by Jeanne Winer
“How come?” Jeremy asked, clearly enjoying the conversation. At least somebody was.
“Well, we weren’t at all sure we wanted to stop, but mainly, just like Lee, we hated to disappoint him.”
“It was one of his few real flaws,” Lee acknowledged. “He couldn’t stand to be disappointed.”
“He wasn’t willing to compromise much either.”
“That, too,” Lee said.
“But other than that,” Bobby added, “he was just so great.”
“The best,” Mark agreed. “And we’ll miss him forever.”
Lee looked at her friends and nodded.
“So, now that we’ve admitted Paul wasn’t perfect, could we possibly talk about something else?”
Everyone laughed, including Jeremy, who seemed completely at ease.
“Well, I’m very curious about Sam,” Bobby said. “Would it be all right to ask a few questions about him?”
“Sure,” Jeremy replied. “I mean, if you guys really want to know.”
“Absolutely,” Mark said. “What was he like?”
“Truthfully, like everything I’d been dreaming of: tall and strong and really good-looking. And-and very protective. He wouldn’t, for instance, let me shoplift or do anything illegal. Didn’t want me to get into trouble like he did. His childhood was really crummy, much worse than mine. His dad died when he was five. A few years later, his mother married a creep who began, you know, to molest him. So then he started getting into trouble. One day, he kicked this kid in the face and the kid lost his eye. Sam felt really bad. They arrested him and sent him to juvie prison, where he worked out every day and got streetwise. He liked it better than being at home. And after that, he lived on the streets.”
“Did he ever tell anyone about being molested?” Lee asked, guessing that he hadn’t.
“No, I was the first person he told. We were saving up to leave Denver and start a new life in San Francisco.” He smiled confidently. “I think we would have lasted like you guys did.”
“Sounds like you would have,” Mark said.
Lee glanced at her watch. She had thirty minutes to drop her friends off at their gym and then make it back to the courthouse for a sentencing on a kidnapping case with injuries.
“I’m really sorry, guys, but we’re going to have to leave soon.”
The men looked genuinely disappointed.
“Have you ever been to the Castro district in San Francisco?” Jeremy asked them.
“Oh, lots of times,” Bobby replied. “We have a number of friends who live there.”
“Is-is it like the way Sam said it was?”
“You mean full of gay men?” Mark asked. “Yes, it’s great.”
Jeremy smiled wistfully. The way, Lee thought, European Jews during the Second World War might have smiled at the idea of a homeland. A safe place where you finally fit in, where you were surrounded by people who looked and acted like you did. Maybe not paradise, but damned close.
Lee stood up, signaling the end of the visit. Mark and Bobby got to their feet as well. Finally, Jeremy stood up too.
“It was very nice to meet you,” Mark said.
“Thanks for coming,” Jeremy mumbled, looking shy again.
Bobby put out his hand and Jeremy shook it.
“Good luck at the trial,” Bobby said.
“Thanks. We’ll need it.”
Because her friends looked so worried, Lee forced herself to smile.
“Hey, if there’s any justice in the world, we’ll win.” She waited a moment. “So did that sound as idiotic as I think it did?”
No one bothered to respond.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Dan stood at the podium, readying himself to give his opening statement. He was dressed in a somber navy-blue suit he hoped would convey his sincerity and trustworthiness. Lee, guessing he’d wear something dark, had chosen a light, gray silk pantsuit as contrast, aiming for openness and transparency. Ladies and gentlemen, unlike our opponents, we’ve got nothing to hide. Fanciful thinking? Probably, but if even one juror was subliminally affected, it was worth it. And for a trial that mattered this much, you couldn’t overlook anything.
It had taken three full days to pick a jury because the vast majority of prospective jurors had either read or heard that Jeremy had confessed and that his co-defendants had been busted after bragging about a boot party. Lee could have successfully filed for a change of venue, but never seriously considered moving the trial. Boulder was notoriously liberal compared to most jurisdictions in Colorado and, despite all the negative publicity, it was still her best bet. If there were twelve sympathetic people who might acquit her client of murder, they probably lived in Boulder.
