Undertow

by Sydney Bauer

  It was an unusual move to say the least. Normally it was the defence filing motions to strike in an effort to reduce their client’s chances of a conviction on a list of counts. But this case was anything but usual. One glance across the Saturday morning closed court at David Cavanaugh’s colourless expression told her they were going to win. And once again, she hated to admit, it felt good.

  31

  ‘Look at me,’ he said reaching across the table to grab both of her hands. ‘Rayna, look at me.’

  She looked up then and he expected to see tears in her eyes – but what he saw was even worse; he saw nothing, a blank expression of total defeat.

  ‘You cannot give up now,’ said David. ‘I know the letter is a setback, and the striking of the lesser charge appears to be a blow, but we can’t look at it that way.’

  Rayna stared back at him and he could tell she was unconvinced.

  ‘David’s right,’ said Sara pulling her chair around the table to sit next to their client. ‘When you think about it they are actually doing us a favour. Now we only have one charge to defend rather than spreading our resources across the two.’

  ‘And they have removed any fall back for the jury,’ said David. ‘If you are found not guilty of murder two, there is no second charge to face. In other words – we win, you walk. And that is exactly what is going to happen.’

  Rayna said nothing, just looked down at her hands now enveloped in David’s before releasing them gently and bringing them close to her face.

  ‘Look at these,’ she said, holding them up, her fingers widespread. ‘Dry, chaffed, split. Look at these fingernails: chipped, chewed, uneven.’ She turned them over, examining her palms as if she had never set eyes on them before.

  ‘These don’t belong to me,’ she said at last. ‘These are not the same hands that caressed my husband, bathed my baby girl, carried law documents into court. I don’t know who I am anymore, David. I have no idea.’

  ‘Stop,’ he said, gabbing her hands from her once again and forcing her to focus on him. ‘Listen to me Rayna, I am going to do everything in my power to get you out of here but I can’t do it without you. I need you, in and outside of that courtroom, listening, thinking, helping me win this thing. I have been tossing up how much to involve you in all of this – not wanting to apply too much pressure, careful to make sure your emotional needs were met, but the truth is we can’t afford such sensitivity. I know you don’t have a lot of experience with jury trials and your background is more in civil proceedings, but you are a strong, smart attorney and an important part of our team. Jurors can smell defeat and, right now, you reek of it.’

  He stopped before going on, knowing this had to be said.

  ‘We have so much to do and we’re running out of time. Jury selection starts in less than two hours and I’ll be depending on your opinion. In other words, if you can’t do this for yourself, then do it for me and for Sara, and more importantly for Teesha.’

  She looked at him then, small pools of water forming in her large brown eyes and he was relieved to see at least some form of reaction to his impromptu tirade. She released her hands once again and brought them to her face, wiping away the tears and taking a deep breath.

  ‘All right,’ she said, sitting up in her seat. ‘I’m here. What do you need me to do?’

  David began with the letter. Whilst he knew this latest piece of ‘evidence’ was devastating for the defence he thought if he could find some positives in its ‘release’ he might drag Rayna out of her depression and get her back on track.

  ‘The letter is a one-off,’ he said. ‘A lucky break for the prosecution. There is no way the Haynes could have more than one ambiguous note. Teesha said it herself – Christina never spoke of her parents’ bigotry so this was a first – and a last.

  ‘Secondly, you’ll be pleased to hear Stein has upheld my motion to place a gag order on Mrs Haynes and anyone else who attempts to pervert the course of justice and taint the potential jury pool by taking ‘evidence’ directly to the press. One step out of line and he’ll slap an injunction on them and their media outlet of choice.’ David looked directly at Rayna. ‘And we’ll sue for libel on your behalf. Finally, we know who the real subjects of that letter are, and we are going to prove it. In the end that note is going to work in our favour. I’m sure of it.’

  It was working, Rayna was sitting straight up in her seat, her eyes alert, her concentration focused. He needed her to make the decision to stay involved. For her – and just as importantly for him.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So take me through the jury selection process. Like you said, my criminal law is rusty. Where do we stand?’

  ‘Well, we’re starting at an advantage,’ he said, trying to remain positive. ‘Remember, in Massachusetts, unlike most other states, the potential pool is not just limited to registered voters but comes from a much bigger census list.’

  ‘Which means,’ said Sara, ‘all those people who often ask for exemptions – homemakers, lawyers, public safety officials, teachers, government officials and judges – don’t have a leg to stand on. It gives us a broader base to work from, and a system which is ultimately fairer for the defendant.’

  ‘In our case,’ David went on. ‘The court has dispatched 400 summonses and each of those are currently on their way to the superior court where they’ll start by filling out questionnaires. They’ll be asked about their views on race related crimes, the potential penalty of life imprisonment, what they have heard or read about the case, and whether they know any of the possible potential witnesses.’

  ‘We figure close to half of these potential jurors would be excused for hardship,’ Sara went on. ‘Medical, financial or personal – and others will be eliminated by Judge Stein who’ll have the first look at their questionnaires. This first week will probably see us narrow the pool down to about sixty.’

