Free The Advocate's Devil by Alan M. Dershowitz Page B

the bottom
     of Justin’s right shoe when the hand-held metal detector buzzed. Justin had stepped on a thumbtack, which had embedded itself
     in his heel. The guards removed it before letting Justin through security. Then Abe and Justin had their hands stamped and
     were led into a room that locked from both sides. From there they were led to a visiting area that adjoined death row. A special
     lawyer’s room was reserved for them so they could meet their client in private. The room was divided by a Plexiglas panel
     separating the lawyers from the condemned inmate. The panel had airholes through which they could talk. All touching was prohibited.
    Charlie was already seated as Abe and Justin took their places. Charlie placed his hand against the glass partition, and Abe
     placed his on the other side so that their fingers met across the glass. It was the death row handshake. Justin did the same.
     The young black man then placed his face in his hands and spoke in a monotone. “Please don’t let them kill me. I’m scared.
     Please help me. I didn’t do it.”
    The ill-fitting orange prison uniform flapped against his body as the man rocked back and forth—the only physical evidence
     of his anxiety. Abe had been working with the prisoner long enough to recognize that beneath this young man’s relatively calm
     exterior were buried the emotions of a lifetime in poverty—the pain of neglect, despair, and hopelessness.
    “We know you didn’t do it.” Abe stood and placed a hand reassuringly near Charlie’s head across the partition. It was the
     best he could do to comfort the young man in a setting where actual touching was impossible. Abe could see the initials of
     Charlie’s “old lady” sculpted into his Brillo-like hair. Abe spoke through the holes in the glass partition. “I’ve got some
     promising news. Justin has somebody who knows who did do it.”
    “Who?’
    “She won’t tell me yet,” Justin interjected. “I’m working on her. It may take some time, but I’m confident that I will eventually
     find out.”
    “That’s just what I got none of—time. It’s less than six weeks now.” Charlie was rocking faster.
    “Look, Charlie, I do have an idea.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a gamble, but we’ve got no choice.”
    The rocking stopped. “What?”
    Abe leaned over and whispered through the holes in the glass into Charlie’s ear. “Charlie, you’re gonna have to stop taking
     your medicine for a while.”
    Charlie looked bewildered. “If I stop, I’ll go crazy again. Do you want me to go crazy?”
    “Yes, I do,” Abe said somberly. “Try to follow me.”
    Charlie listened as Abe tried to explain the idea he had gotten from Haskel’s refusal to take his medicine.
    “They can’t execute you under New Jersey law if you’re crazy—if you’re legally insane. And without your medicine, you
are
legally insane, psychotic. You don’t have to help them kill you. You don’t have to help them keep you sane so that they can
     execute you. Just stop taking the medicine.”
    “They’ll force me to take it.”
    “They may try, but we’ll take them to court. Under New Jersey law, they can’t force you to take medicine unless you are dangerous
     to others or yourself.”
    “When I don’t take the medicine I try to kill myself. I bang my head against the wall.”
    “They can protect you by putting you in a padded cell. It’s worth a shot. It will certainly buy me time.”
    Justin remained silent. He was doubtful, both about the likelihood of succeeding and about the ethical implications of a lawyer
     advising his client to stop taking his medicine. In the airplane on the way to the prison, Abe had told Justin about a Texas
     case in which a death row inmate had stopped taking antipsychotic medicine and a judge had postponed his scheduled execution.
     “If it worked in Texas, it could certainly work in New Jersey.”
    “That may be true,” Justin replied. “But what about the ethics