by Jeff Stetson
Ruth Cooper wept uncontrollably. The deputies discussed whether to take her into custody, when Reynolds intervened on her behalf. Sinclair took the distraught woman aside while Reynolds negotiated with the officers to allow him to handle the matter. They agreed but remained in the room to monitor her behavior. Reynolds thanked them, and as he proceeded to join Sinclair, he observed Regina standing in the rear of the courtroom. She watched Mrs. Cooper for several moments before finally leaving. Reynolds wondered if that look of concern was compassion for the woman or distress at what had almost happened to the professor. He decided he couldn’t be sure of the real motivation driving any of Matheson’s students, particularly this one.
CHAPTER 58
MILLER FINISHED A peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drank a glass of cold beer. He lay down on his couch and thought about his closing. As always, he’d deliver it without notes. He believed that juries resented lawyers who read to them, and, more important, that they doubted they were telling the truth. He couldn’t refer to paperwork while he spoke from his heart. That would be an invitation to observe his planned spontaneity. Jurors liked to cry or feel outraged but not if it was from a manipulative script.
A magician had to perform the same trick every night as if it were new, never allowing the audience to question the existence or power of magic. A lawyer must do the same, convincing the jury it was really the prosecution who was running the shell game. But this time Miller felt he’d engaged in sleight of hand. He’d never been bothered before at the thought his client might be guilty; if the state couldn’t prove it, tough luck. After all, he hadn’t created the rules; he’d only mastered them.
As he looked back at his career, he remembered less than a handful of cases he regretted taking. This case deviated from the norm. He wanted to be brilliant for reasons that had nothing to do with obtaining his client’s acquittal. He felt comfortable that the state hadn’t proven its case, although given the passions involved, any verdict was possible. He had a more selfish motive for achieving victory. After having endured rejection from every black organization that had once actively sought his pro bono skills, he now had the delightful opportunity to fling their betrayals back into their smug and hypocritical faces. He’d lived long enough with their arrogance. The struggle had escalated to a level where “no whites need apply,” except, of course, when impoverished defendants required representation. Consequently, for the past two decades he’d subsisted on a diet of drug felons and spouse abusers and petty thieves—the remnants of a Civil Rights Movement that had abandoned them in favor of addressing the urgent needs of corporate America.
But now, in a matter of a few weeks, all had changed. He’d landed a case that epitomized the black struggle in all its glory. Professor Martin S. Matheson represented four hundred years of an evolving system of justice forced to come to grips with its own inherent contradictions of greatness and failure. And no one felt more conflicted about the possibility of resolving that dilemma than the lawyer who would soon argue for his client’s freedom.
He didn’t know how many miles he’d marched, or how much of his money he’d given to losing causes. He didn’t want to know how many insults he’d tolerated or death threats he’d ignored. The only thing he wanted to know was whether the sum total of that experience had led him to this moment. Had he suffered so much simply to reach this monumental crossroads, the intersection between his pain and his payback, his idealism and his will to win, no matter the repercussions? When all was said and done, civil rights remained the one thing he’d never deserted despite its having deserted him. Hadn’t Earvin Cooper’s civil rights been violated, and since when did the horror of lynching depend solely on the color of the victim?
In a show of startling affection, Miranda leaped onto the couch and snuggled next to him. She’d never done that before. Cats, he thought—such strange creatures. What would possess her to reach out to him tonight of all nights? Clairvoyance aside, her timing seemed remarkable. Thank God they don’t allow her kind to serve as jurors or IRS officials. He stroked her fur and she purred, her body rising in sync with the movement of his fingers. He didn’t want to admit it, but she’d brought him a moment of peace. This stray cat, who half a dozen years ago moved into his life of her own volition, had been his one true companion. And at his moment of need, his crisis of conscience, a mere animal had gotten him to observe the golden rule. In soothing her, he’d brought himself a bit of temporary comfort.
