Criminal That I Am (7 page)

Co-Counsel is quietly explaining what happened in court when a man inserts himself into the discussion, joining the circle as though he has something to add. He introduces himself by name to Cameron Douglas's father and asks what he is doing in the courthouse today.

Cameron Douglas's father looks wary but is polite. “I'm sorry, who are you?”

“I'm with the
New York Post
,” the man says.

So much for a closed courtroom.

Without looking at one another, we three briskly make our way into the courthouse elevator. Co-Counsel presses a floor at random, so that we can go anywhere else.

In the elevator, Cameron Douglas's father is not pleased. “Great,” he says. “Now his bail application is going to be all over the papers.”

I'm stupid enough in this moment to open my mouth and speak reassuringly. “Actually, we asked that the entire thing be sealed,” I say. “So, it can't become public.”

He flashes me a look of derision. “Oh,
really
, Jen?” He yells in a manner that can only be described as dramatic. “You're going to tell me that this isn't going to become public? Please!”

His angry outburst strikes me as so out of place that I actually begin to look behind me in the elevator to see if he is talking to someone else. When I realize that this is directed at me, I am at first insulted and then, quite frankly, a little starstruck. I think: Yes, why don't you please explain to me how a sealed document works, you asshole. I guess playing a lawyer in a string of shitty movies means you know more than an actual attorney.

But then I find myself thinking: How did he know I go by Jen?

I escape my head long enough to speak. “They can't just do that,” I finally say. I can hear my voice shaking, and I hate myself for being as intimidated as I am. But my confidence in respect for the judge's order is unwavering. “It would be illegal for someone to make this public.”

At this, Cameron Douglas's father says nothing, but crosses his arms and looks angry.

By the time we exit the elevator, we are met with a small group of reporters. A U.S. Marshal offers to escort us into the witness room of one of the nearby courtrooms so we can speak in private. Co-Counsel begins to explain once again what happened in court. I notice that he is trying to put a positive spin on things, just as I had done moments before in the elevator. I bite my lip as he speaks, silently praying that he does not step on the same grenade that I did.

But he does. Cameron Douglas's father, like his son, seems to have an extraordinarily sensitive bullshit meter and is not shy when it has been activated. He wants to know why his son is still incarcerated after
Co-Counsel assured him that he wouldn't be. He also wants to know why Cameron remains a sitting duck in prison when he has dutifully cooperated with the government. He's angry, too, that his own presence in the courthouse may have attracted attention that will place his son in danger.

“We've given these guys everything they asked for,” he says, referring to the government. “I don't understand why they are putting him through this.” His voice wavers, and I see that he might actually be more afraid than angry. I feel sort of bad for hating him a few minutes ago.

There is an awkward lull in the conversation. I can't take the silence, and so I decide to open my mouth one last time. Without editorializing, and with as little eye contact as possible, I explain to him in dry, technical detail where things stand. Because he does not immediately jump down my throat, and because the sound of my voice fills the silence, I say as much as I can think to say: I explain the two standards for bail and how it is that Cameron stands between them. I describe how the stark difference between the standards probably influenced the magistrate judge's decision to punt the matter to the trial judge. And I tell him that we simply don't know what the outcome is going to be until the trial judge hears the matter. All we can do right now is wait.

In the few moments that I accidentally make eye contact with him, I notice with relief that Cameron Douglas's father is calmly listening. One thing that I learn about him during the case is that he wants only to hear the technical issues, and these in as fine detail as possible.

While Cameron Douglas's father does not seem particularly assuaged by my explanation, he is satisfied enough to end our meeting. When we arrive in the courthouse lobby, I see several photographers posted outside waiting for his exit. Great, I think. This is definitely going to make the paper.

I have no interest in having my picture taken under any circumstances, much less these, so I say good-bye to Cameron Douglas's father and tell him and Co-Counsel to go ahead without me. I watch from inside the courthouse as both are surrounded by a tiny fleet of
reporters and press photographers. I look at my watch and try to estimate how much time it will take for me to finally be at home in bed.

I give them an extensive lead and then exit the courthouse on my own. I can see the backs of the reporters' heads as I make my way behind them to the main thoroughfare.

But then, suddenly, the reporters have switched direction and are now rushing toward me. I strain to see what has caused the about-face. That's when I see black skinny jeans and a black leather jacket approaching.

I want to stop the press from taking a single step closer. “Please just go on without me,” I call out to him.

But he keeps walking toward me, press corps in tow.

I am holding my breath. Oh, shit, what now? I think. With the photographers headed my way, I'm also wishing I had checked my hair in the ladies' room before leaving the courthouse.

He reaches where I am and extends his hand. “Thank you, Jen, for everything,” he says.

“Of course,” I stammer. I pause to see if there is something else, but he has already turned around and walked away, leaving me standing among the press.

We collectively observe his departure into a black SUV. I'm still watching him as the reporters surround me, ask me who I am, why he is thanking me. I don't provide any response, but as I slink away from them I find I must suppress the urge to smile. Perhaps in the end, like everyone else, I just want to be liked, too.

A
t some point I make it home, but my comfort under the covers is short-lived. I'm awakened early on Saturday morning by the telephone—first my cell, then my home phone, then my cell again. I feel my pillow shake, indicating that my BlackBerry is vibrating with new messages.

I don't bother answering the calls or reading the e-mails. Instead, I stumble to the computer and look at Google News. There are a bunch of articles about Cameron Douglas's father's cameo court appearance.
A British tabloid features a photograph of Cameron Douglas's father outside the courthouse, looking none too happy. Far in the distance, I see myself making my way through the revolving door of the courthouse. My head is down, and all that can be seen of me is my red wool coat. I breathe a sigh of relief.