  ‘And by the end of next week,’ finished David. ‘We should have our final twelve, plus four alternates.’

  ‘And peremptory challenges?’ asked Rayna now getting into the swing of things. ‘It’s three a piece, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said David. ‘You’ll be there throughout the entire process. This week Arthur, Con and Samantha will be with you constantly whilst Sara and I continue work on the defence. Next week we’ll all be on deck full time, playing the vital game of “jury-chess” with Scaturro and Katz.’

  ‘So who is our perfect juror?’ asked Rayna. ‘Female, middle-aged, a mother, a minority?’

  ‘At first glance you would think so,’ answered David. ‘But in reality you’re way off.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Rayna looked to Sara.

  ‘You’re right on one count,’ said Sara. ‘Our preferred juror will be from a minority race, preferably African–American, but the rest of your description pretty much describes the perfect juror for the State.’

  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but think about it,’ David told Rayna. ‘Scaturro will favour middle to upper class white jurors with a bias towards women – preferably mothers who would sympathise with Elizabeth Haynes and picture their own children placed in a similar situation to Christina.

  ‘As for us, we want the men and prefer them young and black. You have to remember young people have been raised in an era of political correctness and are more likely to find the entire “hate” issue ludicrous. Young male jurors tend to favour logic over emotion and should regard your actions as just that – logical under the circumstances.’

  ‘Of course what we want and what we end up getting could be two totally different things,’ said Sara. ‘And that’s why the peremptory charges are so important – and where we should get an advantage over the State.’

  ‘An advantage?’ said Rayna now even more confused. ‘I would have thought we were at a disadvantage when it came to challenging jurors. We have to assume the minority jurors will be just that – in a minority. So we are sure to be faced with scores of white jurors – with only three vetoes to play with.
’

  ‘No,’ said David. ‘It’s the State who have the problem here. The minute they strike a black juror they will have to prove their challenge is not based on colour. Which won’t be easy.’

  ‘Because if they don’t,’ Rayna surmised, ‘and we lose, I could file an appeal saying the prosecution’s challenges were racially motivated.’

  ‘You got it,’ said David. ‘Jury selection is a minefield with both sides fighting to the death to secure their magic circle of twelve.’

  ‘What about the Japanese couple?’ asked Rayna changing tact.

  ‘Rigotti is on the case. He’s enlisted the help of a friend by the name of Ricky Suma who works for the Tokyo Times. Suma is going to run a series of classifieds to see what they turn up. Our only problem is that “Sato” is the Japanese equivalent of the American “Smith” or “Jones” so sorting through any responses will be tedious. The city may be big, but our search is wide so let’s not give up hope just yet.’

  At the word ‘hope’ David saw Rayna flinch and he immediately stepped in to bring her back.

  ‘This isn’t over by a long shot, Rayna. The prosecution may have played a couple of trump cards over the past few days, but they’ve played them early and now their hand is revealed. So let them have their day in the sun because I can promise you it’s about to get cloudy. I will make this go away, if it’s the last thing that I do.’

  32

  He had made her burn it. Elizabeth could not rid the image from her mind – the soft, white leather turning a sickly shade of brown as it curled around the lightly lined pages, strangled her daughter’s words, suffocated her thoughts and leached yet another piece of Christina’s existence from her oh so empty life. He had made sure she was sober before quizzing her on the particulars – confirming that, besides their daughter, they were the only two who had seen the journal.

  Rudolph had been sympathetic but firm. He told her, in no uncertain terms, that this was ‘no time for emotional instability’. He had reasoned that Christina was a teenager ‘corrupted by a group of unsuitable peers’. The diary was a result of such negative influences which they would have ‘terminated over time’. He also pointed out that, as much as the letter was an evidentiary coup, it also undoubtedly sent the defence in search of similar evidence which (dare they think it!) might identify their daughter‘s ‘subjects’ more clearly.

  ‘It is a “Catch 22,” Elizabeth,’ he had said. ‘The letter gives the prosecution an unprecedented advantage but, given we are aware of its true meaning, leaves us vulnerable to a similar discovery which could destroy our case and us in the process.’

  The very thought had sent Elizabeth into a controlled panic. But she constrained her fears and asked, ‘How do we make sure the Martin girl does not present such evidence in court?’

  And then, of course, he had set her straight – putting her promptly back in her place.

  ‘That is not your concern, Elizabeth. You must promise me you will not meddle in areas you are unequipped to handle. Knowing your boundaries has always been one of your major strengths. Just leave this one to me.’

  Now, as Elizabeth sat at her sunroom window, staring at the grainy front page photograph of Teesha Martin entering the Superior Court building, she contemplated moving quietly to the kitchen, retrieving the matches and watching this image shrivel into nothingness. But she did not move, just sat there, wondering why she was experiencing this disturbing sensation of déjà vu.

  And then it hit her – the movie, the black girl from the Lana Turner movie all those years ago. It was called Imitation of Life and Turner played a struggling single mother who went on to become a big movie star and Sandra Dee played her sweet but sometimes lonely daughter swept aside in her mother’s rise to fame. The black girl in question was Dee’s childhood girlfriend – a pale, brown-skinned imposter who was all sweet and cuddly as a child but turned all whore-like and slutty as a teenager. The girl spent the entire back end of the movie denying her dark-skinned housekeeper mother and pretending she was white. Which of course she wasn’t and never would be.

