Defense of an Other

by Grace Mead

  “Thank you, Mr Farrar,” Judge Masterson said. “Mr Thibedeaux, would you like to deliver a rebuttal?”

  Thibedeaux jumped to his feet and boomed out, “Actually, Your Honor, uh,” he trailed off. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” Thibedeaux was attempting to hide a weak argument behind bravado and Matt suspected he’d failed.

  “Very well. I’ll now instruct you on the law that governs this case,” Judge Masterson said. Judge Masterson proceeded to deliver the instructions he’d previously presented to the parties. “Given the lateness of the hour,” Judge Masterson continued, “you’ll begin your deliberations first thing in the morning.”

  After the jury had left the room, Judge Masterson turned to the lawyers.

  “I don’t think there’s anything else that we need to deal with. Each side should have at least one lawyer in the courtroom at all times empowered to aid in crafting responses to any jury requests for testimony, evidence, or further instructions. Thank you.”

  Matt and Mary returned to his house. Mary cooked a Greek chicken recipe with capers, tomatoes and black olives over egg noodles. The pair opened a bottle of Yellow Tail Pinot Grigio. The sun had long since set and three fluorescent torch lamps dimly lit the room.

  Mary turned to Matt and said, “So you’re the expert on this stuff. What can we expect?” She sipped honey-colored wine, almost luminescent in the dim light, then cut the chicken before switching to fork and spoon to twirl the pasta.

  “I don’t know. The jury’s deliberation process is pretty opaque. They might send out some notes asking for testimony, evidence or a clarification of the instructions, but they also could just return with a verdict in a few hours.” Matt cut through the chicken and pasta and mixed it all together; he’d never learned the trick of twirling pasta; and he didn’t bother to switch his fork to his right hand before raising the food to his mouth.

  “I find it hard to believe they could find you guilty. All of those witnesses basically admitted they were criminals,” Mary said.

  “I know, Mom, but they don’t know me as well as you do. And we have no idea how my being gay will play in the jury room,” Matt said, shaking his head.

  “When did it go from being confused about your sexual orientation to being gay?” She looked up sharply, and Matt didn’t need to know where he’d really learned to be a lawyer.

  “I don’t know, Mom. Probably when that distinction stopped mattering to anyone else.”

  “That Eric seems like a nice guy. And he’s cute,” Mary said, her fear of her son remaining alone forever peeking through her humor.

  “Mom, let me explain something to you about being gay.” Matt sipped his own wine. “No matter how successful the match, you can’t have grandchildren,” Matt said.

  “I know that,” Mary said, gesturing toward him with her spoon. “But you could always adopt.”

  “I can’t even imagine how much having children must change your life,” Matt said, bracing himself with more wine. “Especially seeing what you’ve gone through in the course of this trial.”

  “It changes your life in enormous and unexpected ways,” Mary said. “But the overwhelming love you feel for your children makes those changes seem natural. The problem is that chance then affects not only your own life, but also the independent and separate lives of your children. You know if I could trade places with you, I’d do it in a second.” She reached out and grasped his hand.

  “I know, Mom. No matter what happens, neither of us will ever have any doubt about how much we love each other,” Matt said, softly, realizing the fear of losing that love is what had kept him in the closet but that the trial, at least, had revealed its durability.

  “Agreed.” She let go of his hand and returned her attention to the meal she had cooked, her love’s practical product. “But you avoided my question about Eric.”

  “I don’t know. He seems like a great guy. I think he would have been there throughout the trial if he hadn’t been afraid of hurting my case. I know he’s insisted on receiving nightly updates from Lisa. I also think he’s very attractive.” Matt blushed.

  “I told you he was cute.”

  “I told you so? Really, Mom. And who’s the child here?” Matt teased. “But I can’t imagine really getting involved with him right now. He doesn’t need a boyfriend who’s in jail.”

  “But why don’t you think about what you need?” Mary asked hotly. “If you’d considered your needs honestly and tried to meet them, maybe you wouldn’t have been cruising a gay bar in the first place.” Matt knew she believed he deserved others’ love, but it didn’t mean he did.

  “Lots of straight people cruise bars, too.”

  “And I’d have the same criticism of them. It’s okay to need other people in this world. We all do. You aren’t going to protect yourself from the same loss you experienced with your father by keeping everyone at a distance. You’re just going to be lonely. And even though this trial is an extreme example of the danger of loneliness, it’s dangerous.” She paused, unable to voice the gravest dangers. “At the very least, you end up drinking too much.”

  “I know, but what would you have me do now?” Matt asked.

  “I feel as if you’re protecting me by refusing to discuss your fears about going to prison or even, God forbid, receiving the death penalty,” Mary said. “I know that conversation would tear me apart, but I’m willing to have it. And I want to have it, if you need to.” She returned her hand to his, but his palm supported hers, as it usually did.

  “I know, Mama. I’m just trying to deal with one issue at a time. I’m trying to compartmentalize in order to survive.”

  “Life’s about more than just survival.” She shook her head.

  “I know.”

