Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

  Michael stood up, ready to object. Brennan spoke first. “Your Honor, I know exactly what Mr. Shaw’s objection will be. I am prepared to enter into evidence nineteen police reports related to altercations at the Curry residence or at bars they frequented. That should satisfy the defense questions about foundation.”

  “Take a chair, Mr. Shaw,” Judge Hower cut in.

  Michael didn’t sit back down. “If I can’t finish my objection, I hope the prosecution will at least allow me to present the rest of my case instead of trying to read my mind.”

  “Let’s get on with this.” The judge tapped a pencil on the bench.

  Michael lifted his chin toward Brennan and hoped the prosecutor read the “Fuck you” on his mind.

  “Before we were interrupted, Officer Jones, you were telling us how many times you broke up fights involving this Mexican.”

  Michael stood again. “Your Honor, Mr. Brennan keeps referring to my client as ‘that Mexican’ or ‘this Mexican.’ Although Mexico is her native land, Mr. Brennan says it as if it’s dirty word, which is prejudicial. My client’s name is María Sánchez Curry, and I’ll write it down if Mr. Brennan can’t remember.”

  “Mr. Brennan, say her name or call her ‘the defendant,’” Judge Hower ordered.

  Brennan’s back straightened, and the objection rolled right off. “Very well. Officer Jones, tell us what you found at the Curry house on April 13th of last year?”

  Slipping on reading glasses, Jones consulted a police report. “I responded to a call from a neighbor about a domestic problem at the Curry house. I found Ben Curry bleeding from a large wound to his head. He said María whacked him with a frying pan. But ole Ben … Mr. Curry, I mean, didn’t want to press no charges. I told them if I had to come back, they’d both go to jail.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  As Michael approached, Jones’ gut began to churn. From giving testimony at other trials, Jones knew how defense attorneys loved to portray police officers as jackasses and incompetent fools.

  “Those many other times you answered calls at the Curry house, wasn’t María Curry the one you found beaten and bloody?” Michael asked.

  Jones took his time answering.

  “Officer …,” the judge boomed.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “It’s either yes or no, Officer Jones,” Michael said.

  “Yes.”

  “And wasn’t it Ben Curry who was drunk most of the time and not his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael asked with a firm tone but took care not to appear to harass the policeman. “How many times did you find María Curry injured, Officer Jones?”

  “I’d have to check the reports.”

  “I checked, Officer. We’re talking about ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  “That much, huh?”

  A few people smirked. Jones felt like a jackass and an incompetent fool.

  “You even gave María Curry a ride to the hospital for a broken arm after one of those arguments because her husband was too drunk to drive. Do you recall that?”

  Jones lowered his head slightly. “Yes.”

  Michael put his hand to his ear. “I’m a little hard of hearing. What did you say?”

  “YES.”

  “Officer, how tall was Ben Curry?”

  Jones swallowed. “About six feet, I’d say.”

  “A big man?”

  “He was hefty.”

  “Muscular?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael turned. “María, please stand.”

  After hearing the translation from Toni, María did, but slowly.

  “Officer, how tall is María Curry?”

  “A little over five feet.”

  “How much do you think she weighs?”

  “Maybe about a hundred pounds,” Jones answered and wished he could belt the defense attorney with his baton.

  Michael motioned for María to sit and turned back to Jones. “Those times you were called to their house and discovered María Curry hurt and bleeding, did she want to press charges against her husband?”

  “No.”

  “Did you even ask María Curry if she wanted her husband arrested?”

  “I don’t remember. She don’t speak a lot of English, and I ain’t so good at Spanish.”

  More smirking from the audience. Judge Hower glared at the guilty.

  “Did you ever arrest Ben Curry for striking his wife?”

  “No, sir.”

  Michael picked up a bunch of papers from his table and flipped through them. “These are all hospital reports about María Curry’s injuries that the defense will enter into evidence.” He leaned on the witness stand and wanted to shove the papers in the policeman’s face. “Was María Curry hurt the night of August 18th?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe the injuries?”

  “Her head was cut, and her face was banged up.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I couldn’t see much more because it was dark and she was covered with blood.”

  It was what Michael wanted to hear. “I’m finished with this witness.”

  “Redirect, Mr. Brennan?” Judge Hower said.

  Brennan glided out of his chair. “Officer Jones, did María Curry ever attack you?”

  Jones raised his head. He knew where the prosecutor was pointing him and gladly followed. “No, but she shook her fists at me and cussed me out lots of times when she was drunk. I don’t know a lot of Spanish, but I know the swear words.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  Judge Hower abruptly stood up. “Court will be in recess until tomorrow.”

  Officer Jones stepped down, glad to get back to the streets, where he could deal with good, honest criminals instead of a room full of lawyers.

  Dr. William Nolan prided himself on describing wounds at court proceedings. The county coroner made his explanations precise, visual and alarming enough to hold the jurors’ attention. The jury regarded his every word as he talked about what had killed Ben Curry.

  “There were three stab wounds in the left side of Ben Curry’s stomach, another in the top of his chest and one gash to his right hand, which is what we consider a defense wound,” the doctor said.

