Ace in the Hole

"Just because it is your job doesn't make it right, boss." - Prisoner Paul Neuman reprimanding a prison guard in a scene from the movie Cool Hand Luke.

The wind howls when I hear the mere mention of his name. If I lower my rose-colored social worker glasses, the view of his his house is that of a crime scene in a cheap detective novel. My client is an alleged sexual perpetrator who has escaped prosecution. Heinous allegations against defenseless minors he reflects on with a sinister smile. He is none other than the bloody ketchup on a small fry. Developmental disability is his crutch that his attorneys have leaned on mightily. He understands the difference between wrong and right. His basic understanding of the difference between wrong and right is the crux not crutch of the matter. God forbid. I am not his judge and jury. Nobody has sat for that...not through trial or error.

He sits across from me now on a tattered sofa. I look him in the eye without a grimace or wink. We dialogue freely over the noise pollution known as the Jerry Springer show. He repulses me although I do not let him know it. He fills me with the kind of nausea that could bring a greenhorn social worker overtop a toilet. I take it all in and keep it all down but make no mistake about it, I believe his accusers. I have prayed for their sorrow and pain. While my mind is filled with malcontent, I discuss social services to his indifferent ear. I wonder, fret even, whether my composure constitutes two-faced hypocrisy or savvy compartmentalization of a professional? The world may never know since I haven't yet figured that one out for myself.

As he watches the fabric of America unravel on Jerry Springer, I think about how I got in this predicament right here and now. A man is not idle just because he is absorbed in thought so I force myself to remember. I am called as a witness for the Defense in his pre-trial hearing. This case against my client was held in abeyance for years before somebody came up with the less than noble, prize winning idea of getting this man a staunch social worker. I knew my testimony could be a part of my own deathbed confessional. Guilt lays heavy with me. I recall time standing still before moving from the inertia of my courtroom seat to testify. My personal opinions had to be suppressed in my testimony. I represented the State not myself.

Standing in a monkey suit, I take an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The truth hurts but in this case it hurts me and the prosecution more. It is small thanks to being certified as an expert witness in my field of social work with nary an objection from the Prosecution. The Public Defender's questions box me in a corner. The court draped me in a papal robe as suit and ties tout the miracles I can perform in the name of social work to save a wretch like him. My leg twitches below the microphone but my voice booms with confidence. I realize during the questioning that my testimony makes the community more vulnerable. A huddled group of people in the audience sneer every time I mention another social service my agency offers. It is a smothering experience to feel resigned to tell the truth and only answer the questions asked without an allowance for expansion. Rather, I want to stand up and yell that justice is being overlooked and this type of offender cannot be rehabilitated. I want these charges to proceed to trial more than anyone except maybe the latest victim herself.

After an hour of testimony, I am summarily dismissed. I turned helplessly over to the old Judge. I will never forget his uncomfortable look. His eyes looked me over like the manner in which the public respects a used car salesman. His wrinkles had frowns. The judge handed me a manilla envelope after I testified. He instructed me to read it in private and not to share its contents. To this day, I have not told a soul. It is unspeakable for the most part anyway. I can still feel the weight of the voluminous file as I limped from the stand.

Back in my office, its stark contents startled me. I had been given no choice but to testify in ignorance. They wanted me without prejudice and that they got. What have I done? I lumped my head on my desk and cried. I felt betrayed by lawmen. Knowing what I know now, I cannot ensure the safety of the community nor guarantee his rehabilitation. I can do neither but I am expected to do both. Under oath, I have been reduced to a pawn among tournament chess players. I am both the system's pawn and my client's ace in the hole. I am being played.

After umpteen pre-trial motions, hearings, and uninterrupted social services, the criminal case gets dismissed! The little girl is now fourteen. She is anyone and everyone. She is every youngster's face I see in a crowd. She is any one of my daughters, the neighbor's kid, the unsupervised toddler spinning a Big Wheel on the sidewalk. She is anyone who can't protect themselves. She is the innocence of childhood falling prey to the wicked and it is this brand of wicked who rests his laurels in my protection. Go figure.

Fisticuffs break out on Jerry Springer. My inner conflict surrenders to present day conflicts at large. He reaches for another cigarette barely acknowledging my presence. The card deck has been shuffled and only two players remain from that courtroom. It is just him and me. The Prosecutor has moved on. The probation officer last hung up the phone in my ear before taking a new job. The Public Defender has disappeared into the Halls of Justice. My letter to the Judge trying to amend my original testimony never amounted to a hill of beans on the justice scale. I remain his ace in the hole attentive to his needs in the chamber of his house. The silence of second guessing proves deafening. I look up from my notepad to force a smile that snakes across my face of regrets. All the pre-trial social services I started for him he has dropped...like the latest criminal case against him. I point out the circumstantial evidence of his uncooperativeness. I want him to admit he worked over the system as much as I don't want to hear it. I wait for an answer.

I hear his red-neck voice carry through the cigarette filled air. "Joe, I'm a free man." He boasts to the tune of braggart. "Ha-Ha! F---k yeah!"

The walls in the speck of a house close in around me. He is a free man and I am his prisoner.