  “And talking to Eric in some ways doesn’t carry the same risks,” Mary said. “I’m sure he cares about you, but that affection hasn’t deepened. Discussing your fears and anxieties, at least with him, might help you a lot. I think he’d be glad to do it.”

  “I know, Mama.”

  “If you know I’m always right, why don’t you just do what I tell you? It would make everything a lot simpler.”

  “Thanks, Mama. I’ll think about it,” Matt said.

  “Your welcome,” she said curtly, sparking a smile from Matt. But then she continued, “This conversation means the world to me. I’ll always treasure the time we’ve been able to spend together. To be honest, it’s actually better than watching LSU win the national championship.”

  “I know, Mom. I love you, too.”

  Chapter 14

  After waiting all day at the office to hear from the jury—and hearing nothing—Mary volunteered to take Farrar and Lisa out to dinner, but Farrar declined. The strained expression on his face showed Matt it pained the trial attorney to know what such generosity might cost Mary. Matt also knew, from prior trials, that after working so many late nights Farrar wanted to have dinner with his family.

  Matt, Mary and Lisa decided that the three of them, at least, could go to dinner. Lisa suggested Jacques-Imo’s Café in uptown New Orleans, a casual restaurant where they could buy good food at a fraction of the price of some of the more expensive restaurants. Matt thought the food, drink and jovial atmosphere could serve as a fragile prop for an enjoyable evening. Lisa also invited Eric.

  A pickup truck was parked in front of the restaurant, displaying to the street hubcaps painted in a swirl of orange, yellow and teal, molding with a smattering of impressionistic orange and yellow flowers and a panel with a teal alligator. White lettering on the side read: Jacques-Imo’s: Real Nawlins Food. In its bed, under a wrought-iron canopy, was a table for two. Another sign in front of the peach, two-story restaurant warned: Warm Beer, Lousy Food, Poor Service.

  The main dining room was a riot of color: cherry-red and fire-yellow patterned tablecloths; paintings squeezed onto every square foot of the walls, crammed into every crevice and even nailed flat to the ceiling; closer to the bar, the ceiling was pain
ted lavender with dark, twisting tree trunks and curling branches evocative of bayou trees. Behind the bar, another sign read: Shut Up and Drink. Atop the bar sat a two-foot frog, upright on its hind legs with one webbed front foot atop the other—as if it were dancing.

  Matt laughed to himself. Surely Lisa couldn’t have known?

  Matt and Mary ducked through the narrow doorway and pushed their way through the crowd. Lisa and Eric already sat at a table drinking among the chatter of the other restaurant patrons.

  “Hi, Mary, Matt,” Lisa said. “We ordered some champagne to celebrate the end of the first week of trial and your testimony.”

  Matt grinned and took the glass offered to him. “Let’s just hope it’s enough,” he said.

  “The testimony or the champagne?” Lisa retorted, then pivoted. “And let’s not hope that tonight. Tonight, let’s just enjoy each other’s company.”

  As the group progressed through each course, their collective anxiety was blunted by the fact that nothing more could be done for the moment. Faces flushed, the group eased into the ebb and flow of the conversation.

  “Well, Eric, what do you do?” Mary asked.

  “I’m a real-estate lawyer, which basically means I draft documents for large real-estate projects that almost no one reads cover to cover, but that contain remarkably few typos.”

  “It can’t be that dull.” Mary laughed.

  “Well, it’s interesting because I get to see the various commercial real-estate projects being launched in the wake of Katrina. And I figure many lawyers are paid a premium to do work most people find extremely boring,” Eric said.

  “What do you think of the rebuilding effort?” Mary asked.

  “It’s going in fits and starts. The private companies involved are doing a better job than the government. So the areas you’d expect them to rebuild first are being rebuilt first,” Eric said.

  “What do you mean?” Mary asked.

  The surreal risks posed by the trial, the suspension of any influence over the outcome, and the single glass of champagne combined to make Matt feel a reckless sense of abandon. If he was going to face trial on murder charges before a jury that believed him to be gay, why shouldn’t he enjoy some of the benefits? He moved his hand under the table and rested it slyly on the inside of Eric’s knee. A part of him was shocked at his own audacity, but for once in his life he felt he lacked a measure of self-control. Damn, it was liberating.

  Eric blushed.

  “Is something about that question embarrassing?” Mary asked.

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Well, your face just turned as red as your hair.”

  “No, I was just thinking that the statement was somewhat disloyal because most of our clients have the money to choose to rebuild in the Quarter or Uptown.”

  “Well, shouldn’t we rebuild the whole city?” Mary asked.

  “Yeah, the length of the project shouldn’t discourage you,” Matt said. He slid his hand further up Eric’s leg so that it was now resting mid-thigh.

  “No, length has never discouraged me,” Eric said. “It’s just that I think perhaps we need to rebuild a few more homes in the Ninth Ward before we rebuild all of the bars in the Quarter.”

  “But the city needs to bring tourism back, right?” Mary asked.

  “I suppose it’s simply there’s so much to do that we need to be working on all fronts simultaneously,” Eric said. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” Matt grinned and Eric shot him a superficially stern look. Matt glanced toward the bathroom and saw yet another sign, thinking the place perhaps came with instructions for those it overserved. It said: Be nice or leave!

