“So who could have done it? Well, the undisputed evidence will be that an undocumented alien from Mexico with forged papers by the name of Jorge Arrazola, who had been working at the plant for six months, fled Bear Creek two days after Mr. Ting’s murder and hasn’t been seen since. The sheriff is going to admit to you that nobody in law enforcement, despite all the fancy communication systems and cooperative agreements among law enforcement agencies on a local, national, and international level, has a clue where Jorge Arrazola disappeared to. Mr. Alvaro Ruiz, who works at the plant and whom Jorge Arrazola lived with, will tell you that Jorge Arrazola dropped him off that afternoon at his second job after they left the plant at two and said he was going fishing. Mr. Ruiz will tell you he didn’t see Jorge Arrazola again until six that night, when he picked him up after work.
Then two days later Arrazola fixed up a truck Mr. Ruiz had given him and
took off without a word to him. Folks, I think by the time the trial is over, the evidence will suggest to you that Mr. Ting’s murderer is long gone from Bear Creek.”
I step back a few inches from the railing and put my hands in my pockets, telling myself not to jiggle my change, a bad habit I’ve gotten into lately. To keep the possibility of a deal alive during the trial, I don’t tell the jury that there is nothing but the most marginal circumstantial evidence of a conspiracy between Class and Paul.
Dick will hammer that home better than I can.
Focusing on a black retired farmer in his sixties, I say, “If we’re looking for a motive for Jorge Arrazola, ladies and gentlemen, forty-eight hours is about forty-seven more than he needed to collect payment from whomever may have wanted Mr. Ting dead…”
I wind up by telling the jury that even if there were no other suspects in the case, they can decide the case on the issue of the credibility of Class Bledsoe. I walk over to the witness chair and point at it.
“When the time comes for us to present our defense. Class Bledsoe is going to sit right here and look you in the eye and tell you he left the plant when everyone else did and didn’t leave his house again that afternoon. Regardless of what Mr. Butterfield said or didn’t say about the evidence in this case, Mr. Bledsoe’s testimony is evidence, too. If you believe him, you must acquit him.”
I sit down, having no idea what effect I have had on this jury. At no time did I get a feel that I was getting through to a soul. I fear that
Woodrow Bonner’s reputation for competence and integrity will decide this case. If he thinks Class did it, that might well be good enough.
Dick practically sprints to the jury rail. Practically on top of the jury as he leans into the railing, he lectures them sternly, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get one thing clear: If Mr. Butterfield doesn’t introduce this tape he has talked about, you can be sure I will, because the tape you will hear in this trial no more makes Paul Taylor out to be a potential murderer than the man in the moon. In fact, the tape to be introduced in this courtroom will simply show that Paul Taylor, a farmer and businessman who has lived in this county his entire life, wanted to buy a meat-packing plant that he knew was a profitable business and made what he considered was a fair offer for it. Far from being a threat, the tape will show he merely pointed out that Willie Ting wasn’t going to be around forever, with the implication being he ought to sell now to someone with a realistic offer.” When he has said this, he cups his right fist and taps it against his chin.
“Mr. Taylor is hardly going to deny that years ago he hired Class Bledsoe as a delivery man in one of his stores, he will gladly admit that he talked to Henry Oldham about when he was going to retire, he will happily confess that he may have talked to Class Bledsoe a few times when he went out to Oldham’s to buy some barbecue and to see how his business was going. But Mr. Butterfield has virtually admitted there’s not going to be a shred of direct evidence that Paul Taylor hired anyone, including Class Bledsoe, to murder Willie Ting; there will be no evidence of a conversation, no evidence of money changing hands, no evidence of a promise made.”
like a preacher at a revival, Dick spreads his hands and then slowly
brings them together as he says, “The evidence, ladies and gentlemen, consists of an ambiguous tape and a few coincidental and harmless meetings. I could call this so-called evidence a lot of things,” Dick thunders, “and, believe me, I will at the end of this trial when I am permitted to argue the case, but whatever it is, it isn’t enough to put a man in jail for five minutes…”
As Butterfield jumps to his feet and has his objection sustained that Dick has already begun to argue, I realize that Dick has not told the jury that Paul will take the stand and deny that he paid to have Willie killed. For the first time in a week I consider the possibility that Paul is guilty, and that Class was telling the truth. If Paul has confessed to Dick, he can’t knowingly let Paul commit perjury, and Dick, despite what I think of him, has too much integrity to let him.
