A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3)

by Sister Souljah

  I see some flaws in myself as well, as I’m reflecting, but my flaws were a lot less than my victories, alhamdulillah.

  The lawyer returned before I had come up with a last name, like the “two-name Americans.” The names of colors raced around my head. Jordan Black, Jordan Brown, Jordan Blue. Then adjectives started swirling in my thoughts: Jordan Strong, Jordan True, Jordan Power. She wasn’t carrying her coffee cup. Instead she approached me with a newspaper folded and tucked beneath her armpit. She placed the paper on the table, then extended her hand and said, “Please allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Ayn Eliana Aaronson, your attorney. I’m on your side. And you are?” she asked calmly as though I was not a prisoner and she and I were just meeting in the bookstore. Still extending her hand as though she wanted us to shake hands, I extended my hand and answered, “Jordan.” I paused and added, “Jordan Mann.” She smiled. “Six days of silence—I’m honored, Jordan. Nice to meet you.

  “Before we get started, I need to be certain that you are aware and that you are understanding me when I speak. It’s really for your sake. A defendant is placed in a completely different category when he is not understanding his surroundings, or is not able to process and understand the words being spoken to him or the charges against him. So, I’ll ask you a few questions. Please answer them as soon as the answers come to mind for you. What year is this?” she asked.

  “1986,” I answered calmly.

  “Who is our president?”

  “Ronald Reagan, and Vice President George Bush,” I answered like a real proud American.

  “Who is the mayor of New York?”

  “Ed Koch,” I said in an even tone. Everybody knew him. He is the mayor who rides the New York City subway.

  “What’s the name of the New York baseball team?” she asked.

  “The New York Yankees, of course,” I said.

  “Okay, those were fairly easy questions, right?” she asked me. “Now, a few more, which are a bit more difficult.

  “Who is Albert Einstein?”

  “A genius,” was all I responded. She smiled.

  “Who is William Shakespeare?”

  “An author, a writer, a poet,” I said.

  “Last one: Who is Holden Caulfield?” She looked at me like she had me stumped. She leaned back in her chair and waited as though she was sure she needed to give me extra time. Yet she looked like she knew that even with extra time to think, I would come up blank.

  “A fool,” I replied.

  “A fool?” she repeated and asked at the same time.

  “A fool who some fool wrote about, in a novel titled Catcher in the Rye,” I said. She smiled again.

  “So you enjoy books?” she stated happily at the same time as asking.

  “I read books. I only enjoy the good ones,” I replied. “Is that it?” I asked her.

  “Now let’s talk about Lance Polite,” she said, swiftly switching her topic and casually dropping the name of the jackass I had murdered. She checked my face and opened her copy of the Daily News to page three.

  “Who?” I asked calmly. She just looked at me.

  “Very clever,” was all she said, and she lowered her eyes back onto the article. I checked the headline. “Lance, Not So Polite,” it read. And the caption below the headline said, “Man murdered in a public execution at a Brooklyn block party community concert was himself a convict, a repeat sexual offender and a public nuisance.”

  I didn’t say anything. She went into her opened briefcase, her eyes taking note that her wallet was right where she left it and how she left it. Her name books still laid out exactly the way she laid them out and untouched by me. Even her Parker pen was in the same position. She pulled out some papers and began spreading them out before me. They were all clipped articles. She had some of the text in each of the articles highlighted with a yellow marker. What stood out to me was one headline that referred to me as “The Silent Killer.” In each of the articles, there was only one photo. It was the same one of a faceless me with my nine in his mouth.

  “If you’ll look closely at this article, and this one too,” she said, pointing, “they each suggest that this was a drug-related execution and that you are suspected to be a member of a gang of armed and dangerous men who specialize in robbing drug dealers.” She was staring into my eyes. I was silent.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “I think that’s not at all who you are or what actually happened. I need you to confide in me so that I can defend you properly.”

  Her to defend me . . . It sounded strange in my head. My gaze was steady but inside I was getting heated. Not at her, but at the insult in one of the news articles. It is definitely not an honor to be branded a thief, even if I was “allegedly” robbing hustlers.

  “I am not aware of exactly what crime I am being charged with, or the reason that I am being held,” I suddenly told her. She revealed a half smile.

  “You are right. You have not been arraigned yet, which is highly unusual after six days of being held, and I will certainly highlight that fact and challenge that process. Your arraignment is actually where you will hear the judge read the charges against you. I talked to the court today. They had you listed as an adult. And so far, it seems that you are definitely going to be charged with resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. We can survive those charges and I will defend you against them. However, pending there is a police officer’s affidavit stating that you confessed to having murdered Lance Polite,” she said, straight-faced and searching me with her green eyes.

  “Why don’t you believe it?” I suddenly asked her.

  “Believe what?” she said.

  “That I am a part of an armed and dangerous gang that robs drug dealers.”

