Defense of an Other

by Grace Mead

  Eric continued: “I got out of my first long-term relationship a few months ago and I suppose I haven’t gotten back into the swing of things yet.”

  “What about vacations?” Matt asked, hoping to slide past the topic of dating now that he’d gotten the answer he’d been hoping for.

  “I don’t plan on taking a vacation anytime soon,” Eric said.

  “Know any good stories?” Matt asked. This was Louisiana after all.

  “Okay, okay,” Eric said. “Did I ever tell you about how my younger brother was such a screw-up that before leaving town the only thing my parents asked was that he not hot-box the house?”

  “What’s hot-boxing?”

  “It’s when you try to create an airtight seal on every door and window of the house and fill it with pot smoke.”

  “No,” Matt said, “but that sounds more like it. Did I ever tell you about the time I was sent to the principal’s office as a kid?”

  “No,” Eric said, “but I find it hard to imagine you in the principal’s office.”

  “I was pretty depressed then, but no one would have called it that when and where I grew up. There was some bullying. A kid put thumbtacks on my chair, I sat on them and yelled. Okay, well, it may have been a squeal.”

  “And you wonder why you were bullied,” Eric responded.

  “When the substitute teacher didn’t do anything about it, I got mad and put the tacks on her chair. She sent me to the principal’s office.”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  “And while waiting outside his office, I realized it was silly to worry because I was just adding another layer of unpleasantness on top of what would be an unpleasant meeting and extending the period of unpleasantness. So I forced myself to stop worrying.”

  “Is that really possible?” Eric asked. “You know, there are limits to your white-knuckle approach to life.”

  “Anyway, the principal asked if there was anyone I needed to apologize to. I answered the substitute pretty quickly, but then he asked me whether there was anyone else. I said: ‘You, for taking up your time?’” Matt’s pitch rose toward the end of the question, and he said, “and I said it just like that, as if it were kind of a guess, because it was.”

  “The principal said: ‘No, that’s what I’m here for. But don’t you think you need to apologize to Jesus?’ He then led us in prayer so that I could apologize.”

  Eric laughed and said: “I’m pretty sure Jesus has better things to worry about.”

  “But when I came home sobbing—partly because of the tacks and partly because the principal scared me—Mom was furious. She dragged me back down to that school. I’m not sure what she said to that principal—she left me waiting outside his office—but I definitely know I wouldn’t have wanted to be him.”

  “Your Mom’s great.” Eric said. “At least you know she’s always in your corner, right?”

  “There is that,” Matt said.

  He wanted to take Eric’s hand and restore the elixir of humor and flirtatiousness that had overcome him during dinner, but they were in public, in a straight bar. The two then swapped lighter stories of growing up, with a Southerner’s sense of where to take poetic license and an implicit understanding of when the other had.

  At some point, a jazz quintet took the stage, playing Thelonious Monk, and the occasional disapproving looks from more serious jazz listeners reduced them to whispers. But they kept trading one-liners and giggles that gave way to laughs, tromping over the line between respect for the musicians and merriment.

  Matt realized their drinks were empty. But he didn’t need or want another. A gaunt, hollow-checked trumpet player approached the microphone and began to sing a jazz classic with an unknown songwriter, performed by most notable artists for almost a hundred years: My Funny Valentine.

  “Well,” Eric said, “I’m betting that’s the best song we’re going to hear all night. Do you want to get out of here and go somewhere we can talk without getting in trouble?”

  “Sure,” Matt said, his heart in his throat.

  “I wouldn’t want to wake your Mom up,” Eric said. “We could go to my place.”

  “Sure,” Matt responded. On the ride there, Matt’s tactic for defusing nervous tension in one-on-one interactions—banter—failed him. Flirtation might precipitate an outcome he didn’t like; after all, he’d talked himself into every relationship with a woman that had ended poorly; so silence reined. After arriving at the apartment, Eric poured water for each.

  “So, now that we have some more privacy, how are you really holding up?” Eric asked.

  “I’m pretty much a wreck. You can tell when I’m really nervous or in trouble because I go silent and expressionless. As events around me worsen, I withdraw into myself. I suppose that ability to withdraw is what allowed me to kill someone else.” Matt realized he had potentially revealed his level of anxiety during the car ride over, but he was too worn down to care. For once, he wanted someone who really knew him and seemed to like him to shoulder a fraction of his loneliness and its burden, no matter that imposing on them might be selfish. Perhaps trying to prevent his pain from spilling over to those he cared about was impossible unless he found a measure of happiness.

  “You did what you had to do.” Eric said. “You should focus on the remainder of your life tonight, not the life of that asshole.”

  “Focusing on the remainder of my life is precisely what makes me want to vomit. There is, quite literally, nothing else that I can do to prevent myself from going to prison…or the death chamber.” Matt reached for his glass, shaving a few inches off the distance between himself and Eric.

  “We could run away to Mexico,” Eric said. “I might have to stop by an ATM, but then we could drive across the border.”

  “And my mother would lose everything,” Matt said.

  “Which she would gladly do. I can’t believe I’m the one telling you to lighten up. What happened to waiting outside the principal’s office?”

