Alex Cross’s Trial ак-15

by James Patterson

  Calmly, meticulously, I began to lead them through the events of that night – the shooting and wounding of the guards at Abraham’s house, the death by kicking of Luther Cosgrove, the fatal shooting of Jimmie Cooper up on the roof, the spectacle of poor Abraham with a gun to his head.

  And finally, I told them about my part in the whole thing: why I’d gone to Abraham’s house that night, how I knew the Raiders were coming, what I did and thought and felt at every moment. I explained how lucky Abraham and I had been to avoid being killed and to manage to bring these three Raiders to Phineas Eversman so the law could work as it is supposed to work.

  “Now, Chief Eversman did his duty that night as an officer of the law. Not only that, he stuck his neck out, gentlemen. He did the honest, moral, upright thing – and that’s not always easy to do. He arrested these men and charged them, and he saw that they were brought to trial. He may have changed his mind since then about some things, but the fact remains that Chief Eversman knew instinctively that these men had to be stopped.

  “He had no choice. He saw the blood. He smelled it – that’s how fresh it was. The blood of their victims was on the defendants’ hands when we brought them to him. It was on the toes of their boots.

  “Now you gentlemen are in the same position the chief of police was in that night. You have heard the truth from the people of the Quarters who witnessed these brutal attacks, these murders. You have seen the blood.

  “Let me put it to you frankly: the evidence has not been refuted, because it cannot be refuted.

  “Gentlemen, outside this courthouse, there is a whole nation watching us. Reporters from all over the country have come to Eudora to see if our little town can rise above itself, rise above the customs and prejudices that have held sway down here.

  “But that’s not why I want you to deliver the verdict you know to be right: a verdict of guilty on all counts. I don’t want you to do it because I think you should rise above your prejudices, whatever they may be. Or because I want you to show the world that Mississippi is not a place where murderers get away with their awful crimes.

  “I don’t want you to consider what the outside world thinks. Who cares about them? I want you to think about your own soul, your own self, inside, where you live, when there is no one else around.

  “I hope that you will find these men guilty, because it has been proven beyond any reasonable doubt that they are. The only thing that might prevent your rendering such a verdict is fear – fear that some of your neighbors will think less of you if you send these guilty men, these murderers, to prison. You must conquer that fear. The people of this country are depending on you to prove yourselves worthy of the grave responsibility they have invested in you. Show them that here in Mississippi, the light of justice is still shining.”

  I saw Jonah and L.J. smiling at me. I glanced up to my father. For a moment I thought I saw the ghost of a smile on his face too. Or maybe I just wanted to see it.

  I turned back to the jury.

  “There’s someone who said it better than I ever could. And he said it in the first book of Samuel.”

  I recited from memory. “For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”

  Now it was Maxwell Lewis’s turn.

  Chapter 122

  MAXWELL LEWIS’S SUMMATION to the jury:

  “Eloquence like young Mr. Corbett’s has rarely been heard in any courthouse in our nation,” he said.

  Then he turned to face the judge. “Wouldn’t you say that’s right, Your Honor?”

  This time my father withheld his smile. “Let’s just get on with it, Counselor.”

  I was anxious to see what tone Lewis would take now. Would he appear as the mighty Darrow? Would he try to play humble country lawyer? Would he be a preacher hurling fire and brimstone, or a kindly old grandpa proffering wise advice?

  Of course he would be all those things.

  “Gentlemen, I begin with a simple question… Where is the evidence? What the prosecution calls evidence is not what I would call evidence. If it seems to you that Mr. Curtis and Mr. Corbett have paraded the entire population of the Eudora Quarters in front of you, one after the other accusing these citizens of Eudora of murder, rioting in the streets, and general mayhem – well, sir, that’s because that is exactly what they’ve done.

  “But now, when you consider charges of this magnitude and gravity, you must, as Mr. Corbett told you, consider the evidence. The prosecution’s evidence, mainly the statements of various witnesses, is like any kind of evidence: it’s only as good as the people who give it.

  “And where does this so-called evidence come from? Who are the people giving this testimony? What is the quality of these people that would lead us to believe their testimony? Well, I’ll tell you.

  “These allegations come from people who wash your clothes, and chop your weeds, and clean out your barns. They come from the old uncle who sits in front of the store all day, shooting the breeze. From the people who pick cotton all day. This is testimony from people who resent you because you happen to have the blessing and good fortune to be white, and therefore you have more privileges than they have.”

  A dramatic pause. Then he whipped around.

  “And you are being asked to take their word as truth.

  “Why on God’s green earth would anyone suppose that you would take the word of this bunch of worthless rabble-rousers over the word of three gentlemen from Eudora?”

  I shot a glance at my father, who was watching Lewis with the same contemptuous expression he’d been aiming at me since the trial began.

  I wanted to shout, “The people who wash your clothes and pick your crops can tell the truth. The truth is not based on how much money you have. It’s based on… the truth.”

  Of course, I did not interrupt the summation.

