Against the Wind

by J. F. Freedman

  “State your name.”

  “James Anthony Angelus.”

  He’s scared shitless. For one brief moment he and Lone Wolf lock eyes, then he turns away, shaking, the color draining from his face. My mind’s racing, is there something these bastards never told me, did they in fact have a connection with the victim? A homosexual murder, an eleventh-hour surprise homosexual witness, Lone Wolf’s reaction. If our clients withheld important evidence from us, that’s all she wrote.

  “Thank you for joining us today, Mr. Angelus,” Moseby says.

  The witness is mute.

  “For the record,” Moseby continues, “are you related to any of the defendants in this case?”

  “Yes,” Angelus answers before I can rise.

  “Objection!” I shout it out. “This is completely immaterial and irrelevant.”

  Martinez looks at me. He knows what’s coming.

  “Over-ruled.”

  “Which one?” Moseby asks.

  “Steven Jensen. The one who calls himself Lone Wolf.”

  “What is your relationship to him?” Moseby says.

  “I’m his brother.”

  It’s a story of love, and anguish, and fear, and ultimately utter rejection. Two brothers, abandoned early by alcoholic parents, drifting from one county home to another. Always managing to stay together. The older fiercely protecting the younger; the older a big boy for his age, a natural warrior, the little one smaller, more vulnerable, more overtly needy. Their love is both real and desperate; without the one, the other has nothing of flesh and blood, ceases to exist outside of paperwork.

  One day, when they’re fifteen and twelve, a troublemaker comes up to the older brother and says the little one’s a faggot, he got caught touching another kid’s weenie in the shower room. The older brother thanks the troublemaker for this information by punching his lights out, inflicting permanent neurological damage. He gets sixty days in the county detention home. Before he’s taken away he confronts his little brother: did you do that sick shit? The little one swears on a stack of Bibles he didn’t. The older one believes him. He goes and does his time, the first of many.

  He comes back to the home, to his little brother. Technically he’s old enough to bail out, he’s almost sixteen, they don’t even want him here anymore, but he won’t abandon his brother, so they let him stay. He gets a job, makes money, comes back to the home at night. His little brother is doing well in school, he has a shot at a future. The older brother will do everything he can to make sure he gets that shot.

  Then it happens again, only this time the little one can’t duck it. He sucked off a kid. The older brother is beside himself with rage, shame, fear and love for his little brother. You got to stop this shit, he tells him, it’s sick, disgusting, you can’t do this to yourself. To me. The little one cries, he doesn’t want to, he can’t help it.

  He’s lying, of course. It’s true he can’t help it, but he does want it, he wants it more than anything. It’s who he is, when he’s with a man sexually, even at this tender age of by-now thirteen, it’s the only time he feels alive, that he isn’t hiding. But he lies to his brother, there’s no girls around, he was confused. From now on he’ll just jerk off until he can get to meet some girls and have sex with them, the right kind.

  That’s what the older one wants to hear, and he’s going to make it happen. Get rid of any taint of faggot sickness. That weekend he takes his younger brother out on the town. He has money, good money, he even has a car he’s bought, don’t tell them at the home, he warns his little brother, they’ll kick me out for good and then you’ll be alone. The little one doesn’t want to be alone, he won’t say anything to anyone.

  They go to a whorehouse. It’s just a cheap apartment with some teenage runaway girls living in it, selling their pussies for ten bucks a throw, including sixty-nine, around the world, the works. The older one picks out the cutest and youngest one, gives her twenty dollars, tells her to show his brother a great time, make a man out of him, don’t come out of the bedroom until the deed is done, until you both have to crawl out. He frogs his little brother on the arm, go get her, Jimmy, he’s seen his brother in the shower room, for thirteen years old he’s got a good set, he’ll do great. Start a stud farm.

  Twenty minutes later she comes back out alone, hands the older brother his twenty bucks. Save your dough, she tells him with contempt, the kind of contempt only a fifteen-year-old whore can have, his equipment don’t work, her jaw’s sore from trying to get him hard. Take him to the Greyhound station, find him a sailor.

