CHAPTER ONE

Boston, 2007

     The state building constructed before the great depression impressively occupies an entire city block. With its three towers of two different heights rising above a five-story base, it’s a significant example of civic Art Deco architecture.  The edifice erected in a time when the city could afford arenas with the sole purpose of impressing upon attendees the omnipotence of the law, serves to justify to observers the rightness of decisions made within its marbled halls. Seat of the state’s largest court, here judges; from raised podiums, symbolically look down on both the guilty and the wrongfully accused brought before them. Tall leaded windows, reaching up to the ceilings, designed to remove any impression that the law might be obscure, fill its rooms with light.

     Today this, the largest of the state’s courtrooms is filled beyond capacity with seated spectators and standing journalists lining the back and side walls. An air of excited anticipation fills the room. The observers fidget and whisper in agreement on their take of the protracted proceedings. Individuals regularly break off their discourse to glance at the door at the front through which the jurors had hurriedly filed out. It’s been just a little over two hours since the jury were given instructions and retired to the jury room to deliberate on the guilt or innocence of the current accused. The only other person besides the accused himself, absent from this scene is the judge.

     Having their own preconceived judgements and believing they knew the outcome, every one of the spectators and members of the media were sure the deliberation would be short-lived and ignoring their bladders chose to remain in the courtroom to impatiently await the jurors’ return.

     Both the prosecution and defence attorneys also chose to remain. At the defence table only two attorneys had been engaged to represent the defendant. Samuel Gooding, aged fifty and his assistant Patrick Kepler turning thirty next month. In tight fitting suit and horn-rimmed glasses Patrick, showing his worry, fidgets. Gooding on the other hand displays no visible emotion. He hides his own trepidation for the outcome of this trial behind a professional mask of stoicism. He’s been in courtrooms often enough to know a case could go either way. But this case is different. Because of the course the trial had taken he was no longer optimistic of a positive outcome. Unaccustomed to failure he is beside himself to understand how this could have happened. How could every piece of evidence and every argument they put forward have been thrown out? Something very wrong happened during the course of this trial. He now held little hope that any appeal down the road would ever be granted, but knowing his client will insist no stone be left unturned in an effort to get to the bottom of this miscarriage of justice, he’s resigned himself to the fact that he will be fighting this windmill for years to come.

     The six man prosecution team, cherishing a victory above all other considerations, with all the media present couldn’t chance a smile. Not because they had been left greatly disturbed by the nature of the crime but because it might be misconstrued as a lack of sensitivity toward the victim and her family. How they wanted to smile, even pat each other’s backs, but decorum prohibited it. After all this trial had made their names a household item and guaranteed to advance their careers, especially the lead members of their team. And they did want to smile.

    The journalists and cameramen occupying the back and sides of the courtroom, use this ’intermission’ to bring their audiences up to date and to jostle for better vantage points. After all, only a few of them had a direct line of sight on the front of the room.  

     Standing in the centre aisle a female journalist, a knockout with a bedroom voice, Stephanie Landers, the voice of City TV Channel Four takes a small mirror from her pocket and preens herself. Done she determinedly taps her microphone and looks at her watch.

     Her cameraman, Ted Carver, not particularly enjoying this assignment looks hard at her. He wonders how a woman, any woman, can care so much about her looks, not that she isn’t easy to look at. That’s the problem. She is beautiful. Her golden hair frames a face the ancient Greeks would call perfect; Pythagorean golden proportions. He shudders to think that they would immortalize her in a statue. Imagining the possibility, he shakes his head in an attempt to throw off the thought that the cold marble could not only portray the physical, but house, like a cocoon, the inner corrupt essence of this woman.

     Ted sidesteps and aims his camera up the isle towards the defence table and focuses the lens. Stephanie steps in front of it. Tired from the long hours of standing at the back to record the trial he growls, “How about getting out of the way so I can get a clear shot of the guy and his reaction when the verdict comes down?” He suddenly places a hand on her arm and pushes her aside. She recoils from his touch, angry that he would dare. Ted tries again to focus.

     An elderly man in the back row, seated two over in front of him, in reply to a phone call, suddenly in a hurry to leave the proceedings, vacates his seat. Ted takes the opportunity to push past a couple of colleagues and stepping over the back of the bench, quickly moves into the now unoccupied apace.  He smiles at the grumblers around him.

     Stephanie exclaims, "Ted, I’ll be out of frame from there!"

     His smile broadens. If you asked him he wouldn’t mind a few screen moments without her face filling it and tells her, “It’ll be more tragic if you do a voice-over pointing out how this pillar of the community, claiming his great love for his wife could bring a knife to a hotel room and butcher her.” Ted plants his feet apart to steady himself and focuses the lens on the defence attorney. From this angle he gets a great shot of the front of the room.

     A side door near the front of the room opens and a sudden hush like a wave spreads through the courtroom. Ted leans over with his camera to frame the two Sheriff’s deputies flanking a small, slim, sandy haired man, immaculately dressed in a high end suit, silk tie and a three peaked pocket handkerchief. It’s an affectation no longer considered fashion, but it suits him. The handmade shirt designed for cuff-links, hang open at the wrists and unbalance the impeccable appearance of his dress. Firmly gripping his upper arms, the officers as if he might lose his way, direct this insignificant looking little man to the defence table.

    Landers like a child eagerly waiting to receive a rare treat, moves a few feet up the aisle to get a good look at him. She wants to see his face. Maybe now he’ll let them see him for what he is. Maybe she can see there what drove him to it. Her audience will want to know. But, he’s not looking up. No, he’s still focused on whatever’s kept him disengaged from the proceedings, as if the trial was happening to someone else.

     Alastair Warwick Kaameleon, forty, small, shackled and with  his hands cuffed in front of him, is guided to the seat next to his attorney at the defence table. Patrick stands to pull out his client’s chair for him. The sheriff’s deputies remove the handcuffs before Kaameleon is allowed to take his seat. Showing no hesitation his movements quick and economic he sits. Appearing as having been unmoved by the events in the proceedings leading up to this moment, Kaameleon adjusts his suit, pulls his shirt cuffs and stares at the table.

     Patrick nervously glancing at their client takes his own seat. He wonders what could be going through their client’s mind that under the circumstances he could remain so calm. The campaign to prove Kaameleon’s innocence had gone badly, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. That he persisted in his innocence didn’t sit well with the audience and much less with the jury. And his natural air of confidence was misinterpreted as arrogance and only went towards irking them. The journalists had played on this behaviour, openly showing their dislike and in some cases even hatred, influencing their audiences into like-mindedness.   And the audience having been thus influenced increasingly turned their interest into venomous gossip and treated the trial like a game show, keeping score of the prosecution’s ’wins.’  Now they were all waiting for the guilty verdict to be officially announced. The only ’fly in the ointment’ for them was that the law in this state prohibited a death sentence.

Because he had no family and his employees, then his ‘friends’, to avoid the bad publicity an association with him would bring, having one by one drifted away, he was now alone with only his attorneys to vouch for him.

     An unsettling murmur followed by a renewed quiet spreads through the courtroom. 

If Only

               2

     Samuel Gooding, having an air of invincibility and renowned for his ability to successfully defend clients, is now speaking to him. Kaameleon listens. Occasionally he nods in response but his focus remains fixed on the table.

     Kaameleon is on trial for his life. A lengthy, well publicized trial has brought him to this point, here, now, minutes away from a decision that will seal his future. He has been charged with the first degree murder of Anastasia Katarina Kaameleon, his wife; A beautiful woman, whom he repeatedly avowed was his soul and the reason for his existence. He would rather die than hurt her. Ironically it was the truth and the more he proclaimed it the less they believed him. No man could have cherished a woman more than he had her.

     His attorney finishes talking to him and turns to the front of the room. He’s just explained what will happen next in the proceedings and doesn’t know if his client has heard anything he’s just said. He appears to have yet again zoned out, gone somewhere in his mind. Gooding wonders about these periods of inattentiveness where Kaameleon doesn’t seem aware of his surroundings. He again asks himself if it could be possible that Kaameleon could really have committed the crime and just doesn’t remember. No, these blackouts are recent. Gooding had never witnessed one of them before the murder. He had been frustrated by Kaameleon’s refusal to agree with the doctors’ diagnosis that he committed the crime during one of these spells. The charges would then have been reduced to second degree and carry a much lighter sentence with a possibility of early parole. But Kaameleon had insisted on his innocence and persisted in claiming someone else had murdered her. He thought he could prove it in court, get the case thrown out and the hunt for the real murderer started.

    Gooding reflects on the long relationship he’s had with this man. He’s known him for more than ten years and he had to admit, knowing his character, he couldn’t have expected anything different. Kaameleon’s flaw of character is that he would demand complete honesty even if it was to his own detriment. Now he waits for the verdict to be made official.

     Kaameleon, a man without guile, believed in the honesty of the twelve men and women of the jury and still expected they would see past the prosecution’s tricks that saw the defence’s evidence thrown out and find him innocent of this heinous crime.

     Kaameleon’s gaze clouds. In his mind a loop plays itself over and over again. He is reliving that terrible day when he found his wife, there, on the plush carpet at the foot of the bed, disembowelled, her life seeping away. If only he had come back to the room a little earlier. If only he hadn’t insisted she accompany him. If only. If only. If only. He doesn’t hear anything. The room around him is muffled by his inability to clear his thoughts of the visions that now play themselves endlessly in his mind. Perspiration appears on his forehead.

