Criminal That I Am (27 page)

So, I do think it is unfair and I respectfully disagree that that matter was swept under the rug notwithstanding whether or not you disagree with the leniency of her disposition.

The judge does not discuss the issue further.

To the objective listener the exchange can likely be chalked up to the judge's slip of the mind about the criminal process, a judicial brain fart about the assignment of cases. But when I hear this man lament that he did not personally stand in judgment of me, I feel my heart rate quicken. I inexplicably get up from my desk and chain my door, as though the judge might stop by, take matters into his own hands.

I move on to read what Co-Counsel says in Cameron's defense. Here is where my anxiety quickly gives way to something far more potent: shame.

At first, I am not particularly affected by Co-Counsel's arguments. He counters the judge's criticisms exactly as any attorney would, by shifting the blame. I am thus unimpressed when he says of me,

If anything she deserves, in my opinion, much more blame for this.

And though I involuntarily roll my eyes when I read it, I am not moved when he says of what I've done, “it wouldn't have happened with me,” because while self-serving and unrelated to the arguments he should be making on behalf of his client, it is certainly true.

I also don't disagree—because I can't—when he says:

And in terms of what he told her to do, she should have said no.

But where my facade crumbles, where denial and victimhood evaporate for good, is the point at which I misread Co-Counsel's statement to say the following:

I realize that he asked her to do it but the reason you have lawyers is to protect him from things like that happening.

In fact, Co-Counsel actually says something slightly different—“to prevent things like that from happening”—but it is the word I have imputed to his statement—“protect”—that presents a blow to my stomach. I suspect that my error in reading was less than serendipitous, that on some level below the excuse-making and justification-having, deeper than the denial and self-pity, there has been a level of awareness that I have not allowed to come forward.

When I see it in print—or think that I do—the ground beneath me falls. I finally recognize the perversion in my insistence that by providing Cameron with what I believed he needed, I have done right by him, protected him from harm. Given this turn of events, I see now that I have done precisely the opposite.

The shame and regret I feel manifest as a physical mass at the ­bottom of my stomach. I sob uncontrollably to see if I might extract it. I find myself on my knees in front of my toilet, in the hopes it might come up. But even when my stomach is emptied, it is still there. It has never really gone away.

On the floor of my bathroom, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, I recall the afternoon on the courthouse steps, fearing that I had inadvertently hurt Cameron, praying that it would not come to pass. I remember my relief at the universe's benevolence that day, the lightness of heart that meant I could continue to go through life without carrying the damage of another on my conscience. Why I went on to ensure for myself the very result I wanted to avoid, I will never be able to fully answer.

What I feel I cannot unfeel. What I know I cannot unknow. I can no longer escape my culpability, the mess that I have made. My crime is all I see. My crime is all there is.

That it has taken this long to get here is probably itself a shameful fact. But I have arrived. In the harsh light of Cameron's punishment, everything becomes clear. For the first time in all of this, I feel like the criminal that I am.

A
t some point I manage to extricate myself from the bathroom floor. By this time, news of Cameron's sentencing has hit the major news wires. Press coverage of my crime spreads like an infectious disease, contaminating news outlets across the country and beyond. My bra is in the
Washington Post
and the
Wall Street Journal.
It is in Reuters and the Associated Press. It does not reprise its role in the
New York Post
but I think this is only because there it is old news.

At some point, keeping track of all of it seems as useful as trying to collect spilled wine. I can only watch the stain seep deeper.

It is possibly fitting that on the same day that the mainstream media reports my crimes, I finally see them for what they are. I can't imagine that I feel much different from those who are learning about my crimes for the first time. I share in the moral disgust, the disapproval, the virtual disbelief. Now that I see myself clearly, I ask alongside everyone else: How could she be so stupid? How could she do so wrong?

CHAPTER 11

Such a Shame

I
'm surprised to find that facing reality is actually somewhat of a mixed bag. I expect to feel overwhelming shittiness, and I do. In opening my eyes to what I've done, I must now look at the totality of the damage: all of the people I have let down and embarrassed, all of the bonds I have broken, all of the hurt I have caused. The resulting shame is almost too much to take. It sifts in my stomach, racks my thoughts, takes up permanent residence in my chest.

But I do not expect that this terrible feeling will also come with the experience of relief. It turns out that self-pity is not just insufferable to those who witness it. Feeling sorry for yourself is an exhausting charade to maintain, and when I no longer do I find that I do breathe a little easier.

This being the only upside, I think it best to keep the feeling going. To anyone who will listen, I deliver a full confession of my sins. My congregation is mostly receptive, although I suspect that some are wondering what took me so long.

