The Lifer and the Lawyer
A Story of Punishment, Penitence, and Privilege
by
George Critchlow
with
Michael Anderson
THE LIFER AND THE LAWYER
A Story of Punishment, Penitence, and Privilege
Copyright 2020 George Critchlow. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, W. th Ave., Suite , Eugene, OR 97401 .
Cascade Books
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
W. th Ave., Suite
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-7252-7837-0
hardcover isbn: 978-1-7252-7836-3
ebook isbn: 978-1-7252-7838-7
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Names: Critchlow, George, author. | Anderson, Michael, coauthor.
Title: The lifer and the lawyer : a story of punishment, penitence, and privilege / by George Critchlow with Michael Anderson.
Description: Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2020
Identifiers: isbn 978-1-7252-7837-0 ( paperback ) | isbn 978-1-7252-7836-3 ( hardcover ) | isbn 978-1-7252-7838-7 ( ebook )
Subjects: LCSH: Anderson, Michael. | LawyersBiography. | Criminal justice, Administration ofUnited States.
Classification: kf373.5743 .c8 2020 (print) | kf373.5743 (ebook)
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 12/07/20
Authors note:
This book is based on a true story. It portrays real people and real experiences. Certain scenes and dialogue have been written to recreate the spirit and feel of events and conversations whose detail is long since lost to memory. In some instances, in order to maintain their anonymity, certain names, characteristics, and locations have been changed.
To Michael for his inspiration; to my wife, Diane, for her support; and to both for their patience.
I have wrestled with the angel and I am stained with light and I have no shame.
Mary Oliver
Prologue
C hains bound my clients feet to his hands and neck. He stood at counsel table, immobile, bent and sad, dressed in a bright yellow jumpsuit, surrounded by a small police force and a mob of reporters anxious to scribble the final words of a terrifying drama. An indignant judge would soon sentence him, a judge who hated his violence, his audacity, and the color of his skin. The judge believed Michael to be depraved and irredeemable, and almost everyone agreed. They wanted him to die in prison.
The sentencing was a long time ago and it is strange to think that it occurred before I had lived most of my life. Now, I am nearing old age, looking back more than ahead. My client, too, is getting olda great-grandfather, a committed, longtime man of God, and still behind bars after forty-two years, even though he has killed no one and has been a law-abiding, model prisoner for three decades. His name is Michael Anderson and he inspired me to write this book.
Anderson has spent almost , days in a prison cell where he is officially known as Prisoner # 287309 . I have spent the same time practicing law, teaching law, and exploring the world. The irony is that I believe he has traveled further than I, and his reachhis potential for impacting lives, for doing goodis greater than mine. I am not envious because I would never have wanted to trade places. But I look at him with wonder, I respect him, and he has become my friend.
As a child, Michael never once heard anyone tell him I love you. For him, this is very much a story about emerging into the light out of a dark background, a story about trauma, redemption, transcendence, and learning how to love. For me, a product of privilege, the tale of our connected lives raises questions about how we become who we are. Is it our nature or is it determined by the conditions to which we are born? Can we change who we are by an act of will? And what is the role of faith? For forty years, I wondered about the consequence of our different skin colors and family histories. Most significantly, I questioned whether Michaels spiritual and moral metamorphoses came from correctional coercion, inborn will, or divine influence.
We imagine our paths are freely chosen. But there is a need to account for biology and history, the random intercession of other people, culture, race, and the mystery of the transcendent. The variables make it difficult to predict the course of any individual life even though there are those who claim expertise in such matters.
This book is a collaborative account of my long journey with my old client, and what we have learned: about the effects of childhood trauma, the importance of communicating love, the pernicious effects of racism, the purpose of punishment, and the redemptive power of faith and self-knowledge.
Part : Retribution and Redemption
Chapter
Ring the bells that still can ring, forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, thats how the light gets in...
Leonard Cohen
T he Franklin County Courthouse is a stately example of Renaissance Revival architecture that oddly materialized not in Florence or Rome, but in rural railroad towns of the American West. The edifice was built in 1913 after Pasco became the county seat of Franklin County and county commissioners decided to construct a public building whose appearance might conjure a world beyond the wind and dust of eastern Washington.
The courthouse boasted two Ionic columns that supported a portico and roof. These buttressed a magnificent rotunda, the interior of which was accented in gold and inlaid with cream colored marble. If you could stand on the top of the rotunda, you could see where the Columbia River joins the Snake River at todays Sacagawea State Park, the place where Lewis and Clark camped on their way to the Pacific eleven decades before the courthouse was built.
The weight of the building created its own gravity. Regardless of the distractions occasioned by the days client or case, when called to the courthouse I was always mindful of the marble and gold, the great domes encompassing girth, and the palpable irony of such a structures existence in this provincial corner of the world. The formal elegance was not without comfort, but it occurred to me that the nature of the place produced in some people an inflated sense of self-importance.
I walked through the courthouses massive front door on a bright September morning in 1979 knowing this would be the last time I saw my client outside prison walls. My brain churned with professional calculations and I was fully engaged in my role as a partisan lawyer. But I was dispirited by an uneasy feeling that I was David without so much as a slingshot, and Goliath would soon have his way. I climbed the circular staircase to a packed second-floor courtroom. People stood or sat wherever they could find space. In time, Judge Knights entrance was announced, and he ascended to his accustomed position. The mans considerable physical stature complemented and enhanced his judicial prestige and he commanded the courtroom the way General Patton commanded the Third Army.
The judge shuffled some papers, adjusted his glasses, and looked down from the Superior Court bench at the man who stood before him in yellow prison garb and chains. This was followed by a long pause as the judge shifted his focus to the assembled people squeezed together on rows of courtroom benches: sheriffs deputies, city police officers, victims and their families, courthouse regulars. He then turned to the right, to the jury box now reserved for the press, and his gaze lingered for a moment on the squirming collection of reporters and newscasters. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.