Key Witness

by J. F. Freedman

  Grant adjourned the proceedings at the stroke of four. They’d start in tomorrow at nine o’clock.

  While none of the three selections had been in his top one-third group of desirables, they hadn’t been at the bottom of the list, either. Not a great beginning, but not a disaster. None of the other young black men in the jury pool had come up for consideration, so that issue was still in the air.

  But not for long. It came up again the following morning. The third prospect brought in was a black man in his thirties. Neat and tidy in appearance, he was a parts manager for a local Buick dealership. A high school graduate, two years of college, had never been arrested. He glanced passively at Marvin as he sat down, looked with curiosity at Assistant DA Windsor, and turned his attention to Judge Grant.

  In response to Grant’s initial query regarding the death penalty the man replied that it should be used very carefully, because it was the ultimate price someone paid, and if later on it turned out a mistake had been made it couldn’t be fixed; but he wasn’t against it in any absolute way. There could be situations that would warrant it.

  Wyatt really wanted this man. He had him rated in the top ten of his preferences. Abramowitz could try to find some excuse other than race to use one of her preemptories on him, but there was no substantial reason to, and she would risk alienating her black cocounsel. And he knew she was far too smart to overtly risk a constitutional violation regarding race.

  Grant asked a few questions. The man answered them precisely and carefully.

  “Have you ever been stopped or otherwise detained by the police for a reason you felt was wrong or unfair?” Grant asked. He was about to wrap the questioning up and add a fourth juror to the list.

  “One time I was,” the man answered after a moment’s deliberation.

  Helena had been taking notes. She looked up; simultaneously, her male jury expert whispered in her ear.

  “Could you tell us what that was about?” Grant asked.

  “My cousin is Michael Towles.”

  There was no reaction from Grant.

  “He used to play linebacker for the Denver Broncos,” the man explained.

  Wyatt remembered Michael Towles. He’d played in the late eighties. Not a star, but a good, heady team player.

  “A football player,” Grant said. “Not my sport. Go ahead.”

  “He got a signing bonus, so he went out and got himself a new car. A Mercedes. Real nice car. He bought it in Oakland and was driving it to Denver and asked me to come along with him, so I did.”

  The prospective juror hesitated for a moment, then continued. “We were driving along Highway 80, just cruising along, and we got into Salt Lake City.”

  Wyatt was listening with half an ear to the conversation while looking through the questionnaires of the next batch of candidates.

  “Out of the blue, this Salt Lake City policeman pulls us over.”

  Wyatt looked up fast. He caught Helena’s stare, turned to look at the man.

  “And?” Grant asked, prodding.

  “He made us get out of the car, spread us on the hood, frisked us and searched us. Searched our car.”

  “What was his reason?” Grant asked. On the prosecution side of the room Helena and her jury consultants were whispering energetically.

  “Said we looked suspicious.”

  “That was all?” Grant asked.

  “That was all the reason they gave us. DWB.”

  “DWB?” Grant repeated, befuddled.

  “Driving while black,” the man said. “Two black guys driving an expensive Mercedes, some places call that reasonable cause.”

  Abramowitz’s hand shot up like she was a third-grader bursting to please the teacher.

  “What is it?” Grant asked.

  “Request for dismissal for cause, Your Honor.”

  Wyatt stood up. “These are clearly insufficient grounds, Your Honor,” he said vigorously, managing to restrain himself although he wanted to scream. “There is absolutely no reason in the world that incident is grounds for dismissal.”

  “Indication of prejudice, Your Honor,” Helena responded with equal force. She glared at Wyatt.

  “That is pure … fantasy,” Wyatt said, since he knew “bullshit” wouldn’t go down well with Grant. “Use one of your preemptories,” he challenged her.

  Grant turned to the prospect. “Did anything else happen?”

  “The cop called for backup. He was going to find some excuse to arrest us. Except the other cop who responded knew who my cousin was, ’cause he was a sports fan. So they let us go. We got out of Utah as fast as we could.”

  Smart move, Wyatt thought.

  “We still request dismissal for cause, Your Honor.”

  Wyatt looked up again, this time in amazement. The request had come from Norman Windsor. Windsor was bent over, listening intently to the prosecution’s female jury specialist. As she spoke quietly to him he frowned, listened again, then nodded.

  “This man has a deep suspicion of police motives,” Windsor said, standing erect, “no matter how innocuous or well founded. He would not be able render an impartial verdict. We request dismissal for cause,” he said again.

  “I repeat, this doesn’t amount to cause, Your Honor,” Wyatt answered. What bullshit. Grant would stuff this crap right down their throats.

  “State’s request to strike the juror is granted,” Grant said. “This candidate is dismissed for cause.” He turned before Wyatt could express his outrage. “And please don’t ask me why again, Mr. Matthews. I have more than ample grounds to take this action.”

  Wyatt looked at Marvin. He was sagging in his chair, his eyes dull. He knows, Wyatt thought. Any way they can screw him, they will.

  IT TOOK A FULL two weeks but a jury was finally sworn in, along with eight alternates. Wyatt went through his preemptory challenges halfway through the proceedings. Abramowitz had some left; Grant did yeoman work for her.