And minutes later, when Dick sits down, I have no idea whether Paul, who surely wants to proclaim his innocence, will do so from the witness box.
After lunch, Butterfield begins to put on his case with the FBI expert, who testifies first because she must leave immediately for another trial in Phoenix. As she explains why there is no doubt in her mind that the blood on Doss’s knife is Willie’s, it’s hard not to be impressed. This same agent, a Ph.D. chemist-and a coolly attractive blonde-testified in a murder trial in Little Rock a couple of years ago, and better lawyers than I am couldn’t lay a glove on her. I am content on cross-examination to emphasize the obvious when she is through: no tests she has performed prove that it was Class who used the knife to kill Willie. It is, of course, a dumb question to ask her, but it gets my
point across.
The rest of the day is taken up by testimony from personnel from the state medical examiner’s office and the sheriff’s office, whom Butterfield puts through their paces as if they have been preparing for this trial for a lifetime. They leave little to quibble about: The crime scene was properly secured, preserved until the investigation was completed; no gaps exist in the chain of custody of the blood and knife; the victim may have lived for as little as two minutes after his throat was slashed from left to right two inches in width.
The wound on his neck is consistent with the Koch blade which, as the plant foreman told us, actually cuts like a pair of scissors. The only fingerprints on the handle are my client’s. Butterfield, with Johnson’s permission, passes the knife to the jury and not a single member can resist touching the blade to test its sharpness.
Butterfield produces the tape for Bonner to identify and is allowed to introduce it into evidence.
Though this moment has been long anticipated, it is something of an anticlimax when Bonner plays it for the jury. Perhaps I have heard it too many times by now, and while the members of the jury all seem interested, some raise their eyebrows when it is finished as if they are wondering what the fuss has been all about.
Bonner tells the jury that he investigated every employee’s whereabouts between two and four and that the only suspect is Class Bledsoe. By the time he describes what he has done, it is five o’clock, and we are through for the day. The spectators, about equally divided between
blacks and whites, clear the courtroom rapidly. Outside, it is a perfect spring day and anybody in his right mind wants to get outside.
The tension has risen each hour, and everyone seems eager to get away from each other. Before he is led off to be taken back to Brickeys, Class whispers, “It looks bad, don’t it?”
I glance across at Butterfield, who smiles as Woodrow Bonner says something to him.
“The first part of any criminal trial is always the worst.”
“They’ll let Taylor go,” Class says, his voice doleful, “but not me.”
Tonight will be the hardest time for Class to keep from changing his mind and telling me to try to make a deal with Butterfield, who can’t be feeling too good about his chances of get
ting a conviction against Paul. Anybody who wasn’t impressed by Dick’s opening statement had to have been asleep, and I didn’t see any eyes closed.
“Tomorrow I’ll get to cross-examine Bonner,” I say.
“It’ll be better,” I promise.
A hopeless expression on his face. Class shrugs as Amos Broadstreet, Bonner’s elderly black deputy, who weighs at least three hundred pounds, comes over to the table to handcuff him and put him in leg chains. He has gotten to like Class and has waited an extra moment to pick him up.
I look behind me and see Tommy Ting behind the spectator railing waiting
to speak to me. Connie had told me he wouldn’t be getting into Bear Creek until late last night, and though I got a glimpse of him in the courtroom, this is the first time I have had a good look at him. He is wearing a tailored olive-colored suit that must have cost him a thousand dollars and is easily the best-dressed man in the room. His face is fleshier but still recognizable, his cheeks pushed up in a smile I remember after thirty years. His hair is much longer, of course. Boys in eastern Arkansas in the early sixties didn’t know what long hair was or if we did, we didn’t care. Now, Tommy’s salt-and-pepper hair comes to his collar in the back, making him look even more Asian than I remembered.
