by Grace Mead
Inside one of the cases, atop a slim branch, was a black bug with horns and a short snout, the insect equivalent of a triceratops.
Eric wandered over and looked in the case. He read aloud: “The male Atlas beetle is larger than the female and has specialized thorns on the head and thorax that males use to fight each other to gain mating rights with females.” Eric rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, but look at this,” Matt responded: “For its size, the Atlas beetle is one of the strongest animals on earth and can carry hundreds of times its own weight on its back.”
“And I was hoping this field trip would lighten things up,” Eric responded. “Come over here and I’ll show you something actually found around here. That bug only lives in Asia.”
Matt followed him over to the wall. Inside the case was a familiar insect that he didn’t usually think of as an insect—a butterfly with a black body, orange wings veined and ringed in black, and white spots dotting both the body and wings.
“That’s just a monarch butterfly,” Matt said. “It’s beautiful, but you see them all the time. I hardly notice them anymore.”
“Well, I always enjoy seeing them,” Eric said. “And have you ever heard any of this other stuff? As caterpillars, they eat milkweed, which is poisonous to most predators, and then their bright coloring as butterflies warns the predators of the poison. Most of the poison’s in the wings, not the body, so if a predator goes for the larger, more fragile wings, it probably won’t make it through the poison to kill the butterfly. And in the late summer and early fall—who knows, maybe just in the past few weeks—they migrate from the United States and Canada to Mexico—thousands of miles.”
“All interesting,” Matt agreed. “Sometimes I think kids learn more than most adults remember.”
“By the way,” Eric said, “you challenged me to kiss a frog, but will you eat an insect?”
“What?” Matt asked.
“They’ve got a café here called the Tiny Termite Café, where you sit at a table filled with bugs and can actually eat bugs.”
“Why would people in New Orleans, one of the cities with the best food in the world, eat bugs?”
“So that’s your excuse?” Eric asked.
“Yes,” Matt said, “that’s my excuse. But I think it’s a pretty good one.”
“You’ve got a point there. Even when you go to an LSU game and everyone’s cooking in a parking lot, you can still get fantastic jambalaya, étouffée, and even alligator sausage. Are you an LSU fan?” Eric asked.
“I grew up in Louisiana. Do you really need to ask?”
“My parents have season tickets. Lisa and I were thinking about going to the game this weekend. Would you like to go?”
“I think my mother is going to come back down this weekend,” Matt said. “She’s insisted she’s going to spend every weekend with me until the trial, even if it means making the three-hour drive down every Friday night and back again on Sunday.”
“Not a problem,” Eric said. “My parents have four tickets they aren’t using. We had tickets growing up, but they dropped them when I went away to college. So we fell to the bottom of the list when we started buying them again a couple of years ago. We’ve only worked our way back to Section 409 in the end zone, but it’s still a pretty nice view from up there.”
“I’ll have to check with Thomas about leaving town,” Matt said, “but I’d love to go.” He blushed at his word choice. “And I know my mother would enjoy it. When LSU won the national championship in 2003, she told me that it was the happiest day of her life. And to make sure I understood, she added that I might think she had forgotten the day she gave birth to me, and she said she wanted to make clear that she was happier when LSU won the national championship.”
“If there’s anything that binds this state together, it’s that football team,” Eric said. “I’ve got to go home and review some boring real-estate contracts. Do you need a ride?”
Matt declined, figuring he could take the streetcar home and not wanting to impose further.
“We have each other’s numbers,” Eric said. “I’m hoping to see you again this weekend.”
“Absolutely,” Matt said. “Thanks for the coffee. And it was a great idea to visit this place.” Eric hadn’t even reached out to shake Matt’s hand, and Matt wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed to avoid even the most casual touch.
Matt watched Eric go and his expression resumed its usually grave cast. He wondered if—with more courage—he could have created a life more like Eric’s.