     His attorney taps his arm to get his attention. Kaameleon looks up to see the room has risen to their feet and the judge is moving to his seat on the raised dais. He didn’t hear the call to rise. Gooding pulls him to his feet.

     The judge mounting the platform and taking his seat fixes his look on Kaameleon. It’s particularly sour today.

     Now the announcement to be seated has the room sit down. Kaameleon slowly sinks into his seat and turns his attention to the door at the front of the room. It opens. He watches the twelve jurors stream back to their seats. He looks at each of them. He’s not trying to remember their faces. They were etched on his memory the first instance he laid eyes on them. He will never forget what they look like. He’s trying to discern their expressions. There, the lady in seat three isn’t looking at him. Did she try? And numbers seven and nine are looking determined and angry. The others look at him without emotion. They’re impatient to be elsewhere. Don’t they care? A man’s life is at stake. His life!

     To these jurors and the audience for that matter, he is not a human being but a monster that cold-bloodedly took a knife to a beautiful woman and ripped her apart. They don’t see the person awaiting their judgment as someone whose heart has been torn from his bosom as surely as if that knife had excised it. A tear forms in the corner of an eye. He’s not crying for himself, but for the loss to the world of the one thing that made life bearable, the one thing that he will never be able to hold again; his beautiful Anastasia. A beautiful soul who loved life and shared her enthusiasm and talents with everyone she met. A sadness sits on him that tears at the very depth of his soul.

#

     At the back of the room Ted, speaking to no one in particular says, “Little sod. Look at him. He still expects to be found innocent.” When Stephanie questions, “What’d you say?” Replying louder he says, “The sod still thinks they’ll find him innocent!” People around him overhearing his comment voice disagreement. The judge’s gavel silences them.

#

     The jury now stare at him. The foreman, a tall, thin, washed-out man, with the small beady black eyes of a salamander, nervously licks his lips in anticipation. For him this has gone on far too long. He’s thinking of the home cooked meal and buxom wife awaiting him on his return. He glances at jurors seven and nine. A flash of arrogant anger crosses his face. And number three, that spineless overweight hausfrau had dared harp on about the suppressed evidence. He had put her in her place; Ignorant woman! How could they even have entertained the notion that Kaameleon might be innocent? The evidence against him so clear cut, and they dared to postpone the verdict into the supper hour. If he hadn’t convinced her they would have had to spend another night sequestered in that dingy motel. Everyone could have returned to their lives a couple of hours ago. He thinks of his supper again. Everything will be cold by the time he gets home.

      Judge Epstein, sixty, looking seventy, a desiccated man with an equally desiccated heart that has over the years squeezed out of it any ounce of empathy, directs the courtroom. He announces, “When the verdict is read there will be no outburst or emotional demonstration of any kind. Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

     The Foreman glances at the ’Hausfrau’ and raising his chin, proudly responds, “Yes we have.”

     “Bailiff, hand me the verdict please.”

     The beady eyed foreman extends a folded sheet of paper to the court bailiff, who accepts the written document from his hand and conveys it into the Judge’s. Waiting for it to be read he watches the judge. Epstein slowly unfolds the sheet, reads, folds it again and hands it back. From his proximity the bailiff can see the twinkle that manifests itself in the judge’s eyes and suppresses his own pleasure in knowing the verdict before anyone else.

     “Mr. Foreman,” says Judge Epstein, “Members of the jury, have you reached this verdict unanimously?”

     “Yes your honour,” comes the foreman’s precipitated response.

     Epstein then instructs, “I’m going to ask the jury to stand before the bench and face the defendant.” They all rise to their feet and look towards the accused. Even the hausfrau now sheepishly looks. Then directing his instructions to the defence table Epstein says, “The defendant will rise and face the jury. Again Gooding pulls Kaameleon to his feet. The judge looks at Kaameleon standing before him, still focused on the table. He would have preferred the man look at him. His unmasked contempt for the Judge’s rulings throughout the trial can’t be disregarded. Throughout his attitude had struck the Judge as having been unrepentant, even belligerent. Turning to the Forman he adds, “Mr. Foreman will you please read the verdict.”

     The beady eyed foreman licks his lips and reads, “On the charge of first degree murder..." He looks at Kaameleon. He’s enjoying this; bringing judgement on the accused who he had disliked from the first he laid eyes on him, with his expensive clothes, acting all superior. He continues, "We the jury find the defendant..." He pauses, hoping to draw out any anxiety Kaameleon may be experiencing. But Kaameleon is ignoring him. Angry he finishes, "Guilty as charged,” and adds a humph to bring home the rightness of the pronouncement.

     There is an uproar in the courtroom as those present, ignoring the Judge’s instructions, loudly voice their agreement.

      Kaameleon is shocked. The pronouncement hits him in the pit of his stomach. He riles, “No! That’s not right! That’s not right! They’ve been gotten to! Someone’s got to them! What about the evidence?! You can’t have ignored all of the evidence!” he directs his ire at the prosecution table. "You did this! You know I’m innocent!"

     The two Sheriff’s deputies, in response to his outburst immediately take hold of him and cuff his hands behind him. His struggle to is futile. They push him into the chair and hold him by the shoulders. He settles, all the while shaking his head in denial.

     The Sheriff’s deputies, pushing Kaameleon’s shoulders down hard, take particular pleasure in showing this one his place. They thought they’d seen it all, but this monster has outclassed anyone that came before. Even they, accustomed to the repeated presentation in these courts, of one man’s inhumanity towards another were disgusted by the pictures of the horrific assault this man perpetrated against his wife.

     Judge Epstein calling for silence repeatedly brings down his gavel. Slowly the room settles. Addressing Kaameleon and to bring home the point,  Epstein slams his gavel again. “You will be silent or you will be removed from the courtroom and the sentencing will be read in your absence!” He then addresses the jury. “Thank you. I now dismiss you of your duty. You may now take your seats.”

     Even though the course of the trial had repeatedly turned against him Kaameleon continued to believe in the veracity of the jurors. He had believed that they would see through the campaign so heavily skewed against him. He believed they couldn’t ignore the evidence thrown out; the witnesses who placed him at the meeting, who saw him enter his room, saw him find her. Surely they couldn’t have ignored that. He fully expected an acquittal! Furious, his world spinning, Kaameleon stares at the jurors in disbelief. Only juror three, looking ashamed, doesn’t meet his eyes. The others, especially the foreman, from their moral high ground condemn him. Epstein slams his gavel hoping to break Kaameleon’s focus from them. “Mr. Kaameleon! Mr. Kaa-meleon!" Under the guard’s continued pressure Kaameleon brings himself under control and turns his attention to the judge. His focus is intense. So intense, that Epstein, if not for his position of authority would have been intimidated.    

     “Alastair Warwick Kaameleon, a jury of your peers has found you guilty of the first degree murder of Anastasia Katarina Kaameleon.” 

#

     The journalists and especially Stephanie Landers, report his actions as more proof of his violent nature. Epstein’s gavel fails to silence them.

     Vibrant, ambitious, Stephanie Landers nods to the voice in her ear and with microphone in hand gleefully addresses her ethereal audience. She is glad of this trial. It’s helped solidify her name as the ’go to’ person for news. Since they started covering this trial her station’s ratings have shot upward. She can only guess what their ratings will be today.

     Her audience during the course of the trial, in soap opera fashion, increasingly tuned into her broadcasts, to listen to the prosecution’s expertly demonstrated ability to cut through each bit of the defence council’s ‘so called evidence’. As a result she believed the boost in the station’s ratings to be a result of her coverage and with the pride such a notion brings, she now zealously continues her adulterated monologue.

     Stephanie Landers’s real name is Dungerlass, but Landers is easier to pronounce. At least that’s what she’s told herself so often that she almost believed it herself. Dungerlass had been the name of a scared little girl and a childhood of unsavoury memories from which she had long ago distanced herself; A childhood of bullying and name-calling. Of drunken parents, missed meals and dirt. Memories that over the years festered and hardened her so that now she could pronounce to the world with an air of righteousness the fate of the diminutive Alastair Warwick Kaameleon, without a single atom of compassion.

     Stephanie starts her report. “There you have it. The verdict everyone expected has been handed down. Alastair Warwick Kaameleon the Billionaire Butcher has been judged guilty by a jury of his peers. We will be showing you Judge Epstein’s pronouncement live, here, on Voice of City TV, Channel 4 and you will be the first to hear it! Now we wait to hear the judge’s pronouncement of the sentence. ” She turns to the front of the room pulling the camera to follow her look and focus on the convicted.

#

     Judge Epstein repeatedly bringing down his gavel finally brings order to the room.

     Stephanie ignores the judge and vociferous enough to be heard by him continues, “Alastair Kaameleon in the face of insurmountable evidence to the contrary has throughout the trial continuously proclaimed his innocence." Eyes turn her way. "Now a jury of his peers has found him guilty.” She pauses, allowing the drama at the front of the room, of Kaameleon being handcuffed and forced into his seat, to make an impression on her audience. “As you see, even now he continues to voice his innocence. Throughout this trial he repeatedly proclaimed he would rather die than hurt her. How sincere his claim was, can only be evidenced by the brutal and heinous way he butchered her. However, given the laws in this state, execution is not an option available to the Judge.” The gavel again brings their focus back to the Judge. She aims her microphone at the front of the room. Her voice softens allowing him to be heard. "Judge Epstein will now pronounce the sentence."