Once Class leaves, I motion for him to come forward, and we shake hands by the counsel table as if he were a rich corporate client chatting with his high-priced legal counsel during a civil trial.
“How’s it going?” Tommy asks softly, his slight accent more pronounced now that we are face to face.
I know he means the trial, and suddenly I have an impulse to tell him how wrong I’ve probably been about everything I’ve thought and remembered about Bear Creek, including our friendship which, now that I force myself to think about it, was as superficial as most male bonding is. Like myself. Tommy has been operating out of denial, but instead of thinking that people were worse than they were, he has mis remembered them as better, more caring. I reply bluntly, “I honestly don’t know who killed your father. I don’t know that anyone will ever know the truth either except the person or persons who did it.”
Incredibly, he seems surprised, as if by giving the plant employees the
green light to talk to me, the answer would become obvious.
“Do you think Paul was involved?” he whispers.
I look over at the other table, now empty. If Paul wanted to shake hands with Tommy and say how sorry he was, he isn’t going to risk doing it in public since he and Dick are already making their way out of the courtroom.
“I don’t know, Tommy. I swear to God I really don’t know who killed your father.” As if I have said something profound, he nods and walks away, presumably to find his sister and mother. A few moments later, depressed, I leave, too, and check into the Bear Creek Inn to prepare for tomorrow. Betty, dressed in red shorts and a T-shirt advertising her business, asks, “Not going too good, huh?”
I try to smile but fail.
“It’s going okay,” I lie.
Betty places the key to number nine in my hand and presses her palm flat against mine.
“It’s got to be tough representing a nigger. He’s probably scared to death and not much help.”
Glad Betty isn’t on the jury, I ignore her comment and ask if she knows if Charlie’s Pizza delivers. Right now I don’t have the energy to find out. She replies that people will do anything for money, and says she’ll call up a kid to run get me whatever I want. I tell her fine and carry
my bag into my room, wondering if the case is, after all, that simple.
When Class is brought into the courtroom the next morning thirty minutes before the trial starts up again, I watch for signs that he will tell me to try to make a deal with Butterfield. He looks terrible, and I ask him after the deputy moves off, “Did you get any sleep?”
He rubs his face.
“Not much,” he says.
“I’ve been thinking about my chances.” His bloodshot eyes blink rapidly in the glare of the courtroom.
How does anyone stand to live in a steel cage, whether they are guilty or not?
“It’s going to come down to a matter of your credibility. Class,” I say, trying to cut him off.
“If they believe you, you’ll walk out of here a free man.” As I say this, I realize I’m putting on his shoulders the entire responsibility for his acquittal.
“Are you gonna argue that the old lady could have done it?” he says.
“She says she found his body.”
“Depending on how she looks and acts,” I hedge, “but it might piss off the jury. If all they see is a sick old woman who can hardly lift a fly
swatter, it’ll insult their intelligence, and they might take it out on you.” I can’t tell him I promised not to make this argument.
“What’re you gonna do, then?” he asks, a plaintive tone in his voice.
“Just say it was the Mexican?”
I watch as the deputies open the doors to allow spectators into the courtroom.
“I’ll do more than that,” I whisper.
“But that’ll be part of it.”
“He couldn’t speak hardly a word of English,” Class says, shaking his head.
“He didn’t seem like the type who could have done it.”
“He could have known a lot more English than he let on,” I explain.
“All we need is to get them thinking he might have done it. We don’t have to prove he did.”
Class sees Latrice and gives her a little wave.
She has convinced him to trust me. The corners of his mouth turn up in a brief smile, and for an instant I am permitted to see what his face must have been like before he was charged. If I don’t get him off, I hope he doesn’t hate her. I know he will hate me.