Chapter 7
Matt arrived at Farrar Levinson just after one and waited in the conference room for Farrar and Lisa. He gazed into space and drummed his fingertips—the nails were frayed and the cuticle on his ring finger a bloody mess—on a legal pad. He soon caught himself and threw the top page dotted with crimson into a trash can concealed beneath cabinets against a wall. Ten minutes later, Lisa showed up.
Another fifteen minutes passed, Farrar entered, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then sat and surveyed the two associates. “I just got back from lunch with the prosecutor, Andre Thibedeaux. He listened to the tape and thanked me for the information. He said he’d get back to me, but his initial inclination is to press forward.”
“What?” Matt asked.
Farrar glanced down at the notes he’d made shortly after the conversation. “He said that the tape is ambiguous and it could show Buckner was just thanking you for trying to save him from arrest. He also said Buckner’s statements didn’t change Harlan or Rand’s testimony.”
“That’s crazy,” Matt said, slumping back in his chair. Much as he’d tried to keep his expectations low, he felt a pang of disappointment.
“I think so too, but Andre’s obviously invested in the case and he’s reached an opinion about what happened that night in the alley. I didn’t press him. Sometimes when you’re negotiating with prosecutors to drop a case, if you get into an argument you’ve lost. Better to let the tape speak for itself. We’ll just have to give him some time and hope he comes around. It does give us some great ammunition for cross-examining Buckner, though.”
Matt exhaled, triggering a sharp splinter in his side: so unless he wanted to give up, they’d be going to trial.
Farrar seemed to understand his disappointment. “Look,” he said. “It does help our chances. Regardless of what Thibedeaux thinks, Harlan and Rand are going to be lousy witnesses. The investigator hasn’t had enough time to dig up any real dirt on them, but I can cross-examine them just using the police report and make them look bad. I’m not worried about their testimony. I’ve been thinking about the opening statement and Matt’s testimony. We have to figure out how to handle Matt’s being gay.”
“I’m not sure I’m—” Matt started to interrupt with his eyes fixed on the conference-room table.
Farrar steamed ahead: he stood, abandoned his coffee and started to pace. “No. No. No. As you know, the most important thing is that you tell the truth. And you could emphasize this was your first time and you were just experimenting, but I don’t think that’s going to cut it. The jurors would smell we were trying to avoid it and, even worse, might think you have something else to be ashamed of. You need to dig deeper into the reasons you went to that bar because it’s more than just curiosity; lots of straight people never feel that curiosity; I’m more open-minded than most folks around here and I haven’t.” Farrar stopped pacing and gripped the back of the chair at the head of the table as he faced Matt.
“You need to figure out why you had that curiosity and then distill those emotions—yes, Matt, emotions—and present them in a straightforward way. I think jurors would be more uncomfortable with someone who might be gay, who doesn’t fall into any category, than they would be with someone who is gay. I’m not saying you have to figure everything out, but you have to be able to explain to a straight jury why you went there alone instead of to a straight dance club.”
Farrar pumped a closed fist to p
unctuate his next statement: “And then we’re going to move on and make this trial about them. Their size, their numbers, and their violence.”
He returned his grip to the back of the chair. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted this meeting, even before Matt ran into Buckner. Matt, I need you to be able to describe how and why you went to that bar without a trace of embarrassment. Can you do that?”
“Well, I don’t know. I still have trouble talking about this stuff.” Matt’s weak statement didn’t derail the freight train.
“Well, there’s no reason we can’t start talking through it now. You and Lisa are going to meet at least once a week and you’re going to walk through why you went there and what happened that night. You know I don’t script questions or answers for witnesses, but I need you to think about those things long and hard. You need to get used to talking about it.
“I don’t want any hesitation or self-consciousness from you. They are the ones who should be embarrassed and humiliated. They are the ones who did wrong. And, for God’s sake, you need to be able to look at the jurors as you describe what happened. You and Lisa can meet with some secretaries in the room if you need to get used to an audience.” Farrar stared with Matt with a familiar intensity that had communicated the importance of many issues the firm had handled on behalf of other clients.