     The officers standing over him, holding him by the shoulders, want him to keep struggling so they can show him what they think. ‘Just let him try to disrupt again. Just let him try.’

     The older of the two, retiring in a few months, has seen thousands of criminals pass this docket. Most of them were intellectually unable to choose a different path in life but this one had it all; Intelligence, wealth, and a beautiful wife to boot. Look at him in his five thousand dollar suit. Hell, his shoes cost more than a sheriff’s deputy makes in a week. Just because he’s rich he thought he had the right to walk away from this; Thought he could get away with murder. Why didn’t he just divorce her? Look at him, still denying it. Well, the prosecution set that straight. The officer squeezes Kaameleon’s shoulder hard making him shrink under the pressure.

     The Judge seeing Kaameleon’s reaction takes particular pleasure in it.    

     Ted, from his new vantage point standing on the bench is able to capture the reaction of the people at the front of the room. This’ll be great on screen. Maybe this time he’ll get some credit for his work. He glances at Stephanie. Where would she be without him?

     Other newsmen and women around him continue to jostle trying to gain an advantage. In the hope of getting that all important shot cameras around him held high, go off like fireworks.

     At the back of the courtroom, a plain looking man no one will remember seated with another a little less unremarkable smugly whisper and smile. The verdict satisfies them and they rise and leave the courtroom. The plainer one on his phone says, “It’s done.”

        The Sentence

3

     Continuing to look down on Kaameleon from his height and position of authority, the Judge addresses him directly. “Alastair Warwick Kaameleon."

     The Sheriff’s deputies pull him to his feet. His gaze burns intense with his anger and if he hadn’t been restrained his presence would have intimidated the Judge.

Epstein continues, “I have listened to the arguments from both your attorney and the state’s attorneys as well as the statements from the family of the victim and you have yourself twice been given an opportunity to address this Court." He speaks slowly, deliberately that no part of his comments would be misunderstood. "Sentences are produced through the legislature, not the judicial system and are instituted to expedite the sentencing process and limit the possibility of irregularity of outcomes due to judicial discretion. Mandatory sentences requiring a prison sentence are typically given in cases where people are convicted of certain serious violent crimes. Judges are bound by these laws. I am bound by these laws. Having been found guilty of first degree murder by a jury of your peers there is in the law a singular option open to me for sentencing you." He pauses, and glances at a document on his desk before continuing. "In this state the sentence available is twenty-five years to life."

     Kaameleon’s knees buckle. The guards holding him up prevent his collapse.

     "You would have to serve a minimum of eighteen years before you would be eligible for parole."

      The court erupts in objection requiring Judge Epstein to again bring his gavel down.      Silence resumed he continues, "This Court has the ability to accept this option or reject it and impose the maximum sentence of life where no option of parole exists. A twenty-five year sentence would allow an application to start the process for parole to be made after twelve point five years of incarceration in a state prison.”

     A momentary pause in Epstein’s explanation has Kaameleon’s heart momentarily leap at this possibility.

    Epstein continues, “Alternatively I can impose the maximum sentence available to this court which is life in a state prison."

     Kaameleon’s hope drains. They’re not going to give him that chance. They’ll never let him out. He’ll never be able to hunt for the man who put him here.

     Judge Epstein studying Kaameleon perceives how the light of hope drains from his eyes, and then continues. “I have noted that your crime was particularly vicious. Your behaviour after the crime and during this trial strikes me as cold and without remorse. You shed tears, but it is the opinion of this court that these tears are not for the victim, but for yourself and the predicament you have placed yourself in. This report,” he holds up a document, “Also noted that you have been arrested on several occasions for the possession of illegal substances and on two occasions for driving under the influence. Even though these were not admitted in the prosecution’s evidence and occurred more than ten years ago, and you have led an incident free life in the interim, it shows a predilection to a disregard for the law. I am therefore accepting the recommendation of the Probation Department and sentence you to the custody of the Department of Corrections for a term of no less than twenty-five years to life.” 

     Kaameleon’s knees weaken and he finds himself sitting. It can’t be true. Total silence rings in Kaameleon’s ears. The courtroom around him jumps in animated silence.

     Kaameleon’s anger rises. He wants to object. Strong hands pull him back to his feet.

     The judge takes a moment before continuing. He regrets not having made it a mandatory life sentence, especially since this man continues in his adamant denial and shows no inkling of remorse. He’s seen cold blooded murderers, but never one who, caught with the murder weapon and the body in his arms, continued to voice his innocence. Others who stood before him, outraged at their sentencing, all to some extent recognized that they had committed a crime. In their cases Judge Epstein had some hope they would in time be reformed. He reflects. This one’s going to fight at every turn. Well, perhaps he didn’t have to make it mandatory life after all. Kaameleon will try to buck the system and in so doing get his sentence extended on his own. Judge Epstein feels better. His conscience would be clear. He stayed within the law without using it to exact revenge. He continues. “You have the right to appeal this sentence, but your rights are limited and you must file a notice of your intent to appeal within fourteen days. Your attorney can help you with this filing."

     He slams his gavel. “Remove the prisoner.”

     Kaameleon hears nothing. Cotton hammers at his ears. A wall of silence has descended on him. His attorney is speaking to him but no sound comes out of his mouth. Kaameleon in the last moment before he’s pulled through the side door cries out, “Gooding, I want to see Hunter!” The door closes on him and locks.

#

     Stephanie now stands in front of the lens. “This is Stephanie Landers reporting from the courthouse where only moments ago Judge Epstein, presiding over the trial of Alistair Warwick Kaameleon, has come down with a sentence of twenty five years to life. Officers have just removed him from the courtroom by that door.” She points to the door through which Kaameleon had been taken. “He’s now on his way to the basement where he will be strip searched and issued a jumpsuit. From here he will be transported in chains to the state prison to begin what is in essence a life sentence." Zealously she adds, "So justice has prevailed and this butcher has been removed from society and hopefully will never see the light of day again. We can all rest in peace that our legal system works. And smiling widely in the face of this tragedy, she sounds off, "This is Stephanie Landers, voice of TV Channel four, returning you to our previously scheduled programming.”

     Landers’ beautiful smile drops and she orders her cameraman to hurry up so they can get back to the station and edit the recording for a repeat broadcast on the evening news.

#

     Gooding sits in the courtroom long after it has cleared. Patrick seeing his mood had moved to a seat in a row behind him. Gooding regrets what has happened to his client and now ruminates over the realization that any appeal he will put in the future will probably be rejected. He bases his assumption on what happened during the course of this trial. It will be a long fight to get justice for this client. When he finally collects his papers into his briefcase and turns to leave, he faces a thin imposing man standing at the last row.

     Kaameleon’s father-in-law as if reading his mind, states, “It will never happen.”A righteous satisfaction showing on his face barely masks the look of avarice in the deep creases of his face. His features are not a result of premature aging but one put there by nature to warn those dealing with him that this is a dangerous man not to be trifled with. One who could as easily bestow magnanimous rewards for doing his bidding as bring down a terrible vengeance if you opposed him. Those who knew the gentle Amelia Kaameleon were not surprised that she had chosen not to communicate with him.

     At opposite ends of the room they stare in a duel of wills. Then the senator moves up the aisle. He stops at the second row of seats.

     Patrick, seated nearby, intimidated by his mere presence, shrinks away.

     Gooding says, “Kaam insists someone in government is responsible. Now that it’s over and he’s where you want him, I’m going to ask. Did you do it?”

     Coldly the senator snarls, “She was my daughter,” and then he says, "I’d watch out for my career if I were you."

     “Is that a threat?”

     “It’s funny how a whisper can spread. I’d take care," then abruptly turning and marching up the aisle and out of the courtroom he adds, “You are not going to get that appeal.” The door quietly shuts behind him.

No Time Waisted

4

     The deputies quickly move Kaameleon down interior stairs into the courthouse basement and march him through locked gates to an area where he’s told to remove his clothes and forced to bend so the guards can ensure nothing had been passed to him in the courtroom and secreted on his body. Kaameleon throughout the ordeal woodenly, without resistance, does as asked. Any resistance would be futile as it would be returned with increasing force and already feeling their hatred through their actions, hoping to avoid any unnecessary antagonism, he complies.

     His guilt now made official, the deputies no longer need to treat him with any degree of respect. Made to strip with a handful of guards watching him, his embarrassment is complete. How on earth, in a courtroom with all eyes on him, could he secrete anything? They look inside his mouth and make him ruff his stylishly cut hair into a bedraggled mop. Finally they give him a red jumpsuit and tell him to dress. Finding modesty futile he pulls on the jumpsuit.

     No time is wasted. With his hands cuffed and chained to his waist and his legs shackled, the guards quickly move him through the corridors and out through a loading dock into a high walled enclosure and from there he’s moved directly into a bulletproof prisoner transport vehicle. He being the last prisoner loaded, it immediately leaves the facility.

