by Randy Singer
The men scattered as the guards arrived. Turned out that nobody saw anything.
That night, in the dark quiet of the cell, Thomas knew that he had to confront Buster with the sinfulness of his conduct. It was the first fight Buster had picked since his conversion, and it was no way for a Christian to act.
“Heard about the fight tonight,” Thomas said, keeping his voice down so that it couldn’t be heard in other cells. “I can understand why you was mad—”
He heard Buster curse under his breath in the other cot. “No, you can’t, Pops.”
“Regardless,” Thomas continued, “it don’t justify what you done. Christians can’t return hate for hate, Buster. Think how much God showed you love even when you hated Him.”
Thomas waited for an answer. He was ready to work through this even if it took all night. You couldn’t go around claiming the name of Christ and then start cracking people’s ribs when they disrespect you. It was time for Buster to get serious about his faith. It was time for some good old-fashioned repentance.
But there would be nothing to work through. Buster answered only with silence. And a half hour later with the sound of heavy snoring.
55
FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS, Nikki and Charles prepared diligently for trial, like a couple of young professionals who had never had even a momentary longing for each other. Charles was thankful that Nikki had at least gone back to a first-name basis—no more of this “Mr. Arnold” stuff. But there was a distinct chill in the air when they were together and an unspoken rule that their past relationship would not be discussed.
Nikki sent every nonverbal message possible that she would never again give the relationship a second thought. She had always been a woman of casual but intimate touches, something that Charles loved. They would be talking together, and she would reach out and touch his arm, casually fling her arm over his shoulder, or playfully punch him. But now she was making an obvious effort to avoid any physical contact whatsoever. It was like he had an infectious disease, one she was determined not to catch, as she restrained her normally vivacious personality and ubiquitous sense of touch.
The investigation was proceeding no better, as Nikki reported running up against one roadblock after another. None of the bartenders or waiters at the restaurants patronized by Armistead could recall seeing Armistead and the Barracuda together. The long-distance phone calls listed on his bill were also a dead end. Nor could Nikki find out any information about a malpractice company called the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal or any recent settlement of an insurance claim by Armistead.
By the eve of trial, the two legal warriors were getting frustrated. They couldn’t shake the feeling that they were close to a breakthrough on Armistead but couldn’t quite make out the whole picture. After weeks of investigating and strategizing, the trial still seemed to hinge on the credibility of one witness—Dr. Sean Armistead—and they were missing the silver bullet for his cross-examination.
But that was something they could no longer control. The night before trial, they focused on things they could control: Nikki had completed her ratings of the potential jurors, Charles had completed his outlines for the examination of witnesses, and Charles had practiced his opening statement twice with Nikki playing the role of juror.
It was now nearly 11:00 p.m., and the two had their papers spread all over the classroom that Charles had coopted for use as an office in the days prior to the trial. Nikki used the floor; Charles’s stuff covered several rows of seats.
She checked her watch. The kids were staying with their mom, and it was getting late. “I think we’re ready,” she announced, rubbing her eyes.
Charles looked up from the stack of papers in front of him. “Let me go over the last few minutes of my opening one more time. I’ve just written some new thoughts.” He stood and started stretching his back.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said. “Really. I’ve gotta go and pick up the kids. I mean, technically, they’re not even supposed to be with their mother if I’m not there.”
But before she could stand, Charles was off, launching into a passionate appeal outlining the defendant’s evidence and asking the jurors—no, begging the jurors—to keep an open mind until they heard the defendant’s case. He was in his street preacher mode, pacing and cajoling, asking brazen rhetorical questions—all under the expressionless gaze of Nikki Moreno. His voice rose and fell in a mesmerizing rhythm. He was preaching the gospel of reasonable doubt, and the jurors were his congregation.
When he concluded fifteen spellbinding minutes later, there were beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The room took on an uncomfortable silence. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at his critic, who was still sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“How’d you like it?”
“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
At this, Charles’s shoulders slumped. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt and sat down on the floor in front of Nikki, leaning back on his hands with his legs extended out in front of him.
“That’s it? Fine?” he asked.
She shrugged again. “Nothing wrong with fine.” She started stacking up some papers as Charles watched her every move. “It’s late,” Nikki continued, sounding defensive. “I’ve gotta go. It was fine.”
Charles continued staring, unsatisfied with the answer. It wasn’t that he was fishing for more praise; it’s just that he expected some passion. Nikki wasn’t being Nikki. He needed her unguarded feedback, not some polite answer from someone working hard to stay emotionally detached.
“Nikki, we’ve got to talk.”
She rolled her eyes. “If I remember correctly, last time we ‘talked’—” she made little quote marks with her fingers as she said the word—“it was more like you talked and I listened. And if I’m not mistaken, the gist of our little talk was that you were basically too good for me because you’re a Christian and I’m not. So, needless to say, I’m not real excited about talking again.” She stood to go.
Charles reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Sit down, Nikki.”