  She paused, adjusted her posture in her seat, and said very calmly and casually, “For a few different, very important, and very pivotal reasons, the first of which is because I sit across the table with armed robbers, drug dealers, and murderers every day. I know what it looks like. I know what it feels like.”

  I was silent.

  “Look, I’m a court-appointed attorney. I’m not sure that you know what that means. I’ve been in court all day today and will do the same tomorrow. I have a caseload of 212 clients. Right now,” she checked her watch, “I’m off duty. I’m not supposed to be here working, but I am. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be scheduled to appear before five different judges all at the same time, nine a.m., which you and I and they all know is impossible. You are one of the appearances that I have to make out of the five at nine a.m. I plan to show up for you if you make it possible for me, by communicating with me and trusting that I am on your side.”

  “Why my case?” I asked. I wanted her to reveal her motivations. I had observed that each of the cops, detectives, and other authorities I had encountered so far would mention overtime pay, promotions, credits, benefits, receiving stars, stripes, or medals in relation to cornering and capturing and convicting me.

  “Excuse me?” she stalled.

  “Out of five cases at nine a.m., why take mine?” I asked her calmly. She wanted to know more about me. I needed to know more about her. She placed her right hand over her stomach and let it rest there.

  “Gut feeling,” she said firmly. “Besides, you have no idea what kind of charges they are cooking up for you at the arraignment or how many eyes are watching this case because the shooting allegedly took place in the presence or proximity of a New York state senator. There is major media hysteria, but let me tell you something: most reporters in particular and people in general have a short attention span. This will be a big story until the next big story comes along and buries it. The thing is, even though all may forget you and forget what happened, if your case is not handled properly, you’ll never forget because the consequences are quite severe. I got your arraignment postponed today and it’s a good thing I did. You got six stitches in your head and a couple of fractured ribs—good for you. The rest of your medical results will come
back sometime tomorrow. I ran the information I received today over to the district attorney’s office. They needed to know that some wonderful policeman beat you before you were ever booked and arraigned. Now I’ve got the medical record to back it up. And tomorrow’s arraignment is our last chance to squeeze this matter in for this week. Tomorrow is Thursday. Friday will be motion day at the courthouse. The courts will be focused on something completely different. I don’t see how they could possibly delay your arraignment any further, pushing it back until Monday. If they try, I’ll know they’re just buying time in addition to breaking the law, due to lack of evidence to even charge you with the felony crimes. Then I’ll get them for unlawful imprisonment.” She was thinking and speaking at the same time. She was revealing her passion. I liked that. I could see that she somehow enjoyed the fight. Maybe she even chose the most challenging situations on purpose.

  “What if you’re wrong? Your gut feeling?” I asked her.

  “I’m hardly ever wrong. And I studied this case from the beginning, which is always good when a defendant’s lawyer is brought onto the case early. The earlier an attorney gets involved in your defense, the better.”

  “Why were you studying the case from the beginning?” I pushed. It seemed like there was more to this woman than just me being one of her 212 open cases. After being questioned for more than four days, I knew not to accept just anything some official was saying. Dig deeper, I told myself.

  She paused before responding, folded her arms in front of her, and exhaled deeply. Then she unfolded her arms and moved her hands beneath the table, almost as though trying to hide them. She began spinning her black embroidered bracelet around on her left wrist, like a nervous quirk. Finally, she leaned back in her chair.

  “Do you like animals?” she asked me. I thought of camels and horses and giraffes, beautiful and amazing creatures that Allah created.

  “Yes,” I responded.

  “Do you believe that animals have a soul?” she asked strangely. “That they can feel and cry and mourn and hurt, the same as human beings?” She sounded absolutely serious and emotional, after not being emotional at all. I paused, thinking. I knew how I would answer as the Muslim man that I am. It is a good answer that would take me some time to explain. But this situation required me to give her the answer that would most benefit me in this scenario, I could tell. I assembled my words carefully. Handpicked, they were also words that are true to me.

  “Animals are living and breathing, seeing and hearing. They each make sounds that suggest that they communicate and express. So of course they can feel,” I said, avoiding the soul part of her question. “But what does this have to do with you and me?”

  “Lance Polite comes up on my list,” she said.

  “List?” I repeated. She paused.

  “American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I’ve been a member since I was a teenager. We keep a list of offenders and pay close attention to repeat offenders,” she said. I was lost. She seemed smart and sharp at first. Now I was debating whether or not she was crazy. What was she talking about?

  “Lance Polite is a repeat offender, a guy who has been reported, accused, and convicted more than once for cruelly killing animals for no reason at all. It goes back to even before he became an adult. If this man was killing animals even when he was a kid, he must be a pretty sick creep. And it all goes together with his criminal past and convictions of molesting boys and girls. This is a guy who I peg as a sociopath. I’m a lawyer, not a doctor, but I feel that anyone who hurts animals or children . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence.

  “Anyone who kills animals or hurts children, you go after them,” I stated. It wasn’t really a question.