  He goes into the filthy bedroom, the come-stained sheets. His little brother is sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes are red but he isn’t crying. I can’t help it, he tells his older brother, it’s who I am. If you don’t want to be my brother anymore it’s okay, he says, I don’t blame you. But don’t try to change me anymore, I can’t do it. I can’t be something I’m not.

  But he’s still a kid, barely a teenager, he needs. He starts to cry again and turns to his older brother, the one who was always there for him, the only one. He hugs him. His older brother starts to cry, too. Then he pushes his little brother away. You’re a faggot, he says through his own tears, a goddam queer, I hate faggots. I hate you.

  His little brother tries to hold on to him. He’s dying, his older brother is his lifeline. The older brother pushes him away again and this time it’s hard, he pushes the little one against the wall, and then he hits him, hard across the mouth, and then he hits him again.

  The little brother is in the hospital for a month. He almost dies. When he gets out the older one is brought to trial, assault and battery. The little one refuses to testify against his older brother but they convict him anyway. They give him a year in the state reform school. (This is where he met Gene, the president of the Albuquerque chapter of the Scorpions.) After he’s sentenced and the marshal is escorting him out the little brother calls to him, ‘I love you,’ he says, ‘you’re my brother, I’ll always love you no matter what.’ The older brother turns to him. ‘You’re not my brother anymore, faggot,’ he says.

  It’s the last time they ever see each other. Until today.

  MOSEBY EXAMINES JAMES ANGELUS.

  “Why do you think your brother is so frightened of homosexuals?” he asks in a soothing tone, like an uncle would use on a favorite nephew.

  “Objection! Leading the witness.”

  “Sustained.”

  This would be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic. Moseby’s a redneck, he’s been a public queer-baiter for years. Now he’s Mr. sweetness and understanding.

  “Do you think your brother is afraid of homosexuals?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Objection, your honor! This line of questioning is leading the witness and is intentionally inflammatory.”

  “Over-ruled.”

  Shit.

  “Please answer the question,” Martinez instructs Angelus.

  “Because I’m one and he’s afraid it’s in our blood and maybe part of him is, too.”

  I turn to look at Lone Wolf. His head’s buried in his arms.

  “Do you think he’s so afraid of that,” Moseby asks, “that he would kill a homosexual if it brought his submerged feelings too close to the surface?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  It doesn’t matter. Everyone on the jury heard it, and it went straight to their guts.

  “Why did you change your name?” I ask.

  “I didn’t like it. It wasn’t of my choosing. I didn’t want the same name as him.”

  I don’t know what the fuck to do. Try to discredit him. How? He doesn’t have a record, not even as a male hustler or anything similarly tawdry, we ran a National Crime Information Center check through the computer, he came back clean in a matter of minutes. He’s a software programmer in Silicon Valley. Just your average guy who happens to be gay and hates his brother because he’s not allowed to love him.<
br />
  “Do you love your brother?” I ask. I’m fishing, I don’t know what for. The lawyer’s nightmare.

  “I wish I could say no, but I guess I still do. But we’re not brothers anymore. Only biologically.”

  “After today you’ll never see each other again?”

  “I hope not.” He pauses. “I know he wouldn’t want to. He doesn’t want to now;” he adds emphatically.

  I take a shot in the dark.

  “How much did they pay you to come here and testify?” I ask.

  “Objection!” Moseby’s almost apoplectic.

  Martinez thinks about this one. “Over-ruled,” he decides. “Answer the question.”

  A break. Why didn’t you help me out earlier?

  “I … I don’t know what you mean,” he stammers. He’s actually blushing.

  Jesus Christ. A wild swing with my eyes closed and it’s a home run.

  “How much money,” I say slowly, enunciating clearly, “did the prosecution pay you to fly here and testify against your brother Steven Jensen?”

  His head drops.

  “Ten thousand,” he whispers forlornly.

  “How much? Speak up man!” I lean in so close to him I can smell his breath mints.

