by Tim Green
The mob came to life once more with renewed hatred. Cody was washed to the sideline in a sea of his teammates. On the bench, Cody got a drink and some oxygen. Jerry came by to quickly pack his bad knee with a bag of ice. Every little bit helped. When the thrill of the defensive stand had subsided, and Cody's teammates on the sideline began to shift their attention to the offense, he found himself alone. The reality of what had happened settled on his spirits like the snow from a sudden squall. He had helped to stop the Eagles from scoring, yes, but it was his own inability to be where he was supposed to be that had allowed them to complete the long pass and get down there in the first place. He looked frantically up and down the sideline for Biggs. The younger player stood among other Outlaws close to the field, watching the action. He had his helmet off, and there was no sign that he was warming up. Maybe, Cody thought, he was going to get a second chance. He almost didn't deserve it and was certain that only his spectacular goal-line hit had saved him from the bench.
The Eagles offensive coordinator up in the box must have seen Cody's inability to cover the long pass over the top. As soon as they had the ball again, Philadelphia started throwing two out of every three passes deep to the side of the field where his coverage responsibilities were. Cody pulled out every trick he had learned in his nine years as a pro to disguise from the quarterback where he was in the coverage, in an attempt to counteract their plan of attack. It was no use. When the ball was snapped, Cody had to roll to one side of the field or the other, and the quarterback would simply choose whichever receiver was to his side, no matter who was the primary target on that particular play. After the Eagles drove down and scored, three times completing passes of more than twenty yards right at him, Cody knew it was over.
After the extra point, Cody jogged off with his teammates. He picked Dryer out of the crowd on the sideline by looking for his cowboy hat and headed straight for him. The coach saw Cody coming and he had the decency to listen to what he had to say before speaking himself. Cody appreciated that. A lot of coaches he had known would simply have screamed at him to get his ass on the bench. Dryer let Cody do it himself. It was like letting a guy shoot his own dying dog.
"I'm done," Cody said, relaxing his muscles and allowing the leg to settle the way it wanted to with a frozen joint.
Dryer nodded and slapped Cody on the shoulder.
"You did a hell of a job while you could, Cody. You got nothing to be ashamed of," he said with a grim smile, then turned his attention back to the field.
Cody heard someone bark to get Biggs ready, and he swung his head around to watch the younger player scramble back to the bench for his helmet and begin stretching his legs for the next defensive series. Cody sat down on the bench the long way, with his bad leg resting on the seat. The emotion of the moment made it hard for him to breath. In one way he felt like he'd made it. Hie trial was to begin tomorrow, and until next Sunday, he would be considered a starter in the NFL. There were only six hundred and sixty of them in the entire world. Now that it was finally over, Cody felt like some wounded animal that had dragged his broken carcass back home to his den so he could lay himself down and die. It was sad, but in a way it was also a relief.
Jerry hurried up and cut away his pants at the knee. It had swollen so much that he wasn't going to be able to get them off any other way. When Jeny had pulled away the cloth and the padding and the wraps, Cody could see his knee. It was a pale, puffy orb, blotched with purple and yellow hues where the blood underneath the skin had congealed. The skin was pocked with bright red on the surface where the scabs from the repeated needle punctures had torn away. With the help of an assistant, Jerry managed to get the whole joint carefully packaged in ice.
Cody was in a bit of a daze, and when he looked up, he saw Jerry standing there above him. Jerry was not known to be a man full of emotions, but his eyes were filled with heartfelt pity. Cody saw it beyond his sharp nose, in the wrinkled comers of his deep-set eyes.
"I don't know how the hell you did it, son," Jerry said in a raspy voice, "but I can say in my thirty-six years that I've never seen anything like it."
It was the ultimate compliment.
Cody looked down at the enormous wrapping and then back up. Jerry was gone. Cody was glad for that. He didn't want anyone to see the tears that welled up in his eyes and spilled down over his cheeks. He dug the palms of his hands quickly into his face and choked back his feelings. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Van Rawlins watched his cap in the upcoming election close and then widen again after the initial publicity of Jeff Board's murder died down. When jury selection began to heat up and the media started to lead the local news with stories of the upcoming trial, he watched with delight as the gap began to shrink once again. By Monday morning, he was only five points behind. The trial was scheduled to begin at nine. They would go until noon and then break for an hour of lunch before resuming court until four. At seven A. M., Rawlins was sitting with Kooch at the Elbow Diner, four blocks from the courthouse. Rawlins was nervous, not so much about the trial but about the media. Kooch promised him that he had worked the local media into a fervor over the weekend to make sure they highlighted his work as the prosecutor of the case.
"I don't want to be just some local yokel," Rawlins growled at him. "I want the big boys here. I want CNN and Dateline. Can't you get any of the big boys down here? Hell, look at what they did with the O. J. trial."
'This isn't O. J.," Kooch reminded him. "As big as Cody Grey's name is in Austin and in the state of Texas, the national media wants something juicier to sink their teeth into if they're going to bring entire crews down here. Connack's not exactly helping us. He's treating this just like any other murder trail. I just don't think it will happen. We'll be all right. The local media will help us a lot."