#

     Kaameleon, locked inside a small cubicle of the prisoner transport stares out the tiny window. It probably being a last look at the outside world he takes in every detail of the buildings, roads, cars, pedestrians and especially nature. Every tree, field and cloud is imprinted on his retina and into his memory. These are the things he will have to sustain him through the long years. As if the air of the countryside can enter his space his nose begins to itch but the space in the cubicle doesn’t allow him to bend down to his hands. It’s a small thing but he considers it a torture, and a foreboding of things to come.

#

     The transport exits the city and taking the highway heads farther and farther from the civilized world and the empire he built with its thousands of employees. All his possessions now stripped from him, even his citizenship, he no longer has any real rights. All his hopes now rest with his attorney. He can only hope that somewhere in the future he’ll be allowed to make an appeal and with it he will be able to gain a retrial.

     The truck hurdles onto an off ramp out of the city and heads across farmland flat as a pan, on a road as straight as an arrow, toward a complex of buildings growing ominously out of the landscape. From his little portal Kaameleon watches the dark mass get ever nearer. Barbed wire atop double rows of fences surrounds high walls. Even if a prisoner scaled the walls, the wire would slow them, making them easy targets for the guards in the strategically placed towers. He closes his eyes to keep these images from entering his memory.

#

     Inside an enclosed courtyard, the walls rising two stories around it, the prisoner transport comes to a halt. Rolls of razor wire top the walls of the courtyard. On a platform behind the outer corner a guard, machine gun in hand, watches. The gate closes before a prison guard approaches and unlocks the side door. Behind him two more guards wait. When the guard with the keys returns he’s followed by a line of twelve prisoners completely restrained by chains and attached to each other by another chain. Kaameleon is the last in the link.

     Made to wait in a line, while a guard tirades them with the rules. The guard’s intimidation immediately starts to wear at the spirit of each man in the line. Kaameleon’s thoughts drift. Images of his wife, dying in his arms, her life seeping from her, play before his eyes.

     Kaameleon’s eyes tear. It’s not the words hurled at them that bring tears to his eyes, or even the condition he finds himself in, but the terrible nightmare that has surfaced before his eyes that cause him to shed a tear. Words can now, nor ever will hurt like this horrific vision; His beloved Anastasia, her life seeping out of her, spreading ever further through the fibres of the plush beige carpet. Trying to control the tears his gaze turns skyward. This action doesn’t go unnoticed and is interpreted as smart-assed by the guards watching them.

     A tall, long armed guard standing behind the others watching him takes note of Kaameleon’s distraction. A small sly smile cracks the guard’s dull face. Senior guard, Sergeant Wayne Money approaches and with his night stick hooks Kaameleon’s arm and pulls him forward until he stands inches from him. The man chained next to him is forced to advance a couple of feet.

     Money then uses the stick to hold Kaameleon’s chin up and towering over him, stares into his eyes; His own, dark empty pits. He warns, “You better learn right now tears like that won’t be tolerated.”

     Visibly shaken Kaameleon steps back and is immediately grabbed by his chained waist and pulled forward.  “Go on,” says Money, “You lead the way,” and pulls him to start them moving. The string of prisoners pass through an open metal door into the darkened interior.

     Barely inside and the steel door clangs shut and is locked. The sound echoes across barren surfaces. Overhead, fluorescent lights behind grills flicker and buzz. Each man, pale with fear, in this environment, looks more dead than alive. Kaameleon takes note of the effect and thinks it appropriate, that being legally dead; they should now look the part as well. Depression, anger and resentment each take their turn to roll through him until he feels emotionally and physically drained. He takes deep breaths to steady his rapidly beating heart. 

#

     Inside the prison building, the string of prisoners with Kaameleon leading, are shuttled through a few more locked gates to a receiving area where their chains would be removed, made to strip, searched, checked by a doctor, given five minutes to shower with antiseptic soaps and deloused.

     The head guard follows Kaameleon closely. Unnerved by Money’s close scrutiny and in an attempt to gird himself Kaameleon purposely ignores him. Interpreted by Money as shyness and a weakness he takes pleasure in Kaameleon’s reaction. When it’s his turn to squat and cough Money redirects him and pushes him over a table and directs he be cavity searched. Kaameleon holds back a grimace, but his face flushes as his body is invaded by hard probing fingers. This can’t be right. The experience is numbing. He’s going to be sick.

     Money smiles.

     Finally the new inmates file past a counter to receive their new prison issue uniforms. All except Kaameleon receive green jumpsuits. Seeing the orange article handed him he looks up hoping a mistake had been made. The man facing him across the counter, by his cold stare, makes it abundantly clear there is no mistake. Kaameleon signs the clipboard pushed in front of him and takes his clothes.

     When the prisoners and Kaameleon have been processed, dressed and again fully restrained in chains, each one is taken by two guards holding their arms and moved through the corridors, through more locked gates to their assigned cells.

     Money personally taking charge of Kaameleon closely follows the guards directing him. Held by his arms he is quickly moved through corridors to the maximum security wing. The heavily grilled, barred gates locking behind him loudly reaffirm that his world is being progressively diminished as gate after gate; clanging shut takes the outside world farther and farther away.

     They make a final turn into the maximum secure wing. Two tiers of cells line one side of the corridor and a row of high set barred windows line the other. Unlike the other parts of the prison, this wing is old, the paint in cells flaking from damp walls. It will wait many more years for the ‘right time’ before it sees a refurbishment. Curious prisoners in other cells come to their bars and stare at the small, slim, sandy haired man, fully restrained in chains, pass. Someone calls out "Fresh meat!" Kaameleon’s heart skips a beat.

     The two guards holding Kaameleon pull him up in front of a brightly lit cell.

     Money sauntering behind the trio scans each cell as they pass. To avoid Money’s roving eyes, prisoners lean back and step away from their bars. Each man hopes that this new inmate will draw some of Money’s attention away from them. Cautiously they return to their bars to again look out.

     Money calls out, “Open thirteen!”

     The narrow, barred door, its paint worn and flaking, grinds open.

     Kaameleon looks inside and is filled with dread. The space is smaller than his king-size bed was at home. On the narrow metal cot, a rolled mattress, sheet and pillow. A small metal table and seat hang on the wall opposite. The gray walls are bare. This will be his home for the next twenty-five years.

     Money pushes Kaameleon to face a guard. While the chains are removed Kaameleon scans the corridor trying to see into the nearer cells. Their occupants melt back out of view.

     Money points Kaameleon inside. Not quick enough to move, he pushes him in. The space immediately brings a wave of nausea as its antiseptic smell and damp peeling walls invade his senses. He turns to look out the still open doorway. The three guards standing on the other side, a step closer to freedom, prevent any chance of him retracing his steps.

       Money again calls out. “Close thirteen!” The heavily grilled bars grind into place with a loud clang. The harsh sound of steel-on-steel as his cell door grinds into place and locks is enough to send his already delicate nerves close to the edge.

     The guards depart leaving Money to stand a while longer staring in at Kaameleon.

     Kaameleon turns his back. When he senses Money gone he slowly opens the mattress, spreads the sheet and sits on the bed. With elbows on knees, cradling his head he shakes it trying to rid it of this nightmare.

  Grandfather 

  5

     The thin, gray haired man from the courtroom, used to having his way, both in his position as a senator and as head of a large extended family stands at the double doors to the entrance of his home. Beside him his eight year old grandson, Hunter Kaameleon, slight of frame, tawny haired, a dozen freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose, holding onto a small suitcase with both hands, on the verge of tears looks up at him.

     The elder man looks upon the boy with a cold heart. If he didn’t look like his father he might have been able to warm to him. If he had had something in him of his mother then he might have allowed him into his life. Instead, he is now impatient to have the boy gone, banished from his life. He squats to the boy’s level. “Now Hunter, we’ve been over this many times before. We’re only doing what is best for you. It’s a good school. You’ll make a lot of friends and they’ll teach you how to grow into a man who can look after himself. You have to be strong now and work hard and we’ll see you over the Christmas Break. Alright?”

     The boy wants to cry, but his grandfather would disapprove and hoping that if he doesn’t disappoint him he might let him stay.

     His grandfather gives him a little push and nods towards the waiting taxi. “Go on.”

     Receiving no assistance from the elder man, Hunter carries his small case and enters the taxi. He pulls the door closed himself. The vehicle quickly circles the sweeping drive and heads towards the road. In the back seat of the taxi Hunter sits up to look back at the house. His grandfather is no longer there. Hunter was glad when his grandfather had arranged it so he no longer had to stay in foster care. It had been hard for him when he learned that his mother was dead. The people in the foster home were OK, but he needed his father and they wouldn’t let him see him. He cries remembering how they kept asking about his mom and dad. Did they fight? Was he mean to her? Did he hit her? Did he hit him? So many questions and they confused him. Never satisfied with his answer they kept asking over and over. He was no longer sure and had shut down refusing to talk to them.

     Then his grandfather came to the centre to see him and was nice to him. He was glad. He cried in the old man’s arms. His grandfather had then told him that all those people asking him questions just wanted to keep him safe and that if he told them the truth that maybe his father wasn’t so nice to his mom, then he’d make sure he wouldn’t have to stay with the foster family. He would bring him home.

    Hunter cries again wiping his tears on his sleeve. He told them what they wanted; agreed with them. They were finally happy with him, and when he wanted to know when he could see his dad, they then told him never because he had killed his mother and had been taken away to a place where he could never hurt anyone again.

