Chapter 19
The morning after Elliott’s assault, Jack visited the detention center and met with the TGK staff physician.
An ambulance had taken Elliott to the nearest emergency room, which was at Jackson Memorial Hospital. TGK was one of several
nearby detention facilities, and Jackson treated more victims of violent crime than any hospital in America—gunshots, stabbings,
sexual assaults, and everything else under the Florida sun—which meant that survivors could literally look out a hospital
window and see where their attackers were incarcerated. In Elliott’s case, the ER team had decided against a room with a view.
He was evaluated, treated, stitched up in the ER, and returned to TGK the same day.
“The doctors at Jackson saw no evidence of concussion,” the staff physician told Jack. “And neither do I.”
Jack was in Dr. Wilson’s office at TGK, seated across the desk from him. He had a copy of the medical report from Jackson
and the incident report from the TGK officers.
“The incident report says Elliott lunged at his cellmate from the top bunk and hit his head on a steel toilet,” said Jack.
“And you’re saying no concussion?”
“All three cellmates confirmed it was a glancing blow.”
“Glancing? It took eleven stitches.”
“Head wounds can be real bleeders. That doesn’t necessarily mean major trauma, much less brain injury. The CAT scan at Jackson
was normal. So were the cognitive tests.”
Jack checked the medical report. “How could he have passed a cognitive test? According to the ER physician, Elliott was noncommunicative.”
“The doctor never said the patient was unable to communicate. The patient refused to answer any questions. That’s exactly how this inmate has behaved since he arrived
at TGK.”
Since his grand jury testimony, thought Jack, but he took the doctor’s point.
“We here at TGK have little patience for these games,” the doctor added.
“What game do you think my client is playing?” asked Jack.
“I’ve seen it all. We’ve even had inmates go on hunger strikes. It’s not that they can’t eat. They choose not to. Your client appears to be on a speech strike. There’s nothing physical, mental, or emotional that
prevents him from speaking. He chooses not to. There’s no medical justification for putting him in a hospital and allowing
him to avoid a jail cell.”
Jack didn’t accept the doctor’s premise that Elliott was playing a “game,” but he did agree that Elliott was choosing silence.
Why he was making this choice Jack didn’t know. The sooner he found out, the better.
“I’d like to see my client now,” said Jack.
The doctor seemed more than happy to get rid of the lawyer in his office. He phoned the warden’s office himself to speed things
along. A moment later, a guard arrived to take Jack down the hall and through two sets of locked doors to the attorney-client
visitation area. He showed Jack to an available room and closed the door.
Jack took a seat at the wooden table in the center of the windowless room and waited. A few minutes later, the metal door
on the opposite side of the room opened. A corrections officer entered first, followed by the shackled inmate in the company
of another guard. As they escorted Elliott to the chair, Jack rose—less out of courtesy or manners, and more out of concern
for the beating Elliott’s face had taken. The stitches above the right eyebrow were the least of it. His eye was completely
swollen shut, and the bluish-purple discoloration made him look like he’d been kicked by a mule. The guards placed Elliott
in the chair.
“Please wait outside the door,” Jack told the officers, and they left the room. Elliott’s gaze was locked on to the floor.
“I’m not going to lie,” said Jack. “You look horrible. Who did this to you?”
Jack was just trying to start a conversation, but Elliott didn’t bite.
“Your cellmates told the guard that you were the instigator,” said Jack. “They said you were in the top bunk when you lunged
at the one named Mona for no reason, and you ended up going face-first into the steel toilet.”
Elliott was silent, still looking at the floor.
“My gut tells me your cellmates are lying,” said Jack. “You don’t strike me as a violent person, despite the murder charge.
And I know you’re too smart to pick a fight with an inmate twice your size. My guess is that Mona decided to kick your ass,
and you got the worst of it.”
More silence.
“This is a very serious mistake you’re making, Elliott—the way you’ve twisted the right to remain silent into a refusal to
say anything in your own defense, even to your own lawyer. It’s not clever, and it’s not amusing. It’s nonsensical and self-defeating.”