"Kooch," Rawlins said with a darkened brow, "1 don't want to get just the local media. Think beyond this election, goddammit. Think about Congress. Think about the Senate. Look what this kind of thing did for Marsha Clark. She's a damn celebrity, Kooch! This is the chance to put me on the map! How many times do you think a prosecutor gets a chance like this? We got to take advantage of it."
"I'd worry more about living up to your guarantee of a conviction," Kooch told him. "I told you not to do that. People in Texas don't like a guy who guarantees them something and then doesn't deliver."
"This case is a winner," Van said. "He did it."
"1 know you don't want to hear it," Kooch said, going out on a limb, "but Madison McCall is as slippery as they come."
"I'll worry about the trial, Kooch," Van said with an angry scowl. "You just get some big-time media here."
"The problem as I see it is women," Kooch told him, digging into a platter of eggs that the waitress laid down in front of him.
Rawlins stopped a piece of toast halfway to his mouth and said, "Women? What the hell are you saying?"
"I'm saying that this is a trial about men," Kooch said, a little yolk dribbling out of the comer of his mouth. '"Scuse me." Kooch wiped the yolk away. "It's about a guy who killed a guy. And practically all the witnesses are guys, except for that one lady you got from the Green Mesquite. We got no female interest in this case. That's what I mean. The national TV markets are driven by women. They control what channel everyone gets to watch. That's just the way it is."
"Well, why in hell didn't you tell me about that?" Rawlins complained.
"I don't see how it could make much difference. You can't change who killed who," Kooch said, draining half a glass of orange juice with one gulp.
"Damn," Van said, knowing his man was right but wishing there was something he could do to change it.
There were more than enough cameras for Cody and Madison as they hopped out of Marty's car and started up the courthouse steps. Van Rawlins had been holding an impromptu news conference on the top step, but when the cry went forth that Cody was there, the prosecutor was quickly abandoned. Co
dy and Madison were mobbed by cameras and microphones and rude shouting reporters. They had agreed to say nothing to the press, so they both simply looked straight in front of them and pushed ahead. Cody led the way, and even the pushiest of the media yielded to him, giving him the space he needed to pass.
Madison and Cody went through a metal detector before passing into the courtroom. Except for the special section for the media, the courtroom was already full with the morning's witnesses and the nosy onlookers who could afford to take a day off of work to enjoy the spectacle.
A murmur went up through the crowd when Cody entered. Van Rawlins and two assistants were just sitting down at their table on the right side of the courtroom, closest to the jury. In the middle of the floor was a podium. The defense's table was on the other side, opposite the jury box. In the front and center of the courtroom loomed Judge Walter Connack's bench. It was an imposing sight that befit the man and his reputation. To the immediate right of the judge's bench was the witness box.
Cody was dazed by the speed at which everything took place. No sooner had Marty entered and sat down with them did the bailiff bark at everyone to rise. The enormous judge came in amid a litany of respect and tradition about how honorable he was, then he slammed his gavel down one time on the bench. Everyone sat. Opening statements were first, and Van Rawlins wasted no time in laying out for the jury exactly what had happened on the night in question and why. He rattled on down the list of witnesses he would be calling and why. He told them about the evidence they would see with their own eyes and assured them that when he was through, they would have no doubt that Cody Grey, the man known and celebrated for his violent nature, had finally committed the ultimate act of aggression, a coldly calculated murder. When he finished, there was absolute silence.
Madison's heart dropped. She could almost sense the jury's horror. Van Rawlins had outdone himself. She had heard him open before with equal compassion and authority, but never had she heard him be so concise in his delivery of the evidence and how it would be presented. It made her wonder if what was happening might not be beyond her lawyering skills, like it was something that had already been written down long ago. She pushed those thoughts aside and rose to face the jury.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began with a winning smile. "I want to thank you for taking the time out of your lives to be here for this trial. I think when it is over, you will feel that you were able to help an innocent man whose life would have been torn apart were it not for your intuition, your wisdom, and your good common sense. Those are the three things it will take to see that Cody Grey had absolutely nothing to do with the unfortunate death of the victim, and I already know from talking with you last week that each of you has those qualities."
Madison paused to let that sink in. One thing she could do better than anyone was to immediately ingratiate herself to the jury without crossing the line and pandering.
"Wisdom and common sense will come into play when I show you that despite what some of the prosecution's witnesses will say, people make mistakes. People say things they don't mean. People swear they saw something that in fact they never saw at all. It happens all the time. It may have happened to you, and probably has. It's as simple as swearing you left your car keys on the kitchen table."
Madison came out from behind the podium now and moved toward the jury, standing so Cody could look toward her and in the direction of the jury. Madison had dressed him in a dark blue gabardine suit and a quietly stylish tie. He looked as if he'd walked off the pages of GQ magazine. Madison wanted the jury to have the opportunity to see his face, but it was important that he didn't state at them. If he was looking right at them, they would glance away. If he was looking at her, the jury, especially the women, would steal frequent glances his way.