      Hunter pulls out a picture from his pocket of his parents with him wedged between them. They’re smiling, happy. He’s not sure anymore if they loved him. He stares at it not understanding why he can’t stay with his grandparents. There was more than enough room in that big house with its three car garage, pool and tennis court.  And grandmamma liked him, he was sure of that. A single tear rolls down his cheek and splashes onto the photograph. He carefully wipes it with his palm, bravely pockets the picture and looks out to watch the sites on his way to the airport. Unknown to him he would never return.

Nothing Left To Lose

6

     A cold day a year into his incarceration, wearing his prison issued jacket against the chill, Kaameleon sits at the tiny table with its surface now taken over by a tower of books. Reading a letter his hands start to shake. The letter falls from his fingers. He screams, “That bastard!” and furiously pushes the tower to the floor. Placing his head on his arms he cries tears for a new grief. The letter lands on the floor face up. In it, Gooding has informed him that he has lost custody of his son. His father in law having hated him from the moment he learned of his involvement with his daughter had often interfered in their relationship. So much so that she finally broke ties with her family, but now this. This was a blow to equal the loss of that beautiful soul. The old scarecrow had finally achieved his promised revenge. He had succeeded in gaining custody of Kaameleon’s son and legally changed the boy’s name. Not to his own family’s, but some other -- unknown. And Gooding had further added to his grief by informing him that a court order had been obtained, permanently sealing the records. He would never be able to uncover the new identity.

     “Two months ago! Gooding, you bastard! Why didn’t you stop it?! Oh God...” In his distress he attacks the books on the floor, kicking them with such fury, that by the time the guards arrive to subdue him, he has reduced them to shreds.

     Kaameleon finds himself in solitary for the next two months.

     And Money is later pleased to inform him that because of his behaviour and the damaging of government property, he now stands little chance of getting paroled. He can guarantee that Kaameleon will be there for the full duration of his sentence.

     Kaameleon retreats into his memories. He becomes completely withdrawn and compliant.

         Money’s Plaything

                  7

     The routine never changing, monotonous days drain into years. Three winters, springs, summers and autumns, have passed outside the walls of the security wing unseen by Kaameleon and its inhabitants. With twenty-three hours spent in their cells the prisoners in maximum security are allowed a one hour daily exercise period either in a larger concrete room with only a chin-up bar or outside in an enclosed area. Their one hour ‘outside’, spent in a narrow thirty foot corridor between the walls of the buildings only allows a small rectangular view of the sky. It’s paved concrete ground, warmed by furnaces from beneath, quickly melts any snow and evaporates rainfall. Only the crisp cold air of winter and the stifling heat of summer in ’the yard’ tells the prisoners housed here that the seasons, unlike their lives, continue.

#

     It’s morning and little light from the highset windows enters the concrete corridor of the secure wing. It must be raining outside. Kaameleon, standing at the bars of his cage, stares at them. Though dirty with years of grime, he can still see, on sunny days, a patch of blue sky. But today there is no blue patch and his mood, like the sky, is gray. It means he’ll miss his allotted time in the yard if it’s raining. He closes his eyes and sees fields of grass and trees. He visualises happier days where his wife is alive and his son is part of his life. An alarm sounds and Kaameleon is brought back to the stark reality of his world. He takes a step back from the bars of his cell. Two prison guards pass taking roll call. Two more guards follow and check that the man standing at the bars is correctly dressed and the bed made. Each time they pass they scan his cell for the customary picture or memento seen in other cells. But inside his cell there are no pictures, no mementos, nothing that the other prisoners display to connect them to former lives, friends, and families. Only a single law book on the tiny table shows that a mind, ravenous for distraction, reads. Since his incident with the destruction of the books, he has only been allowed one book at a time once a week. He is particularly depressed today because he has exhausted the library to the point that he has even read some of the dreadful fictions and wishes he never had. They now are also unfortunately permanently filed in his memory.

     That he keeps nothing reaffirms for the guard’s belief in his cold-hearted nature, and was a cold blooded killer who deserved to be here. That no one visited him only added to this conviction. They would never know that he didn’t need mementos and photos to jog his memory. He only needed to close his eyes for his former world to come alive. For him there is no future, only the past, one that often visited him in the form of waking visions and nightmares he had no control over. Another alarm and one by one cell doors slide open.    

     Today, to celebrate Thanksgiving they are being given the privilege of eating together in the cafeteria. They’re having a ’real’ turkey dinner with extra helpings of mashed potatoes, vegetables and cranberry sauce. His door slides open and he steps out to join other prisoners already handcuffed, shacked and chained into a string of six men, the number that can be seated around a table. Because the prisoner in cell three as punishment, was having his right to participate in the festivity with its promise of ‘real food’ withheld, Kaameleon finds himself at the lead of his group. He is the smallest in line. A whistle is blown and the twenty-three prisoners in this shift, the groups separated by ten feet, move up the corridor and file out past the grilled bars of the gates. No one speaks. Grateful that today they don’t have to eat their meals in their cells, they move quickly. No one wants to waste a second of their twenty minute lunch shift before they are to return to their cells and the next tier allowed in their turn to have a meal in the company of others. Leaving behind the grey walls of the maximum wing for the white walls of a newer wing, each man’s spirit lifts.

      Outside the cafeteria each man’s right hand is released from the chain and the group moved into the antiseptic lunch room to quickly file past the stainless steel food counters with plastic trays, to collect their ‘real’ turkey dinners.

     A spoon of lumpy, watery paste slides off the spoon onto Kaameleon’s tray. He guesses this must be the mash potatoes they were promised. He avoids looking at it and smiles weakly at the man wielding the spoon. He moves over. A couple of gray reconstituted eggs land on the paste and a spoon of mixed vegetables and the cranberries add colour. Then a pale round slice of ‘turkey’, looking suspiciously like the meatloaf that regularly appears in their meals and the correctional services christened ‘chicken’, nestles on the ingredients. He collects two slices of soft white bread, a cup of instant coffee and leading his group moves to a table near a wall under the guard’s balcony. In his attempt to be inconspicuous Kaameleon actually appears to shrink.

     From their perch two of the guards, holding rifles at the ready, watch them eat. Their weapons intimidatingly move over the assembled. Knowing they will fire without hesitation at anyone causing a disturbance the inmates are careful of their actions. 

     An eerie silence prevails among the prisoners from maximum security. Segregated from other prisoners by a wall of bars, to these men kept in their cells away from contact with others twenty-four hours a day, having a Thanksgiving meal in the company of others, is a privilege they will not chance losing. Any stray insult or jibe flung their way from the inmates on the other side is ignored. They keep to themselves, only chancing a few whispered words with each other and quickly moving to their seats to wait for the signal to start eating. It’s their chance to put a face to the voices of fellow inmates. They chance these discreet exchanges only because the din coming from the main population on the other side of the barrier, not having such reservations, openly communicate with each other drowning out these chanced whispers. When the seats are filled and the inmates all quietly waiting, a whistle signals and the room as one start eating. No one speaks. All eyes are on their trays.

     Kaameleon holds his breath, shovels in the concoction, grimaces and washes it down with the unrecognizable liquid passing for coffee. He glances at the others around his table. They show no reservations and seem to be enjoying the repast. It amazes him how easily they had been convinced and now believe this meal would be better. He lifts another forkful to his mouth, barely chews and forces himself to swallow; if he didn’t need the calories...

     Above, on the guard’s balcony, Money leans over the rail better to see him and watches. He doesn’t miss Kaameleon’s distaste. A small satisfied smile insinuates itself.

     The man next to Kaameleon spills his drink. It runs towards Kaameleon’s tray. He lifts it and swears, “Shit,” but not loud enough to be heard by those above him. He tries moving over to avoid having it pour onto his leg. His neighbour on his other side, wanting space between himself and anybody else, below the table, stomps on his foot. Kaameleon ‘yelps’ and immediately looks up. From the observation balcony, Wayne Money grins down at him then leaves the balcony by a door behind him.

     In a panic Kaameleon drops the plastic fork and watches the entrance. Only a few moments pass before two guards burst in, rush him, detach him from the chain connecting him to his neighbours and pull him up off his seat onto the floor. His food tray falls from the table. The nearest man reaches to collect the spilled contents. Not giving Kaameleon a chance to stand up, the guards drag him by his wrists across the room into the corridor. The rest of the room carries on as if nothing had happened.  

     In the corridor they pull him up and with a nightstick to his neck, hold him against the wall to wait the arrival of Money. Kaameleon remains completely compliant. The nightstick at his neck would make it impossible for him to move anyway and he’s learned long ago that any kind of objection or attempt to defend himself would make the situation far worse. Now he prepares himself for the torment to come. The game Money will play with him. The games Money has honed down to a fine art; a thousand ways to amuse himself with his favourite amusement, Kaameleon. He closes his eyes and waits. To keep his apprehension at bay, he sees again, trees, valleys, mountains; another life. One in which his wife is as real as if he could reach out and touch her. His features grow placid. It makes the night stick holder unsure. His captive should be cowering in fear and pleading for mercy but instead, it’s himself now who grows apprehensive.

     Money saunters up and addresses the man holding the nightstick to Kaameleon’s throat. “I told you he’d be trouble today, didn’t I?”

     The guard nods. He’s new to the unit and he’s enjoying this.