The phone rang at midnight, and Miranda jumped off his lap and followed him to the corner table. She’d never done that before, either. He lifted the receiver and heard a woman’s voice ask, “Is this Todd Miller?” He replied affirmatively and listened to a message that ended with heartfelt condolences. He hung up and returned to the couch but this time didn’t lie down. Miranda climbed onto his lap and pushed her back against his side. He placed his hand on her head and massaged her chin. Tears streamed down his face, and yet his expression remained frozen. His father had managed to make him cry once more.
Tanner delayed closing arguments for three days. The weekend would give Miller an additional forty-eight hours to handle the funeral arrangements. He returned to the retirement community and asked permission to enter his father’s room. He’d been there for only a few minutes when a nurse’s aid entered.
“Mr. Miller?” the black man asked. “I’m Nelson Allen; I was assigned to take care of your father.”
“Todd Miller,” he said, offering his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“One of the staff told me you were here. I hope I’m not disturbin’ you; I just wanted to stop by and tell you how sorry I am for your loss.” Allen looked to be in his late forties and had a large round face divided by a thin mustache. He possessed broad shoulders and thick hands, and Miller wondered what type of hell his father had put this poor guy through.
Miller hesitated, then asked, “Did you know my father well?”
Allen laughed. “Your dad was a handful and then some.”
“I trust he didn’t make your life too miserable.”
“The judge?” Allen exclaimed. “No, no. I enjoyed comin’ to work so I could listen to all his stories.”
Miller smiled proudly, and his feeling of admiration both surprised and scared him.
“I worked the late afternoon and night shifts, so me and your dad got to be pretty close.”
“Really?” The word slipped out of Miller’s mouth. Would the surprises ever cease?
“He talked about you a lot until his mind . . .” Allen stopped and looked at Miller with embarrassment. “Until he started havin’ trouble rememberin’ things.”
“Were you with him the night . . .” Now it was Miller’s turn to search for the right words. “The night it happened?”
“He died very peacefully, Mr. Miller.”
Miller felt enormous gratitude at hearing that.
“I stayed with him almost to the end. I’m not sure he knew I was there or who I was. I said a prayer for him like usual and held his hand to calm him down.” Allen became quiet for a moment. He rubbed the side of his face and slowly gazed around the room. “Was your dad always such a restless sleeper?”
Miller thought about it and nodded sadly.
“I sleep like a baby soon as my head hits the pillow.”
Miller looked at the empty bed and tried to imagine the position of his father when he died.
“Well, look, I didn’t mean to barge in on you; like I said, I just wanted to express my—”
“Mr. Allen, you said my father spoke about me a lot.”
“Sure did.”
“I’m just curious,” Miller said, proceeding awkwardly. “I was wondering, if it’s not too much of an imposition . . .”
Allen laughed. “Your daddy used those kind of words all the time. ‘If it’s not too much of an imposition, could you bring me my bedpan?’ ‘Could I impose on you to take away this lunch tray?’ He always sounded like a judge except for those times we’d ta
lk about you. Then he sounded just like any other father.”
Miller took a deep breath and held on to it as long as he could. When he believed he’d managed to control the emotion welling up inside, he released it.
“You must’ve been very proud of him—him bein’ a judge and all.”
Miller didn’t respond.
“He sure was proud of you.”
Miller started on his second deep breath.
“Used to tell everybody ’bout all the cases you’d won. He’d strut up and down the cafeteria and thump the counter to get everyone’s attention.”
Miller smiled and thought about his father thumping the dining room table to make his point. On occasion he’d just tap his left thigh three times, and the family would wait anxiously for the lecture or a decision or simply permission to commence the Sunday meal.
“He spent the most time explainin’ your legal battles against the government. That would get him truly animated. He’d point his fist at anyone who’d listen, and punched the air when he got excited. Then, all of a sudden he’d stop, get completely quiet, like he was embarrassed or disappointed.”