  Eight women, four men. Four black jurors, three of them women. The only black man was a retired public school custodian who had grown up in the rural South. Hardly a jury of Marvin’s peers.

  Friday afternoon. Court was in open session again. Jonnie Rae, Marvin’s sisters and brother, and Dexter and his other friends sat in the rows behind the defendant’s table. As Marvin was led to the defendant’s table Dexter saluted him with a clenched fist. Marvin, his back to judge and jury, returned the salute, his fist held up against his chest to hide it from view.

  The twelve newly selected jurors were seated in the jury box, in the order in which they had been chosen. Judge Grant took the bench. “We will reconvene Tuesday morning,” he said, “at which time we will hear opening statements. Will the people be ready to proceed?”

  “We will, Your Honor,” Helena said, rising in place.

  “The defense?”

  Wyatt stood. “We’ll be ready.”

  Grant slammed his gavel down. “This court stands adjourned until Tuesday morning.”

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF the jury …”

  The trial of the People v. Marvin White had officially commenced. Helena Abramowitz stood at the lectern, ready to begin her opening statement to the jury.

  The courtroom was packed, every seat taken. Wyatt had provided Jonnie Rae and the family with a set of bodyguards who had muscled them through the crowd of people, especially the vultures of the press. They sat in the first row behind the defendant’s table, dressed in their Sunday best. Dexter and a few other supporters flanked them.

  At the defendant’s table, Wyatt, wearing one of his A suits, sat with Marvin. Marvin was dressed up in one of the new ensembles of sports coat, shirt, tie, pants, and shoes that Wyatt had bought for him. Marvin sat up straight, looking at the jury, per Wyatt’s instructions. Wyatt had a legal pad and some sharp pencils laid out in front of him, to take notes of the prosecution’s presentation.

  The train was leaving the station. Everyone that had to be on board was.

  “You may think thi
s is a complicated case,” Helena said. She was wearing a conservative dark gray dress, pearls, low heels. “But it’s really very simple. You are going to be asked to judge the guilt or innocence of a man charged with the murders and rapes of seven members of this community. Brutal, senseless murders.” She turned to look at Marvin. Pointing a finger at him, she intoned, “This man, Marvin White.”

  She held her look, the hand pointing the accusatory finger rigid, fixed. Time froze. Everyone was looking at where she was pointing.

  Wyatt stared back at her without blinking. Marvin tried to, but he was unable to keep his eyes fixed on her. He looked down at the table.

  “Look up,” Wyatt whispered fiercely without moving. “Keep your eyes up.”

  Marvin forced himself to raise his eyes and stare back at Abramowitz. He took deep, steady breaths, trying to stay calm.

  After ten seconds that felt like a small eternity Abramowitz lowered her hand and turned back to the jury. “It is our job—the prosecution’s—to convince you beyond a reasonable doubt that Marvin White is the perpetrator of these heinous, despicable acts. And ladies and gentlemen,” she said, forcefully gripping the sides of the lectern, “we are going to do exactly that. By the time we have finished presenting our case there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Marvin White is the man who committed these crimes. We will not convince you beyond a reasonable doubt. We will convince you far beyond that. We will convince you completely and absolutely. So that when you go into that jury room to deliberate you will have no problems whatsoever—no doubts—that Marvin White is guilty as charged.”

  She paused for a moment, taking a sip of water. Then she continued, her voice becoming almost evangelical in its sincerity. “We have a mountain of evidence that will place Marvin White at the scenes of these murders. And more importantly, ladies and gentlemen, we have a confession. Marvin White has already confessed to these crimes.” She opened a portfolio that was lying flat on top of the lectern. “Marvin White confessed to a fellow inmate in the county jail while he was waiting to go on trial for another charge. He confessed, ladies and gentlemen. That is irrefutable.”

  A few jurors picked up their pads and starting taking notes.

  Abramowitz went on. “I will grant you the man Marvin White confessed to is no angel. He is presently serving a term at Durban State Penitentiary, the toughest prison in this state. But he is also a man who has the quality of getting other criminals to tell him their deepest, darkest secrets, which he has done in several other cases, including one that is currently pending.”

  Wyatt immediately rose to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Any other case is not part of this trial.”

  Grant thought for a moment. “Objection denied,” he decided. “Opening statements are presentations of intent and premise, not previously verified facts.” He turned to Helena. “Proceed.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” she said, glaring at Wyatt. Turning back to the jury, she pressed on. “But that’s not all the evidence we have,” she said. “Not by a long shot. We will lay out a timetable for you, showing that these murders, which all fit the same identical pattern and point to one man, one perpetrator, started less than a month after Marvin White began working at Livonius’s Commercial Laundry & Dry Cleaning on West Sixteenth Street. That all the murders took place in neighborhoods he serviced in his job as delivery boy.”

  Wyatt could feel Marvin wince at the appellation “delivery boy.” Not the same social status in his circle as “high-class drug dealer,” “drive-by gunman,” or “pimp.” Be glad that’s what you were, he thought. If you really had been a dealer, you’d be even farther up shit’s creek than you are now.