“Another thing. Matt, is there anything in your past the prosecution could use to indict your character? You know as well as I do the state normally wouldn’t be able to introduce character evidence, but if we’re going to say you’re a saint, the judge could let them cross-examine you on anything in your past that could reflect poorly on your character.”
“No, there’s nothing.” With effort, Matt kept his eyes locked with Farrar’s.
“Come on.” Farrar pumped his hand again several times, as if banging a gavel. “You were never in the wrong place at the wrong time during high school? You never bought pot? You were never arrested for public intoxication?”
“No.”
“Well, you know I trust you, but our investigator is going to have to check your background anyway,” he said. “All right, everyone now has something to do while we wait for results from the investigation. And that was the initial point of this meeting. Matt, walk me back to my office.” Farrar turned to exit the conference room without waiting for Matt’s answer, but then turned as another thought struck him. “I actually have an unrelated question for you. Do you still have all that legal research you did on insurance companies’ positions on previous claims serving as admissions?”
“I do, but you might want to take a look at the insurers’ briefs too. They argue that we inflated the special status admissions have under the law.”
“Nonsense. You found that advisory committee’s note to the Federal Rules of Evidence describing admissions as eligible for more liberal treatment. The note even describes how they are more trustworthy because the speaker is saying something against interest. That stuff was great. And I’d love to get in front of a jury how the insurance companies had taken the opposite position in another case to deny a claim.”
“Yeah, but the insurers argue that law is kind of dated. They say that courts often find the prejudicial effect of those sorts of admissions outweigh their probative value.”
Farrar pumped his hand again. “Come on. You found all of that great stuff about how it’s classified as non-hearsay automatically under the Federal Rules.”
Matt just smiled, shook his head and told him where he could find the case law and other authorities. After all, Farrar was the experienced trial lawyer, and Matt wasn’t about to tell him how to try a case.
Matt spent the rest of the week trying to focus on the one thing he was looking forward to, the LSU game. Farrar had obtained permission from the prosecutor’s office for him to attend. In the once-brief time between climbing into bed and falling asleep, he clung to the thought of the game. It was the one reason he wanted time to keep moving forward.
*
Saturday morning finally arrived. Eric showed up at Matt’s house in his metallic-blue Land Rover. Lisa jumped out of the front and insisted that Mary take her place—then the four were off. Lisa’s face was already flushed with excitement, and she smiled even more broadly when she saw Mary was carrying a tin of cookies. Matt knew Lisa would never allow herself to keep cookies in her own home, and she treasured the opportunity to eat a few without the guilt of purchasing or stocking them. Mary guided the conversation throughout the forty-five-minute drive along I-10 to Baton Rouge, avoiding mention of the upcoming trial or any accompanying unpleasantness.
Mary had finagled a parking pass from a friend for a space within blocks of the stadium. A rowdy crew of young men drove by in a pickup truck; those in the bed didn’t even try to hide their beers. Matt guessed the price of a parking pass eliminated any objection the police might have. He didn’t consider himself a talented enough lawyer to know whether drinking in the back of a pickup violated any open-container laws. Surprisingly, his legal education at LSU hadn’t covered that topic.
Matt couldn’t believe their luck. Eric had tickets to LSU’s sixth game of the season; the top-ranked, undefeated Tigers would be playing the defending national champion Florida Gators. LSU’s hard-hitting defense would be pitted against Florida’s dual-threat quarterback, possibly the most talented offensive player to emerge in a decade.
Around six o’clock, the four walked to the stadium, which rose above every other building on campus and resembled the Roman Coliseum. The windows of the abandoned dormitories built into the stadium peeked out from between columns. Former governor Huey P. Long had used the dormitories as an excuse to raise additional funds to expand the stadium in the 1930s. Given the state’s passion for football, Matt had always marveled that Long needed the excuse.
