JAILHOUSE LAWYER - BOOK TWO SERIES
IN THE SHADOW OF THE EXECUTIONER

BOOK TWO Chapter One The sun fell in the horizon and it was nearly time to go home. It was a school night, early to bed. She knew she was safely hidden. The other kids weren't as good as her. Derek would find them quickety-quick. He always did. Derek's voice sounded like a siren again, and she knew he found another hider. Probably Rachel. She was a horrible player. Don't even know why they let her play. She did have a nice pool with a slide behind her big house and she let them hang out there on the weekends. She heard the sound of feet brushing through grass. She frowned, crouched further behind the barrow. The shed darkened as a figure appeared in the doorway. 'I see you,' it said, and it bent over as it entered the shed and grabbed her, clamped its big smelly hand over her mouth. 'Play nice,' it said, and then it ran from the shed into the falling light, holding her tight in its arms...
LOCAL MAN CONVICTED OF MURDER OF TODDLER Today, Derek Doodum (24), was sentenced to thirty years for the sexually motivated murder of Aberdeen resident, Skyler Miller, aged eight, who went missing in July of this year while playing with friends. Skyler's naked body was later found floating in Grays Harbor. Autopsy reports determined strangulation as the cause of death. Almost immediately, the investigation focused on Derek Doodum, who was known to fraternise with neighbourhood children. Doodum confessed to the murder after being taken into custody, and he entered a plea of guilty at his arraignment hearing three days later. Grays Harbor County Prosecutor, Mark Kelley, who is up for re-election, declared that swift justice has been served, and that the community is safer. The Daily Review Chapter Six After three hours of driving, the excited voices in the back of the chain bus quietened. It was always the same on every chain bus ride during Chance Morton's last twenty-seven years in prison. The faces had changed, but the conversations were the same. Prisoners were excited about moving on. They bragged about their prowess at you-name-it or chatted about how nice this or that prison was. It went on for a few hours, died for a while, then started again as they neared their destination and nervousness nibbled away their bravado and confidence. The chain bus ride from the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla was eight hours long. The drive was exhausting for some people, handcuffed to a belly chain, ankles manacled, sitting on a hard seat. For Chance, it was anything but. His neck ached from craning his head in the direction of the world that passed outside the tinted reinforced window. He saw a man driving with a woman in the passenger seat. The woman leaned towards the man, hand on his thigh. Their connection, her tender show of affection, echoed a longing for which he'd forgotten. A boy in the back seat of an SUV played with a golden retriever, and it opened a memory from his childhood. His heart was like a pin cushion for each poignant scene. They reminded him of what was, of a life he longed for, which he might never experience again. It was a reality that only hit him whenever he rode the chain bus and stared out the window. Imprisonment walled him from the outside. It was a hard place bereft of normality and daily comforts. Life inside was about surviving the mental torture of confinement, of trying to find something to look forward to, something to find delight in, something to make his failure as a human being in society bearable. He suspected the people in the cars had no idea the blue and white coach passing on the road was a rolling prison confining two-dozen men, each one harbouring a story of disappointment. Chapter Six 'Nice one, counsellor. I see prison has given you a fork for a tongue. You're fitting right in.' The sergeant at her desk couldn't restrain a smile. They had obviously inventoried his property. 'I don't listen to them all the time,' he added. 'Just when I'm melancholy, I guess. They remind me of my mum. She recorded stage plays in London's West End.' That was before his father killed his mum on his tenth birthday after he staggered home mean and drunk. His mum usually took it, but not that day. His dad was sent to prison where he was found hanging in his cell a few years later. Chance moved in with his aunt, who raised him till he left school at the age of sixteen and joined the British army. After he dumped his property in his cell, he ventured to the yard that was like any other in the state and probably in the US. The layouts might be different, one yard might have a weight pile, another not, or tennis or pickleball courts, but they all shared islands of people divided by creed, colour, ethnicity, or gang affiliation. Chance always found it odd. Here, in America, where its society promoted equality of all men and women, where it championed acceptance of other nations' immigrants, its mixed prison populace separated themselves. At a primal fundamental level, we gravitate to tribalism, to those we relate. The Hispanic gang grouped together on concrete bleachers beside the softball field. Whiteboys collected on a similar concrete island on the other side. Blacks, Pacific Islanders, and Natives crowded around concrete tables, havering amongst one another. Eyes peered at him from every group as he passed, assessing the new face