  “I was just trying to put up a front for both of us,” Matt said. “No one could face the death penalty and really think of it as comparable to the seeing the principal.”

  “I know. By the way, I also think you did the right thing by taking those training sessions at Tommy’s gym.”

  “It’s so hard,” Matt said. He replaced his glass on the coffee table and studied it. “It’s not as if I didn’t see how that could be used against me, but if I failed to do anything to prepare, I’d be even more afraid of what could happen in prison. Odds are I’d still get beaten and raped. But at least the training allows me to feel like I did something. Even if I can’t protect myself, I’m hoping it could help me preserve some shred of dignity. When I think of how hard prison could be, it makes me wonder whether I’d prefer the death penalty.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” Eric gently turned Matt’s face toward him. “There’s no reason to think you’ll be convicted. I still think the jury will see the difference between your character and that of the witnesses testifying against you. And, prison or no prison, we all have to find small things that give us pleasure in life. You’re still allowed to read books in prison, you’re still permitted to write, and you can even continue legal work for yourself and others. And there’s always the hope of clemency from the governor. You should be a prime candidate.”

  “I know. It’s just hard.”

  “You’re an exceptional person who found himself in an impossible situation. That’s not your fault, no matter the jury’s verdict,” Eric said.

  Matt suddenly felt lightheaded. Maybe the two drinks had gone to his head because he’d been drinking so little recently. But he’d only had two, and he’d been drinking water since.

  “Thanks. And now I think we should shift gears. What do you have to say that can help distract me?” Matt asked.

  “Well, have I ever told you about the garage door?” Eric asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m a first child, and this story pretty
much reveals the differences between a first child and a third child. My father was very strict when I was growing up. Fair but strict. But by the time my little brother came along, as my mother put it, they were tired. One morning, my parents are sitting at breakfast when they hear a huge crash from the garage. My youngest brother comes storming in the house in a rage and shouts, ‘Who the hell left the garage door down?’ My father just started laughing so hard he couldn’t get angry.” Matt had trouble keeping a straight face himself.

  “But there’s a lesson there for first children. Sometimes life really is what you make of it. That my little brother was able to see the garage door’s intervention as someone else’s fault saved him some grief. It certainly injected some humor into the situation. And don’t think for a second he was unaware of the humorous value in storming into the house and blaming someone else for leaving the garage door down.”

  “I hear you,” Matt said.

  Matt reveled in Eric’s bonhomie. Eric took his hand and looked directly into his eyes. To Matt’s surprise, he leaned in and kissed Eric, tentatively at first, but without any thought of keeping his lips together. The whiskers on their faces scratched each other and what began softly quickly became consuming. He no longer noticed the bristles. Eric’s strong arms and broad chest made Matt lose track of where he was as they ran their hands over each other’s firm bodies.

  Eric broke off. Matt couldn’t have guessed how long they’d been making out if someone had held a gun to his head.

  “I know this may be too soon for you, especially with everything else that’s going on,” Eric said.

  “Let’s consider this an example of making the most of life,” Matt said. “I probably wouldn’t have the guts to do this if I wasn’t facing possible life imprisonment tomorrow. But there’s nowhere I’d rather spend what could be my last free night than with you.”

  Eric led Matt into his bedroom. He didn’t get much sleep that night, but for very different reasons than he’d anticipated that morning.

  Chapter 15

  Matt woke in Eric’s arms but felt awkward: his discomfort at becoming more entangled with Eric while the jury was still out made a repeat performance impossible, but he knew he would forever remember the experience fondly. So he gave Eric a light kiss on the cheek, taking care not to wake him, left a one-word note of thanks in his kitchen and returned to his own house.

  Matt walked into his kitchen that morning to see Mary brewing a pot of coffee and knew from past experience he’d hear nothing other than a mumbled “Good morning” until after her first cup. He allowed her to pour herself the first, but soon after poured his own, and both sat at the kitchen table.

  After she’d processed her thoughts, and poured a second cup to activate her brain, she said, “You know, I normally wouldn’t approve of anything you might have been doing staying out so late with a boy—or girl—this soon. But I like Eric and I think the circumstances are unusual. I hope it gave you some happiness.”

  Matt wondered whether that felt like a concession or sacrifice to her. But he said: “It did, Mom. As cheesy as it sounds and despite everything else that’s going on, I feel a glow that even the prospect of the verdict can’t tarnish.”

  “Good, then let’s get to court,” Mary responded.

  Matt arrived at his usual seat at the counsel’s table, thrumming from a combination of elation, fatigue and anxiety.

  Farrar turned to Matt and said, “You look exhausted. At least you don’t have to worry about the jury studying you all day.”

  Judge Masterson’s clerk interrupted and said, “All rise. Court is in session. The Honorable Robert Masterson presiding.”

  Judge Masterson and the lawyers took their seats.

  “The jury is present and complete,” Judge Masterson said. “The jurors are continuing their deliberations in the jury room. I don’t think there’s any other business before us, so I’ll see you all if we hear anything.”

