The Simple Truth

Nothing. Im fine.

She gripped his arm. Youre not fine. Youre shaking and your face is white as a sheet.

I think Im coming down with something.

Well, then you should go home.

Ill grab some aspirin from the nurse. Ill be okay.

Are you sure?

Sara, I really have to go. He pulled away, leaving her staring worriedly after him. The rest of the day moved at a glacial pace for Michael and he repeatedly found himself staring at his briefcase, thinking of the contents. Late that night, his days work at the Court finally completed, he furiously rode his bike back to his apartment on Capitol Hill. He locked the door behind him and took out the envelope once more. He grabbed a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and carried everything over to the small dinette table. An hour later he sat back and stared at the numerous notes he had made. He opened his laptop and rewrote these notes onto his hard drive, changing, tinkering, rethinking as he did so, a longtime habit of his. He had decided to attack this problem as he would any other. He would check out the information in the petition as carefully as he could. Most important, he would have to confirm that the names listed on the petition were actually the people he thought they were. If it seemed legitimate, he would return the appeal to the clerksmail room. If it was clearly frivolous, the work of an unbalanced mind or a prisoner blindly lashing out, he had made up his mind to destroy it. Michael looked out the window and across the street at the cluttered line of row houses that had been converted into apartments just like his. Young disciples of government were honeycombed in this neighborhood. Half were still at work, the rest in bed, nightmaring through a list of uncompleted tasks of national importance, at least until the fiveA.M.awakening. The darkness Michael stared into was interrupted only by the wash of a corner streetlight. The wind had gained strength, and the temperature had dropped, in readiness for an advancing storm. The boiler in the old building was not yet engaged, and a sudden chill hit Michael through the window. He pulled a sweatshirt from his closet, threw it on, and returned to stare out to the street. He had never heard of Rufus Harms. According to the dates in the letter, the man had been incarcerated when Michael was only five years old. The spelling in the letter was abysmal, the formation of the letters and words clumsy, resembling a childs humorous first attempts at penmanship. The typewritten letter explained some of the background of the case and was obviously composed by a far better educated person. A lawyer, perhaps, Michael thought. The language had a legal air to it, although it was as though the person typing it had intended his professional together with his personal identity, to remain unknown. The notice from the Army, according to the typewritten letter, had requested certain information from Rufus Harms. However, Rufus Harms denied ever being in the program the Armys records apparently indicated he was in. It had been a cover, Harms was alleging, for a crime that had resulted in a horrific miscarriage of justice a legal fiasco that had caused a quarter century of his life to disappear. Suddenly warm, Michael pressed his face into the coolness of the window and took a deep breath, the air frosting the glass. What he was doing amounted to blatant interference with a partys right to seek his day in court. All of his life Michael had believed in a persons inalienable franchise to have access to the law, no matter how rich or poor. It was not scrip that could be revoked or declared worthless. He comforted himself somewhat with the knowledge that the appeal would have been defeated via a host of technical deficiencies. But this case was different. Even if false, it could still do terrible damage to the reputations of some very important people. If it was true? He closed his eyes. Please, God, do not let it be, he prayed. He turned his head and eyed the phone. He suddenly wondered if he should call and seek his brothers advice. John was savvy in ways his younger brother was not. He might know how to handle the situation better. Michael hesitated for a moment longer, reluctant to admit that he needed any help, especially from that troubling, estranged source. But it also might be a way back into his brothers life. The fault was not entirely on one side; Michael had matured enough to comprehend the elusiveness of blame. He picked up the phone and dialed. He got the answering machine, a result that pleased a certain part of him. He left a message asking for his brothers help but revealing nothing. He hung up, and returned to the window once more. It was probably better that John had not been there to take the call. His brother tended to see things only in rigid lines of black and white, a telling facet of the way he lived his life. Toward the early hours of the morning, Michael drifted off to sleep, growing ever more confident that he could handle this potential nightmare, however it turned out. ["C11"]CHAPTER ELEVEN

Three days after Michael Fiske had taken the file from the clerks mail room, Rufus Harms placed another call to Sam Riders office, but was told the attorney was out of town on business. As he was escorted back to his cell, Rufus passed a man in the corridor.

Lot of phone calls lately, Harms. What, you have a mail-order business going or something? The guards laughed loudly at the mans words. Vic Tremaine was a little under six feet, had white-blond, close-cropped hair, weathered features and was molded like a gun turret. He was the second-in-command of Fort Jackson, and he had made it his personal mission to compress as much misery into Harmss life as he could. Harms said nothing, but stood there patiently as Tremaine looked him up and down.

Whatd your lawyer want? He coming up with another defense for you slaughtering that little girl? Is that it? Tremaine drew closer to the prisoner. You still see her in your sleep? I hope you do. I listen to you crying in your cell, you know. Tremaines tone was openly taunting, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing with each word, neck veins pulling taut, as though he were hoping Harms would crack, try something, and that would be the end of the prisoners life tenure here. Crying like a damn baby. I bet that little girls momma and daddy cried too. I bet they wanted to wrap their fingers around your throat. Like you did to their baby. You ever think about that?

Harms did not flinch. His lips remained in a straight line, his eyes looking past Tremaine. Harms had been through isolation, solitary, taunts, physical and mental abuse; everything one man could do to another out of cruelty, fear and hatred, he had endured. Tremaines words, no matter their content or how they were delivered, could not break through the wall that encased him, kept him alive. Sensing this, Tremaine took a step back. Get him out of my sight. As the group headed off, Tremaine called after them, Go back to reading your Bible, Harms. Thats as close as youre ever getting to heaven. *����*����* John Fiske hustled after the woman walking down the hallway of the court building.

Hey, Janet, got a minute?

Janet Ryan was a very experienced prosecutor currently doing her best to send one of Fiskes clients away for a long time. She was also attractive and divorced. She smiled when she turned to him. For you, two minutes.

About Rodney

Wait, refresh my memory. Ive got lots of Rodneys.

Burglary, electronics store, north side.

Firearm involved, police chase, priors now I remember.

Right. Anyway, neither one of us wants to take this sucker to trial.

Translation, John: Your case stinks and mine is overwhelming.

Fiske shook his head. You might have a chain-of-custody problem with some of the evidence.

Mightis such a fu