“By pleading guilty, I won’t be denying I sold drugs, but only that I shouldn’t be charged with CCE.”
“Exactly. Most importantly, everyone that is testifying against you says you sold them cocaine, or they know you from selling it. In a sense we could use their testimony to help you.”
“Yo, that’s brilliant, but I have one problem with that.”
“What’s that?”
“What about the conspiracy charge?”
“What about it?” I said making a face. “Under federal law, it takes two or more persons to conspire.”
“Uh huh, so you’re saying that Tomica and Lil Cal are the only two people that seem to be the biggest threat to my case?” I nodded my head. Life sat the folder down and looked at me. His entire demeanor had changed. I could tell he wanted to ask a question, but thought better of it.
“How are you and your father getting along?” I asked. Life looked at me and frowned as if to say, what does that have to do with my trial?
“Dig, we don’t get along. As far as I’m concerned I don’t have a father.”
“They did a story on you the other night on ABC’s Nightline.
They said your father was ill, in the hospital with diabetes.”
“Fuck him!”
“What about your relationship with your stepmother?” I asked, intentionally ignoring his attitude toward his dad.
Life arched his brow, “Hope, what are you getting at?”
“Life you’re going to have to trust me on this. I have a plan. I want you to tell your step mom to bring the church here, in a show of support for your trial.”
“Whaat!”
“Listen, you have to trust me on this. By nature Black people are spiritual people, soulful people. Whites have always been intimidated by this.”
“Hope, what da fuck dat gotta do wit my damn trial? If you’re finna try some bullshit –”
“No hear me out!” I said, slamming my fist down on the table and standing up, wearing my frustration on my face. “As a Black woman, I have always been hated, discriminated and severely underestimated for my intellectual talents, told what I can’t do because I was a poor Black girl from the Pork and Beans projects. Now I have the knowledge and the wherewithal to beat these people at their own game.” Life just looked at me, mouth agape at my uncharacteristic outburst.
“These white folks are going to do like they have always done. They’re going to underestimate us and our strategy, and that is our sole advantage.” I walked over to the window with my back to Life. We were in the private section of the facility, a small room designed for attorney/client visits. Today I wasn’t feeling too well, and as of lately, I had been wearing my emotions on my sleeves.
“So, you’re pretty sure about this, huh?” he asked evenly.
I turned facing him and said, “The only people that we have to make an impression on is the judge and twelve jurors. From what I’ve heard Judge Statford is a very conservative judge, some-times that can be good. So far I’ve hired experts to come testify on your behalf. One of them is a professor at UGA. She will testify that people are influenced by their environment.” What I didn’t tell Life was Dr. Nandi Shakur was my girl and we devised a strategy. I knew that we only had a 2 percent chance of winning, but we had a chance.
*****
The first day of the trial was eventful. The media was there in full blast. The place was a frenzy. My staff and I had to be escorted through the rear entrance of the old court building. The day before, I did an interview on BET and ABC. I was caught up in a whirlwind of media and its hype. Most days I would be so exhausted that I couldn’t even eat and I lost a considerable amount of weight.
On the first day of the trial, I wore a stunning two-piece black and gold suede Armani skirt suit. I made sure I dressed to impress and the media quickly took notice. In fact, one of my pictures appeared in the best-dressed column of the Enquirer. In the paper I was standing next to Marsha Clark, the prosecuting attorney that tried the O.J. case.
By the time my staff and I entered the courtroom, it was jam packed. The section behind our defense table was mostly Black folks, with only a sprinkle of whites and they were the media, and I guess a few FBI agents. I could hear a soulful melodic hum, voices, soft like a gentle breeze. As I sat down I turned my head all the way around and saw all the elderly Black folks swaying back and forth, some of them had paper fans fanning themselves. For some reason the courtroom was hot, the air was stale. This was the atmosphere I wanted. I asked Life to send his father’s church parishioners, and that he had done. Too many old Black folks will turn an old courthouse into a church house. Life entered the courtroom, smiled, as the U.S. Marshals were escorting him. He pumped my hand, I could feel the raw energy. With his cute dimples and sexy smile, he was the most handsome man in the entire courtroom. He wore a beige two-piece suit like he was modeling it.