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “They paid you ten thousand dollars to fly out here and testify against your own brother, the only flesh and blood you have in this world.”

  “I’d’ve done it for nothing.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say. “I’ve seen a lot of hate in my life, Mr. Angelus, or whatever name it is you want to call yourself, what did you do, appropriate it from a lover …”

  “Objection!” cries Moseby.

  “… but never this much wrapped up in one person,” I rush on, even as Martinez is sustaining Moseby. “You must really hate yourself.” I throw my Sunday punch. “And what you are.”

  “OBJECTION!”

  “Withdrawn.” I walk back to my seat. A small victory, but a victory nevertheless. At least it’s another hook to hang an appeal on; and the moment that thought comes to me I stop because I realize where my thinking’s really at: that we’re already in the appeal process.

  I can’t think that way—it would be a mortal blow to my defense. They’re innocent, I’ve been convinced of that from the start, it’s too late for doubts.

  My eyes engage those of Paul, Mary Lou, Tommy. We’re all thinking the same thing.

  “No further questions,” I tell the court.

  “The prosecution rests, your honor.”

  “I DIDN’T KILL HIM, man. You’ve got to believe me.”

  Lone Wolf and I are sitting across the table from each other in the holding room located in the basement of the courthouse. The harsh overhead lights give Lone Wolf’s face a sinister cast, the shadows deep under his eyes which are almost lost in the darkness. A cadaver’s face. He still looks frightening now, but the bitter consequences of this morning’s appearance by his brother have him scared stiff. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen fear in him that he hasn’t been able to camouflage.

  “I don’t have to believe you,” I say, shaking my head negatively. “Twelve people on the jury have to believe you.”

  “Goddam man, I didn’t.” He hesitates. “You still believe that, don’t you?”

  I think for a moment. I’ve got to be clear about that, I have to be honest with him.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m your lawyer. You’re getting the best defense I can give you.” I shake my head, like I’m trying to wake myself from a nightmare. “But for what it’s worth, yeh, I believe you. Right now I wish I didn’t, though.”

  “Why? I mean I’m glad you still believe it but …”

  “Because it’s going to make it harder to take if we don’t pull this off.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “Off the facts, eighty, maybe ninety percent. Off emotion … not as much.”

  “Fifty-fifty?”

  “Not right now.” I stand up. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got to overhaul my summation.”

  The guard comes in, cuffs him. He turns to me as he’s led out.

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Yes; but you also told me that your brother was dead.”

  “He was.” He looks away. “To me.”

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY …”

  All the world’s a stage. This one’s mine. The vaulted room, the judge seated up there in his black robes that go back to antiquity, the prosecution’s team waiting their turn, my partners in this case seated at our table, the defendants. Watching me, listening to me. Real life-and-death theatre. I’m pumped. The adrenaline’s flowing. There are lawyers that do this and dread it. Other lawyers won’t do it at all; they can’t handle the stress. And for some it’s mother’s milk, they thrive on it, it’s their life’s blood. The kings and queens of the courtroom, the cream.

  “Somewhere in all the testimony you’ve heard, in all the evidence that’s been presented, there’s a small, pure kernel of truth. It’s like a vein of gold, you know it’s there but sometimes it’s hard to recognize, and harder to get to, to extract. You have to separate it from the stuff that looks like gold but isn’t, the stuff that can mislead you, send you down the wrong path, keep you from what it is you’re after. You are after the truth. You are not after vindication, you are not after payback, you are not after solving a problem for society. You are after the truth and you have to find it and be true to those findings, you can’t let how you feel or how society’s supposed to feel or what you think ‘should be’ get in the way of finding out the truth. You have to find out whether or not my client, Steven Jensen, this man sitting before you, killed another man.”

  I’m the last defender to make summation. Tommy went first—we wanted to start with someone the jury would instinctively like, and his client, Goose, is the easiest to defend. Then Paul with the kid, the reversal of Tommy. Then Mary Lou.

  I’m going last because it’s my case. I brought the others into this, I’m the one who has to make the final incision, free the umbilical. And I’m the star, the one the crowd comes to see, the one who’ll be on television. There’s ego involved, I don’t deny that, so what? I’ve earned it, it’s reality.

