Chapter 43

After Andrea’s visit and the epiphany that followed, Jesus’ condition began to improve. The frequency of his hallucinations began to decrease in the following weeks. He began to exercise and play board games with the other patients.

“Hey slim, how’s your aunt Georgia?” He said.

“She’s a fine lady.”

“I bet she is. Say, you got any more of those pens? My last one ran dry,” Slim handed him a pen.

Abraham didn’t seem to mind that Jesus had taken up the habit of writing even though pens were severely restricted in medium security wards.

Writing reminded Jesus of college back in Baja Leai. He would write poetry, short stories, and long letters to Andrea, who had begun writing him love letters every week. He would read them dozens of times over. Winston’s letters were more down to Earth and practical. He agreed that with this new information, Jesus would have a shot of proving that John had actually murdered Leroy, not Jesus, but he was still skeptical about the details. Jesus hung onto his newfound hope and began participating in group sessions more often.

Soon, the pale green pill disappeared from his medicine cup.

Jesus upended the small cup, followed it with a short cup of water, and showed her his mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Castillo,” Said the orderly. That night, in the bathroom, The Other was waiting for him.

He stood alongside Rodrigo, John, and Leroy.

“You think you can hide from us, Jesus? We’re inside of you. We are you. You can write your letters, play your games, and talk your little talks, but you’ll never run fast enough to outrun who you are.” Jesus went to the urinal and used it.

“Even if you can absolve yourself of Leroy’s death, you still have to face me,” Rodrigo said.

Jesus left the urinal and washed his hands. He looked up into the mirror at his blurry, distorted reflection. There didn’t seem to be anything special about it.

“You can’t run away from yourself; no matter how hard you try, we will follow you. You can’t escape us.” Jesus walked out of the bathroom, went to bed, and slept soundly through the night.

“Thank you for coming to your quarterly review, Mr. Castillo. As you know, four times a year each patient here at Green Mountain gets the chance to demonstrate what progress they’ve made. The purpose of these meetings is twofold. Mrs. Summer and I will have the opportunity to review your case and see how we can better treat you, but more importantly, it gives you a benchmark to judge your own journey,” Abraham said.

Next to him sat Mrs. Summer, the second-in-command orderly in charge of facilitating the group classes. She was a plump, curly haired woman of middle age whose demeanor could change from sweet and docile to retributive and stern in a moment’s notice as needed.

“I’ll begin,” She said, “When you first came to Green Mountain, you stated in group classes that you wished to recover from mental illness and better yourself physically, emotionally, and spiritually.”

It was a statement that each of the participants were forced to make in order to go to group classes, which were required.

“Does that still hold true?” She asked.

“Yes, it does,” It was something he had said under duress, and at the time it didn’t make a difference to him whether he rotted at Green Mountain or rotted in prison, but now he had a reason to get better.

“In what ways have you improved or regressed?” Summers asked.

“I’m not seeing or hearing things almost at all anymore. I haven’t had a psychotic break since that one time months ago. and I spend my time constructively now.” Jesus said. He was ready for these questions.

“And what has been the reason for these improvements?” She asked.

“I found my focal point.”

“Focal point? Can you explain a little bit more?”

“If you had to draw a circle, there is a point or line that acts as a focus for that shape,” Jesus said, “In the same way, I’ve structured my life around a single point.”

“And what is that point?” Summers asked.

“My son,” Jesus said.

“I didn’t know you had a son,” Said Abraham.

“I don’t,” Jesus said, “But she’s on the way.”

Abraham thumbed through a folder, “According to your file, you don’t have any major disciplinary infraction, which makes you eligible for release next month.”

“Thank you Mr. Castillo,” Mrs. Summers said, “We’re all hoping for your eventual recovery and release,” She said. She motioned for Jesus to leave.

“Close the door on the way out.”

The next month, Jesus did have his release hearing in front of the board. He stood in front of them, renewed from his previous encounter.

“I understand that Mr. Faber has recommended you for release, but seeing as you’ve been here for only a relatively short time based on the severity of your case and the seriousness of your charges, I have a hard time signing off on this,” Mr. Brazen said, speaking for the board.

“Sir, while I was here, I had a personal epiphany of sorts,” Jesus said.

“Please elaborate, Mr. Castillo.”

“It started when I learned that I was going to be a father. That was a major wake-up call for me.

Now, I have something to live for, some reason to rehabilitate myself.”

“Are you saying that you didn’t have a reason to rehabilitate yourself when you first came here, Mr. Castillo?” Brazen said.

“No, not at all. I am saying that I’ve found something that renewed my confidence in myself that I was able to use as a sort of springboard to, along with medication and therapy, make myself better. It has been a healing and transformative experience by all regards. I’ve had to overcome personal demons that were holding me back,” Jesus said.

“And I am to understand that you are no longer experiencing hallucinations or other symptoms of mental illness?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Castillo,” Brazen said, “It is my pleasure to approve your release from Green Mountain Institute for the Criminally Insane. God help you, and I hope that I never see you again.”