“At me?” asked Miller, genuinely afraid of the answer.
“I think at himself.”
“Why do you say that?” Miller asked incredulously.
“Just a feelin’ I had about him. He told me you were the third generation of lawyers in the family. Then he’d always get real sad. Said you were the only one who . . .” Allen became uneasy.
“I was the only one who what?” Miller’s voice cracked.
“The only one who really honored the law the way it was meant to be honored.”
Miller’s shoulders sank, but his heart soared and then felt as if it would shatter.
“When he started to get worse, with the memory and everything, I’d help him finish his stories about you. Heck, I’d heard ’em so often, I probably could practice law by now.” Allen now fought back his emotions. “In the end, I thought I’d see him smile once or twice, but he didn’t seem to understand too much. It’s a awful thing, that disease, makes a man forget the people he loves most.”
Miller stared ahead. “Would you mind very much if I had a few moments alone?”
“You stay as long as you want,” Allen said. “If you need help with his things, just let me know.” He reached the door and held it open. “Mr. Miller?”
Miller faced him.
“Would it be all right if I attended his service?”
Miller’s heart raced, and his legs felt heavy. “I’m sure my father would like that.” He watched Allen leave, then sat down in a chair next to the bed and unconsciously tapped his left thigh three times. He’d managed to live much of his adult life refusing to shed any more tears for the man who’d caused him so much pain. Yet since his last meeting with his father he’d cried twice for him. Now he’d do it once more, but this time it would be for himself.
CHAPTER 59
IN AN EFFORT to give Miller sufficient time to handle his family matter, Tanner scheduled the hearing for three o’clock. Miller arrived two hours early and sat in the courtroom alone. He paced back and forth in front of the empty jury box, envisioning where each person sat. He moved to the podium and measured the distance between himself and the judge’s bench, then crossed to the prosecutor’s table. He counted the steps from one place to the other and mentally choreographed his presentation to make it as seamless as possible. When he felt comfortable with the dry run, he repeated it and made his final adjustments. Then he took his seat and waited for the performance to begin.
He thought about the burial grounds and how lovely they looked. Cemeteries are kept clean for the dead, while the streets are allowed to stay filthy for the living. “Go figure,” he mumbled to himself. He laid his father to rest just outside Holly Springs, underneath the proverbial old oak tree on the much sought-after “high bluff overlooking the river’s edge.” His father had actually acquired several plots many years ago, known simply as the “family grounds.” Miller’s mother was buried there along with his four grandparents and an uncle. Despite his disinheritance, which he learned his father had revoked in the most recent will, Miller also had a preferred spot on the hill, slightly lower than his father’s, of course, but still under the shade and within spiritual spitting distance of the water.
Reynolds attended the funeral accompanied by his wife and children. Mr. Allen brought flowers and cried. The Presbyterian pastor recited a prayer about the power of redemption and asked Miller if he’d like to say a few words over his father’s grave. He declined, but not because he maintained any residue of anger. If those feelings hadn’t left with the phone call, they’d certainly disappeared by the time he finished meeting with Nelson Allen. Miller’s last words to his father had been a one-way conversation to someone hiding behind a wall of shattered memory. But at least that person was alive. He wouldn’t speak to his father through the mahogany lid of a coffin, not when the man inside had been so fond of yelling, “Look me in the eyes and say that again. Go ’head, I dare ya!”
Miller smiled at the recollection. Whenever his father got really angry or had one drink too many, the first thing to desert him was the ability to modulate his voice lower than a roar, followed almost immediately by the abandonment of the beginning or ending letters to a third of his words. While they may have been shortened, their pronunciation took considerably longer. When everything else begins to leave, one can always count on southern accents to return, sometimes with a vengeance.
The court’s rear doors suddenly opened, and the stampede began. The seats filled within two minutes, and shortly after that, all court personnel were in place. Sinclair arrived and offered condolences to Miller, who thanked her for her thoughtfulness in sending a beautiful wreath of flowers. They shook hands and for the first time in the trial showed no combativeness or hostility.