When Lee and Phil had strategized about the perfect juror for the case, they’d both agreed she was a well-educated, bleeding-heart liberal, someone who worked outside the home but still had kids, and who made her living helping others: a doctor, lawyer, nurse, therapist, social worker, yoga instructor, teacher, librarian, et cetera. And besides all of the above, she had to be accepting of gay people; ideally, have a gay or lesbian friend or relative. In some of the nearby jurisdictions like Weld, Adams, Jefferson, or El Paso, such women existed, but good luck finding them. In Boulder, they were everywhere.
Of course, the prosecution would have engaged in similar thinking and come up with their own ideal juror: a middle-aged or older male, ex-military, conservative, religious but not seriously homophobic—he had to believe that killing a gay man was still murder. If Lee were Dan, she’d want engineers, accountants, financial analysts, bankers, blue-collar workers, and men who worked in cubicles for major corporations. Men whose hearts were unavailable for tugging.
The end result was the usual one, a jury neither side particularly liked or hated. After challenging each other’s dream jurors, they were left with twelve ostensibly neutral people who swore they could be fair and impartial. Lee was pretty sure who the foreman would be, a self-assured manager at Wells Fargo whose wife was a “homemaker,” but whose younger brother was gay. Dan, who still didn’t know what Lee would later argue, looked surprised when she didn’t strike him.
Lee sat as close to Jeremy as possible, partly to keep him calm, but mostly to demonstrate how fond she was of her client, which in this case happened to be true. Over the next two weeks, she would make a point of touching his arm and shoulder many times, another subliminal hint that her client had been wrongfully accused and wasn’t at all dangerous. Although at some point the jury would see his tattoos—Lee hadn’t been able to convince the court that they were irrelevant and prejudicial—for now he wore simple long-sleeved shirts that hid his arms and made him look like an ordinary schoolboy. What he still might be if his parents had come home just a few hours later that day in February.
While Dan methodically previewed the state’s evidence against the defendant, Lee calmly took notes. As he described the crime scene and the various injuries suffered by the victim, a number of jurors began to frown. By the time he finished, most of the jurors would be shaking their heads and wondering why they had to sit through a whole trial before they could convict the kid and go home. If Lee was stupid enough to waive or even reserve her opening statement, she would never catch up, and the chances of an acquittal would be as likely as a snowstorm in Haiti.
As instructed, Jeremy sat quietly next to her, looking serious and interested but not worried.
“You’re on stage whenever the jury is present,” she’d warned. “Any signs of anger, defensiveness, or boredom will sink you. Don’t blow it.”
He promised he wouldn’t.
Carla and Phil sat directly behind the defense table, both of them watching the jurors’ faces for anything that might indicate a reluctance to follow the herd. Because she might be called as a witness, Carla had dyed her hair brown and exchanged her contact lenses for glasses. She’d wear smart professional suits throughout the trial, forgoing her usual glitter until after the jury’s verdict. Phil’s cas
t had been removed a few days earlier and his face no longer showed any signs of trauma. His heart was still shattered, but at least now it was a private affair.
Thanks to Lee and his wife, Phil’s career was still viable. After much arguing, they had convinced the DA to offer a one-year deferred judgment and sentence to misdemeanor criminal mischief and menacing, naming Bob Wheeler as the victim. Because all charges against his wife would be dismissed, there would be no domestic violence designation. Based on the deal, the Office of Attorney Regulation agreed to a twelve-month suspension with all but two months stayed, which meant Phil would keep his job. As promised, Lee stipulated that her client would undergo six months of outpatient alcohol counseling.
Phil was relieved and grateful. When the one-year deferral was up, he would be eligible to seal his record. He’d work for Lee until August and then go back to the Public Defender. It was as good as it got. And although he couldn’t imagine ever falling in love again, Lee suspected he would. In the meantime, there would be no shortage of women who would want to soothe and mother him, who would listen to his dark, disturbing stories with wonder and puzzlement and then try to lighten things up.