in their midst. Chance didn't relate to any of them. Chapter Eight 'Once you're convicted of a crime, society don't trust you no more,' Never Never said as he trimmed the back and sides of Chance's hair with clippers. Chance had been released from the hole earlier that morning. He had spent twenty days there while staff investigated why someone shit bombed his cell, and whether to return him to population. The young man who shit bombed Chance would remain in the hole for some time. Perry had placed his boxes of property in long term storage. Probably best place for the man. Perry had witnessed Chance make quick work of two thugs in the King County Jail for less. Perry sat in the adjacent barber chair, listening to Never Never, whose booming voice commanded the room, while a younger, quiet man, fresh from finishing barber school, clipped his locks. Billy Daley, or 'Never Never,' so named because he served multiple life sentences and was never getting out, was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was close to sixty, though moved with the lubrication associated with youth. This seemed to be shared by inmates who have served much of their lives in prison. Maybe the sedentary lifestyle of prison preserves them. That was the common theory. But gravity had weathered Never Never's face, which was long, saggy in all the normal places. His hair was grey, shorter on the top and sides, but long in the back. A mullet. It almost extended to the small of his back. A shocking silver thing, preposterous in its magnificence. 'Trust went out the window with parole in the eighties,' Gus Turner said, 'along with other crap, like mullets.' Gus smirked while he sat in a wheelchair at a spot near Never Never that he usually occupied. He'd suffered a stroke some years ago, and it left his left leg partially lifeless. Chapter Ten The cell door rolled open, clanged against the steel spine welded to the bars. Tree turned his eyes from the small flat screen of his TV. Four pigs appeared, a couple weighing as much as he, though most of it in their gut that was probably filled with meat and beer after their shifts. 'Don't move, Swoggert,' one of the pigs said, and Tree complied. Another pig said, 'Is there any drugs in here, anything sharp that could stick us?' Tree said nothing. 'I asked you a question.' 'You also told me not to move, so which is it?' 'Oh, smart ass, huh? Stand up and turn around, smart ass.' When he did, a pig entered the cell, took his wrists, cuffed them behind his back. They backed him out of the cell, and he had to lower his head to prevent hitting the upper frame of the door. He didn't say anything as two of the pigs escorted him along the landing. Ahead, pigs were removing Woody from his cell. He was close enough for Tree to see the tattoo on the back of his shaven head that said, 'Now's Your Chance.' Above the words were dents and scars. Woody was a soldier. Couldn't have enough of them. The expendable ones. The pigs at Tree's sides paused while the pigs at Woody's elbows took him down the metal wrung stairs. 'All right, Woody,' Tree said. 'All right, Tree. I'm headed to the hole, bro,' Woody replied. The pigs told them both to shut up. 'Tell your momma to shut up,' Woody said, and the pigs shoved him forward while maintaining a grip on his arms. Tree smiled at the pig at his shoulder. An important question had been answered. Was there a rat among his inner circle? Wait, no, that wasn't really the question. There's always a rat---always someone who envies the power of another, always someone who wants it. Now he knew who that rat was. Chapter 12 One thing Chance had learned years ago was never let the expectations of others dictate your actions. So many people fall into this trap when, during the height of anger, they shoot off at the mouth. If your word means anything, and in prison, it does, any threats you make you'll be held to. If you don't follow through, other prisoners are quick to judge and criticise, perceive you as weak. Better to keep your intentions to yourself. This way, you keep your options open. It's why Chance kept his mouth closed after coughing and spitting another man's shit out of it. How could he let it go? He would always remember the soft lumps on his tongue, running down his face, the stench, the cold filth sticking his clothes, to his skin. He ran from his cell to the shower, but the soap and water couldn't scrub away the humiliation. The Whiteboys got their cell back. The man responsible thought he won. Chance stood against the wall of the yard after dinner. Tree had a routine. Routine is the downfall of many. Chance learned this in the SAS. The strength of any military organisation is its regimentation, of teaching its soldiers procedures and tactical operations repeatedly so they become ingrained, so it's easier for them to execute without much thought. This predictability is also a weakness. Tree had become predictable. He worked out in the weight room in the morning. He spent an hour on the yard in the afternoon then returned to the cellblock. He spent another hour on the Whiteboys' rock in the evening then an hour or two in the gym playing handball or basketball. When you can predict where and when the enemy will be, it's easier to formulate an effective attack. Chapter 15 They couldn't tell Tree whether his sight in his left eye would be restored. He'd never forget the invasive