In addition to Big Wheeler, there are a dozen or so prisons in this state, each with a different security classification. I have clients in most of them, and they write me letters begging for money and demanding I do something to get them out. For the most part I ignore this correspondence. I have learned that a letter from me only encourages an inmate to write again and demand more. For those of us who defend criminals, there is always the possible scenario in which an ex-client with a grudge shows up after years in the pen and wants to discuss mistakes made at trial. But I don’t dwell on this. It’s just part of the job and another reason I carry a gun.
To keep me in my place, our esteemed prison officials ban me from visiting any prison for an entire month after the Scanlon escape. However, as it becomes clear that Link outfoxed them with no help from me, they eventually relent.
There are a few clients that I visit occasionally. These little road trips get me out of town for a day. Partner and I are driving to a medium-security facility affectionately called Old Roseburg, named after a governor from the 1930s who himself was later sent to prison. He died there, in a slammer bearing his own name. I’ve often wondered what that felt like. According to legend, his family tried in vain to get him paroled so he could die at home, but the sitting governor wouldn’t allow it. He and Roseburg were blood enemies. The family then tried to change the name of the prison, but that would have ruined a colorful story and the legislature declined. The prison officially remains the Nathan Roseburg Correctional Facility.
We are cleared through the main gate and park in an empty visitors’ lot. Two guards with high-powered rifles watch us from the tower, as if we might haul in some weapons or a pound or two of cocaine. At the moment, there’s no one else to watch, so we get their full attention.
After Partner was acquitted for killing a narc, he begged me for a job. I wasn’t hiring at the time, and I haven’t hired since, but I couldn’t say no. He was headed back to the streets, and if I didn’t help him he would end up either dead or in prison. Unlike most of his friends, he had a high school diploma and had even managed to pick up a few credits at a community college. I paid for more classes, most at night. He blitzed through a paralegal curriculum and got himself certified.
Partner lives with his mother in a subsidized apartment in the City. Most of the units in his building are packed with large families, but none of the traditional variety—mother, father, children. Almost all the fathers are gone, either locked up or living elsewhere and producing more children. The typical apartment belongs to a grandmother, a long-suffering soul who’s stuck with a passel of kids who may or may not be blood related. Half the mothers are in prison. The other half work two and three jobs. Young cousins drop in and out; almost every family is in a chaotic state of flux. The primary goal is to keep the kids in school, away from the gangs, alive, and hopefully out of prison. Partner guesses that half of them will drop out anyway and most of the boys will end up in jail.
He says he’s lucky because it’s just him and his mother in the small apartment. There is a tiny spare bedroom that he uses as an office for his work—our work. Many of my files and records are stored there. I often wonder what my clients would do if they knew their confidential files were actually kept in Army surplus cabinets in a tenth-floor apartment in a government housing project. I don’t really care because I trust Partner with my life. He and I have spent hours in the little room digging through police reports and plotting trial strategies.
His mother, Miss Luella, is partially disabled by severe diabetes. She does some sewing for friends, keeps a spotless apartment, and cooks occasionally. Her primary job, as far as I’m concerned, is answering the telephone for the Honorable Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. As I said, I’m not listed in any phone book, but my “office” number does get passed around. In fact, people call that number all the time, and they get Miss Luella, who sounds as crisp and efficient as any receptionist sitting at a fine desk in a tall building and directing calls for a firm with hundreds of lawyers.
She’ll say, “Sebastian Rudd, Attorney-at-Law. How may I direct your call?” As if the firm has dozens of divisions and specialties. No caller ever gets me the first time because I’m never at the office. What office? She’ll say, “He’s in a meeting,” or “He’s in a deposition,” or “He’s in a trial,” or, my favorite, “He’s in federal court.” Once she has effectively stiff-armed the caller, she zeroes in on his or her legal problem with “And this is regarding what?”
A divorce. The caller will get “I’m sorry, but Mr. Rudd does not handle family matters.”
A bankruptcy, real estate closing, will, deed, contract. The same response—Mr. Rudd doesn’t do those.