Dan was taking his time now, making eye contact with as many of the jurors as possible. He’d saved the best part for last: the three co-defendants who would take the stand and testify under oath that the defendant had actively taken part in the murder, that he’d urged the others on, that he’d kicked the victim several times, and had acted as the lookout. Finally, Dan stopped talking.
After a long pause, he said, “So you see, ladies and gentlemen, this won’t be a difficult trial. Unlike some cases where the evidence is murky or conflicting, we have plenty of direct, compelling proof of the defendant’s guilt. And although you might feel a bit queasy passing judgment on another human being, especially someone as young as the defendant here, it’s your job to do just that: to look inside yourselves and, without sympathy or prejudice, ask if you have any reasonable doubt that the defendant aided and abetted the murder of Mr. Donnelly. If it’s clear to you that he’s guilty, then it’s your sworn duty to say so and let the system deal with his punishment. That’s all the prosecution will ask of you. Thank you.”
Lee gathered her notes together and surveyed the crowd. As expected, there were representatives from numerous local and national media in the audience hoping to capitalize on the Matthew Shepard aspect of the case. How would they feel if it turned out that the real culprits had all made a deal and the only innocent person was the one on trial? It was a delicious thought, which made her smile. Besides the media, there were the usual rubbernecks who showed up at gruesome, high-profile murder cases for the free entertainment. Better than reality TV!
The rest of the benches were filled with various personnel who worked in the courthouse, a large contingent of local gay men and lesbians wearing Matthew Shepard pins, prosecutors and defense attorneys who wanted to see Dan and Lee in the ring together, and a group of strange-looking people dressed in cheap black suits and plain white dresses, each of them clutching a bible. Had Leonard sent them? He must have.
The air conditioning didn’t seem to be working and everyone’s faces looked flushed. A few of the religious women were fanning their faces with their bibles. From what Lee knew about Sam, she hadn’t expected anyone from his family to show up, but still it was sad. A life had been brutally extinguished and there was no one here who cared, except his accused murderer. Shortly after Sam’s body had been identified, the police had located his mother, who merely said she wasn’t surprised at her son’s violent end.
“I’m amazed he lived as long as he did,” she admitted. “As a child, he was always getting into trouble. We couldn’t control him.”
Before the trial started, Judge Samuels had agreed to a single camera in the courtroom, the feed to be shared by all requesting media groups. Despite repeated requests for interviews, Lee had turned them all down. Years ago, both she and Dan had agreed that neither of them would make any statements to the press concerning a case they were trying. In any event, the Rules of Professional Conduct severely restricted what a lawyer could say to the press. For instance, neither side could ethically offer an opinion concerning the defendant’s guilt or innocence.
After Dan settled into his chair, Judge Samuels waited a few moments before asking Lee if she intended to make an opening statement.
She stood up and said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
Over the years, she’d experimented with dozens of opening statements, some of them managing to say almost nothing depending on the defense. In this case, after trying and rejecting a number of approaches, she’d decided on a straightforward story, which they’d ultimately buy or they wouldn’t. She took a deep breath. For now, she’d simply tell it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “this is what the defense will prove: On his sixteenth birthday, Jeremy Matthews was living with his parents in a modest, middle-class home in Colorado Springs. His father was a self-proclaimed minister of a small fundamentalist congregation called The Word of God. Jeremy’s life was an extremely sheltered one that revolved around going to school and attending almost daily church services with his parents. Unlike other kids his age, he was prohibited from watching television, reading fiction, listening to music, or attending movies unless they were appropriately ‘Christian.’
“For years, Jeremy lived with a terrible secret that he hoped his parents would never discover—that he was gay. He wished he wasn’t, but no matter how hard he prayed, there it was. God couldn’t or wouldn’t change his sexuality, even though, according to Jeremy’s father, God condemned homosexuality as an abomination. And then one day, disaster: A few months after turning sixteen, his parents came home early and found him sitting in a car with another boy, kissing. Jeremy’s father ordered him to leave the house forever. There was no reasoning with him. Jeremy called his best friend Ethan, crying. With Ethan’s leather jacket and a hundred dollars, he decided to leave Colorado Springs for good. His childhood, he figured, was over.”