  “Were any of those considered fatal?” Brennan said.

  “No. The fatal wound came when the knife entered the body under the sternum. It punctured and caused the collapse of the left lung. The blade also slit the left ventricle of the heart. The cause of death was massive internal bleeding.”

  “How long before death occurred?” Joe Brennan asked.

  “Ten to twenty minutes.”

  Dr. Nolan leaned back in his chair with satisfaction and smoothed his black serge pants.

  Brennan held up two eight-by-ten-inch black-and-white photographs of Ben Curry’s body on a metal table in the morgue. One showed the body from the waist up, and the other was a closer shot of his torso. In both, black slits covered the chest and abdomen. At the sight of them, María pressed her hands to her mouth and trembled. Toni put her arm around María’s waist to help calm her.

  “We wish to submit as evidence State Exhibit No. 25 and State Exhibit No. 26,” Brennan said.

  Michael had seen the prints and wanted them nowhere near the jury. “Objection. The doctor’s testimony is sufficient in this matter. There is no need to show these photographs. Their sole purpose is to whip up the jurors’ emotions like a desert wind.” He knew he was going to lose this one.

  “Your Honor, the photographs will more clearly illustrate the severity of the wounds,” Brennan said.

  Judge Hower took a moment, which gave Michael hope. It didn’t last.

  “Overruled.”

  Brennan took the prints and handed them to the bailiff, who gave them to the jury. As they examined them, their faces registered exactly what he had wanted: revulsion. He stood on the other side of the witness box. “Dr. Nolan, would it take a strong person to have inflicted the f
atal wound?”

  “Not necessarily. Not with the right impact and a sharp enough knife, as it was in this case.”

  Michael stood. “Objection. The doctor’s expertise is starting to sound like opinion.”

  “Overruled.”

  Brennan smiled at Michael, who smiled back. The prosecutor waved his thin arm at the doctor. “That’s all for now.”

  Michael straightened his jacket and stood in front of the witness. “Dr. Nolan, I got out my family’s old anatomy book last night. Very interesting, I must say. I learned the measurement of an average adult heart is about five inches by three inches. Sound about right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not big at all.” Michael held up a blue piece of paper of those dimensions and showed the jury.

  “The heart is not the largest organ in the body, Mr. Shaw.” The doctor didn’t know what the defense was up to, but he put himself on guard.

  “Dr. Nolan, if the heart is that small, wouldn’t it be darn near impossible to intentionally pierce it with a kitchen knife?”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Let’s see. In order to damage the heart as you described, a person wielding a knife would have to miss the sternum, which is one hard bone, and bypass the ribs. Then, he or she would have to find the exact location of an organ that is five by three inches. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, but … ”

  “You examined the body … Did Ben Curry have an X on his chest?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “An X right over his heart.” Michael pointed to his chest.

  “Objection,” Brennan said. “The defense is ridiculing a serious issue.”

  “Your Honor, I can assure you, I’m making a serious point here.”

  “Objection overruled.”

  “So, Dr. Nolan, unless Ben Curry had an X on his chest, this fatal wound might be considered one in a million?”

  “I don’t know if it’s one in a million, but I find it highly unlikely someone deliberately aiming at the heart with a bread knife would successfully find their target. That’s usually the purview of skilled surgeons.” Dr. Nolan’s mouth puckered as he realized what he had just said. He had lost the jurors.

  Michael had drawn blood. “Isn’t it more than likely, Doctor, that María Curry struck out blindly with a knife while defending herself and unintentionally struck his chest?”

  Brennan stood again. “I object. Mr. Shaw is asking the doctor to draw conclusions about María Curry’s intent, which is up to the jury to determine.”

  “I withdraw the question, Your Honor. But it sure sounds like one in a million to me.”

  People laughed in the audience and jury box. The judge threw a murderous glance. “Mr. Shaw, save your remarks until summation.”

  In an interview room at the jail, María and Toni tried to finish their boxed lunches but only ate half of the dry turkey sandwiches.

  “Jail is bad, but jail food is worse.” María pinched the white bread. “I don’t think even my little Oscar would eat this.”

  “I wish I could bring you something, but they won’t let me. I asked. It’s too bad because my dad’s chili verde is the best in Borden,” Toni said.

  “That gets me hungry. All they serve you in jail are runny eggs and gravy with lumps like socks.”

  Toni laughed and threw the boxes in the trash. When she turned around María was walking the perimeter of the room, her hand brushing the walls as if looking for a secret passage leading outside. Previously, María had showed sadness, hysteria and pain, but the longing she now projected made Toni want to cry.

  “I wish I could have visited the ocean one last time,” María said.

  “Please don’t talk like that.”

  María’s lips went up into a smile. The young were ever optimistic, and why not? Life still had possibilities. Toni did. When Mr. Shaw was around, she lit up like sunset sparks over the waves, although she tried to hide her emotions about him. María had felt such hope by the ocean.

  “I’ve never seen an ocean, but I’ve always wanted to. I think living in a desert gives you a thirst for all that water,” Toni said.