feel of that coward's finger forcing its way into his eye socket. Who fights like that, anyway? Nothing manly about it. It all happened so quickly. One second the coward stood in front of him, then he was on his back, his eye being gouged out. It was the strangest thing, seeing normally with one eye and seeing the blurred up-close view of the grungy tiles of the bathroom floor with his other eye. After they splashed his eyeball with alcohol and squeezed it back into the socket, they covered it with gauze and a pressure patch. They replaced the gauze each day for the past five days. It had a leaky yellow discharge. The pills he took for the infection hadn't helped, and they put him on something else. They also had him on 10mg Oxycodones. One every four hours. He needed more. He was as big as two men, he told the practitioner's assistant. She said it was enough. What did she know? Wasn't even a real nurse. It explained the complaining he heard from other inmate patients every time he walked to the shower. He'd heard the medical staff at Monroe had been hit in the past with lawsuits. They'd been replaced by the WDOC, but what kind of competence are you gonna hire when you pay far less than the private sector offers? What medical professional in good standing takes a job in prison? Open the employee files of prison medical staff, and you're gonna find some of their history redacted. Tree had opened his eye when they changed the gauze, and everything was blurred. It was useless. They told him not to be discouraged, that his blurred vision could be a temporary result of the infection. But they also told him to prepare for permanent loss of his vision in the eye. Chapter 17 The two men cut me off, placed themselves on the direct path between me and Gigi, who made for the club, Cush Cush. Both men were thick around their torsos as if they wore protective vests, meaning they themselves might be armed. Both were over six feet, square-jawed, and probably spotted each other in the weight room. 'What's your business with Gigi?' the taller of the two said, dark Italian looks, better looking than a man should look. 'Yeah, what you be wanting with Gigi?' The other man, said, darker skinned, shaved head. 'You some kinda stalker?' Now wasn't the time. To get to her, I'd have to go through both men in the middle of a Seattle street. A car slowed to a stop behind them, the driver pressed on his horn. When both men turned to the noise, I headed back to my car. Pick your battles. Battling in the middle of a city street with two equally sized men who might be armed, who the cops would probably side with, wasn't a battle I saw nothing good come out of. 'Hey, man, where you going?' one of them said, and grabbed my arm. I tried shrugging him off, but the man wouldn't let go. He made the mistake of pulling, spinning me around to face him. With the momentum followed my fist. It caught the bald man flush on the jaw. I didn't wait to see the result. Some punches I knew from the point of impact that it was over for my opponent. The two men cut me off, placed themselves on the direct path between me and Gigi, who made for the club, Cush Cush. Both men were thick around their torsos as if they wore protective vests, meaning they themselves might be armed. Both were over six feet, square-jawed, and probably spotted each other in the weight room. 'What's your business with Gigi?' the taller of the two said, dark Italian looks, better looking than a man should look. 'Yeah, what you be wanting with Gigi?' The other man, said, darker skinned, shaved head. 'You some kinda stalker?' Chapter 18 Prisoners are bolder when they're in the hole. The doors and walls that isolate them breed courage. This was displayed after Perry was strip searched, given orange overalls, and marched to his cell in cuffs. When the guards left the unit of double stacked tiers, someone said, 'Hey, Five House, what you in the hole for?' Perry looked around the cell, stripped to its necessities. A mattress, bedding, a roll of toilet paper, a bar of soap, towel, a flex pen and five sheets of paper but no envelopes in which to send letters. The walls were crusted with spit and graffiti. A slitted horizontal window was so dirty on the outside, the natural light that filled the cell appeared dark and ominous. He wondered how Chance managed to see the guard leave the rear towers after count cleared every night. 'Hey Five House, I'm talking to you,' the same voice carried along the tier, tone heavier, more threatening. 'Yeah, you scared to talk or something?' another voice said. It dawned on Perry they were talking to him. In the general population, prisoners rarely spoke openly to other prisoners they didn't know, especially not with such fearlessness. 'Hey, dude in Five House, I'm fucking talking to you.' 'Yeah, tell us what you in for, man?' the other voice said. 'We ain't gonna bite,' another voice said. 'Anyone see Five House come in?' 'Yeah, he's a Whiteboy,' a black voice said. 'What do you mean?' came a reply. 'Is he a Caucasian or a Whiteboy?' 'Ain't they the same?' the black said. 