  She supposed some would say Teesha Martin was pretty, like the slutty movie girl who even had Troy Donohue fooled for a brief moment. But she had no doubt Teesha and movie girl had more than their looks in common. It was always the way.

  Of course, it wasn’t just the photo that made her think of that movie. She often thought of that movie. It was, in fact, the last movie she and Topher saw together, in 1959.

  Things were different back then. She had realised from a very early age that her family was in the higher echelons of Westport society. It was not something her parents told her – just something she and her sisters knew and expected and took great pleasure in. They possessed all the social standing that prominent, wealthy Connecticut WASPs could afford, with her father smart enough to widen his circle to include appropriate Catholics such as the Kennedys of Massachusetts.

  The girls were seen as society princesses, all purity and class. They attended the right schools, went to country club dances, sailed on weekends and attracted the attention of an endless number of eligible bachelors who, with their hair slicked back, wearing white knit vests and comfortable pleat-cut pants, came in droves.

  In the late 1950s Elizabeth knew she was viewed as the ‘catch of the bunch’. It was not a conceited viewpoint, just a reality she accepted as just. Three of her older sisters were already married and Evelyn was close to being engaged to Edgar Pound III, a large boy who was not much to look at, but came from a family so wealthy that her father used to joke that every cell in Edgar’s body was worth at least his namesake times three.

  As such, Elizabeth was the only Whitman left, the prettiest of the bunch with the biggest smile, the quickest wit and the best legs on the tennis court. Thus, it was both easier and necessary to play down her ‘friendship’ with Topher. What was seen as acceptable (charitable) as children was now not so suitable after all.

  ‘Topher,’ she whispered quietly to herself as she closed her eyes and released her grip on the newspaper, allowing it to fall back onto the pretty white cane sunroom table. Topher Bloom all dark and brooding and quiet and sensitive – a million miles from Edgar Pound and all his Ivy League friends.

  She loved him. That was true. But she also knew he was the antithesis of what should be, and most likely what would be, when they all woke up and stopped playing this little game of Hollywood romance and make-believe.

  And that is why that night came as such a shock. That night, after he took her to see the late session of Imitation of Life. He was dressed in black, she hidden in her long grey coat, enveloped in the warmth and mystery that was Topher and their forbidden romance.

  It was the night he told her that his mother had been black, or at least partially ‘coloured’, and that he knew it would make no difference to her whatsoever. For he loved her and she loved him back and in the end they would be together no matter what.

  It was also the weekend before he went away. Ironically it was Spence who set the whole thing in motion. Spence was so in debt to her father, and so respectful of the principles of the pecking order of life, that he went to tell him that he suspected that Topher and his daughter were more than just friends.

  Things happened quickly after that. Percy Whitman saw to it that Christopher Bloom was accepted as a late recruit to the US Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland, and was to report for duty within the week. Their motto was ‘Honour, Courage, Commitment’, Spence’s boy was making good. Everyone was so proud.

  Spence thanked his old captain for the amazing opportunity, Percy patted his ex-lieutenant’s bewildered son on the back and Elizabeth’s mother, Christine started to knit him a navy blue scarf with the appropriate gold trim.

  Topher was lost in the whirlwind of it all, wondering what the hell was happening and why the youngest ‘E’ – the same little girl who he used to chase around the estate garages – was not crying, objecting, protesting with every inch of her being. But she d
idn’t, and so he didn’t, and in the end she never even came to say goodbye. In fact, she had never answered his questions about their future either.

  Now as she opened her eyes and looked down at the newspaper photo of Teesha Martin once again, Elizabeth realised one pure and simple fact. As much as she loved him, she was glad she never got to answer his questions, for he would not have liked what he heard. And after everything that had happened she knew, just as clearly today as she had then, that she made the right decision and would do it over exactly the same, again and again and again.

  33

  ‘It’s not enough, Ms Scaturro, your reasoning is tenuous at best.’

  Loretta Scaturro was trying to persuade Judge Stein to dismiss juror number 21, a young man named Conrad Dale. Conrad was a single, twenty-nine-year-old copywriter from Cambridge. He worked for a small but successful advertising agency whose clientele included Wrigley’s Gum and Hawaiian Tropic sun lotion. He had a Degree in Communications from Boston U and shared a rented apartment with his girlfriend, Leila Diablo. His father, Henry, owned a Cambridge news agency, his mother, Nina, was a part-time nurse at a local home for the aged and his younger sister, Anna, a teacher at the local primary school. Conrad was also an African–American.

  ‘Your Honour,’ said Scaturro, ‘Mr Dale once worked on the BU Newspaper The Daily Free Press. In his freshman year he wrote an article exploring the duties of local community service organisations. The article touched on the work done by AACSAM of which Mrs Martin is now deputy director.’

  The Judge turned to Conrad. ‘Mr Dale, do you or did you know, ever meet or have contact with Mrs Martin directly or indirectly?’