Addiction
Vertical horizons
"He was no kinder to himself than fate."
Alaleh Kamran
April 7, 1999
The Iranian
The solitude of evening has finally arrived. The staff has left for
the evening. The phones are switched over to the answering service. And,
for a while, my world has paused. The lights in my office are off. I
am staring at the lights that flicker from here to the end of the horizon.
Life seems at times suspended here, on the twenty second floor. As the
CD changer flips back and forth between Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, Leonard
Cohen and Kitaro, I come back to reality only to drift away again. I am
tired and my soul hurts. Sometimes, I wish I could take an enormous brush
and paint the world with peace and calm.
You see, the life of a criminal defense attorney is saturated with unhappy
stories and frequently tragic endings. My client was just raped in a California
state prison. We both knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. We
just hoped it would be later. Fate wasn't kind to him. He was no kinder
to himself than fate.
He is, or I should say, he used to be gorgeous. Salt and pepper hair,
tall, handsome, and well-spoken. He used to be a medical student at one
of the nation's most prestigious medical schools. He was popular, friendly,
warm and sunny, with a smile that could win you over.
He was a creature of the night. He'd done the scene, the clubs, the
raves, the underground. He'd smoked a joint here and there, popped a "lude",
done some "shrooms" and "mesc". By his own definition,
he'd sucked the juice out of life. Then, one fateful night he met the
cleanest high of them all. He met his true love: Heroine. And little
by little, it sucked the life out of him.
Soon, he was kicked out of school. With no job, no qualifications and
student loans in repayment, he started liquidating assets. So he says.
I think he started liquidating because he had an expensive lover. The
condo, the BMW, the trinkets, stereo, etc. Little by little, there was
nothing left. When you run out of money, you beg. When you're a junkie,
stealing becomes easy.
Sometimes, when you are too impatient to beg and too tired to steal,
you'll even sell your body.
His friend called me. He'd been caught for burglary and grand theft.
His friend had bailed him out. He had to go back to court and kept begging
me to keep him out. Said he'd die on the inside. I told him if he kept
it up he'd die on the outside. I fought with the district attorney, used
every procedural and substantive tactic that I knew, begged and pleaded
for my client. Finally, the charges were reduced, and he got off lightly.
It wasn't long after that when my answering service paged me at 4:00
a.m. on a Saturday, and said Jimmy (Not his true name) had called from
the West Valley jail. It was raining and cold. I was tired. My client
needed me. I slipped my jeans on, threw on a jacket and drove down the
deserted path which had become so familiar to my car. More often than
not, the cops let you visit your client immediately. Sometimes, they don't.
Sometimes, when they see you are a woman attorney, they harass you a little
bit. And when they feel they have proven their manhood, they allow you
to see your client.
Jimmy sat waiting behind the glass partition. His head and hands were
weakly resting against the glass which separated us. As I walked in, he
gently lifted his head. His hands slid slowly down the glass leaving a
wet trail behind. Sweat rolled down his eyebrows. His throat and neck were
damp with perspiration. He was wearing a T-shirt also damp with perspiration.
The tracks on the inside of this arms were more marked than ever. This
time, I could clearly see the brand new tracks on the back of his hands.
The brown circles under his eyes had grown larger, and the sparkle of
life dimmer. A grin, maybe even a smirk took shape on his trembling lips.
As he slowly nodded up and down to acknowledge my presence, he closed
his eyes. He spoke slowly, faintly. "They picked me up ... I don't
know why... I told them everything. I want to come out... Please, Ms.
Kamran, please bring me out ... Call your bail bondsman ... Get me out
... Get me out ... Please help me. I promise I'll clean up. I promise
I'll do what the judge orders. I gotta smoke ... Get me out. Can you
get me out."
The list of charges filed against him included no less than three felonies
and several misdemeanors. He'd confessed. There had been witnesses.
He was even on video tape. He couldn't afford to go to trial and lose.
The jury is not very sympathetic and understanding around Los Angeles.
They are even less sympathetic to foreigners who have "invaded"
their land and are committing crimes in their communities. Remember, to
them, we are not Whites. We are camel jockeys who practice terrorism as
a hobby. If convicted of the charges, the judge could have sent him to
state prison where he'd be kissing "Bubba" for a long time to
come. I got him a deal: less than one year in county jail and by the time
the case was done, he was practically out on time served.
I met him by Men's Central Jail on Bauchet Street when he was released.
I told him to stay in touch with me on a weekly basis. I asked him to
call me if he got in trouble. I warned him about the consequences of his
habit. I said "Jimmy, I can't call your parents in Iran telling them
to send me money to bury you. If you insist on killing yourself, please
make the arrangements and save me the difficult task of telling your parents
why you had to die."
He's learned his lesson and served his time, I thought naively. He knows
the consequences of a probation violation. He has had time to clean up.
His system is clean. He's not going to go back.
Life went on as it usually does. Winter had melted into spring and
the trees were in full bloom. I dropped him off wishing never to see him
again. Unlike other attorneys, a criminal defense attorney hopes she'll
never see her client again. My hopes were in vain. Before long, I got
a collect call from San Diego. He'd been picked up on new drug charges.
With a probation violation and a brand new case, the judge shipped him
off to state prison for nine years.
Sitting here on a calm and quiet evening, I can see the Santa Monica
Bay on my horizon. And I wonder how far Jimmy's horizon stretches beyond
those barbed wires and the grey skies. He told me once, if he laid flat
on his back and stared at the sky, he could see the end of the universe.
And that is his horizon. I guess in the world of the convicted, the horizon
spreads vertically.
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