'Hell no. They ain't the same.' A Whiteboy, Perry knew, was more than the colour of his skin. His ideologies reflected white superiority. The Whiteboys consisted of factions of skinheads, the Aryan Family, general racists, and the scared and insecure. That about summed them up. Chapter 20 He'd never known such popularity among the Whiteboys. But for all of their smiles, backslapping and handshakes, they only cared about themselves, about what they could gain from their relationship. He never lost sight of this. He couldn't remember making a genuine lasting friendship with anyone in prison. Seemed like every relationship inside was based on ulterior motives. They were thieves, robbers, burglars, murderers. All they'd ever done was take from others, their possessions, their lives. It didn't change when they came to the joint. Fuck no. They just adopted the prisoner code of conduct, portraying themselves as upstanding, trustworthy dudes for the purpose of self-preservation and survival. They were all out for themselves. But their greed was his gain. Life had been good since he resurrected the unity and dominance of the Whiteboys. The Whiteboys no longer swung from the nutsacks of the Sureños, lying to their people on the street for money to pay for the little dust they snorted or shot into their veins, barely able to afford basic necessities like toothpaste and soap, begging for a pack of 30¢ Top Ramen noodles every night to have something in their bellies. The control of the economy had shifted. The Whiteboys could get high when they wanted for free if they sold enough meth. With the dope business, the cell rentals, and the legal services for as long as they lasted, Whiteboys no longer panhandled Top Ramens. Everyone had a full belly. One positive thing about Tree's absence was how the Whiteboys were reminded of his value. The economy had declined. Chapter 23 They cuffed Perry's hands behind his back then escorted him from the Intensive Management Unit, through a gate and back inside the walls of the reformatory. One of the two escorting guards removed his cuffs, told him to report to B-unit. The morning air blew cool across his face. He smiled as he walked past Eden, the staging ground for Chance's escape. Plant life filled his lungs. It cleaned out the stale regurgitated air that blew into his cell for the month he sat in the hole. Now, free from jeopardy, he felt it had been worth helping his friend. He carried the postcard in a small brown paper sack along with other papers and mail received during his time in the hole. He planned to pin the postcard to the corkboard in his cell, front and centre. You could say it represented the first criminal act he'd ever committed, but he didn't see it that way. He would see it as a reminder that the line between criminality and morality is often blurred. What's right and what's wrong is sometimes determined by perspective. Is it right to violate the terms of an international transfer treaty agreement and string a man along for years, only to deny what's promised? Is it wrong to help a person cruelly victimised by false promises? All depends on which side of the fence you lean on, your perspective. If what he did to help Chance was a crime, then he was now a criminal. He passed alongside the fence separating the walkway from the yard. The Sureños were in pairs all over the yard, doing their mandatory workouts. Whiteboys filled the rock, some walking around the track with others, some standing together. Handshaking indicated the exchange of drugs or a promise of them. Business as usual. The blacks and other minorities coveted their tables, playing cards, chess, or bullshitting. No one seemed to notice Perry, but he knew they all did as much as he noticed them, even when they pretended not to. Final Chapter 'He tried to kill my friend, Perry Grant,' I said. 'The lawyer responsible for helping Derek? Will he face charges for that, too?' Sharon Doodum said. Derek's mother, Sharon, had driven up from Portland, where she had escaped community backlash following her son's arrest. I shook my head. 'Rarely works like that in the joint unless it's against a staff member. Prisoners are expendable and the public don't give a damn.' I looked at the tea set on the table of Grandmother Jones' living room. Chocolate cookies filled one plate, a cake another. The appellate court had reversed Derek Doodum's conviction two months after Perry filed a petition on Derek's behalf seeking retrial. Derek had recently been transferred from Monroe to the county jail. He was expected to be released at any moment. Derek's father, who left his mother some years earlier, waited outside the jail to bring Derek back. I'd stopped by to see Grandmother Jones, who first contacted Justice For All a few months ago about her grandson's case. Did I expect we'd get the boy out of the joint? Hell no. Didn't even know if he was innocent. Grandmother Jones believed it, though. She had believed in me. I appreciated that, so I cared about restoring peace in her. She leaned forward in her chair, one hand gripping her cane, her back crooked. Her grey hair was combed and pulled back in a ponytail, and she'd traded her usual housecoat for a floral dress. She stared at me, her eyes as blue as the Caribbean Ocean, wore a smile. Others were present in the room. Aunts and uncles of Derek. I'd been introduced to them by Grandmother Jones when I entered. 'Everybody, this is Brandon Barajas, the man from Justice For All who helped Derek. Brandon, this is everybody.' A couple of them had introduced themselves individually. I didn't have any connection with them other than Grandmother Jones. Only she cared enough about her grandson...

