Ed. Note: This is a guest post by Madison, Wisconsin, criminal defense lawyer Christopher Van Wagner.
A news item today, Monday, described a significant spike in the non-COVID death rate since the pandemic’s onset. It seems, historically speaking, that pandemics tend to coincide with spikes in deaths from “other” causes. The reporting experts note various causes, including delays in some needed medical care leading to premature deaths, not to mention heart attacks, strokes and cancer deaths. Those death certificates do not say “COVID-19,” but in reality they should, for practical purposes if not for political or economic ones.
Fear has many physiological impacts, as do anxiety, despair, isolation and one’s sense of losing control. The Vietnam War’s daily counts, framed then as “casualties” and “woundeds,” have returned. But instead of two simple mind-numbing totals (perpetually accompanied by grainy black and white footage of a Huey airlifting body bags), today’s tallies scream at us in fancy technicolor COVID-19 charts, moving graphs and interactive Venn diagrams, whether we scroll up, down or sideways.
This death spike is undeniably a substrata of the societal damage wreaked by the pandemic. People are losing their lives by the loss of needed care, of inner strength, of the will to live, and an occasional filial joy. With no family but only overtaxed others at their side (or, tragically, no one at all), the fiber of their psychological and emotional infrastructure falters, frays and shuts down. After which the critical organs go oh-so-quickly.
In the time frame of this non-COVID death spike, I met and made fast friends (or at least fast acquaintances) with a man just ten days ago, although neither in normal circumstances nor in defiance of some “Safer at Home” screed. His name matters little but it pleased me no end he quickly allowed me to use his South Side nickname, “Big C.” That was for a trusted few.
Even at a fatigued 63, Big C” still had a real persona beyond the faux-sleepy face he had long since learned to show the world if they were to glance his way. But beneath his purposely unremarkable veneer, Big C hid poorly the manners of a southerner, the charm of a frat boy, and the lightning quick wit of a seasoned traveler. He knew who he was, where he was, where he wanted to go – and where he did not. Big C’s boyhood mosaic was writ large, rich and legendary on Chicago’s South Side, not so much by his mother as by similarly trapped, impoverished young men of LBJ’s Great Society projects. Big C, it was true, rose quickly among that number to a position of organizational leadership, just as would a moneyed son of Evanston or Hyde Park rise to the head of Oncology or AT&T. But Big C ran a city block, not a tower of offices or a sheath of mutual finds.
After a “time-out” that often came with leadership on 95th Street – older, wiser, and with hairs grayed by years spent mollifying guards, Big C woke up, walked out, and grew up. He began the uphill path to a life of less notoriety and risk. He came to Wisconsin, like so many of all classes and colors before him. But it is hard to escape your past; the internet and lightning-speed digital records make that task well nigh impossible. Still, Big C persisted for two-plus decades. But alas, three weeks ago, he stumbled into trouble with an alleged side hustle, and the worst ensued.
Big C found himself behind bars in a rural county jail, with the DA alleging an opiod overdose body count of one in Big C’s wake. In a flash, Big C’s time on the inside rushed back, with no soft edges and no mental escape. He was an old man now, not a young tough. He had no 401(k), just some social security letters feeding his meager existence. One night grew to two, then three, then ten, and still he sat, waiting in a jail cell and in the virtual prison of his own memories. He felt his mind race and his body slow. He was wracked with pain, no doubt translating the neurotransmissions from his worried mind. He knew the game all too well, all too long ago, yet was able to cajole a recent (and real) friend to help get a good lawyer quick and a makeable bond quicker.
It was on that tenth day he and I met, in jail, during this pandemic. Through disinfected plexiglass, though, we understood each other. I had what he needed, he hoped. We even laughed, yes, but it was a dark pas de deux of hope and fear. He had but one thing to ask of me: “Get me out of here, now, or I am going to die in here.” He then took the time to call to offer thanks for the jail visit.
As luck would have it, last Monday I picked the right words and made a deal for a reasonable bond. Big C was able to walk out on Wednesday, day 15. He called me from the car, plainly exultant in a way that trench lawyers love more than thank you: “I got the RIGHT lawyer, Man!” He heard a lawyer’s simple advice: “Go home, rest up, eat some food, and call me tomorrow.”
Tomorrow never came. Word came just now that Big C died this morning. He never recovered from the ills and stresses that overtook his body back “inside.” And much like the thousands of people who have now died in this pandemic from fear and angst, Big C died of the fear of going back “inside.” I know he did; he told me so; he knew he would die inside.
It is little solace that I helped him avoid dying in that hole. Yeah, this work can really suck, but not half as bad as prison. And not one tenth as bad as the human mind and the mental punishment that took those non-COVID folks and took Big C before I could give him a hug, a handshake and a high-five. Godpseed, Big C. I hardly knew ya. Thanks for trusting me.
– CVW
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