She glared at him, pulling the wrist away.
“Please.”
She narrowed her eyes and sat.
“Is that what you believe?” Charles asked. “That I somehow think I’m too good for you?”
Nikki shrugged again. She stared past him at the wall.
“Look, Nikki, nothing could be further from the truth. During the few times we spent together before the now infamous ‘talk,’ I had to pinch myself just to make sure it was real. I mean, I couldn’t believe that someone as beautiful and charming as you would ever spend any time with me.”
The expression on her face seemed to soften slightly. Charles studied her as he waited for a response. None came.
“When we talked,” he continued, “I knew I didn’t phrase things right. What I was trying to say is that our friendship really mattered to me, and I didn’t want to hurt you by making you think I was looking for something more. Now we’ve got this trial to get ready for, and I’m just walking on eggshells wondering what you’re going to think about this or what you’re going to say about that.”
Charles softened his voice and looked down at the floor as he continued. He bent his knees and leaned back on his hands. “I understand why you’re mad at me, but I’ve got to get this off my chest before we head into trial. I’ve got to know that we’re in this together, that we can talk openly, and that we’ll guard each other’s back. We’ve got enough people shooting at us, trying to put our clients away. I’ve just got to know that you’re with me no matter what.”
Charles decided to wait her out. He had to have an answer. He couldn’t suffer through a two-day trial with this battle going on in his own ranks. Why couldn’t they at least be friends?
This time Nikki sighed. A look of sympathy came over her face, lingering there for a moment only to be replaced by that mischievous smile. “You sure that’s what you wan
t?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” she said. She reached out her hands and grabbed his. They pulled each other up. She let go of his hands, brushed off her jeans, and said matter-of-factly, “I’m with you as long as you’ll promise me a few things.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, no more bump-on-the-log defense.”
“Of course not.”
“Second, don’t try to embarrass me in front of the client by asking me to pray.”
“Sorry. I never should have done that.”
“Third, you’ve got to rewrite that sorry opening.”
What? Is she serious? “Can’t we go back to just being professional colleagues, Ms. Moreno?”
“No way,” she said. “You asked for this.” The spark in her eyes returned, and she broke into a wide Nikki Moreno smile.
He had forgotten how beautiful she was when she smiled.
56
BY MIDMORNING they had picked the jury. In Virginia state court, the judge asked most of the questions and kept the lawyers on a tight leash. Silverman, as usual, had been efficient and fair, tolerating no nonsense from either the Barracuda or Charles.
Nikki leaned back in her chair, seated this time at the right hand of Charles, studying her handiwork. She had made the final calls on which jurors to strike and which to keep. They ended up with seven men and five women—only four mothers. Nikki thought the mothers would be brutal on Theresa and wanted to keep as many as possible off the jury. Four of the jurors were minorities: two African Americans, one Asian American, and one Hispanic. Under Nikki’s theory, the minorities would be good, especially with her and Charles sitting at the defense counsel table. But the Hispanic and one of the African Americans were mothers, so they would be hard to predict.
To Nikki’s great disappointment, there were no fundamentalists on the jury, but there were a few Baptists and one AME church member. Not the most religious jury she had ever seen. They would have to play the religion card carefully. But overall, it was a jury they could work with. Nikki began trying to make eye contact with the young male jurors, especially the unmarried ones. It might, she thought, be her most important contribution to the case.
The Barracuda seemed to be quite smug about the jury as well. She and her jury consultant had not stopped smiling since Judge Silverman had announced the final panel and seated them in the box.
Nikki hated the Barracuda’s act—her phony friendliness in front of the jury. Nikki had never seen the Barracuda smile unless she was in front of a jury or television camera. At the first break, she determined that she would approach Crawford and try to make some small talk. She wanted to suggest a new hair-dye product the Barracuda might want to try, something that would help take care of those nasty dark roots. Nikki would also be sure to mention how much she hated these television cameras, based on the well-known fact that the cameras added ten pounds to your weight when you showed up on television.
“Does the commonwealth wish to give an opening statement?” Judge Silverman asked.
With all those cameras rolling, Nikki thought, wild horses couldn’t drag the Barracuda away from making an opening statement.
Crawford stood, looking more slender than usual in her tailored black pinstripe suit. “Yes, Your Honor,” she said and then strutted toward the jury box.
Her first five minutes contained a lecture in American civics. She explained all about the trial, who was who, why they were there—that type of thing. She thanked the jury at least three times, as if they had any choice in the matter. Then she began stroking the jurors’ egos in earnest.
She told them that they were the most important part of the American legal system. She told them that they had all the tools necessary to decide this case: their own common sense and innate sense of justice. She told them that she would be pleased to trust the fate of the commonwealth’s case, the “people’s case” as she called it, into their capable hands. Nikki thought she noticed a few of the jurors sit up a little straighter. Nikki wanted to gag.
