Criminal That I Am (5 page)

Over time, our conversations become more personal. At first, this does not seem like anything unusual. Many clients show an interest in their attorneys' personal lives, probably because they are required to divulge so much about their own. But Cameron displays an almost anthropological interest in my background. Just as I am fascinated by his unconventional world, he romanticizes the idea of people with ordinary lives. He asks me questions about my family, my job, my travels. When I explain to him my mostly standard existence, he looks on with delighted interest as though he is watching the National Geographic Channel.

But the nature programming I provide Cameron is carefully edited. I don't mention that I've managed to establish a life that is void of any of the things that I wanted for myself, that somewhere along the way, I have managed to squander my blessings, that my sense of purpose has been unwittingly carried away.

Though I don't share this with Cameron, for some reason the loss is more palpable in his presence.

“Are you happy?” he once asks me.

“Of course,” I reply. As I say it, I feel a lump at the back of my throat.

After a while, Cameron's questions begin to veer beyond the benign into the very personal. He asks about my relationship status, but when I tell him that I just ended a serious relationship, he does not consider the question fully answered.

“Why did you guys break up?”

I'm not expecting this. “Cameron, I am not going to tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Why would you even want to know that?”

“I don't know. Just curious.”

“Well, be curious about something else.”

“No, c'mon, Jen, look how much I told you.”

“But that's so I can help you with your case!”

“Not all of it. I've told you a lot of personal stuff.”

This is true. By this time, Cameron has regaled me with loads of stories, usually about his family, his run-ins with the law, and my personal favorite: endless entanglements with women. One woman breaks into his home, another cracks his skull. In my favorite vignette, a woman rubs Tabasco sauce into his eyes while he is sleeping. When Cameron recounts his way with women, I feel a pathetic sense of superiority in the way I do when I watch
Hoarders
or
The Biggest Loser
. I don't know yet that I will commit acts not much more sane than these.

But I still don't see this as ample reason for me to share something so personal. “Yes, but, Cameron, you offered all that up. I didn't ask you about it.”

“Why won't you tell me? Is it bad?”

I'm at a loss for a reason, other than I don't want to. I don't want Cameron to know that I am still reeling from my breakup, that the entire thing was yet another failure to add to a growing pile, that I can't seem to figure out how to move on.

He looks at me intently, waiting for me to provide an answer.

“Cameron, I'm just not going to.”

“So it's bad?”

I am exasperated at his relentlessness. “No, it's not bad. He just didn't want to have kids, and I did. Is your earth shattered now?”

As soon as I say it out loud, I wish that I hadn't. I should have made something up, like my ex-boyfriend was in the Russian mob. Or got hit by a bus. This feels far too personal, referencing my reproductive system, and now I'm seated before my client with cheeks warm from embarrassment.

Though my head is down, I can feel him looking at me. I think he might be smiling, but I'm too afraid to check.

I awkwardly change the subject. He allows the conversation to move back to more mundane matters. And then, mercifully, a corrections officer shows up to tell us to call it a day.

I can't gather my things quickly enough. I stand up, head down and hand extended, and tell him that I'll check back in a few days.

He takes my hand. “You know, Jen,” he says in a voice laden with bravado, “I think you should know, I definitely want to have kids.”

I look up at him, mortified. He has a twinkle in his eye.

What a charmer, I think to myself.

I force an eye roll. “Do lines like that ever actually work for you?”

The bravado remains. “All the time.”

I shake my head and say, “I'll see you later, Cameron.”

The exchange remains in my thoughts as I make my way out of MCC in pursuit of a cab home. When I flag one down and give the driver my address, he considers my face for a moment. “You have a nice smile, miss,” he says. I am surprised. I don't realize that I am smiling.

I
'm two months into the case, close to the Thanksgiving holiday, when I encounter Cameron's psychiatrist, an addiction specialist, in the lobby of MCC. He visits Cameron on a regular basis and is assisting the legal team with an assessment of Cameron's rehabilitation needs.

I approach him to introduce myself. “I know who you are,” he says with a smile.

I am not quite sure what he means, so I simply smile back.

He asks about Cameron's bail, an issue that will impact his ability to receive drug treatment. I tell him that our plan is to make an application, but we are still trying to determine what kind of opposition there will be.

The psychiatrist is not particularly satisfied with this answer. “This is really a horrible environment for him.”

I nod in agreement. “His situation makes him a sheep among some very rabid wolves.”

“Isn't there a way for the government to protect him from that?” he asks.

“Not in a savory way. I think they can place him in the SHU, but
he will have to be caged up, essentially. No calls with family. No real outdoor time.”

“Cameron shouldn't go into solitary confinement,” he says.

“I agree, it sounds awful.”

“No, I mean, he really shouldn't, as a matter of his mental health.”

I have no previous understanding of Cameron's mental health issues, I know only that he struggles with drug addiction. The psychiatrist explains that Cameron suffers from comorbid depression and anxiety disorders. What I grasp from what he is saying is that without treatment Cameron can't be left alone for significant periods of time because he might have a breakdown, or even hurt himself.

I try to compare his description to what I see in Cameron during our visits. It sounds as though he is describing a different person.

My face must display some level of worry. “Look, don't be alarmed. He just needs to get into treatment,” he says.

“Is there anything we need to be doing right now for him?”

“Just get him bail as soon as possible.”

“We'll do our best, I promise.”

He looks at me and smiles. “You know, I can tell he likes you. He trusts you. It's a good thing for him to have someone like you on his case while he is in here.”

It is always nice when someone recognizes the admiration and trust your client has for you. It is less nice when this admiration and trust blows up in your face. But as I stand there reviewing Cameron's condition with his psychiatrist, I have no idea that I am ambling toward self-ruin. “Thank you,” I say. “I like him, too.”