  “Gentlemen,” Maxwell Lewis continued. “Be aware. There are forces at work here that would like nothing better than to take away your freedoms, your right to live life the way you have always lived it here. I warn you to do what you must to make sure that does not happen. Gentlemen, be alert. And acquit these three innocent men.”

  I turned to Jonah. He shrugged.

  Lewis went on in a quiet, humble voice.

  “Gentlemen, I am sorry for the rough times the people in the Quarters have had. But that gives them no license to come here and lie to you. And it gives you no license to ignore the plain facts in front of you.”

  What facts? I thought. Moody’s dramatic lie had undercut the entire thrust of the Raiders’ argument. They had no facts on their side. Lewis wasn’t anything like a great lawyer; he hadn’t even bothered to counter that revelation. He was counting on the famous prejudices of white juries to carry the day for him.

  “Mr. Corbett quoted the Good Book to you. He quoted a verse from First Samuel. Well, I too would like to leave you with a phrase from God’s holy word. The book of Exodus.”

  He paused, and then spoke in a clear, loud voice: “Thou… shalt… not… lie!”

  That was it? That was Lewis’s big dramatic finish?

  I wanted to laugh, and I could swear I saw my father roll his eyes.

  Chapter 123

  JUDGE CORBETT’S INSTRUCTIONS to the jury:

  “All right, that brings the evidentiary phase of this proceeding to a close,” said the judge.

  He rubbed his chin, then adjusted his spectacles. He took a sheet of paper from a folder and placed it in front of him.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, I need not remind you that many people outside Eudora are watching our little town now, because of this case. You have seen the signs of it – the streets of our town are filled with strangers, including, but not limited to, the so-called gentlemen of the press. And I understand that over at the Slide Inn Café they keep running out of chocolate pie as fast as they can make it.”

  He paused, waiting for a laugh.

  It didn’t come.


  The courtroom was too tense for frivolities now.

  The sight of all those soldiers outside had made everyone nervous.

  “You heard the testimony as it was presented,” he said. “And now it is up to you to decide the truth as you see it, using the laws of our great state of Mississippi as your guide.

  “Once you decide this case,” he went on, “those reporters will write their stories, and then they’ll leave. Once the circus is gone and the streets are quiet again, we folks in Eudora will be left with… each other.”

  I had heard my father give his charge to a jury many times. Usually his words were dry, precise, legalistic. Today, for some reason, he was being unusually lyrical.

  “And what you decide in that jury room will influence… for a very long time… the way we live our lives in this town.”

  Suddenly he seemed to snap out of it. When he spoke again, he was all business.

  “You will adjourn to the jury room now. I’ll have the bailiff standing right outside your door, if there’s anything you need.”

  The jury members looked at one another, waiting for a signal that Judge Corbett had finished his instructions.

  But he was not quite done.

  “One other thing, gentlemen… I know you enjoyed hearing the defense counsel just as much as I did, but I do want to give you my point of view on a matter he chose to address.”

  He claimed to be speaking to the jurors, but his eyes stayed on Maxwell Lewis the whole time.

  “The people who wash your clothes and pick your cotton are every bit as capable of telling the truth as any other kind of people.”

  Lewis’s face flushed so red I thought he might explode.

  But I knew exactly what my father was up to. For the spectators and journalists, some of whom he had allowed into the courtroom to hear the closing arguments, Judge Corbett was showing himself to be a courageous man, boldly making a statement of racial tolerance.

  I was neither a spectator nor a journalist, however. I wasn’t buying his act for a minute. I had sat through fifty-four objections that were overruled fifty-three times. My father had systematically sabotaged the prosecution’s chances of getting a fair trial in his court.

  The judge banged the gavel I had given him. “Gentlemen, kindly repair to the jury room and do your job.”

  Chapter 124

  I TRIED TO HURRY past the mob of reporters. I was becoming quite adept at avoiding them, but the more skilled ones – the fellows from New York and Washington – were relentless. They pulled at the sleeve of my jacket. Some actually planted themselves in the middle of my path.

  Finally, I had to push them out of my way. It was the only way to get past these rude and opportunistic fellows.

  “Mr. Corbett, do you think you have a chance?”

  “Jonah, why’d you let a white man give your summation for you?”

  “Mr. Stringer, what’s your angle? What’s in it for you?”

  I felt someone push something into my hand and looked down to find a twenty-dollar bill.

  A reporter I recognized from Washington was grinning at me. “That’s for a private interview, and there’s more if it’s really good!” I wadded the bill and tossed it back at him.

  I heard Jonah calling to me across the throng: “See you at the War Room, half an hour.”

  The reporters lost interest in me and turned on Jonah. The War Room? What War Room? What war? Do you think of this trial as a war? Do you think you will lose?

  I used this opportunity to escape. I crossed Commerce Street and hurried downtown, to the platform by the nearly deserted depot. One old colored man was attaching a feedbag to a fine brown horse hitched to a flat truck.