     Kaameleon’s heart sinks. Now he has two of them to be afraid of.

     The stick presses harder. Kaameleon choking struggles to keep his hands from pushing it away. Past experience has taught him not to give them any reason to escalate their aggression.

     Money continues. “I don’t understand how you can have such a short memory. How is it you don’t remember that no talking means no talking? I guess you’ll need to be taught all over again.”

     The new guard nods. He’s waiting to see what’s going to happen next.

     They push Kaameleon to the floor and cuff his hands behind him.

     Following the other guard’s lead, the new guard quickly catches on. They don’t have to be polite or careful in how they handle this one. They take hold of and drag Kaameleon by his shacked ankles along the hallways back to his cell. Kaameleon resists crying out as he twists onto arms and shoulders trying, not always successfully, to keep his weight off his hands.

#

     They arrive at his cell. Kaameleon is pulled to his feet.  The door slides open and he’s shoved inside. He lands heavily onto his stomach. With the wind knocked out of him. Still cuffed and shackled he struggles, finally sucking in a breath. The pain in his hands is excruciating. Slowly, trying not to show how much he hurts, he crawls onto the bed and curls up on it. The door slides closed. It keeps Money out. Kaameleon is glad for this small blessing. The pain in his hands is excruciating.

     “Next time we won’t be so polite,” threatens Money.

     When Money finishes his chuckling and leaves, Kaameleon with difficulty makes his way to his tiny sink. To reduce the pain in his hands, burned raw, he tries to cool them under cold running water. Numb from the cold he finally manoeuvres a damp towel around his cuffed hands. 

     A guard making his rounds, seeing Kaameleon inside approaches and asks, “Hey, what’re you doing in there?” 

     Surprised, Kaameleon jumps to face the guard. 

     Seeing how he backs away with his hands behind him, the guard commands Kaameleon to approach and turn around. At the drop down slot he unwraps the towel from Kaameleon’s hands. The blood stained towel falls to the ground revealing his cuffed hands. 

     “What the fuck?" he stares at the hands and Kaameleon, "Money do that?”

     “Yes sir.”

     He removes the handcuffs and examines Kaameleon’s hands more carefully. “I’ll make an appointment with the medic, have that taken care of." He takes a moment before asking, “What’s he got against you?”

     Shaking his head in reply Kaameleon can only say, “Thank you. Please, tell Money I didn’t ask you to help.”

     "Sure.”

     With his hands freed Kaameleon rinses out the towel, rewraps them and sits on the bed waiting for either a move to see the medic or a visit from Money. He shudders at the possibility that Money will be the first to show.

The Terror

                    8

     Darkness in the cell block. A rare moment of quiet prevails. Somewhere a cough. The high-set barred windows in the darkened corridor fade from black to gray. Opposite the windows, in cell thirteen, Kaameleon wrestles in his bed. He tosses, turns and mumbles. The blanket churns. Kaameleon, in a cold sweat, gasping like a drowning man, wakes from another nightmare. He jolts into a sitting position. The early morning light creeping down the wall behind him slowly illuminates his face; on it - terror. His face is swollen; the lower lip split and left eye nearly swollen shut. He pulls his knees up and clasps his head, desperate to squeeze out the recurring horror. He cries. He can’t help himself.

     A loud crashing bang on the cell bars startles him. He’ll never get used to it no matter how many times it happens. He jumps crashing into the back wall.

     Wayne Money stands at the bars, smiling his dirty smile. “Tsk, tsk. Crying again.”

     Kaameleon squeezes up against the gray peeling wall. He tries desperately to control himself. With tears running down his face, he turns into the corner.

     Chuckling, Money just walks away. He’s succeeded in rousing the house.

     Knowing it has to be Kaameleon again, inmates increasingly voice their objections. “Aliiice!” -- “Go to hell!” -- “Shut the fuck up! “I’m going to kill you, go fuck yourself!!” And, "Cry baby!” is interspersed with screams, wailing and fake crying. It’s a distraction from the monotony of their lives that unifies the inmates in a common goal, the insults continue. It goes on and on. It seems endless. It echoes up the corridor and bounces back, louder.

     Feeling weak after the adrenalin rush Kaameleon shoves his shaking hands under his armpits. They call out from all the cells except from one, the one next to his.

     In cell number twelve, George Giorgioni, thirty two years old, in prison from the age of eighteen, feeling for his neighbour, covers is head with his pillow. His arm presses down on the lumpy object but it helps little. He tries anyway to block out the voices echoing around the cell block. Even if it blocked out all the sound, without hearing it he would know what they were saying. It never differs. Every day, month after month, year after year the taunting never changes. He’s sorry for his neighbour, the recipient of the malicious complaints, taunts and jeers. He moves to the bars, squeezing close to the wall. “Don’t listen.” He waits. “They’ll stop. Talk to me. Tell me again how you’re going to start up your companies and how you’re going to give me that nice cushy job.”

     There’s no response from Kaameleon’s cell.

     “Hey, Kaam. How about the time you played that trick on the dean in your university? That was a good one. Tell me that one again. ... Kaam?”

     Silence from his neighbour, George turns back to his bed and sits.

     Kaameleon turns from the corner and looks past the bars up to the tiny piece of the bluing sky. It’s beautiful. Part of a white fluffy cloud passes. Then the horrible buzzing of the overhead fluorescents coming on dims the colour of the blue. He turns back into the corner.

The Justice

                9

     An office. Two walls lined with leather bound tomes. Two chairs face a large desk and a comfortably worn leather sofa, showing signs of age, faces the shelves. The office of Justice John Harris, fifty-two, gray-haired, tall, solid of build and character, in his trademark black suit concentrates over his reading. He’s one of the highly respected members of the State’s Supreme Court and his time is limited. Justice Harris has the added distinction of being a man who yearly, at his own expense and time, searches for and re-establishes an innocent man back into the community. But he is very busy now and intolerant of anyone uselessly wasting his time. A knock at the door distracts him from his reading. “Come in. It’s open!” The visitor approaches. Justice Harris glances up. Not pleased to see Gooding he says, “I’ll give you five minutes.”

     “Justice. Good of you to take time to see me. Have you been able to look over my notes?”

     “A quick look at the summary and I see no reason for this case to be placed on my list for consideration or for that matter to be prioritized.” He moves a document, signs it, closes the dossier, moves it aside, pulls up another, opens it and signs another document. He continues on to the next. “Good day.”

     Gooding hovers nearer. “Sir, your efforts to take on one case each year, a case that you feel would most benefit the community will really help my client...”

     Harris’s pen hovers. He eyes Gooding and sternly says, “No. I thought you understood what I’m trying to do. I’ve given back to the community, two doctors, a research chemist and a teacher. Each of these is doing some good.”

     “Yes sir. I realize he’s a business man, but he’s also an inventor. Before he was incarcerated he was providing the government with some key innovations.”

     “Computer programs? I should think there are a great many talented people capable of doing that without this one. I’ll have to pass. His records show no community oriented efforts.”

     “But he was innocent. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

     Looking over his glasses and sounding callous, Harris says, “So are countless others. And you have provided no evidence to support your statements. My time and resources are limited. I can only afford to invest in a truly deserving individual, one that will give back to the community tenfold. What has this one done for the greater good?” Harris picks up a document and extends it for Gooding to look at.

     Realizing what it is, Gooding silently cringes. The Justice has done his homework. This is not information Gooding has provided. And he said he took a quick look. This is a formidable man.

     “Look at it," says Harris. "He’s in solitary more often than not.”

     Gooding won’t let this deter him. Not now, not after four years of hard work and finally getting the ear of a judge. No, more than that, a Justice of the State Supreme Court. No, this supports what he’s been adhering to all along, that Kaameleon is being targeted by the head guard. Gooding challenges, “He spends just as much time in the infirmary as he does in solitary. He’s in danger. The guards are targeting him.”

     Justice Harris doesn’t believe it; people don’t end up in solitary without reason. “Really? The guards? Hard to believe. If you had some more compelling evidence I might have considered.”

     “I do, in this file.” Gooding extends the thick file he brought. “It’s evidence withheld at his trial and...”

     Pressed for time and convinced the case has no merit Harris says, “I’m sorry Mr. Gooding; I’m due back in court. Let him file an appeal.” He rises to prepare himself for the next hearing. “This will be the last time you will bring up this individual. Good day.”

     “We’ve exhausted that avenue. Sir...”

     “Good day Mr. Gooding.”

     Demoralized, Gooding replies, “Yes sir. Thank you Justice, for your time.” Discreetly fuming he collects his documents and exits. “Thank you for seeing me." He closes the door softly.

                                                        #

     Now he’ll have to tell Kaameleon that his last hope has been unsuccessful. Descending the broad stairs adjacent to the curved wall of the courthouse’s circular atrium, he stops and reconsiders. People move around him to climb the stairs. No. He can’t tell the man yet again that he tried and failed. He doesn’t need to know. “I’ll just have to try again. Find some other way.” He quickly continues on down, crosses the atrium and exits into the open, takes a deep breath of the fresh air, looks down the streets disappearing in the distance then, more slowly descends the broad sweep of stairs to the street. He’s planning his next move.