Crime Scene - Aberdeen, WA

Crime Scene in Aberdeen, WA State, showing the Chehalis River

Arrested for abducting and killing eight-year-old Skyler Miller with sexual motivation in Aberdeen, Washington. Confessed. Three days later, Derek pled guilty at his arraignment hearing and, by agreement from the Grays Harbor County Prosecutor, the court imposed a sentence of 30 years.

Investigation focused on confession. Derek allegedly confessed to Detective Michael Wilkens after his partner stepped from the interview room to use the bathroom and get a coke from the vending machine for Derek. No video nor audio equipment recorded the confession. Derek signed a confession form when both detectives were present.


Investigation Revealed:

Revelation: Detective Michael Wilkens's brother, Jeff Wilkens, was a detective in the Vancouver Police Department. He resigned for administrative reasons, and was then hired by the Clark County Sheriff's Office, where he was suspended in 2008. Detective Jeff Wilkens was removed from his duties following an investigation into multiple incidents of abuse and violation of police procedure. His actions led to overturning the convictions of Lester Griffin for Assault and Attempted Robbery in 2016, and the conviction of Christopher Perkins in 2018. Author, Tom Richey, acted as Jailhouse Lawyer for Christopher Perkins.


If you or somone you know were sent inside for a crime you didn't do, perhaps you can share details of the emotional struggle related to that. What tormented you most readers will be able to understand (being punished for something you're innocent of), but describe if you would the emotional ramifications, destruction to your psyche. Only a person in such a situation could effectively describe this. It's not good enough, for example, for me to say Perry Grant is angry or upset. I wish it was that easy. My challenge is to show this to the readers through a characters thoughts and actions. I'm always looking for insight. Sure, I've lived inside a long time and have my own experiences to draw upon. But that's sort of like listening to a song in mono. I need to play stereo full surround sound to readers. Hearing different perspectives, shared experiences, gives me credible alternating viewpoints for my characters to tell their stories.

Send us an email at Justice For All and tell us your story.