  I found a bench in the shade near the stationmaster’s house from which I could survey most of Eudora.

  The mob was still swirling around the courthouse, a jam of horses and wagons and honking automobiles.

  Out on the edge of town, on the dirt road leading out to the Quarters, I saw columns of smoke rising into the sky, the camp-fires of Negroes who’d come from all over southern Mississippi to await the verdict. I had ridden through their camp yesterday, smelling the smoke of fatback, hearing the hymns they sang.

  “Sing loud so He can hear you,” I said to the distant columns of smoke.

  This was the first time in weeks I’d been alone, without the trial looming in front of me. It was time I did something I had put off for too long.

  I took out a sheet of paper, turned the satchel over my lap, and started to write.

  Dear Meg,

  I have waited weeks to write this letter.

  I have waited because I kept hoping that you would reply to my last. I envisioned an envelope with your return address on it. I imagined myself tearing it open to discover that you had changed your mind, that the thought of us living apart was something you had come to believe was a mistake. That you once again believed in the two of us. But that letter never arrived. I am alone, as separated from you and Amelia and Alice as if I were dead – or, perhaps, as if I’d never existed.

  Meg, much has happened in the time we have spent apart. I have been involved in a highly provocative trial here in Eudora. I’m sure you’ve read about it in the newspapers. I will not waste time in this letter describing the trial, except to say that as I write to you now, the jury is deliberating the outcome.

  I know that this might anger you, but I must tell the truth. I am convinced beyond any doubt that I am doing the right thing when I try to use my skills as a lawyer to help those who can’t find justice anywhere else.

  Meg, I know that I alone cannot right the wrongs of this society. But I cannot and will not stop trying. I know you feel that effort takes too much energy and time away from you, our girls, and my love for the three of you.

  Should you decide to continue our marriage, I promise I shall try to be a better husband and father.

  But I must also warn you that I will not (and cannot) abandon my ideals. As much as you may long for it, I cannot become just another government lawyer.

  Please, Meg, give it another chance. We have so much to lose if we abandon each other. We have so much to gain if we try to move forward together.

  My time here in Eudora is drawing to an end. Soon I will be coming back to Washington, and to you. I know now – I have learned – that Washington is my home. You are my home, Meg. The girls are my home.

  I pray that when I open that front door, I will hear your sweet voice again, and you will speak to me with love.

  Till I see you again, I remain

  Your loving husband,

  Ben

  Chapter 125

  THE JURY HAD A VERDICT.

  My father banged his gavel furiously, but it did no good. “Quiet!” he bellowed. “I will clear this courtroom!”

  Spectators pushed this way and that, tripped over one another, stumbling to find seats. My father continued hammering away at his bench. The jurors began to make their way to the jury box, blinking nervously at the uproar their appearance had provoked.

  “I will clear this courtroom!” my father shouted again, but this had no effect at all on the level of noise and excitement in the room.

  “Very well,” he said. “Bailiff, get ’em all out of here. Get ’em all out!”

  Those were the magic words. Instantly the courtroom came to perfect attention. The crowd fell silent, and everyone sank into the nearest available seat.

  “Very well. That’s much better,” said Judge Corbett. “Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

  The foreman handed a white slip of paper to the bailiff, who handed it up to my father. Though this took only seconds, it seemed much longer than that. Time was slowing, and my senses were unbearably acute.

  My father opened the paper and read it with no visible emotion. He raised his head and looked my way, still betraying nothing about the verdict.

  Then he spoke. “Mr. Foreman, in the matter of the State
of Mississippi versus Madden, North, and Stephens, how does the jury find?”

  In that moment, it seemed to me, all life stopped on this earth. The birds quit chirping. The ceiling fans stopped spinning. The spectators froze in midbreath.

  The foreman spoke in a surprisingly high-pitched whine.

  “We find the defendants not guilty.”

  As he uttered those impossible words, I was staring at the piggish face of Henry Wadsworth North. The hardest thing of all was seeing the joy that broke out all over his hateful visage.

  A smattering of cheers went up from the white audience. Reporters rose and sprinted for the doors. A collective groan, and then sobs, arose from the Negroes in the gallery.

  My father banged his gavel again and again, but no one seemed to care.

  Chapter 126

  AFTER THE COURTROOM HAD CLEARED, I sneaked out a side entrance to avoid the crowd of journalists out front, and did what I had done so many times lately. I got my bike and headed for the Eudora Quarters.

  The first person I saw was the old man in the blue shack who had showed me the way to Abraham’s house the first time I came out here.

  “You done your best, Mist’ Corbett,” he called. “Nobody coulda done better.”

  “My best wasn’t good enough,” I called back. “But thank you.”

  He shook his head. I continued down the dirt road.

  A large brown woman was coming the other way, balancing a wicker basket of damp clothes on her head and carrying another under her arm. She picked up the conversation in midstep: “Aw, now, Mistuh Corbett, that’s just the way things goes,” she said.