The jury had been told the second delay was caused by an unexpected judicial appeal that required the judge’s immediate attention. Tanner wanted to avoid any sympathetic response to Miller’s loss. He’d earlier told both attorneys he hadn’t lied this much since he was seven years old and “my daddy took me to the woodshed, had me pull down my trousers, and introduced my behind to his truth-detectin’ leather belt.”
While he indicated to counsel he was beginning to enjoy his sudden “predilection to fabrication,” he’d just as soon not have to devise any new stories for the duration of this trial. They promised to do their best not to create any more delays.
The bailiff called the court to order and announced Tanner’s entrance. The judge had a light bounce to his walk and a huge smile on his face. He greeted the jury. “I hope you’re as happy to see me as I am to see you.”
They signaled agreement, and he took his seat behind the bench with the customary flapping of his long black sleeves. He pressed his hands together in a quick isometric exercise and rotated his head in a full circle, repeating the action in the opposite direction. He removed a freshly sharpened pencil, tested the point, and prepared himself for action.
“I note for the record the defendant is present in court alongside his counsel, and I also observe that both Mr. Reynolds and Ms. Sinclair are in attendance to represent the state. The jury appears ready. Madam court reporter, I see your machine’s in place and your paper’s filled to capacity.” He wiggled his fingers. “Are you limber, or do you need more flex time?”
“Ready, Your Honor.” She smiled and sat straight.
“Very well,” Tanner said, clearing his throat. “We will now proceed with the closing argument from the defense side. Mr. Miller, you have the floor.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Miller rose and proceeded to the podium. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, for your patience and your attentiveness throughout this trial.” He rubbed his palms together, then placed his hands on either side of the lectern.
“Thirty-five years ago, I wouldn’t be able to stand in front of a jury that looked like you.”
Miller pointed to his client. “Dr. Matheson wouldn’t be having a trial. The key to his cell would’ve been secretly slipped to someone hidden in darkness.” Miller touched the back of his ponytail and walked toward the jury box.
“When the morning came, there would’ve been one more photo taken of one more victim.” He rested his hands on the rail in front of Mrs. Whitney and looked at her. “But that form of justice can’t happen again. Because you won’t let it happen.”
Miller crossed to Matheson and put his hand on his shoulder. “The district attorney for this county publicly condemned this man, held him morally responsible for a string of murders even though he admitted Professor Matheson had broken no laws.” He walked slowly toward Reynolds. “Perhaps my client did something much worse. He violated custom. Wouldn’t remain quiet. Didn’t know his place. Insisted on shining a light on our deepest and darkest secrets.”
He turned his body so that the jury could observe Reynolds as he gestured toward him. “Thirty-five years ago, Mr. Reynolds wouldn’t be sitting at a table like this one. Not as a prosecutor for the people. Times have changed.” He looked directly at Reynolds. “We demand more from our system of justice.” Miller turned his head toward the jury and spoke solemnly. “We must begin to demand more from each other.”
Reynolds watched his adversary cross once again to the jury. He thought about yanking the back of his hair and throwing Miller off stride.
“You can’t silence a man because he dares to remind us of things we’d rather forget. You can’t convict a man because he wrote some things too frightening for us to read, let alone believe.” Miller extended his arms in front of him and raised his palms out toward the courtroom observers. “This isn’t thirty-five years ago!” his voice boomed. He waved his hand and pointed an accusatory finger toward the prosecutor’s table. His voice rose.
“We need more than speculation and anger and resentment and outrage to take a man’s life!” He cradled his hands together and moved them in the direction of the jury. He either offered a precious gift to the twelve men and women before him or else he pleaded for one. “We need proof beyond a reasonable doubt.” He walked toward the prosecutor’s table and spoke with indignation.