I
t takes me more than a reasonable amount of time to admit to myself that I have developed romantic feelings for my client. I would like to think that this is because I'm so busy working on his case that I remain unaware. But I'm fairly certain that's not the truth.

I tell myself that I am just devoted to Cameron's case. This is why I am sure to visit him as often as he asks, regardless of what else is happening around me. When he requests a visit the day that New York experiences a snowstorm so severe that the subways shut down and the
courthouse is closed, I brave the elements without pause. As I sign into the attorney log, I see that I am the only attorney who visits that day.

I am so dedicated, I tell myself.

When his bail application is pushed until January, I feel sympathy that he will have to spend Christmas at MCC. I can understand that he does not want to spend the long Christmas weekend without contact from the outside. So, en route to Christmas dinner at a friend's house, I stop by MCC for an hour. He is gleeful at the sight of his attorney on a national holiday.

“Merry Christmas, Jen. You smell good,” he says.

I am so thoughtful, I tell myself.

I ingest each occurrence on the case as though it is happening to me personally. When I read an initial version of the Presentence Investigation Report that mistakenly states that Cameron's suggested term of imprisonment is up to seventeen years, I promptly get up from my desk, go into the ladies' room, and throw up. When Cameron stands in a packed courtroom to account for his crimes, I am so moved that my eyes well with tears.

I am so passionate, I tell myself.

I also don't give much credence to acts of Cameron's that possibly reflect his own feelings. I take his avid insistence upon our visits to be a practicality given his circumstances. I chalk up the flirtatious things he says to be his general manner of dealing with women. I conclude that his questions about my personal life are born out of curiosity, not any self-interest.

I don't think much of the increasingly frequent calls I receive from various members of his gaggle of lady friends who complain that he has not called or responded to letters and e-mails as of late. “I think he is just nervous about sentencing,” I tell them. “Is there any message you'd like me to pass along?”

I also don't think too much about the fact that when I relay these messages, Cameron displays emphatic disinterest, as though solely for my benefit. He's probably just embarrassed because of all the stories he's told me, I decide.

What I do allow myself to see, only because it is too conspicuous to miss, is a silent connection that develops between us. For all of our
differences, Cameron and I are unusually compatible. The trust that bonds us is such that he relies on me to gauge his emotions. When he receives news on the case that he fears is worrisome, his eyes fixate on mine to discern the degree to which he should be concerned. When he is given good news, he cautiously looks my way to see if it is acceptable to be pleased.

But there's more than this. Cameron and I share a goofy sense of humor, an affinity for the same movies, the same music, the same reality television programming. And as I get to know him better, I quietly recognize that we share some similar afflictions. We both have an unflagging need to make others feel good about themselves. We both likely have this need because deep down we long to feel better about our own selves. Perhaps relatedly, we both have led lives that have caused us to end up in places where we don't really want to be.

Despite these shared woes—or maybe because of them—there is something about being around Cameron that makes me feel better about being in the world. When I began work on his case, I had recently exited a relationship with a brilliant but tormented man that began as a loving union but, over the years, had devolved into an exercise in emotional abuse worthy of a Lifetime Original Movie. By the end, he seemed to be content only when I was miserable—which was more often than not—and when our problems began to bleed into my work, he almost appeared to be pleased.

After putting myself through this gloom, in Cameron's presence I feel as though someone has finally turned on the lights. Even in his terrible legal circumstances, he is invariably positive and upbeat, a state of being I find not only alluring but also contagious. When I am around him, I remark how long it's been since I've laughed so much. And I am sweetly flattered by his enthusiastic interest in my work; when his friends call me to check up on him, they reveal that he has been discussing my credentials, praising my abilities, expressing gratitude for having me on his case. Cameron reminds me of the good things that I've forgotten. He sees me in the way I want to be seen, the way I want to see myself.

Our compatibility eventually gives way to more concrete signs that we are shifting away from what is normally expected between attorney and client. I find that I would rather spend time with him than with anyone
else. I relive our conversations in my head long after I leave him behind. I catch myself thinking about him at the oddest times and in the oddest ways. When I go to see a movie, I wonder if he might like it. When I cook dinner, I wonder if it would be to his taste. When I'm spending time with friends, I wonder what it would be like if he were here, too.

In time, I silently register some changes in Cameron's behavior toward me as well. He will sometimes look at me with such intensity that I feel compelled to avert my eyes. When we say good-bye, he begins to stand so close to me that I can detect the scent of his soap. And even when there are others present, he doesn't shake my hand so much as take it in his own, clasping it in a way that allows him to quickly brush his fingers against my palm.

In a group meeting, as I adjust my sitting position our legs serendipitously touch. When I instinctively begin to move my leg away, he uses his ankle to still it in place, the inside of his calf now pressed purposely against the outside of mine. The move is so swift, so unexpected, that I conspicuously look over to him. His face bears an almost imperceptible smile, but he is otherwise intently listening to what is being discussed, paying me no mind.

I don't move, partially because I fear that wrenching my leg away will cause a disturbance and partially because . . . well, just because. The surreptitious tangle of our legs is like everything that comes to be with Cameron: I know I shouldn't, but I do. Enveloped in the warmth of ­government-issued canvas, my stockinged leg remains under his domain, happily in exile. When he sees that I don't resist, I feel him press closer, and then closer, as though he is daring me to move away. But I simply look down at my notes, hoping no one can hear my heart beating as loudly as it is.

The entire encounter doesn't last long: a few minutes, not much more. It is a small, silly occurrence, too insignificant to be addressed afterward beyond a smile and a shake of the head. And yet, when it happens, I am acutely aware that this is the closest I have ever been to Cameron, the closest I will probably ever get to be.