The only pushback I receive is in a phone call with my mother. She has called to tell me that she has told my father everything that has happened over the past eighteen months.

I feel badly that my father didn't hear it from me. But my mother insists time was of the essence. “I thought I should tell him before he sees it in the
Wall Street Journal
,” she says.

This is a good point, but I still swallow. “What did he say?”

“You know your father. He just listened, and then sat thinking. He asked if you would be able to practice law anymore.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him that you didn't know yet.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Not really. I can tell he's worried about you.”

I'm not surprised when my mother says that my father's reaction is one of silence. This is his way. Unlike my mother, my father has no flair for the dramatic. Instead, he will silently think and worry and wonder. To comment on what has already happened would serve no logical purpose. He will keep his feelings to himself. If he is especially disturbed, he might blame himself.

I find his methods far less tolerable than my mother's. While at this point in adulthood I can endure my mother's histrionics, I have never been able to deal with my father's silences. Once, as a high school student, he caught me smoking a cigarette at a neighbor's party. He and my mother had already left, and so I assumed the coast was clear. I did not account for the possibility that he might return to the party to retrieve his jacket. When I happened to turn around mid-drag, he was standing there, a severe look on his face.

I didn't even bother with excuses, but silently joined him in the walk back home. It was a summer evening, and I batted away fireflies as I awaited my sentence. I glanced over at him and saw that he was taking swift, deliberate strides, his gaze fixed on the grass below.

Suddenly, he looked up. I braced myself for what I imagined was going to be an epic grounding.

“I am not going to punish you for this,” he said. “Because it isn't your fault.”

It did not seem right to agree, so I remained silent.

“It's mine,” he said. “Obviously, if you think that is appropriate behavior, then I have failed as a parent.”

I don't know if he said it because he knew the guilt it would cause was worse than any punishment, but that was its effect. I've sworn off smoking ever since.

And so it is the same when he discovers what I've done. When I
call home a week later, he will answer the phone and ask how I am. And when I tell him I'm fine, he will simply say, “I really hope that you are.”

He does not otherwise discuss it, at least not really. When I come to visit a few months later, he does not raise the issue but will listen when I do. As I speak, he has a look on his face as though he has just swallowed something bitter. Still, his concern is focused on how I plan to move forward. To this, I offer little answer, other than to say I plan to “figure it out.”

Several months later, when it seems his worrying has gotten the better of him, I open my mailbox and find a card containing the following:

Dear Jennifer,

I hope that all is well with you. First, I hope that you have been healthy and happy. Then, I hope that your plans for the profession and education are progressing at an excellent pace.

If at any time you wish to have my opinion as I see things based on my life experience, I would be more than happy to provide my input. We can do this in-person or via Skype, email or phone.

I have made a point of avoiding interference or preaching or giving the slightest impression of “know-it-all,” leaving it up to you to decide if and when you might need my input.

In the meantime, you have my love and best wishes. Love, Your father.

When I read the card, just as I do on the walk home from the neighbors' house, I vow never to commit a crime again.

On the phone with my mother, I try to change the subject. I decide this is a prime opportunity to share what I've learned in the wake of Cameron's second sentencing.

“Dad would be within his rights to be angry with me,” I say. “I really should not have done what I did.”

My mother dismisses this as though swatting away a fly. “You were trying to help,” she says.

“Maybe, but look at all that I did in the name of helping,” I say. “It was pretty dishonest.”

“But you told everyone the truth about what you did.” I hear her voice becoming high-pitched.

“I know, I mean what I actually did was dishonest, sneaking the pills to him,” I say calmly.

“You are a good person!” she yells. “You were trying to help that boy! And look where it got you!”

Having expelled this line of thinking from my own brain, I feel compelled to expel it from hers, too. “Mom, it really was my fault, too. If I hadn't done what I did, none of this would have happened.”

I think I can hear her throwing up her hands. “Why are you saying this to me, Jennifer? What are you doing to me?”

These two sentences usually mark the point at which we initiate verbal warfare. When I hear her say them now, my Pavlovian response is to open my mouth and begin to argue.

But I stop myself before I start. I'm being selfish by forcing my mother to agree with me. My crimes are not hers to own. And I suspect my trying to thrust them up on her is because I don't want to bear them all by myself. But if I claim to be someone who is accepting responsibility, I suppose this is exactly what I should be doing.

“Never mind,” I say.

Our mother-daughter relationship has developed a funhouse quality where I insist on pointing out every one of my shortcomings, and she is being defensive for defensive's sake.