I know this can't be why my phone is ringing. I click on the local papers and see the reason for urgency. The
New York Post
and the New York
Daily News
report that according to a courthouse “source,” Cameron had a bail hearing closed to the press, the records of which have been sealed, facts that lead both papers to conclude that “apparently” he is cooperating with the government.

It turns out that Cameron Douglas's father was exactly right. I am not only shocked by the lack of integrity at the court, but also shaken by it. To learn that a transgression of this kind could occur at the oldest and most distinguished federal district court in the country is like finding out that Santa Claus is a pedophile. Nothing is as I thought it to be.

Disgusted, I pull on MCC-appropriate attire. The phone rings again. “I saw the articles,” I say as I pick up the phone, already knowing that it will be the legal team on the other end. “I'm headed there now.”

In the taxi on the way to MCC, my minds reels back to the confidence with which I told my client's father that the rules in this process are sacred. I see now that Cameron's case is altogether different, that I am in a game with rules I don't know and with stakes that remain uncomfortably high.

“G
et me the fuck out of here.”

This is how our meeting with Cameron begins.

He has no clue about the articles, he is learning about them as they are being described to him. The legal team asks if he wants us to pursue any additional protection for him at MCC.

His face turns a dark shade of burgundy. “No. Just get me the fuck out of here.”

We explain that we have to wait for the trial judge to consider the issue, hopefully in the coming week.

“Then please get out of here.”

“Cameron . . .” I say.

“Please leave. Look, if this gets around, I don't want people to see I've been down here meeting with my attorneys.”

We leave.

I come back the next day, expecting him to refuse the visit.

He shows up. I notice one of his forearms is scratched raw.

“Are you okay?” I ask, pointing to his arm.

“Yeah, I don't know, it started itching.”

“Look, I can go if you want,” I say. “I just wanted to check in and see if you're doing okay.”

He looks down and shakes his head. “Jen, everyone calls home on Saturdays. Their families have read the articles, and I am getting a lot of questions.”

I swallow. “What have you been telling them?”

“Nothing, I just keep denying it.”

I think for a minute. “Why don't you just say that your parents asked for the courtroom to be closed?”

“What?”

“Just say that your parents are embarrassed about your case and they pulled strings to have the courtroom closed.”

He gives me a look not unlike the one I received from his father the day before.

I state my case. “How would any of them know what kind of influence your parents have? Just say the press assumed you were cooperating because no one at the courthouse wants to say that they gave your parents a favor.”

It reflects no more poorly on the court than reality, I think to myself.

He considers this. “Fine, whatever. But, Jen, I have to get out of here.”

“I know, Cameron.” I give him my stock line. “We are doing everything we can, I promise.”

“Jen, you know how important this is to me.” His face crumples a bit. This ordeal is trying him.

“Cameron, look at me.”

He does. His face is flushed, as though it might burst.

“Just hang on as best you can. You are not in this alone. I promise you I am going to do everything I possibly can for you.”

It turns out I am a woman of my word.

C
ameron appears for a bail hearing before the trial judge the Thursday before President's Day Weekend, 2010. I have plans to go skiing upstate for the long weekend, and I'm hopeful that Cameron will be bailed later in the day, leaving me plenty of time to pack.

It feels like it could be a good day, but it isn't.

There is a smattering of press in the courtroom. We ask that the courtroom be closed, but the trial judge denies the request. Instead, he kicks the press out of the courtroom while matters pertaining to cooperation are discussed, and then opens the court back up for the remainder of the hearing.

After hearing arguments, the judge asks to hear from the psychiatrist, whom we've prepared to deliver testimony about Cameron's medical needs. He gives a reasoned explanation of Cameron's condition and his serious need for treatment. He also, probably without even thinking about it, gratuitously adds in open court that Cameron was placed under house arrest “because he was going to be an informant.”

When I hear him say it, I think I've heard him wrong. But I see that the backs of the two prosecutors at the table in front of ours have straightened up ever so slightly. The two other attorneys at the defense table exchange quick looks. Cameron, who is seated next to me, hangs his head down and simply says, “Wow.”

When the hearing is over, Cameron is whisked out of the courtroom. A reporter for the
New York Post
then approaches the legal team to say that he plans to run a story that Cameron is an active cooperator. Do we have any comment?

So, this is happening. There isn't much that can be done. We've asked the judge that the comment be stricken from the record. We also tell the government that if they plan to take any steps to protect Cameron that these not include placing him in solitary confinement. I also call the manager of Cameron's unit and leave a message begging her not to deliver tomorrow's edition of the
New York Post
to his unit. After I get
off the phone, I feel a brick in my stomach. What on earth will happen to Cameron now?

With few other options, I head home. I make a lame attempt at packing my suitcase, but end up sitting on my couch, my arms crossed, my thoughts jumbled. I think about how Cameron is about to be branded as something he never wanted to be. I also try very hard not to think about the vicious attacks that are regularly meted out against cooperators in prison.

I am there for hours when I hear the familiar “thud” outside my door of the morning paper being delivered. I look at the clock. It is almost five a.m.

I wait until the newspaper deliveryman enters the elevator, and then in my pajamas and socks step out into the hallway. I don't subscribe to the
New York Post
and so I wander the hall to see if any of my neighbors has a copy lying in front of their door. They, too, prefer to get their news elsewhere, and so I take the elevator to the top floor of the building and work my way from floor to floor in search of the day's edition.

After four floors, I finally find a subscriber. I grab the paper, take a mental note of the apartment number, and then ride the elevator back to my apartment.