. The tires screamed, but the truck began slowly to turn toward the lake. I tried to turn hard to the right, but the truck behind me had gotten its bumper into my left-rear fender and was turning me. I was moving faster by the second, and I had absolutely no control.

A moment later, I felt the right front tire drop off the embankment. I’d been turned almost a hundred and eighty degrees. I looked and at last caught a flash of the truck that was pushing me. It was a silver Dodge. Then the right rear dropped, and my truck was rolling. My head slammed into the steering wheel and I saw a flash of bright light. I felt a brief sense of dizziness as images flashed. I thought I heard a splash, then an explosion, then I thought I was being smothered.

And then it was silent and still. I felt fingers gently rubbing across my forehead.

“Joe,” a voice said. “Joe, honey, it’s time to wake up. C’mon, baby, you have to wake up.” It was Caroline’s voice.

I awoke to the sound of a rushing waterfall. It was dark, and my wife was nowhere to be found. I looked around. I was leaning hard to my right and being restrained by something. I reached down and realized it was a seat belt. Something was pushing against my face. An air bag. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I remembered that the Dodge had pushed me over the embankment. I was in the lake, and the sound I heard wasn’t a waterfall, it was the lake rushing in through the open passenger window. As I struggled with the seat belt, the truck began to level off and more water started pouring in through the driver’s side.

“I am not going to drown!” I said out loud. “I am not going to drown in this freaking lake!”

I got the belt off, scooted out from beneath the air bag, and crouched in the middle of the seat. Water was pouring in so fast on either side of me that there was no way I could get out. I knew I’d have to wait until the truck was submerged. I looked around frantically. The headlights were still on. I could see bubbles rising as the truck sank in the water. I pulled my shoes off. The water continued to pour and roar.

And then it was black. The water began to cover me. It was so cold I could barely breathe at first. My face was nearly against the roof as the cab finally filled. I took a deep breath and pushed myself through the passenger side window. The truck had started to roll in the water, and for a second, I had no idea which direction to swim.