  María pepped up. “Antonia, there’s nothing like where the sea and sky meet. You could keep swimming and could end up in the heavens. The air is full of salt that sits on your tongue. Like tasting Creation. My words can’t describe it.”

  “Your words are perfect.” Toni closed her eyes. “I can almost see it.”

  María told Toni about where she was born and how she had met Ben. How she spent time on the beaches, trying to count the waves as she counted her own heartbeat.

  “No wonder you miss it,” Toni said.

  María’s voice was a whisper, as if she had returned from a journey. “Don’t worry, Antonia. Someday, you’ll get to Mexico and smell the ocean.”

  Down the street in his office, Michael sat by himself, picking at his lunch. He pushed away his plate of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes. Although the food came from Pete’s Café, his body rebelled at the smell and at the thought of the next two prosecution witnesses who would take the stand.

  27

  JOE BRENNAN DREADED THE THOUGHT of having Lorna Dean Richards as a neighbor but loved her as a witness. Her crusty elbows reflected her demeanor. Her mouth resembled a baby bird’s squawking for food. As the bailiff swore her in, she claimed the witness stand as her own like a queen taking to a throne. Raising her right hand, the witness swore to God to tell the truth. Her mouth puckered as if God could not hold her back from doing so.

  Mrs. Richards adjusted her cat-eye glasses as she spoke. “The Currys were always yelling and fighting. I work very early in the morning at the mill cafeteria, and I could never get any sleep because of all their carrying on. I need my sleep. I’m a widow woman, and I need to work.”

  “How often did you call the police to complain about their fighting?” Brennan asked.

  “Three or four times a month.”

  Toni glanced over at María as if Mrs. Richards was talking about another woman. María had the fragility of a dried flower, even becoming more so during each day of the trial. Her slight hands were folded on her lap. How much anger and fear she must have swallowed before picking up that knife.

  Brennan pointed to the panel. “Mrs. Richards, tell the jurors what happened on the morning of August 16, two days before Ben Curry died.”

  “I was woken up by their yelling. Again. I put on my robe and went into the yard.”

  “What did you see?”

  “María yelled at Ben, ‘I’m going to kill you.’ I speak Spanish, you know. I’ve worked for years at the mill, and you have to know the language to deal with all those Mexican workers.”

  “Don’t digress, Mrs. Richards,” the judge said.

  “Okay. As I was saying, María staggered around, she was so drunk. But she kept telling him, ‘I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you.’ And … that’s what she did.”

  Michael jumped to his feet. “Objection, move to strike that last comment. The witness is stating her opinion.”

  “Sustained,” the judge ruled.

  “What’s going on? Do I have to say that all over again, sir?” She looked up at Judge Hower.

  “Just answer the question. We don’t want your opinion,” the judge said.

  The woman’s face twisted in anger. “Then why am I here?”

  “We want to know what you saw, not what you think. Mr. Brennan, continue.”

  “Now, Mrs. Richards, let’s go back to the night of August 18. You were again awakened by the fighting of Ben and María Curry?”

  Mrs. Richards talked directly to the jury, as the county attorney had suggested. “I heard shouting and what sounded like furniture being broken. My windows were open because it was so hot. I went outside and heard more ruckus from the Curry house. That mangy dog of María’s barked up a storm. Then, all of sudden, it got quiet and stayed real quiet. I guess that’s when I got really scared. I called the
police and locked my doors.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Richards.” Brennan sat down.

  The woman began to leave.

  “Hold on there a minute,” Michael said. “The defense would like to ask you some questions.”

  She sucked on her front teeth and sat back down.

  Michael approached with caution. This type of woman had no other life than spying on and judging her neighbors. By watching others do bad, she judged herself good. He would be safer facing down a mountain lion. “Mrs. Richards, during all those times you eavesdropped on your neighbors, did you ever see María Curry crying because she had been hurt?”

  The woman hadn’t like this lawyer in the expensive suit and his uppity ways before. Now she really didn’t like him. “I can’t remember.”

  “You certainly remembered all those other fights in great detail. I repeat, did you ever see María Curry crying?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it.”

  “Did you see Ben Curry hit María?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes at the woman. “Come on, Mrs. Richards. How about lots of times?”

  “Yes, lots of times.”

  “What did Ben Curry do to her?”

  “He slapped her around most of the time.”

  “Slapped her to the ground?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see Ben Curry chase María Curry with a butcher knife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you call the police then?”

  She adjusted her glasses. “I probably did. I don’t remember. It was all part of their fighting. He’d yell, and she’d cry. He’d punch her. She’d kick him. They both sounded drunk at the time.”

  “Did Ben Curry ever threaten his wife?”

  Mrs. Richards looked ready to spit hammers.

  “Mrs. Richards, you must answer,” the judge said.

  “Yes,” she blew out in disgust.

  “When?” Michael asked.

  “The night she threatened him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “When María said she’d kill him, he told her, ‘Not unless I get you first.’”

  Michael returned to the defense table. “I’m done with this witness, Your Honor.”