Three days later, he was transported back to New York County Jail, where he learned that he had become somewhat infamous for almost gouging a guard’s eye out. He didn’t know it at the time, but the correctional officer was an equally infamous Larry Reed, one of the most hated, most abusive, and most despised correctional officers in New York. When he was hurt, no one cared, not even the other officers.

Reed made a full recovery, but requested a transfer to a desk job, which was approved.

He was assigned to a new pod where he primarily spent his time playing spades and rummy with the other Spanish-speaking inmates. Winston put money on his books so that he could buy food and cigarettes, which he traded for other essential items on commissary. It was infinitely better than being in the hole, and much more manageable now that he had experience being locked up. His mental illness rarely affected him, and he had left The Other back in the Green Mountain medium security ward, trapped inside the foggy mirror where his kind belonged.

It had only been weeks since he had left his Other, darker self in that bathroom, but already he could feel the effects of The Other’s influence shaking from his mind, like clearing the cobwebs and dust out of an old, long-abandoned car. He felt sharper, newer, and clearer, a bright fountain of youthful purpose had welled up within him. He would see his daughter, and he would send John Letters to prison where he belonged.

The courts wasted no time in setting a trial date. The DA’s office was in a hurry to get a surefire conviction against the young, disgruntled idiot, never mind the veteran attorney that had mysteriously replaced the much more easily controlled public defender. Dupree was a soldier. Former cop, former DA turned rogue, against the system. She had left the force after an internal investigation into excessive force against a known heroin dealer had gone south. That would have been the end of her career, but she took and passed the bar exam in her late thirties and started doling out justice for the state, prosecuting the same criminals she had been on the street busting. She was a double threat, but somewhere along the line, something inside of her broke. Between the corruption, the good cops going bad, and the real bad guys running free, she tapped out of the game and went private, where she could pick and choose her clients.

Business for an experienced defense attorney was booming in New York City at the turn of the decade.

The fact that she was a black woman approaching her sixties only added to her aura of power and intimidation when she spoke with years of wisdom.

She knew that building the case for Jesus’ innocence hinged solely on the, “Alternative suspect,” theory, which was a difficult gambit to run. No jury wants to be convinced of a far-reaching conspiracy when they have an easy target sitting right in front of them. It was true; Jesus made the perfect target, and Dupree knew it. She knew that she was fighting an uphill battle in a near-unwinnable case, but that’s why she did it, just to flip the bird to the system that had left her out to dry.

Ballistics came back a perfect match, which was the hard, tangible evidence David Reid, the District Attorney, would build his case around. He had a list of witnesses that seemed almost as long as the sentence Jesus could be facing for first degree. Just about everybody associated with Leroy in some way had made their way on to that list. Notably absent was Winston. It was impossible to know what order the State would call those witnesses to testify, and to what effect, but Dupree was sure of the prosecution’s intentions to undermine her client’s credibility and image to sway the jury’s opinion against him.

In their discussion, Jesus had firmly rejected both the ideas of taking a plea for the lower end of the statute, as well as trying to play the not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity defense. He was adamant that the case was completely winnable, and despite Dupree’s doubts, she liked his ironclad conviction. She played around with the idea of putting him on the stand, something that is almost always advised against, just to show the jury how articulate and steadfast he was in his conviction.

If I can just get them to see his true character, they may side with him.

Winston had hired a private investigator to dig up inconsistencies in Paul Halman’s finances. The power of subpoena only reached so far, and he would have a difficult time convincing a judge to sign off on an entire business financial records when the only obvious connection was the location the murder took place. The real case hinged on Andrea’s testimony. She would testify that John had paid her to take Jesus’ gun when she left, and to keep quiet when he framed Jesus for Leroy’s untimely demise. It would be the only evidence Dupree had to support her theory. “Reasonable doubt,” was all too often much more difficult to instill than one would think. Almost always, the State had a sizeable home field advantage, and the burden of proof would be placed on the defense.

That plan, however, came crashing down when Andrea visited Jesus again in May.

“I just don’t feel comfortable doing it,” She said. They had to keep their voices down in the visitation room. More than a dozen other people were there, and Dupree had warned Jesus about talking about his case in front of other inmates. There was no shortage of liars and thieves in a place like that looking for something to peddle. What they were talking about was perjury, pure and simple.

“You don’t have to do anything else, just give that one piece of testimony. It’s my only shot at this. You do want me to be with our child, don’t you?” Jesus replied.

She looked down towards the ground, “What if he has an alibi, or if I got caught for lying to the court?” She said, “I don’t want to have this baby in jail.”

“They’re not going to find out, and if he has an alibi, we’ll deal with that as it comes. Please Andrea, I need this.”

“I just can’t do it, Jesus. I’m sorry. You’ll have to find some other way,” She said.

“This is the only way!” He said.

“There’s always another way.”

“Not this time,” Jesus said, “You’re the only chance I’ve got.”

“I’m sorry, Jesus,” Andrea said, getting up and shouldering her bag. “There’s just no way.”