  There was nothing left for the defense team to do. Lisa volunteered to remain in the courtroom while everyone else went to the cafeteria for coffee. They gathered around a table and Farrar regaled them with war stories from previous trials in the prosecutor’s office and private practice. His anecdotes were periodically interrupted by emails and phone calls while the morning passed with the agonizing slowness usually reserved for religious ceremonies.

  At about eleven o’clock, Lisa came down to the cafeteria and reported that the clerk had announced the jury was back. Matt resisted the urge to run in two directions at once and returned to the courtroom with everyone else.

  Judge Masterson took his place. “The jury has reached a verdict. I know this has been a hard-fought case, but I’d appreciate it if everyone could attempt to maintain their composure when the verdict’s read. This jury may also have to decide whether to impose the death penalty and I don’t want that decision colored by anyone’s reaction to the verdict. If anyone feels like they can’t control themselves, they should leave the courtroom. My clerk will now bring the jury in.”

  As the jurors came into the room, not one looked in Matt’s direction. The pit forming in his stomach sucked in a deep breath that he hoped was imperceptible. Judge Masterson asked, “Mr Foreperson, have you reached a unanimous verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “What is your verdict?”

  “We find the defendant, Matthew Durant, guilty of first-degree murder.”

  Matt’s chest collapsed on itself. Mary’s face turned bright red and she began crying hysterically; tears streamed down her face, mucus ran from her nose and whimpers rose from her throat.

  “Thank you,” Judge Masterson said. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for your service. You’ll also need to decide whether Mr Durant should receive life in prison or the death penalty. But there are various things that the lawyers and I need to do to prepare for that proceeding. As much as I hate to inconvenience you, I’m going to have to ask you to wait until next Monday before beginning again because the lawyers and I need to prepare for the penalty phase of the trial. I thank you again for your service, remind you not to discuss the case, and you are excused until Monday.”

  After the jury had exited the courtroom, Judge Masterson turned to address Matt. “The jury has found you guilty, and the minimum sentence is life imprisonment—I hereby revoke your bail. You will be remanded into the custody of the Orleans Parish Prison pending the outcome of the sentencing hearing. Officer, take Mr Durant into custody.”

  Mary’s intermittent low and broken sounds built to a shriek of “nooooo” as she rushed forward to throw her entire weight between the court officer and Matt. The large man easily brushed her aside and Lisa and Farrar pulled her back before Judge Masterson could threaten her with contempt. Matt once again felt cold metal handcuffs encircle his wrists and pin his arms behind his back.

  *

  Matt next snapped to when shuffling up the stairs of a modified school bus with five other prisoners. He’d spent his previous stint in Orleans Parish Prison in his own cell, but he suspected his only opportunity for another solitary berth now would be on death row.

  Under the weight of despair, his whole face and body sagged—his mouth, chin, shoulders and back slackened and his knees bent though the shock of the conviction reverberated through his bones. His stomach sickened at the thought of his mother’s uncontrollable grief in the courtroom. For so long she’d entrusted her hopes and happiness to Matt’s drive toward success and that drive had now ended.

  The prisoners each occupied an individual bench, so by turning toward the window he was able to find some small measure of privacy. As he peered out the window at the passing French Quarter, he couldn’t hold back his tears. He worried about the impression crying might make on the other prisoners, but he lacked the strength to gather himself. He hoped they couldn’t see his face. The jury’s finding that he’d lied made him feel dirty and threatened to obliterate that he’d told the truth.

  The bus
came to a stop long before he was prepared. The guard at the front gestured the prisoners toward the door and Matt, with the aid of another officer, descended the steps in cuffs and shackles.

  The processing that followed left no doubt about Matt’s separation from the rest of humanity. He was searched and relinquished his few personal possessions to an indifferent guard behind a mesh metal screen. Another officer ushered him to a small shower, instructed him to strip naked, and doused him with a thick powder. Instructions to “wash it off real good so it don’t burn” were impossible to follow in the fifteen seconds he was given to shower. The water changed the powder to paste; he stepped out and a chemical burn began at his armpits and reached critical mass in his crotch; tears welled up again, the physical pain serving as both cause and excuse.

  The guard then led Matt down a hallway edged with cells and brought him to number 415.

  “This is it. Your new home. Don’t get too used to it, ’cause you’re only here until the jury decides your sentence. Your cellmate is Dwayne Turner,” the guard said.

  Matt looked into the cell as his shackles and cuffs were unlocked. Dwayne was a small black man with fuzz covering his head. “Matt Durant,” he said, extending his hand. Dwayne looked at it disdainfully, but he was no larger than himself. He immediately second-guessed the thought—he wasn’t sure he could handle a seasoned criminal of any size.

  “Hey man, you leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.” Dwayne flashed gold teeth that implied neither wealth nor happiness. “You must have done something wrong to be one of the only white dudes in here, but I don’t really care. Got me?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got you, but mind if I ask a couple of questions?” Matt asked.

  “Naw. Go ahead.”

  “What’s the schedule like in here?”

  “We spend mos’ of our time in this cell. Prison’s overcrowded, so they’se shut down the cafeteria. Each wing only gets to go outside one hour a week. Everyone s’posed to be here temporary-like, so I guess they don’t figure they need to make it too nice.”