#

     From his track record dealing with Kaameleon’s case, one would wonder why Kaameleon keeps him on. Though he had lost this case and hasn’t been able to secure a retrial, Gooding is still considered by the legal community to be an extremely competent defence lawyer. This reputation and that he doesn’t, to Kaameleon’s knowledge, defend known criminals, no matter the remuneration offered, has kept him on Kaameleon’s payroll; funding him by having him act as CEO of his companies. That act in itself places an enormous trust in his integrity.

     Because Gooding still believed him innocent he will keep trying to gain Kaameleon’s liberty. He smiles and hurries on.

Uninvited, Unannounced

10

     Determined, Samuel Gooding accompanied by his young associate, Patrick Kepler, presses the doorbell again. Somewhere inside the large Victorian era house, a chime sounds. On the porch beside him, Patrick, acting guilty, carries a large briefcase and several folders. They teeter over his arm threatening to fall. Patrick is nervous. He’s learned to expect almost anything from Gooding. But coming here like this, uninvited, unannounced, makes him apprehensive. No telling what kind of welcome the Justice is going to give. He just knows it won’t be good. He wants to tell Gooding they should just leave.

     Gooding glances at Patrick. He looks sick. “You alright?”

     “Ah, yes?” He nods too vigorously convincing no one.

     “Whatever you do, don’t let him see that you’re afraid.”

     Patrick blanches. This advice has him almost drop the files and run.

     The lock turns. Patrick gasps. Folders slip. He juggles them back. Justice Harris in pyjamas and bathrobe opens his door. His look almost has Gooding lead Patrick in a retreat.

     “Gooding! What’re you doing here?!”

     “Good evening Justice. Please excuse my disturbing you at home.” He squeezes past the Justice into his foyer.

     Harris turns on Gooding. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have police remove you and charge you with trespassing!”

     “Call them. But until they arrive you’re going to hear me out.”

     Harris is surprised by Gooding’s challenge. “Is this about Kaameleon?”

     “Yes sir, it is.”

     “You know that it is illegal for you to approach me like this?”

     “Yes sir.”

     Harris studies him, starts closing the door, has it stopped by Patrick’s apologetic head poking in. Bump!

     “Sorry,” squeaks Patrick. He squeezes in and leans back to control the files from toppling.

     “You’ve got ten minutes,” says Harris. Then about-faces and heads up the hallway next to the stairs towards the back of the house. Patrick stares. He fully expected they’d be arrested. Without word Gooding follows. Patrick, still juggling the files hops to.

     Harris’s large, rectangular study is a room from the past. Books fill the antique wood shelving floor to ceiling. Like those in his chambers at the courthouse most are leather bound law books. A worn Persian carpet lies between the sofa and chairs and an antique lamp sits on the large worn desk, its patina worn into the wood by a century of polishing. Files sit organized on a corner.

     “Take a seat,” says Harris.

     Gooding and Patrick move into the two chairs facing the desk. Patrick distributes his files over the desk’s surface and pulls more out of his case.

     Harris watches him. His patience already nonexistent is fast escalating towards eviction. He’s thinking the young fellow impertinent to pile his desk without asking permission. If he keeps this up they will have used up their time without getting down to whatever it is they came here to say. Oh well, maybe a good thing. He glances at his watch.

     Gooding notices the Justice’s annoyance and reaches to stop Patrick from continuing; however, the Justice himself curtails Patrick’s action with his next comment.

     “Mr. Gooding, this is the last time you will bring up this individual. I told you he shows no promise. And you will curtail inundating my mail with your letters.”

     “You’re wrong. The documents you’ve had access to from the state and the prison don’t tell the whole story.” Gooding indicating individual files on the desk annoys Harris further. “This one contains the evidence suppressed at his trial. This one documents his acquisition of a Masters in Law during his first six months in prison.”

     “So, he’s intelligent.”

     Gooding pointedly adds. “This one... he has engaged the services of The Gonzales Investigative Firm.”

     “I know of them.”

     “You wanted some evidence of social services. Well here it is. Gonzales has, at Kaameleon’s expense, over two years, supplied the evidence to get an acquittal for an inmate on death row, and in these files, two individuals that are in the process of having their cases reviewed.”

     “He has the money to pursue these avenues and you make a tidy profit.”

     “Oh come on now! That’s not fair!”

     “Mr. Gooding. Why are you so adamant about this particular individual?”

     “Because he’s an extraordinary man who’s been dealt an incredibly unjust hand in life.”

     “I’m aware of his past, his loss of parents at fourteen and the foster care placements...”

     “Against those odds he put himself through university.”

     “Yes and his arrests for drug and alcohol abuse?”

     “Youthful folly. He turned to drugs and alcohol to try and fill the void in his life. That’s the record supplied to you by the state. “

     “My point exactly.”

     “Sir, if I may.” He nudges files. “Look at it again and you’ll see he became a model citizen when he met his wife. ... Sir, she was his whole world and someone took her away from him. And they put him in prison where every day is a hell where he has to live it knowing someone put him in a position where every legal route is quashed and his life is at risk.”

     “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have evidence to support these claims?”

     “It disappears each time we uncover it. Witnesses disappear or change their stories. Documents disappear and evidence filed to build a defence vanishes from police custody and from our own offices. Replacing them was not always possible. You are his last hope. Show him some mercy.”

     The Justice finds these claims hard to believe, but then, Gooding knows better than to perjure himself. “Can you substantiate these claims?”

     “We have affidavits from investigators and two very brave police officers. After the first burglary of my offices I’ve had this evidence and any new evidence placed in a safe deposit box that I can make available to you if you wish to see them." He points. "Certified copies are in that folder. Unfortunately we have not been able to link a perpetrator to these incidents. We only have suppositions and that, we both know, is of little value.”

     There is a pause while the Justice considers what he’s heard.

     “Why should I choose him over another deserving individual?”

     “He fights injustice.”

     “Now you’re reaching.”

     “Please sir, look at all the evidence Gonzales managed to find.” He again indicates the folders, “You’ll see that certain innovations he created later appeared in the Middle East with dire consequences. That’s what they were after.”

     “You’re reaching again.”

     His tone commanding, Gooding says, “No sir! These are dangerous people who framed him.” Gooding is treading extremely close to that invisible line existing between a Justice and officers in the legal system.

     “Why come to me?”

     “Because you can’t be bought or threatened, because you are interested in justice."

     Grimly Harris retorts, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

     Patrick wishing he wasn’t there calculates if it would be possible to beat a hasty retreat. He looks at the closed door. He can always apologise and blame Gooding for his being there.    

     Gooding seeing his panic places a hand on his arm, calming him and undaunted continues, “Because even though he hasn’t been able to get justice for himself he still fights for others. And they are not persons who will give back to the community. Sons, brothers, husbands fathers, ordinary people who simply deserve a right to life. Give him that chance too. Give him a right to life.” Gooding lets Harris stew a moment. “There is more.”

     “I think you’ve said quite enough.” Harris looks at his watch. “You’ve gone over your ten minutes.”

     Patrick’s admiration for Gooding’s pitch deflates completely at the possibility that Harris will flatly refuse to help. The possibility clearly shows on his face.

     “No need to go on.” Harris starts gathering the folders together. “I’ll study your documents and have a reply by the end of next month.”

     “Not good enough.”

     This remark raises one of the Justice’s eyebrows and has Patrick shrink lower in his seat. Bats in his stomach are desperately fighting to get out. He swallows to keep them down.  

     Harris looks at him. Under his critical eye Patrick’s green tinge drains. He pales. Harris knows this young man is here because of Gooding so he’ll let him off with a simple reprimand. But Gooding... he returns to look on Gooding. It is not a pleasant.

     Gooding doesn’t fail to see the Justice’s growing disapproval and knowing there will never be another opportunity to put his case forward continues anyway. “You have to move him now. Transfer him to another facility immediately. The beatings by the guards have increased and Kaameleon’s state of mind is in a very delicate state. He’s on the verge of a breakdown.”

     “They have psychologists who can help him with coping mechanisms.”

     Gooding raises a hand to stop Harris interjecting. “Before they go too far, please, fill out a Court Order. Transfer him to a different institution where he can be kept safe until you can get him released.”

     Harris stares blankly at Gooding. It amazes him that Gooding would presume he’d agree, especially with Gooding’s unprofessional behaviour. What is it about this Kaameleon that he would risk disbarment?  He asks, “Who was he supposed to have wronged?”

     “Would you believe me if I tell you someone in government and they have been blocking every attempt I make to get a retrial? Like I said, my office has been burgled twice and we found bugs too. I know that doesn’t prove a connection, but it’s an awful coincidence. ... He is innocent. Help me save his life.”

     Harris continues staring then withdraws a form from a drawer. I have a cancellation day after tomorrow at three O’clock. Get him to my office and I’ll talk to him.” He takes out another form and writes. “This is a court order to bring him to the court house; a copy for the Warden and a summons for Kaameleon to appear in my chambers at three on Thursday”

     Elated, Gooding replies, “Yes sir! He’ll be there.” “Thank you Justice. You will not regret this decision.”

     Harris waves him off. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. See yourself out.”

     “Good night sir. We’ll leave these,” he indicates the files.

     Patrick in awe of Gooding almost kowtowing to the Justice backs out of the office.      

     Gooding grabs his arm before he makes a fool of himself. “Good evening Justice and thank you.” They leave the study and head to the front door.

