by Jeff Stetson
“Not ridiculous probability figures based on a sample of five! Not evidence reported lost at the very police station that now accuses him! Not blood subject to contamination and error! And certainly not wild speculation that a man would slip a size-thirteen boot on a foot that measures nine and one half for the express purpose of committing murder and getting away with it!”
He separated his hands and dropped them to his sides. He moved to his table and stood next to Matheson. This time he spoke more softly and ended on a whisper. “We no longer live in the past.” He looked sympathetically at Reynolds. “We can no longer allow the past to live in us.” He moved in front of his chair and spoke his final words with absolute conviction. “I ask you to reject the state’s case and find Dr. Matheson not guilty.” He sat down, and as he lowered his head, the silver braid of hair slipped across his left shoulder and rested near his heart.
Tanner took a breath and expanded his chest. “I hadn’t expected counsel to be so brief, but in fairness to everyone, since we started rather late in the day, we’ll stay on schedule and adjourn for the evening. When we reconvene tomorrow morning, Mr. Reynolds will conclude with the state’s closing arguments. The jury is once again directed to abide by the court’s usual admonition regarding discussing this case.” He struck the gavel, and the jury quickly filed out.
Matheson left with the deputies, and Miller remained in his seat. Reynolds approached and took the seat next to him. The two adversaries sat together in silence and remained that way until the courtroom cleared. “You remember when I told you about my nightmares?” Reynolds asked.
“The black bogeyman?” Miller inquired without looking at him.
“Turned out he wasn’t trying to hurt me at all. Just needed my help.”
Miller finally looked at Reynolds. “My friend, if I’ve learned anything from my time on earth, it’s that the people who need you are also the ones who can hurt you most.”
Reynolds gently patted his colleague on the back and left.
Miller remained in his seat and stared at the empty jury box.
CHAPTER 60
REYNOLDS STOOD ALONE in his backyard. A full moon created a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in months. In twelve hours he’d face the jury for the last time and try to convince them the man who’d out-dueled him from the witness stand was a murderer. He knelt on his left knee and used his fingers to gently plow the earth in an area of freshly planted flowers. The act of gardening presented a more meaningful alternative to therapy and always resulted in growth.
He preferred working at night. His son had advised him he wouldn’t have to see bugs or other “yucky stuff” that way. He also wouldn’t have to see the mistakes he’d made until the next morning, which worked out well since he checked progress only during the evening. Just before he placed his other knee into the dirt to double the therapeutic impact, he heard the screen door close and sensed his wife’s presence.
“You want me to listen to your closing?” Cheryl asked.
Reynolds shook his head. “I’m not sure I have one.”
“You’ll come up with something appropriate. You always have.”
He stood up from the flowerbed and moved close to her. “I became a prosecutor because I wanted to make the world safe. Put all the bad people away—the ones who terrified little boys while they slept. Now I’m not sure who the monsters are.”
“Sometimes they trick us,” she said. “That’s why they’re monsters.” She touched his face and moved it toward her. She waited for him to look at her. “What’s important is that we always recognize our heroes.”
“Sometimes we should fear them most of all.” He kissed her gently. “I better get ready for tomorrow.”
“You want me to be there with you, at the court?”
“You haven’t heard one of my closings in a long time.”
“Yes, I have. I just never let you know I was there. This time I’ll sit where you can see me.”
He smiled and placed his arm around her shoulder. They walked together across the yard and entered their house.
Reynolds proceeded down the hallway and stopped outside his son’s bedroom. Christopher heard the knock on his door and quickly shoved his Playboy magazine inside his school folder and hid it underneath his pillow.
His father entered. “You still awake? It’s late.”
“I know, Dad. Just finishing some homework.” Christopher crept into bed and pulled the covers over his body. He rested his head on the pillow. “You feelin’ okay?”
Reynolds approached his son and sat on the side of the bed. “A little sore, but I’ll live.” He rubbed his son on his head. “At least in your fight you got off the first punch.”
“Didn’t you get to hit any of ’em?”
“No,” Reynolds answered dejectedly. “But I must’ve chased them off while I was unconscious.” He winked at his son. “I’m dangerous with my eyes closed.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“What’s up?” Christopher asked. “You got that look on your face.”
“You mean the one with the dark bruises and split lip?”
“No. The one you use when I’m in trouble and you have something serious to tell me. Like when I got a D in science and you said I was gonna miss out on college.”
“I never said that.”
“I couldn’t watch television for two whole weeks! Even people in prison can watch TV.”
“What does that tell you?” asked his father.
His son thought for a moment. “They got good grades in science?”
Reynolds gave the boy a strange look. “That’s the best you can do?”
“Hey, I’m only a kid and we’re havin’ an adult conversation.”
Reynolds studied his son and searched for the right words. “I got another question for you. This one’s important.”
“I knew I was in trouble.”
“You ready?”
Christopher braced himself and signaled to go ahead.
“You know the difference between justice and revenge?”
Christopher considered the question by staring at the ceiling. He then offered his best guess. “One’s a noun and the other’s a verb?”