  Abramowitz had used that description as a deliberate put-down, signaling to the jury that Marvin White was a worthless piece of garbage for whom there should be no sympathy. Having dropped that little stink bomb, she moved on. “We have witnesses who will place Marvin White in the specific crime areas on the specific days of the individual murders. And we have evidence, physical evidence, that was found on Marvin White’s person that directly links him to the scene of the most recent crime.”

  Abramowitz, pausing momentarily for a drink of water, moved on. “The murders began shortly after Marvin White began working in those neighborhoods. The last one occurred the same night he was arrested for attempted armed robbery. In addition,” she continued, “we have an eyewitness who was at the scene of the last murder, literally within minutes of the time the murder and rape took place. This witness saw Marvin White there; and he saw her. They were standing less than twenty feet from each other. This witness picked Marvin White out of a police lineup without hesitation and without any doubt whatsoever. He was there, this witness saw him there, and she will testify to that. So we will prove to you, without question, that Marvin White was at the murder site when the murder took place.”

  The room was quiet, a faint buzz of traffic from the street outside the only conscious noise. Everyone’s attention was on the trim woman standing at the speaker’s lectern.

  She took another sip of water. “And we will also introduce evidence,” she said, “that will show this man has a pattern of rape and a pattern of violence. A few years ago, just before Marvin White began working as a delivery boy at Livonius’s Dry Cleaning, he raped a girl at knifepoint. And that girl will come in here and testify about that to you.”

  “Objection!” Wyatt was on his feet. This time he was truly livid. “That accusation, which was dropped and for which my client never went to trial, is part of his juvenile record, inadmissible in these proceedings. Move this part of the prosecution statement be stricken and the jury instructed to disregard it.”

  They had fought over this part of her opening in a hearing with Judge Grant before the trial had started. Wyatt had fought vigorously against allowing this information in but Grant had deferred his ruling, preferring to decide when it actually came up, if in fact it did. Now here it was, for all the world, especially the twelve jurors, to hear.

  Before Grant could begin to think about his decision Abramowitz had picked up a lawbook. “Normally that would be true, Your Honor,” she stated, “but recently, in Maine v. Loudermilk, the courts ruled that a juvenile record could be introduced into an adult trial if the portion of the record helps establish a pattern that carries over from the juvenile phase to the adult. The appropriate appellate courts upheld that ruling. Marvin White is accused of rape and murder, the instrument of murder in most of these crimes being a knife. So bringing in an earlier accusation of rape at knifepoint is completely within our limits.”

  “That applies to a conviction, Your Honor,” Wyatt said. He was prepared for this. He had prepared an “issue memo,” which he handed to the clerk of the court, who passed it up to the judge. Grant gave it a perfunctory look, then laid it aside.

  “Marvin White was never convicted,” Wyatt continued. “He never even went to trial. Loudermilk doesn’t apply here, and I repeat my request that this section be stricken and the jury instructed to disregard it and counsel for the prosecution be admonished.”

  Judge Grant motioned with crooked forefinger for the lawbook. A deputy took it from Abramowitz and brought it to the bench. He opened the page she’d bookmarked and began reading.

  Wyatt watched Grant closely. If that girl was allowed to come in here and testify it could be major bad news.

  Grant was taking his time. Wyatt leaned in to Marvin. “How’re you doing?”

  Marvin nodded “Okay. What’s she mean about evidence on me that puts me at the murder?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Wyatt whispered back, “but there is none, so when she brings that up we’ll blow it out of the water.”

  Marvin smiled grimly upon hearing that, but Wyatt knew he was still scared about whatever it might be.

  Grant closed the book and looked up. “This witness will come in here and testify under oath that she was raped at knifepoint?” he asked Abramowitz. “Which will mean contradicting herself
regarding her earlier testimony,” he added significantly. “That could leave her open to charges of perjury, in either case, or both.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Abramowitz answered. “Regardless of the consequences of perjury, which she’s aware of, she wants to come and tell her story.”

  “Then I’m overruling the objection,” Grant said, blowing Wyatt off. “The prosecution’s remarks will stand.” To Abramowitz: “Go ahead.”

  Thanks, you son of a bitch.

  Abramowitz sneered in Wyatt’s direction. Turning to the jury, she said, “The state will prove to you that the defendant, Marvin White, was in the very places these murders took place, when they took place. An eyewitness will place him at the location of the final murder within minutes of when it happened. And you will hear his own confession, backed up by copious police reports. If any case was ever open-and-shut, this is that case. Ladies and gentlemen,” she concluded, “convicting a man of a capital offense is a difficult and painful decision to make, individually and collectively. But making those decisions is what the heart of our jury system is about. Twelve men and women, hearing the evidence presented, and making an informed judgment based on it. It is why we are a nation of laws and why we are a great country. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are the eyes and ears and hearts and brains of this community. This city is looking to you for justice. And when all the evidence has been presented, and all the facts are known, there will be only one conclusion you will be able to reach, one decision you will be compelled to render. That Marvin White, the defendant sitting before you, is guilty of seven rapes and seven murders. And that he must be punished for those terrible crimes to the fullest extent of the law.”