Woodrow Bonner climbs back into the witness chair and smiles at me. I waste no time in asking him about Jorge Arrazola, not caring how much he repeats himself from yesterday. By the end of this trial I want the jury to have the name burned into their brains. Bonner has no choice but to admit that he has continued to look for him right up until the trial.
“I would have liked to talk to him,” Bonner says, in response to one of my questions, “just as a matter of routine investigative work, but I don’t consider him a suspect.”
I come around to the side of the podium and bellow, “You’re telling this jury that this man is not a suspect because he was in this country illegally and might have been afraid he’d be found out?”
Bonner is sitting ramrod straight and his metal badge positively gleams.
“My guess is that he was afraid and that’s why he took off,” he says casually, “but that’s not why I don’t consider him a suspect.”
“Well, tell the jury why not,” I say sarcastically, not remembering anything in his notes or files that would make me afraid to ask this question.
“Well, you see, Mr. Page, Jorge Arrazola was left-handed,” Bonner says, “and you heard what Dr. Miller testified about the knife wound.”
What in the hell have I been doing the last three months? I’ve been so busy trying to get Paul I’ve gone brain-dead.
“You’re saying it’s not possible he used his right hand?” I bluster, trying to pretend I’ve known this fact all along.
“That’s a question,” his voice dry, “you might want to ask Dr. Miller.”
I could move to strike his answer as being unresponsive, but I don’t want to hear his new one, nor do I want to recall Dr. Miller. I can feel my cheeks burning.
“Your conclusion,” I ask hurriedly, “that there were no other suspects depends, in part, on the truthfulness or correctness of answers given to you by individuals who claim to vouch for the whereabouts of the other plant workers, isn’t that so?”
Bonner has to answer that it does, and hopefully it appears that I am preparing the jury for some gigantic revelation down the line, but, in fact, I have nothing to present later but a few minor and irrelevant inconsistencies,
if I choose.
I get Bonner to admit that he cannot offer any direct evidence of a cash payment or a promise of any kind from Paul Taylor to Class. Given the other evidence in the case, this hardly seems to matter, but it is all I have. Butterfield will argue that Class could have been hired by Paul or someone else.
Before I sit down, I decide to test the waters, and ask about Mrs. Ting.
“Though Doris Ting discovered her husband’s body,” I say, “you quickly eliminated her as a suspect, didn’t you?”
Bonner says that for a number of reasons he doesn’t consider the victim’s wife a possibility and tells the jury that her frail condition, her reaction (she was in shock and had to be sedated), and the lack of any physical evidence tying her to the murder ruled her out.
In a few minutes I sit down by Class and watch Dick get to his feet and walk to the podium. I hope Class doesn’t lean over and ask me if I am getting paid by Butterfield to help him. This is one of the most humiliating moments of my career as a lawyer. Any more of this, and I’ll need to go back to social work.
Dick goes after Bonner hard and gets him to admit how little evidence other than the tape the prosecution has against Paul. Bonner is so candid that I begin to suspect he wants the jury to understand that had he been the prosecutor, he wouldn’t have charged Paul unless he had gotten Class to make a deal first. Doubtless, like anyone else, Bonner resents being hung out to dry, and I wish I had been a fly on the wall in his office once it became apparent to him Class wasn’t going to implicate Paul. I watch Paul’s face as Dick cross-examines Bonner, and wonder again if, despite everything, he is responsible for this murder.
Angela’s comment that first day I stopped by her house that Paul could be “ruthless” has stayed with me. In spite of the fact that he isn’t as bad as I wanted to make him out to be, I don’t trust him and never will.
Though there is no need to put Doris Ting on the stand, Butterfield does it anyway. She looks older than the last time I saw her as she hobbles into the witness chair, and I wonder if Connie even bothered to ask her to try to remember something that would help us. She begins to sob as soon as Butterfield asks her to identify herself for the record, and the
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