Reynolds shook his head and gave a bittersweet smile. He put his hand on his son’s arm and spoke solemnly. “One’s worth your life, the other will destroy it.” He looked at his son and studied him. “You understand?”
Christopher gave his dad a puzzled look. “Not really.”
Reynolds squeezed his son’s arm encouragingly. “You will.” He leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you.”
Christopher looked at his father curiously. “I love you, too,” he said.
Reynolds walked to the door.
“Dad?”
He turned and faced his son.
“You sure I didn’t do something wrong?”
Reynolds shook his head and opened the door. “But get rid of that magazine under your pillow.”
Christopher’s face turned stone-cold guilty.
Reynolds smiled and said, “Good night.”
CHAPTER 61
HARD-EDGED MEDIA professionals shuffled their papers, picked at their fingernails, and anxiously awaited the judge’s entrance. Reynolds sat quietly at the table next to Sinclair, who knew enough not to disturb him. The loneliest and most exhilarating moment in the life of any prosecutor had arrived. What would happen next required a combination of legal acumen and intuitive recklessness. Twelve men and women, strangers to each other, would listen to Reynolds ask them to decide the fate of another human being. Most of these people didn’t have the power to choose the time they took work breaks. Now they’d determine the life or death of a man they’d never spoken to. And they’d have the courage or audacity to do that based in large part on which lawyer gave the best speech.
Reynolds watched the door crack open and caught a glimpse of the judge’s black robe. The bailiff announced Tanner’s arrival a
nd commanded everyone to rise. Tanner took his place at the bench and followed the same protocol that hadn’t changed much in his thirty-odd years as a judge. But for Reynolds, nothing seemed commonplace anymore—not the room, not the jury, and certainly not Tanner’s words.
“Mr. Reynolds, are you ready to begin your closing argument?”
Reynolds stood and held on to the back of his chair. “Yes, Your Honor.” He proceeded to the podium and placed his hands on either side. He’d never noticed how long a walk that entailed. The faces of the jury blended into a watercolor painting. He glanced at Miller, then Matheson. He took a look at the Reverend Matheson and for a moment thought he saw him nod his head in acknowledgment. He once again faced the jury and felt relieved they’d come back to life.
“We’re taught from an early age that Pharaoh’s army drowned in the Red Sea, which caused Moses and his people to give praise.” He moved away from the podium and extended his hands to the jury. “And so the cycle continues even today.” He walked toward the defense table. “We seek to be delivered from evil. Destroy one enemy only to create another, except this next foe is far more powerful and dangerous. We find temporary safety ultimately at the expense of peace. We call upon a new Moses to step forth, and when he doesn’t, we anoint anyone who tells us what we need to hear. We give this leader a different name and greater authority over our lives.
“The Bigger Thomas of today no longer hides in the shadows of submissiveness, concealing his rage with bowed head and a quiet ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir.’” Reynolds stood in front of the jury railing. “He’s no longer frightened by the painful memories of a humiliating past but is fueled by the expectations of a distorted future filled with images of reprisal and retribution.” He walked slowly and looked at each individual juror.
“Today’s Bigger Thomas wears a tailor-made suit. His hatred is hidden in the language of the articulate. He has all the advantages: a good family, fine education, a respected position in the community, a successful career.” His voice sounded reasoned and self-assured. “But somewhere”—his voice suddenly changed and offered a warning alarm—“somehow”—he placed his hands on the railing—“this model of achievement was severely damaged and twisted by an overwhelming desire to return hate for hate, pain for pain, indignity for indignity, and blood for blood.”
He removed his hands from the railing and placed them to his side. “What does it cost a society to call a five-year-old child a ‘nigger’?” He allowed the word to linger in the air for several unchallenged moments. “What price does that innocent but fragile child pay for our ignorance?” He turned toward Matheson and looked at him along with the jury. “That’s the price.”
Reynolds moved away from the jury and Matheson, turning his attention to the overflowing crowd of spectators. “For there are people inside and outside this courtroom who in their desperation would embrace or glorify this defendant as a hero, in return for the promise of just once feeling victorious, striking back and getting away with it.” He spotted Vanzant, seated in the last row, and looked at him. “Winning no matter the consequence.” He returned his attention to the jury. “But there’s always a consequence.”
He studied the faces of the jury, then bowed his head and sought personal guidance. He looked at Miller, then the judge, and tried to gather his thoughts. He discovered his two children, seated on either side of his wife. He walked in front of the podium and placed his right hand on top of it.
“Justice is often depicted as a woman wearing a blindfold. She doesn’t see the race or wealth or status of the victim or the defendant. She searches only for the truth.” He shook his head sadly. “There’s no revenge in her heart. She takes no enjoyment in the severity of her penalty. There’s no celebration for the thing that must be done.”
Reynolds carefully approached the jury and spoke proudly. “She is the best of what we hope to be, in responding to the worst of what, too often, we’ve become.” He stopped three feet from the jury box and stood erect with his hands extended toward them, palms facing upward.