  Mary was in the midst of an animated discussion with Lisa when Eric returned to the table. She refocused her attention on Eric. “Do you think there’s a lot of corruption going on in the rebuilding effort?” Mary asked, in a state and city where corruption was—like in many other places—perennial but seemed more flamboyant. “I’m just scared the federal government is going to find out there were a couple of crooks and the money will dry up for everyone.”

  “Well, I don’t think any of our clients are involved in any corruption, but they can afford us,” Eric said. “They’re generally not the people with their hands in the till.”

  Conversation then turned to a Louisiana politician who had been discovered with hundreds of thousands of dollars in his freezer. They discussed the history of dishonesty and fraud in Louisiana and they considered whether various levels of government office gave you license to a certain number of felonies. After all, Edwin Edwards had been a four-term governor, despite five indictments.

  Matt volunteered that the discussion reminded him of his favorite line from Governor Edwards. “Apparently, when he was running for reelection as governor while under indictment, a reporter asked him whether the indictment would hurt his chances. Governor Edwards responded the only way he could lose the election would be if he were caught in bed with a dead girl or a live boy. And he went on to win.” Immediately after delivering the punch line, Matt realized his mistake.

  Mary’s eyes watered, she verged on tears, and Eric turned white.

  “I’m so sorry, Matt,” Mary said. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to admit you might be gay in a state where that’s a punchline.”

  “It’s okay,” Matt said. “It’s an old joke. And times are changing.”

  “Well, what do you think?” Mary asked Eric. “How much have attitudes changed?”

  “As the official expert on all things gay, I hate to say it, but I don’t think they’ve changed that much,” Eric said. “I think it’s telling Edwards used the word boy instead of man and implied sex with a boy was worse than sex with a girl. Associating gay sex with bestiality and pedophilia is one of the nastiest and most persistent stereotypes. Many people still associate being sex between two adults of the same gender with bestiality and child molestation and ignore whether, like being gay, it harms no one or whether, like bestiality, it harms an animal, or whether, far worse, like child molestation, it destroys lives. And they make those leaps ignoring that many people in straight relationships or who are abstinent commit those crimes.

  Eric continued: “That said, I still find it hard to believe the jury will convict Matt. This just isn’t a close case. He’s tried as hard as he can to live an ethical and moral life and it’s his word against a bunch of thugs. These three guys rank well below the crookedest Louisiana politicians.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Mary said. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

  “What’s everyone having for dessert?” Mary asked. “I think Matt needs some chocolate now.”

  “Mom,” he smiled, “you only say that because you want to share it. Did you really just exploit your son’s murder trial to avoid drawing attention to your love for chocolate?”

  “I did no such thing. I just know you like chocolate.” The group laughed and the gallows humor allowed them to finish the meal on a lighter note.

  The bill arrived and Eric had to intervene loudly to convince Mary to allow him to pay his share. Lisa also insisted on paying for herself and Matt knew that Mary was relieved despite her loud protests.

  After the bill had been paid, Eric asked, “Mary, do you mind if I borrow Matt for a while?”

  “Of course I don’t mind. I need to go to bed anyway,” she said. Lisa excused herself as well.

  Eric asked if Matt wanted to go to Maison Bourbon Jazz Club in the Quarter, where one of his favorite bands was playing, and Matt agreed.

  In front, another sign announced that it was dedicated to the preservation of jazz. Passing through the front doors, Matt noticed an oak bar to the right, a flagstone wall behind them, antique brick walls, and a plank ceiling that matched the bar. Eric ordered them both old-fashioneds and they sat opposite each other in cushioned chairs.

  “I just wanted to let you know why I haven’t come to see any of the trial,” Eric said. Matt was surprise
d: he hadn’t expected Eric to attend; he wasn’t sure he’d ever expect anyone other than his mother or friends forged through work to stand by him; he certainly wouldn’t expect anyone he’d just met to do so.

  “What? Don’t be silly,” Matt said. “You brought me that orchid and you’ve been supportive in so many other ways. You debunked my leprosy fears, after all.” He smiled.

  “Well, I would have liked to go to court and show my support, but I was afraid if a reporter or someone else saw me there, I could make things worse. I’ve been out of the closet for a while.” Eric looked at him steadily.

  “That makes sense,” Matt said. “Let’s not talk about the trial.”

  “All right, Atlas,” Eric said. “I’d like to make a toast then. Part of that exhibit about the monarch butterfly that said after spending much of its life as a caterpillar eating poison, the butterfly must learn to fly, fly some thousand miles to Mexico and reproduce, all in only a few weeks. I think that makes it more beautiful, not less. So here’s to living life—and tonight—like that butterfly.”

  The two clinked glasses and each took a sip.

  “So, have you had any hot dates lately?” Matt’s nervousness at the obviousness of the question displaced any fears about the trial for a moment.

  “No,” Eric smiled broadly, flashing white teeth in the dimness of the bar. People had complimented Matt on his smile, and he wondered if Eric’s orthodontist and his had used the same blueprints.