I take this as a sign from the cosmos that my world as it currently stands is upside down. I decide to make a concerted effort to forge my own path away from the chaos I've created for my family. I can sense their increasing discomfort with my predicament, and so for their sake much more than my own, I find myself inching away. Phone calls are fewer and shorter. Topics are avoided. Tone of voice is reassuring. Upsetting information is withheld.

My experience bears out a definitive truth that I come to learn in the course of my case: there is no such thing as a victimless crime. There may not be body bags or gunshot wounds, but in acts of consensual criminal conduct, in crimes that are not intended to cause harm, even in these crimes there are casualties. The victims of our crimes are the people who love us, the people we love.

I
spend eighteen months denying I've done anything wrong. But once I begin to see my crime for what it is, I can't look away.

I'm reminded of it in unexpected places, in television story lines, songs on the radio, various nineteenth-century Russian novels. But I consider it in earnest when I decide to pick up Ronald Dworkin's philosophical tome
Justice for Hedgehogs.

I'm not one for theoretical works. But
Hedgehogs
draws my attention because its subject matter extends beyond the meaning of law to the meaning of our collective existence. In an attempt to stave off an impending existential crisis, I decide it might be wise to explore in greater depth the meaning of life. Also, I like the little hedgehog on its cover.

Dworkin's main thesis is about the unity of value. In order to acknowledge the value in our own lives, he says, we have a duty to preserve that same value in others. There are therefore times when we are morally required to help those around us in need.

This idea is not particularly earth-shattering, but it is something that is not embraced by the law. The criminal law sees virtue only in
declining
to act. Crimes are usually defined by affirmative acts—pulling a trigger, picking a lock, placing Xanax pills in a bag of pretzels. Doing nothing is almost always the lawful thing to do.

This is true, by the way, even if doing nothing will certainly cause someone else harm. We know this from the notorious noncase of David Cash, an incident relayed in many criminal law textbooks, in which young Mr. Cash walked into a casino bathroom to find his best friend physically struggling with a seven-year-old girl. When he left without saying or doing anything, when he allowed his friend to rape and kill the girl without calling the police, when he told the press afterward that he was “not going to lose sleep over someone else's problem,” he was not guilty of any crime. The law says that the hands that remain idle, even in the face of evil, are still considered clean.

I already know all too well that what I've done is a crime. But as I read these passages I find myself wondering—hoping—if in giving Cameron his medication there might be anything philosophically redeeming in what I've done.

But I don't turn up anything. Dworkin writes that our duty to help preserve another's value must never come at the cost of our own. He likens our relationship to one another as swimmers in an Olympic-sized pool, racing in separately demarcated lanes. If a swimmer is drowning in the next lane and you can help him without losing much ground in the race, Dworkin says, you have a duty to save him. But when the risk of loss to you is larger than the harm suffered, when the sacrifice would diminish your own value, the duty no longer exists.

When Cameron was struggling in the adjacent lane, I did not keep him from drowning. I did not preserve his value, and I certainly did not preserve mine. What I did was rush to his side, look him in the eye, and tie a brick to us both.

Not even an abstract theory of morality can relieve me. I have no grounds for mitigation, no asterisk for what I've done. My crime is what it has always been. I am left with nothing else, only slight solace when Dworkin points out: “Only a few people are fully satisfied with their own character and record, and they are fools.”

I
return to Dworkin's swimming metaphor several months later when I am actually swimming in the lane of a lap pool. I find myself observing the woman in the neighboring lane. We stroke in tandem, our heads bobbing underwater and above in synchronicity. Our movements become so closely timed that we seem to come up for air at the same moment. Our breaths are divided between us. She breathes my air, and I breathe hers.

It reminds me, somewhat strangely, of the weekend I spent locked in the attorney room when Cameron was sent to the SHU. How in the dry air of the sealed room, his cold became mine. How our breaths were divided between us, he breathed my air and I breathed his.

Con
 • 
spir
 • 
a
 • 
cy
—
(n) from the Latin
conspī
rarē,
“to breathe together.”

I did not save Cameron from drowning. I did not save myself either. But when I saw him suffering, I did not continue in pursuit of the finish line. I lifted the divide. I swam over. And while everything after
was unmitigated disaster, a minuscule fact does remain: I did not keep swimming. I did not look away.

It is a triumph of the most intimate order, the tiniest of victories only in that my impulse was arguably the right one. And while this fact is but a grain of virtue in a desert of wrongdoing, I decide it portends something of note in my journey forward.

It is proof of promise. Reason for hope.