  My argument will be based on the timetable established by the state’s witnesses, principally Rita Gomez and Dr. Milton Grade, and the credibility of those witnesses, particularly Rita Gomez and, to a lesser extent, James Angelus, the turncoat brother.

  Two big charts have been set up so they can be seen clearly from the jury box and the bench. One is a blowup of a map of the area, including the bar—the Dew Drop Inn—where the bikers picked Rita up, the area in the mountains where they took her (and where the body was later found), the motel where she worked and from which (according to her) they abducted Bartless and took him back to the mountains, and the road from Santa Fe to Albuquerque, route 14, where they filled their tanks and ate breakfast. The other chart is a timetable, from 2:00 A.M. until noon. It’s broken down into half-hour increments, with a blank drawn next to each time: 2:00, 2:30, etc. Between the two charts is a large mockup of a clock, with movable hands.

  Slowly, carefully, I lead the jury through the chain of events as Rita Gomez told them; she’s the case. If we can show that what she said happened was impossible, within the timetable she herself established, we have an honest chance for acquittal.

  “They left the bar at two o’clock,” I say. “Several witnesses, including Miss Gomez, have testified to that. So we can take that as a given.”

  I go to the chart. Next to 2:00 I write ‘leave bar.’ I position the hands of the clock to 2:00.

  “They drove up to here,” I continue, tracing the road that leads to the mountains, to the spot where she said they parked, where the body was later found. “The distance, according to this map which was prepared and authenticated by the state of New Mexico department of highways, is twenty-seven miles. It’s a windy road, you can’t driv
e it too fast. The speed limit is forty miles an hour. But let’s say they went faster. Let’s say they got up there in half an hour.” Next to 2:30, I write ‘arrive at alleged crime site.’

  “By her own admission she had intercourse with each of them two times. Even with a minimum of foreplay; and I don’t think, ladies and gentlemen, that a fifteen-dollar-a-pop hooker engages in much foreplay,” I tell them, pausing for a minute, letting that dig at her character sink in, “even if it was straight, fast, dirty sex she had with them, that had to take at least another half an hour.” I pause again. “Now I’m really cutting against my client’s interest here, folks, by tightening up this timetable as I am, but I want to give her testimony every benefit of the doubt. So okay, half an hour for sex.”

  I fill in the 3:00 blank, move the hands of the clock.

  We work together, the jury and I, through that night, according to the testimony of the state’s star witness. How long it took them to get back to the motel. How long the sex and beer-drinking she said happened there took. How long Bartless was with them, arguing and fighting. How long it took to subdue him, to throw him and her in the car.

  “The phantom car,” I state. “The car that never existed in any statements anyone made. The car that was never reported stolen or damaged. That was ever-so-conveniently there so the accused could use it to transport Richard Bartless up to the killing site.”

  I pause.

  “The nonexistent car. The car that never was. It was never there, ladies and gentlemen. You know that and I know that. It’s just another thread in the fabric of lies this witness has been weaving.”

  The hands on the clock keep moving. The timetable on the chart is filled in. It’s dawn and we’re still back up on that mountain with Bartless, Rita, and the bikers.

  “After the victim was violated,” I say, not dodging that, “after he was sexually assaulted, and we don’t dispute he was, the evidence says it and we agree to that: after that he was murdered. He was stabbed forty-seven times according to the coroner’s report. We don’t dispute that, either, that there were forty-seven stab wounds. And according to Rita Gomez, every couple of times the victim was stabbed, the knife that did it was heated until it was red-hot.” I shake my head at that. “They’re killing the guy but they want to cauterize the wounds. I don’t know about you, folks, but ritual or not it sounds like horse manure to me. But, the state’s star witness says it happened, so hypothetically we go along with it. Just hypothetically, because we don’t really believe it for a minute. Then they emasculate him. And then they hang around for awhile. According to Miss Gomez, at least fifteen or twenty minutes. And then they shoot him.”