Elliott said nothing. Jack tried a different approach.
“Have I ever told you about my daughter?” asked Jack. “Righley’s nine. Not too long ago, my wife and I drove her to Disney
World. Anybody who’s made that drive knows about the billboards for the truck-stop strip clubs. There’s a stretch of the Florida
Turnpike where, every two minutes, you see a huge billboard that says, ‘We Bare All!’ Righley thought it was hilarious. She
would read aloud every time we passed one: ‘We Bare All!’ My wife told her to knock it off, but that only made it worse. Every
ten seconds, billboard or not, Righley would blurt it out in a different accent. French. Spanish. Southern. ‘We Bare All!’
It was funny at first, but after a while, Andie and I were over it. I told her to zip it. So, you know what she did?”
Elliott didn’t answer.
“She said, ‘Fine, Dad. You want me to zip it? I won’t say another word the rest of this trip.’ With Righley, of course, that lasted about five minutes. But my point is, I get it. Nobody likes to be told to shut up. Righley’s immediate reaction was to give me the silent treatment.”
Still nothing from Elliott.
“Is that what this is about, Elliott? I came down hard on you after your grand jury testimony. Defense lawyers do that. Sometimes
we make it feel less like the right to remain silent and more like a requirement. I can see where that would make a person angry. It’s only natural that you want to tell your side of the story. So, now you’re
giving me the silent treatment. Just like Righley.”
Silence.
Jack leaned forward, folding his hands atop the table, trying to get Elliott to look at him.
“There are two things I want to do for you, Elliott,” said Jack. “First, I want to make sure you’re safe for whatever length
of time Judge Garrison makes you stay in a detention center. That might mean getting you moved to a different facility. Second,
I want to win the Arthur hearing and convince Judge Garrison to release you on bail as soon as possible. I can’t accomplish
either of those things if you won’t talk to me.”
It was frustrating, but Jack could see that he was not breaking through.
“Let me be more specific,” said Jack. “The law requires the state attorney to share with us the evidence that Julianna Weller
presented to the grand jury. I received the first production this morning. What caught my eye were the phone records from
the landline at the Pollard residence. There were two phone calls from the Pollards’ landline to your cell phone on the date
of Owen Pollard’s death. One in the morning, and one right around the time Owen was shot. You want to tell me what that was
about, Elliott?”
Nothing.
“Of course you don’t,” said Jack. “You’ve taken the Fifth, and you’ve taken it to the highest power.
Silence to the police and prosecutor. To the judge at arraignment.
To your fellow inmates at TGK. Silence even to your own lawyer and, apparently, to the rest of the world. For what? What does this accomplish?”
Jack waited a little longer for a response, but he got nothing.
“One last thing,” said Jack. “I don’t mean to get too philosophical on you, but you’re a smart guy, so stay with me on this.
When clients assert their right to remain silent, defense lawyers like me think of it as empowering—our client is flexing
his constitutional muscle. But we’re not oblivious to the fact that there’s a very different kind of silence built into this
system. The silence that occurs when the accused speaks but is not heard. When his speech is devalued or misunderstood.”
Jack took a breath, then continued. “If I’ve pushed you into that kind of silence—if you’ve retreated into a dark place because
I’ve made you feel like whatever you say doesn’t matter—I apologize for that.”
Jack gave his client a moment, but there was no acknowledgment of Jack’s presence in the room, much less of the apology.
Jack rose and walked to the door. He was about to call for the guard, then stopped.
“I guess there’s another possibility,” said Jack, and then he turned and looked back at Elliott. “A much simpler explanation
is that someone threatened you into silence. Someone like Mona, who’s trying to stay out of trouble at TGK. Or maybe someone
outside these walls who has a much bigger secret to hide.”
Jack watched his client closely from across the room, trying to detect any reaction. There wasn’t much of one, but Elliott
did seem to raise his chin a millimeter, as if, finally, he was about to shift his gaze toward something other than the floor.
Jack took that as progress. Maybe even an answer.
“Nice talking with you, Elliott.”
Jack called for the guard, the door opened, and he left the room without another word.