  “On the day of the murder of Lance Polite, a cat was found choked to death on the floor of the basement of the building directly in front of the murder scene. It was reported to the ASPCA and we collected the body. Well, not me, our organization. We have investigators as well. So I’ve been thinking and putting things together in a way that the police department never would,” she said thoughtfully.

  I was alarmed, but my face was blank. I made an expression as though I didn’t understand her talk or her direction. But I understood her now. Lance had killed Naja’s cat. Her organization picked up the cat’s body. And they must be extremely serious about animals if they came to my block and entered the basement in one of my buildings. But what alarmed me was what else they might have seen or picked up or reported about the basement of that building where he held Naja hostage. Did they snag the kunai knife that may have been on the basement floor? Or was the knife still sitting there waiting to be discovered possibly by the police if they were continuing their murder investigation? Or did the savage yank the knife out of his eye, panic at the pain and the site of his own blood, then run straight out to the ambulance that was parked at the concert? Did he take the knife with him? The knife would have Chiasa’s prints on it for sure.

  But the ASPCA is an organization, not the police, I thought to myself. She had said that they had their own investigators, but they didn’t have police power, I assured myself. And the police had no reason to check the basement of that building. I slaughtered the sucker out in the open, outdoors on the block.

  The lawyer interrupted my thinking. “I’ve confided something to you. I’ve answered your questions. Now you need to confide something to me and answer some of my questions about this crime and your role in it,” she said, switching from her animal-lover personality back into the legal eagle.

  “Were you defending a child or an animal from Lance Polite, the predator? The photo, which according to the police detective allegedly is you, looks emotional. It looks like a deep hatred being expressed through violence. If that is the case, then I understand. However, legally, this places you in the absolutely most vulnerable position to be sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison. Meaning you either knew Lance Polite or you saw him do something disgusting and then you went after him. Meaning you thought about it, which makes it legally premeditated murder, and then you carried it out. To be convicted of this crime means that you’ll be over forty before you will ever be unbarred, unchained, and uncuffed and free.” She was emotional now, leaning forward and searching me for a reaction.

  “Have you heard or read about this young lady who was sentenced to be put to death this summer? Her name is Paula Cooper. She’s from the state of Indiana. Now, the laws from state to state vary. However, she was sentenced to death recently. The details of her case are completely different than yours, I suspect. But it might not be a bad idea for you to consider and know about her outcome on a similar charge. She’s sixteen now, same as you,” she said, guessing at my age again. Her points were clear to me though, and once again, the threat of twenty-five years to life was circulating in my chest.

  “If you tell me that you were defending an animal or a child, I’ll work my ass off to get you the best results, the least amount of time. Of course, if my gut is wrong and you turn out to be guilty of armed robbery or distribution of crack cocaine or anything of that nature, I can’t guarantee you my best effort or the best outcome,” she said.

  “How long do I have?” I asked her. She checked her watch. “Well, it’s almost nine p.m. I’d like to leave here no later than ten. I work in the system, so I know what goes on in this city, especially late at night. I prefer not to ride the train after eleven p.m.”

  “No husband?” I asked her. “No man would allow his woman to move around the city alone late night,” I said, changing the topic from the heavy reality I faced.

  “I’m not the kind of woman who would allow a husband to control me,” she said sternly.

  “I wasn’t talking about controlling you. I was talking about loving you.” Then, I just looked at her.

  “Keep talking like that and I’ll decide that you’re an adult, not a juvenile or an adolescent,” she said, flexing the power she believed she had to move my life in one direction or another. Th
en she held up both of her hands and wiggled her ten fingers, causing her bracelet to reveal more of the deep scar she used it to cover.

  “No rings on my fingers.” She smiled halfway. Then I knew. Someone had hurt this woman, and she had planned and trained to protect the hurt animals and hurt people. But in my case, she planned to protect the man who murdered the man who murdered animals and molested children. I thought about it. She’s glad he’s dead. So am I. We had the same understanding. We were on the same team, I decided.

  “About court tomorrow: will all of this be decided on tomorrow in front of the judge?” I asked her.

  “Oh no, tomorrow is simply the arraignment. It takes three minutes or less. They read you the charges against you. That’s it. I don’t believe they’ll charge you with murder tomorrow, although you never know. My gut tells me aside from the detective’s affidavit, they have not organized enough evidence. If there is a murder charge tomorrow, the prosecution gets two weeks to organize its investigation and bring you before a grand jury.”

  “Do they expect me to talk at this arraignment tomorrow?” I asked.

  “No, I’m your attorney. I’ll speak for you. They’ll hold you in the bullpen until your case comes up, just like they did this morning. Then an officer will escort you out. You’ll stand before the judge and hear the charges, and the judge will decide if he’s going to set bail.”

  “I don’t want bail,” I said swiftly. She gave a surprised look, as though she normally knew what to expect, was used to following a certain procedure, and even knew beforehand what each person and side would say and do and how she needed to react, exactly.

  “If I go directly to the jail where they’re going to keep me, as soon as I get there, I’ve started serving down my time, right?” I asked her.