40

In the rush of my final instructions to Heather, I gave her my old federal court PACER number and described how to electronically file my petition for habeas corpus with the court. One good thing about electronic court filing: you don’t have to wait until the courthouse opens up in the morning. Heather assured me she would get it done that evening. I was glad our hotel rooms in New Orleans were still good for a while. She had a bed to sleep in.

Heather was smart, so I knew she could handle the logistics: filling out the petition on my laptop, printing out copies of the legal document in the business office in the hotel, and e-mailing it to the US District Court for the Eastern District of Louisiana, with a copy e-mailed to Morehaven. She also had to serve a copy personally on the sheriff’s department and on the hospital director the next morning, and then hopefully visit with me again to give me a status report.

The night nurse gave me a little paper cup containing what she said was an antianxiety pill and ordered me to take it. I refused. I was aware of the groggy side effects with some of them.

“I have to be in court tomorrow,” I said. “Need to be sharp. At my best. Tell you what, if the court hearing doesn’t go on, or if it does and they send me back here, then I’ll take it as ordered. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She wasn’t amused. She called the male aides and told them to force-feed me the pill. In response, I warned her that after two decades as a defense lawyer I knew a few things about making life miserable for people who violated other people’s rights. I told her to call the director or even Dr. Schlosser to get authorization to give me a pass on the medication.

Eventually the issue went away. I wasn’t sure why. But I thanked God for it. The last thing I needed at that moment was fuzzy-headed thinking.

I was wakened early the next morning, and the staff introduced me to the usual routine. Bed check, breakfast, and a meeting with a psychiatric nurse, this time going over medical insurance, more background information, how I was feeling, my sleep patterns, my sleep the night before, medical history, social relationships, work history.

But my mind was somewhere else. I was a captive. No outgoing contact or phone calls. Where was Heather?

I was placed in a small group therapy session. I knew I had to volunteer some limited insights about myself. A modicum of cooperation, and I complied, but without specifics. After all, those poor, confused souls shouldn’t have to hear my stories about demons. I was pained to see the broken minds and ruined lives that were seated in the folding chairs in that circle. I remembered what the Bible says about the whole creation groaning as a result of humanity’s collective break with God. Brokenness comes in many different forms.

Lunch came and went.

Then afternoon “free time” in the dayroom under the watchful eye of Nurse Aldrich. I leafed through some National Geographic magazines. Looked at the clock on the wall. Praying for some sign that Heather had been able to accomplish my plan with the court.

But all the time, hearing the voice of Dr. Alex Schlosser in the back of my head. About my susceptibility to suggestion due to my stressful situation. And about God. And demons. And Friedrich Nietzsche.

There were other thoughts. Mostly about Heather and how she might walk out of my life forever once she learned the facts about her biological father.

Then dinner. Still no Heather. Then visiting hours.

That was when Heather finally came in with the small stream of other family visitors and sat down next to me on a vinyl couch.

“It’s filed,” she said. “Your petition for habeas corpus.”

“And?”

“Well,” she began, “I know you wanted a hearing today. But it wasn’t possible. I’m really sorry, Trevor.”

Considering the dockets in most federal district courts, I wasn’t surprised. It was a long shot. I braced myself for the rest of the story. I asked Heather where we stood, knowing that, realistically, getting a federal judge to hear my petition on any short notice would be extraordinary. Getting it heard in time for me to help stop the next ship loaded with human cargo —that would take a miracle.

“There’s more,” Heather said. She took a dramatic pause.

I was glued to her next comment.

“As far as your petition is concerned, US District Judge Manning Levall will hear it in his courtroom tomorrow. Five o’clock in the afternoon. The last case of the day.”

I scrambled to rethink my conversation with Henry Bosant. The day before he had told me that in a matter of days another ship would soon glide past Port Sulphur. He thought maybe forty-eight hours. Twenty-four hours had already passed. But he also said the ships motored at night, under cover of darkness. That meant sometime tomorrow evening.

The long gauntlet of obstacles before us was staggering. I calculated that the hearing would need to conclude with a ruling from the bench by 6 or 6:30 p.m. Judge Levall would have to grant the petition and order me released. That release would have to be effected immediately. No complications with my discharge from the hospital. No administrative snafus. With my credibility reinstated, I would connect with Deputy St. Martin and tell him what I had learned from Henry Bosant. And he would have to buy into it and then set up an immediate blockade on the Mississippi.

High hurdles. Olympic ones. Time for backup. We needed a plan B.

“Heather, we can’t put all our eggs in one basket,” I said. “You need to call Deputy St. Martin. Tell him what I’ve told you about the juvenile slave trade on the Mississippi, happening right under their noses. But don’t mention Henry Bosant’s name. And tell him that he has to get out there on the river and apprehend any suspicious vessels tomorrow evening.”

“Me?” she responded. “You do mean me, right? The one Deputy St. Martin thought was too ‘aggressive’ during the meeting? Plus, how do I tell him I’m delivering a message for you —a resident of an insane asylum . . . ?” She caught herself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that last part.”

“It isn’t pretty,” I said, “but it’s true. At least true until the court hearing tomorrow and then, depending on the outcome, maybe longer than that.”

Inside, I was wrestling with other things that were true, things I knew but Heather didn’t. Assumed “facts” she believed, and I had too, but that I had just learned were lies. Things about us. I was still convinced that I needed to pick the right time to tell her, and this wasn’t it. Not at a psych hospital. Not like this. But I couldn’t put it off too much longer. It was crushing down on me.

Heather said she would reach out to Deputy St. Martin on my behalf, calling him the minute she left Morehaven.

After she left, I ran through the probabilities. Strictly analytical. And from that perspective, the outlook was dismal. Sheriff Haywood and Deputy St. Martin had already been served with their copy of my habeas corpus petition. Which suggested they had almost certainly consulted with the Plaquemines Parish attorney’s office about the case and had been told not to talk. Besides, even if they hadn’t been served, once they saw me taken into custody, all communication with me would end —at least while my legal challenge was pending. Result: Heather was going to be shut out no matter what.

That meant we had only one chance. I needed to win our habeas proceeding the next day. About the same odds as hitting the jackpot at Harrah’s casino in New Orleans.