“The scales of justice cannot and must not balance one hatred for another.” He moved one hand up and the other down, alternating them slowly as he spoke. “Nor dignify one violent act while condemning the source of it. Or ever validate any form of racism, whether it is covered by a white sheet and hood or cloaked in the evil rhetoric of historical justification.”
He folded his hands together. “I plead with you, the caretakers of this sacred thing called justice: Don’t remove her blindfold, for if you do, she will have gained sight at the expense of her soul. And the true victim of that sacrifice . . .” He turned and looked at Reverend Matheson. “. . . will be our children.”
Reynolds walked slowly to his chair and sat down. The courtroom remained absolutely silent for several moments. A few throats were cleared, which gave others in the chambers permission to shift in their seats.
Tanner turned toward the jury, half of whom were still looking at Reynolds while the other half were watching Matheson. “We’ll take a fifteen-minute break.” He thought about it for an instant. “Let’s make that thirty minutes. When you return, I’ll go over the charges and instruct you as to the law and how to apply it.” He panned the jury to ensure he now had their undivided attention.
“After that, we’ll go through some procedural and logistical matters. Then, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll officially hand the case over to you so that you can select a foreperson and begin your careful deliberations of all the relevant evidence presented to you.” He poured a glass of water but delayed drinking it.
“As I told each of you when you were chosen to serve on this case, jury service is an important obligation. You provide a vital function, and without you it’s doubtful true justice could be rendered. I commend you for the attention you’ve paid throughout the proceedings thus far, and I’m certain you’ll continue to demonstrate the dedication and seriousness necessary to fulfill your duties.” He took a drink of water. “Enjoy your well-deserved respite.” Tanner lightly struck his gavel, and the chambers began to clear.
Sinclair patted her colleague on the back, then walked away, as though she knew he needed some personal space.
Reynolds collected his paperwork and returned it to his briefcase. He watched Matheson be led away and made eye contact with Miller, who gave him a respectful and admiring smile.
Regina Davis walked toward him but stopped a few feet away. Reynolds stood, and they looked at each other until Brandon intervened. Reynolds watched both of them leave and thought about his own children. Not too long ago he would have loved for Angela and Christopher to grow up with the passions and talents of those two graduate students. Now he wasn’t sure. He wanted to avoid communicating with anyone, so he sat down and waited for the recess to end.
The jurors returned five minutes early, and Tanner explained basic elements of the statute pertaining to first-degree murder. He reviewed the jury verdict form and articulated the procedures to follow if they wanted portions of the testimony read back, transcripts supplied, or evidence produced. Their first order of business after they found out “where all the good snacks are hidden, is to elect yourself a foreman or forewoman or foreperson or whatever else you wanna call the person who’s gonna chair your group, count the votes, and read your decision in open court.”
Tanner advised them to select someone “not too opinionated, not too noncommittal, and not someone whose friendship you’ll miss.” The jury laughed, and Tanner thanked them for their sense of humor and “recognizing my feeble attempts to keep things loose.” He went on to reconfirm the importance of their mission and asked them to show each other “patience, understanding, and respect. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you also exhibited wisdom, but objectivity, fairness, and common sense will do quite nicely.”
He wished them well and asked the bailiff to escort them to the jury room, a secure site in an undisclosed area of the building. He didn’t expect them to conduct any business this late in the
day. He preferred they get a good night’s rest and meet in the morning. They should decide a convenient time, then inform the bailiff. Tanner adjourned the session and proceeded to his chambers. After Miller and Matheson left with the deputies, the spectators cleared out of the room.
Reynolds remained at the prosecutor’s table, and Sinclair placed her hand on his shoulder. “Win or lose, I’m proud to have worked with you, Mr. Reynolds.”
“No matter what the jury decides, there’ll be no winners in this one,” he said.
A deputy approached Reynolds and handed him a note. He opened it and read it. His expression turned pensive.
“Don’t tell me it’s over already,” commented Sinclair.
“I think it’s just starting.” Reynolds stood and looked at his curious cocounsel. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, secure my bail money.”
Sinclair watched him go through the security doors normally reserved for imprisoned defendants. He met with a court deputy, who accompanied him to Matheson’s holding cell. Reynolds entered and noticed Matheson sitting alone. “Where’s your attorney? I thought he’d be here.”
“He’s done his job. You’ve done yours. I wanted to see you alone.”
“To confess?”
“I hear it’s good for the soul, but no. To clarify.”
“I thought you were pretty clear on the witness stand.”
“I wasn’t speaking of myself.” Matheson stood and placed his foot on the chair and hands on his raised knee. “I wanted to correct some assumptions in your eloquent but nonetheless erroneous closing statement.”
“I’m your captive guest.”
Matheson slowly walked around the table. He moved away from Reynolds and circled back as he spoke. “Every kid grows up thinking his daddy can beat anybody else’s daddy. . . . It doesn’t matter if it’s true. You just want to believe the man who brought you into this world can protect you from it.” He’d made it to Reynolds’s side of the table and stopped two feet from him. “There aren’t many black boys over the age of five who believe that. The really sad thing is, their fathers don’t believe it, either.”