They joined the rush of the crowd heading up the concrete ramps, and “sweat-infused with bourbon” stood out as the most popular fragrance. Tiger Stadium held almost 93,000 people, or about half the pre-Katrina population of Baton Rouge. And 50,000 more fans remained camped outside, settling for mere proximity to the game.
He stepped out into the stadium seating and felt the familiar vertigo as he stared down at the field from ten stories above. The group took their seats, the teams warmed up and the other sections began to fill.
The teams finished their warm-ups and departed the field. Florida exited the visitor’s tunnel and the crowd booed so loudly that Matt could feel the vibration in his breastbone. The announcer then bellowed, “It’s Saturday night in Death Valley and here come your Fighting Tigers of LSU.” The golden band from Tiger Land launched into “Hey Fighting Tiger,” LSU rushed out of the tunnel, and the crowd roared.
As the team took the field, Matt picked out players whose brief autobiographical sketches he knew as well as any political or historical figures’. Number 18, Jacob Hester, was from Shreveport and was listed as six feet tall, but he couldn’t really have been more than five foot ten. At 228 pounds, he’d willed his way from his position as an undersized high-school nose tackle to a Division I fullback and hadn’t fumbled the ball in three years. Number 79, Herman Johnson, an offensive lineman, had been the largest baby born in Louisiana and, at six foot seven and 356 pounds, was now the largest Tiger to ever wear the uniform. Number 8, Trindon Holliday, was listed as wide receiver but mostly played back. Only five foot six and 160 pounds, it hardly seemed conceivable he could play football in the SEC, but he was the fastest player on the field. He’d broken school records for the 100-meter dash four separate times in 2007, had run 100 meters in as little as 10.2 seconds, and had been national runner-up in the NCAA Track and Field Championship.
Matt’s eyes finally settled on one of the defensive tackles—number 72, Glen Dorsey—who, while playing one of the least glamorous positions, had convinced many he was the best player in college football. He came out of his stance with an explosiveness that reminded Matt of the enthusiasm Dorsey must have felt as a child when he was final
ly able to discard his leg braces and run with the other kids. His passion and determination anchored the team.
In the first half, Florida’s star quarterback confounded the LSU defense by putting his team in a position to score a field goal, throwing for a touchdown and running for another. LSU made fewer tackles for a loss than usual. Not for a lack of effort—some of the hits were so hard Matt knew that, closer to the field, each sounded like a pistol shot.
LSU scored midway through the second quarter when LSU’s second-string running quarterback powered his way into the end zone. Matt had trashed his voice sometime during the first quarter so he forced out a raspy, primal bellow and pounded his fist against Eric’s. The touch sparked a longing that had nothing to do with the game.
The teams went into half-time with Florida leading 17–7. They then traded touchdowns in the third quarter: LSU scored first, but minutes later, Florida’s quarterback threw a thirty-seven-yard touchdown pass to regain their ten-point lead.
Three minutes into the fourth quarter, Holliday made an improbable run, slipping and sliding among Florida defenders twice his size to gain sixteen yards. LSU’s quarterback then connected with a receiver in the end zone, narrowing Florida’s lead to three points.
With ten minutes remaining, the LSU defense took the field. Everyone in the stadium was on their feet. Matt, the players, and the fans knew their noise could disrupt the opposing offense’s communications before each play. The LSU defense was working hard on the field and their followers responded enthusiastically whenever a player lifted his arms into the air to call for more noise.
Young African-American cornerbacks, some not yet old enough to drink, directed the predominately white crowd into a frenzy. Glen Dorsey was a 300-pound black man, and—though large black men had stricken white Southerners with fear countless times in Louisiana’s past—more than 90,000 fans of both races now joined together to cheer for his success. The crowd’s passion worked like alchemy, infused the defense with even more determination, and—by the end of the fourth down—the combination had brought Florida’s offense to a halt.