Lee paused for a moment, nodding at each of the jurors. A few nodded back, a good sign. She glanced at her notes and continued.
“So Jeremy took a bus to Denver, where he stayed in a youth hostel until his money ran out. After that, he lived on the streets, rummaging through dumpsters for food, sleeping on park benches, and trying to avoid anyone who might harm him. Physically, he was cold and hungry, but mentally he was worse: generally depressed and scared, but sometimes filled with so much guilt and self-loathing that he wanted to die. One evening in early spring, he was cornered by a group of would-be attackers with knives. Part of him didn’t particularly care. ‘Bring it on,’ he thought. ‘Get it over with.’
“But a tall, dangerous-looking skinhead came to his rescue. The skinhead took him to a house where a group of them lived, and said Jeremy could stay if he wanted to. Like a stray dog who’d finally found a home. Yes, they were rough, older men who hated Jews, blacks, and homosexuals, but they were willing to take him in. Better than nothing. So Jeremy went back into the closet, dutifully shaved his head, and let them cover his arms with hateful tattoos. It didn’t matter. He had a new family of sorts and, at least for the moment, he was safe.
“Weeks went by. Jeremy settled into the attic of the house, ate whatever food they gave him, and surreptitiously made friends with an old Jewish woman who lived across the street. With her encouragement, he daydreamed about going to college. And then one day, something really wonderful happened. He met Sam Donnelly, a twenty-two year old Denver skinhead who was also secretly gay.
“They started a clandestine love affair and, for the next few months, life was actually good. No, it was great. As far as Jeremy was concerned, he’d met the man of his dreams, someone who was strong, good-looking, and protective. They hid their love from the men around them, knowing—but not really—what a dangerous game they were playing. Eventually, they planned to leave Denver and start a new life in San Francisco, a city whe
re they hoped they could be themselves. In the meantime, a deadly combination of inertia and delusion kept them tied to the only group of people they knew, their so-called brothers.”
Lee shook her head and sighed.
“If only they’d saved their money and left, they’d both be alive and well today, and none of us would be here.” She paused again. “But, they didn’t. One evening, while Sam and Jeremy were elsewhere, the others found evidence suggesting that Sam was gay—a citation charging Sam with soliciting a male undercover police officer in Cheesman Park. Outraged, they made plans for a boot party in the mountains where they’d kick the traitor to death. If Jeremy had known, if the others had told him of their plans, he would have warned Sam and they would have run away together. But he didn’t know, and so he accompanied his brothers to Boulder expecting a typical party where everyone would sit around, get drunk, and laugh.
“Eventually, they ended up on Flagstaff Mountain, where the view was magnificent. Bottles of beer and Southern Comfort were passed around and everyone began to drink. Jeremy was relaxed and happy. For an hour, nothing happened. But then, without any warning, the party turned ugly. One of the three co-defendants called Sam a ‘fucking cocksucker’ while another one kicked him in the back. As Sam was falling, a third one punched him in the face, breaking his nose. After that, it was awful. Jeremy could only watch in horror; he was simply too young, too weak, too helpless to stop the attack, which seemed to last forever.
“After killing Sam, they all drove back to Denver. Jeremy was in a state of shock. He felt suicidal. He’d watched his best friend, his lover, get kicked to death and hadn’t been able to save him. Nothing mattered now. It was as if he’d been killed along with his boyfriend. Time passed and then the police woke him up and arrested him for the murder of his beloved Sam.”
Lee took a deep breath, watching the jurors’ faces for any signs of sympathy or disbelief. She worried, now that she’d heard it out loud from her own lips, that the story was too incredible to believe, that it might be dismissed as an elaborate tale concocted by the defense to explain the defendant’s otherwise inexplicable behavior. God, she hoped not.