"But you know," Madison said in almost a whisper, as though she were admitting something personal to a friend, "the keys aren't on the table, and they never were. They're in the ignition where you left them. It just happens, my friends, that is exactly what happened to the eyewitness who believes, really believes, that he saw Cody Grey coming out of the victim's home on the night of the murder. But he didn't. He saw someone, I'll bet that. But it was dark. He wears glasses. It was late. When the police showed up with a black- and-white photo of Cody Grey, he cried. That's him!' No. That wasn't him. That was the picture of a man he thought he saw."
Madison paused and looked at Cody, drawing the jury's attention to him before assertively saying, "Cody Grey, my friends, was home and asleep.
"Common sense will show you how it happened that so much evidence has been misguidedly compiled against Cody Grey, and wisdom will help you see that despite outward appearances, he is a completely innocent man caught in a web of underworld corruption that he never even knew existed. A web with a spider that was simply waiting to pounce, waiting for a victim to come along and take the blame for its heinous crime, killing Jeff Board. The people or person who committed this crime did so with the precision and timing of a professional criminal, making it look as though the murder was committed by another man. Cody Grey was that man, and just as much a victim as Jeff Board himself.
"Now," Madison said, as though she were a sage talking to her pupils, "here's where your intuition comes in. Use it! I will show you that Jeff Board had dealings with a notorious underworld figure. I will show you that he mishandled the investigation of that figure resulting in a savings for that criminal of as much as six million dollars! And, ultimately, because of this conspiracy, Jeff Board held the thin thread that kept that underworld figure from going to jail. But Jeff Board let this man go with a slap on the wrist. Why? What sort of arrangement had they made? Did Board double-cross this man? Or was it the other way around? We'll never know, ladies and gentlemen. You and I will never know. But your intuition will tell you that there is more to the relationship between these two men than meets the eye. Your intuition will tell you that something rotten was afoot. Your intuition will tell you that if a man like the one I'm talking about was going to kill Jeff Board, he would have to make it look like it was someone else. If not, the police would have scrutinized Board's past, as I have, and found just the man I did, someone linked to Board through questionable circumstances, a killer who had stolen millions of dollars from the U. S. government. And your intuition, ladies and gentlemen, will tell you that Cody Grey, despite some hotheaded remarks after Board crudely insulted his wife, was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. Your intuition will tell you what I already know ... that that man, Cody Grey, is as innocent of this crime as you or I."
Madison looked at them almost defiantly, challenging them to see the truth, no matter how hidden it was. She liked what she saw, but for the next few days she was going to have to constantly battle against some very hard facts that had been stacked against them.
Rawlins called his first witness, Agnes Tuttle. Agnes was a fiery schoolteacher in her late fifties. She'd never been married, and this was the most exciting thing that had happened in her life. She recounted in great detail for the jury what had transpired between Cody and Board at the Green Mesquite. Agnes had been sitting by herself in the next booth with little else to do than listen to the conversations of those around her. She hadn't had to listen very hard at all to hear Cody's words, which he'd bellowed, in Agnes's words, "like a castrated longhom." That brought laughter from all quarters, and Madison knew that Rawlins had called one of his most animated witnesses first to get the momentum of the prosecution off the ground. The woman was energized. She was giddy. But it was the flippancy with which she answered the questions and went into great and humorous detail that annoyed Madison most. The woman was so wrapped up in her enjoyment of the attention she was receiving that she hadn't stopped to think that she was dealing with life and death, not an open mike in a comedy club. Madison was about to bring all the fun to a screaming halt.
When Rawlins finished with Agnes, she started to get up from her seat in the witness box. Madison purposely let her get h
erself started down the steps before she said politely, "Excuse me, your honor, would you tell the witness that 1 do have a few questions?"
Walter boomed down from his bench, "Ms. Tuttle, you have not been excused. Ms. McCall has a few questions for you."
Madison could see that this agitated the woman, so she stared in complete silence until Agnes had returned to her seat and was completely still.
"Ms. Tuttle," Madison said with caustic abruptness, "you've threatened to kill someone before haven't you?"
Agnes looked shocked.
"1 most certainly have not--"
"Objection!" Rawlins yelled, too late to stop the agitated witness from answering. "This is completely irrelevant, your honor. Counsel is badgering the witness."
Judge Connack looked to Madison and said, "I think I know where she's going, overruled."
"No?" Madison continued, looking incredulously at the teacher. "You've never said to your fellow teacher, a Mr. Lyons, in reference to a student who had told her mother that you hit her knuckles with a ruler, quote, Til kill the little bitch if she takes this to the board'? You never said that?"
"1 ... that's not what I meant--said," Agnes protested. "You're taking something completely out of context."
"That's not what I'm asking you, Ms. Tuttle," Madison said firmly. "I'm asking you if you ever threatened to kill someone, namely a twelve-year-old student. Now please answer yes or no."