After an appropriate season of complimenting the jurors on what a great job they were going to do, the Barracuda got down to basics. She represented the interests of the people, she reminded them, and her only concern was to see justice done. And in this case, she carried a heavy responsibility not just to represent the people generally, but also to represent one little person in particular. He was a child who did not live to see his second birthday. A tiny boy named Joshua Hammond, with his whole life in front of him, who died a senseless death because his parents refused to get him medical help.
She stopped talking for a moment, swallowed hard, and then forced herself to continue. Right inside the front of her trial notebook, she told the jury in a whisper, was a picture of innocent little Joshie. It helped remind her what this case was all about. And when she looked at that picture, she couldn’t help but wonder how any parents could allow such an innocent little boy to die needlessly.
In fact, the Barracuda said, turning and pointing at Thomas and Theresa Hammond, raising her voice, these parents allowed their baby to suffer in excruciating pain for five days. She shook her head like she couldn’t possibly understand it. Five days, with an infected and ultimately ruptured appendix, before they even took him to the hospital. Five days of squirming in agony with a fever of more than 103 degrees before the parents went for help.
There were laws to protect innocent children like Joshua from uncaring or deluded parents. Sure, the Hammonds would claim that their faith required them not to go to the hospital, but that was no excuse under the law.
“Religious beliefs do not justify murder,” Crawford said. “So let’s just call it what it is.”
Having pointed and shouted and accused, the Barracuda then seemed to calm down and began discussing the evidence. She took the next thirty minutes to talk about appendicitis, how easy it was to cure and how hard the good Dr. Armistead worked to save this child even at the last minute. But it was no use; the child had been doomed by the delay in treatment caused by his own parents. The jury would also hear about a statement given by young John Paul Hammond, who desperately tried to defend his parents but had to admit that his mom and dad had waited a full five days before seeking medical help.
The Barracuda also promised that the jury would hear private thoughts from Theresa Hammond herself in the form of a prayer journal that covered some of the critical days in question. In addition, the jury would hear testimony from the minister of the Hammonds’ church. Both the journal and the minister would confirm that Thomas and Theresa Hammond knew their son was dying but refused to seek treatment.
At the end of her opening, the Barracuda turned religious. Little Joshie was probably in heaven right now, she opined, and he was looking down on the trial, wondering whether justice would be done. He had been denied the opportunity to do so many things people take for granted, denied the chance to realize the potential God had put in his little breast. Now the only question remaining, the Barracuda said, was whether he would also be denied justice. That decision, she said, was in the jury’s hands.
And with that thought ringing in their ears, the Barracuda took her seat. She had been at it for fifty-five minutes.
Nikki was nauseated. Watching the Barracuda suddenly turn so religious was almost more than she could take.
Charles had the daunting task of following this vintage performance. The jurors had already started squirming and shooting mean glances in the direction of Thomas and Theresa Hammond. Charles said a quick and silent prayer, then rose and buttoned his suit coat jacket.
“She’s good,” he said to the jury, ignoring the usual niceties and introductions. “She’s real good.”
He smiled at the jury, then stuck a hand in his pocket, striking a casual pose. With the other hand he leaned against the jury rail. He lowered his voice.
“That’s why the judge told you to keep an open mind until you’ve heard both sides of the case. And that’s why the judge reminded yo
u that opening statements are not evidence. What she said was good. And it would make a good case. Only problem is: it happens not to be true.”
Then slowly and quietly Charles began building his defense. Thomas and Theresa were loving parents but also parents of faith. They waited longer than most would have waited before they took Joshie to the hospital, but that didn’t mean they’re murderers. After all, they violated the very tenets of their faith by taking Joshie to the hospital at all. It was not an easy decision. When they did take him’on the third day of fever, not the fifth—Joshie still had every chance in the world to survive. But mistakes made by Dr. Armistead, and the doctor’s refusal to acknowledge that there was better care available at another hospital, cost young Joshie his life.
“Is it unreasonable to pray for a miracle and wait a few days for that miracle, before you take your child to the hospital?” Charles asked. “And if Joshie was in such bad shape when he was admitted to the hospital, why did he have to wait twenty-six minutes—twenty-six long, painful minutes—before he even saw a doctor? And why, after the decision was made to spend time—ninety minutes to be exact—trying to resuscitate him through an IV line and make him ready for surgery, why wasn’t he transferred to Norfolk Children’s Hospital while all this was happening?”
Charles promised the jury they would learn the answer to that question during the cross-examination of Dr. Armistead. He also promised them that when they did, they would be shocked.
He had only been talking for fifteen minutes, but he noticed some of the juror’s eyes starting to glaze over. A juror in the back row yawned. It was hard keeping their attention when he was being purposefully low-key about the whole thing—trying to keep emotions from driving their decision.
He walked over and stood behind his clients, Thomas and Theresa Hammond. He could not risk having them testify, so this would be the next best thing. He placed a hand on each of their shoulders and looked up again at the jury. As only a teacher could do, he waited until he had eye contact from each juror; then he spoke barely loud enough so they could hear.