#

     Gooding opens the front door and says to Patrick, “Better close your mouth.”

     Patrick’s mouth literally snaps shut. Gooding sets the dead bolt, lets Patrick out and before exiting himself looks over the large well appointed living room. Something about it; somehow it feels empty. Shuddering off the feeling of being watched he pulls the door closed.

     Self consciously Patrick says. “Awesome. How did you know he would accept?”

     “I didn’t. I was counting on the one thing that sets him apart from all the other judges.”

     “What is that?” They stop at Gooding’s car. Pausing for drama he looks across the hood at Patrick. “That Justice in there is an honest man and when I reminded him of that, he had no choice other than at least review the case.”

     “Then you did know.”

     Gooding shakes his head. “You don’t get it do you?”

     Patrick puzzled shakes his head.

     “That man follows a strict code of justice he can’t ignore no matter how much he doesn’t believe in a case and I supplied him with the material that forces him to at least look at it. He might still flatly reject it. “Gooding smiles, “I’m taking you back to your car then I’m going to the office. I’ve got a few phone calls to make.”

#

     Still at his desk, Harris rubs his face wishing he had prevented Gooding from entering and once he did, he should have immediately called the police to have them removed. He looks at the files Gooding brought then his own pile. When on earth is he supposed to find the time to look into this? He looks at his watch again, shakes his head and leaves the room.

     Fifteen minutes later he returns with a pot of coffee and a plate of chocolate chip cookies, sits, takes a deep breath and pulls Gooding’s evidence file closer and opens it.

You Have a Visitor

11

     In his cell, unable to settle, perspiring, aching, his skin crawling, Kaameleon paces. One, two, three steps, turns, one two, three steps, turns. He feels he’s driving himself mad. He goes to the bars and pulls at them. From the corridor it starts. The voices echo and magnify as they bounce off the walls.

     “Hey! Crybaby!” Inmates make baby crying sounds.

     “Aliiice!” … Aaaliiice!” louder still, “Crybaaaby!” A chorus takes up the chant.

     More suckling sounds and vulgarities follow. Voices overlap, reverberate, echo and grow. It goes on and on and on.

     At the barred gate to the unit Money listens and smiles. He lets it continue.

     Keeping his hands over his ears Kaameleon moves to sit at the tiny table where a tower of files now occupies the desk. He rocks.

     The noise suddenly diminishes to near silence. Kaameleon stops rocking and listens. Money must have entered the cell block.

     Money appears at the bars, then says, “You got a visitor.”

     Seeing Money, dread overtakes him. He stands and inches backward to the back wall.

     Two guards carrying chains join Money outside the cell.

     Seeing the chains Kaameleon tentatively asks, “Who is it?”

     No answer.

     The door grinds open. The guards enter and unceremoniously restrain him and pull him into the corridor. As they march him to the gate, the jeering and calling starts again. Prisoners move to the bars to watch him pass.

     To make Kaameleon move faster, Money pokes him hard in the back with his stick.

     Kaameleon gasps. His step falters. Trying to distract Money he asks, “Who’s come? Who is it?” Shrinking from Money’s look he’s immediately sorry he dared ask and is shocked at the swiftness and force by which Money’s baton lands on his thigh. An involuntary scream escapes his lips as he falters and almost collapses.

     The guards hold him up.

     Money demands, “Did I ask you something?”

     Kaameleon shakes his head no. Limping, he wishes that just once he could have a day free from this monster and his intimidations, insults and beatings. He grits his teeth and refrains from making any further sound.

     “There, you see, you can learn.”

     The two guards propelling him forward increase their pace.

A Warning

12

      Samuel Gooding in a small gray interview room, with fluorescent lights behind grills flickering, sits at a metal table. He’s been waiting over an hour and is growing increasingly apprehensive that yet again he won’t see his client. He wonders if today Kaameleon will again, suddenly be in the infirmary or in solitary. At the sound of a key turning in the lock of the door across the room, he looks up.

     Kaameleon, accompanied by two guards, enters and is brought to the table and attached to it by his hands. He doesn’t look up and cowers. One of the guards remains by the door.

     Shocked, but not surprised, Gooding notes the damage. One of Kaameleon’s eyes is bright purple, almost swollen shut and his cheek is blotched in shades of orange and yellow from an older trauma. Gooding looks at the exposed arms also decorated with numerous blue and purple blotches.  “My God. What’s happened this time?"

    Kaameleon just shakes his head and with a look indicates ’what have you got?’

    Gooding opens the file on the table in front of him and speaking quietly says, “I managed to get you a hearing.” 

     Kaameleon quietly says, “I want a retrial, an acquittal.”

     Gooding removes a document from the file. Not to be overheard, he leans closer. But the guard moves away from the door and starts to advance. Gooding leans back again and the guard partly retreats. Eying him, Gooding continues. “This is a Justice and he’s looking at the evidence; he wants to talk to you. Tomorrow in his chambers,”

     Kaameleon questioningly looks up.

     Moving the Court Order and the subpoena within Kaameleon’s reach Gooding says, “I’ve arranged the transport. Here, sign this to acknowledge you’ve been subpoenaed and understand.” He places a pen in Kaameleon’s hand. “All this is last minute. The warden is being notified this morning so they can’t put in an objection.”

     The guard is immediately beside them to snatch the pen from Kaameleon’s hand and with a stern look returns it to Gooding. “No objects are to be passed to the prisoner.”

     “If you don’t mind, I need his signature on this document.”

     The guard tries to read it, but Gooding has reached over and placed his hand over it.

     Astonished by Gooding’s challenge Kaameleon nervously glances at the guard, then knowing that Money will find out about this, cringes. “It’s OK. I don’t have to sign it.”

     “Yes you do,” says Gooding. He studies him, pale, perspiring, and unwell.

     The guard stares long at Gooding before placing the pen back into Kaameleon’s hand. The moment he’s signed, he snatches it back and returns it to Gooding. On returning to his place by the door the guard bestows on Gooding a venomous stare. 

     His fingers pushing the document back, Kaameleon quietly asks, “Couldn’t you tell me sooner?”

     Gooding shakes his head and lowering his voice further adds, “This was arranged last night. And I don’t want you back in the infirmary before we move you. This place has ears.”

     The door behind Kaameleon opens and Money enters and purposely moves to stand beside the table. His attention is fully on Gooding. He’s been listening and watching on a closed circuit in the surveillance room up the corridor. There’s no way he’s going to allow the exchange to go any further. Kaameleon is not going to leave the walls of this prison if he can help it. Especially not to be interviewed by a Justice.  

     Kaameleon shrinks. His whole demeanour submissive, he wants to move out of reach, but as he’s anchored to the table he can’t.

     Money’s look is stern. There is no neutrality in this man. His animosity shows. He doesn’t even pretend to hide it. Addressing Gooding he says, “Time’s up. You better go now.”

     Gooding replies, “He has a right to speak to his council. We still have fifteen minutes.”

He looks on impotently as the second guard returns to assist the first to detach Kaameleon from the table and roughly pull him from the room. Gooding helplessly looks on in disbelief. He catches the fear and distress etched on Kaameleon’s face before he’s pulled out and the door slammed and locked..

     Money, ominously towering over him wordlessly imparts he wants Gooding gone -- now.

     Gooding’s had dealings with this guard before and is sure he’s responsible for Kaameleon’s present state, but he’s never been able to make a case against him. No prisoner would give evidence. The official policy allowing threats and punishments help keep prisoners in line but Money’s methods go beyond the accepted methods of isolation and restriction of privileges. A particularly repugnant aura surrounds the man. How, thinks Gooding, could such a being be allowed to serve in any position where he has power over other human beings? Afraid for Kaameleon, and needing to secure his safety, Gooding, not allowing himself to be intimidated stands and faces Money. Leaning in over the table and using his own formidable presence says, “If anything happens to him, I will hold you personally responsible and I will bring you up on charges.”

     Money smirks. He too leans in and says, "Better go," and straightens again.

     Gooding maintaining his posturing collects his documents and leaves the room.

#

     That night, in a darkened corridor of the solitary wing’s shower area, two prison guards, repeatedly hit a small slim figure hidden in the shadows of a shower stall. The blows land indiscriminately. No longer able to raise his arms they fall to his sides. A blow sends him into the wall. Stunned he falls to the concrete floor and lays motionless. The beating continues.

Money’s Threat

13

     The prison warden’s office is large, bright with morning light reflecting off golden walls. James Drapeau, stands at his window looking down on the employee’s entrance. He watches a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance. He is greatly displeased seeing it.

     Behind him, near enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck, his arrogance undiminished by the Warden’s anger, stands Money. Not wanting to deal with Money, turning from the window Drapeau says, “You weren’t supposed to let a doctor on the outside see him. You were told to be careful how you handled him.”

     “Don’t worry, the report will say he was attacked in the showers by Giorgioni. He’s in solitary and he won’t be talking either.” He smiles. “He can’t talk and arrangements are being made for the hospital, so we’re covered here. We can’t be implicated. You can’t be implicated.”

     ”Still, he has an appointment with a Justice of all things! This is going to look very bad.”

     “He’s not going to make it."

     The warden stares at Money. “Get out.”

     “I’ll go. Tell your masters not to worry." Money turns and marches out.

     Not pleased, the warden continues looking out his window at the ambulance receding along the road towards the city.