After we said a few words in hushed tones, I surreptitiously looked over at the jury, six women and six men, all white and they varied in age. In my peripheral vision, I saw Mr. Scandels. He sat at the prosecutor’s table with his assistants. The expression on his face was nonchalant and unconcerned; in fact, he was reading the sports section of a newspaper.
I had the nervous jitters as I spoke with my assistant staff, Taya Baker and Adrienne Greene, two older women that were instrumental in my educational development, and not just as a lawyer, but in sisterhood. At one time they both taught at Spellman College and they always invited me to Atlanta to attend their seminars. This they did for free and paid all my expenses. Needless to say, I hired them at $200 an hour apiece.
“All rise! Court is in session. The Honorable Judge William Statford presiding.”
The judge entered the courtroom. He was short and rotund with chubby cheeks and a large round bald head. Once he took his seat he placed on a pair of half glasses and began to read from a document on his desk.
“Errr, huh, here … we are here on the matter of United States of America versus Life Thugstin.” With that he looked glaring down at the defense table as if he wanted us to feel the weight of his statement. “Counsel for the defendant, will you please state your name for the record?” the judge asked. I rose from my seat in unison with my associates. Three Black women taking on the most powerful government in the world.
“Hope Evans, your Honor. Assisting me will be my associates, Taya Baker and Adrienne Greene,” I said and watched as prosecutor David Scandels spoke introducing his staff as I had just done. Afterward the judge went on to give his lengthy instructions to the jury, and admonishing warnings there was to be no talking to the media nor was the jury allowed to watch the news or read any papers that he felt could influence their decision. He went on to explain the nature of each count in order for the defendant to be found guilty of the CCE.
After the judge finished with his instructions to the jury, I stood and prepared to give my opening argument. In the background all I heard were the soulful melodies of old Black folks droning, humming segued with an occasional, Thank you Jesus … Amen. It was all so soft, soft like the wind.
I spoke to the judge, “Good morning your Honor.” Ostensibly I nodded my head at the prosecution’s table, a gallant show of courtroom etiquette. Then I went into action. I strode right up to the jury box, up close and personal. I had to make a profound effect on the jury, a man’s life depended on it. With a manicured hand I caressed the mahogany wood. Let my hand sail along its rich smoothness. Just as I rehearsed, I recited each juror’s name like I had known them all their lives. Some looked up at me in admiration, others in awe.
“Today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will set precedence like never before, for it is solely for the betterment of mankind, humanity, to cast out the atrocities, injustice that besiege all walks of life. Today we’re going to deal with urban life and this so-called war on drugs and what it is doing to our Black community.” As I talked my passion grew. I thought about not just my brother, but also all the brothas in
prison that were doing life sentences for $20 worth of crack. I saw my girl, Nandi, in the front row, as I heard the shrieks of my ancestors’ cries. As old folks hummed a mournful dirge it felt like I was in another place, another time. The judge cocked his head to the side and frowned at the courtroom. I pushed myself forward like diving off a cliff, this was my opening argument. I had to make an impression on the jury.
“Today my client is being charged with CCE. The rule of federal law, Title 21 USC 848. It means in essence to run a Continuing Criminal Enterprise with five or more persons for a 12 month period or more. My client is being charged with being a kingpin,” I said and suddenly turned and spun on my heels to elicit the dramatics. All good lawyers must be good actors first and possess a theatrical power to get the jury’s attention. I walked over to the prosecutor’s table, felt a million eyes on my face and heard a litany of prayers. “This man right here,” I raised my voice with a strong cadence, pointed a deft manicured finger in his face. Scandels tried to smile, but he looked about as comfortable as a man standing in front of a firing squad. “He would like for you to believe that my client is the sole reason for the drug epidemic. The only problem with that is logic. He would like for you to believe that my client is a drug dealer. The only problem with that is it’s merely myth, sprinkled with speculation and false accusations. He is the one that is guilty and needs to be placed under the jail.” A wave of clamor rose from the courtroom. Judge Statford banged his gavel down. I looked over to the elders and senior assistants, they both gave me a satisfied nod. Part of our strategy was to rattle the prosecutor with an aggressive attack.
The judge arched his eyebrows at me threateningly. “I suggest you tone it down.” I continued to stare at Scandels. This was my stage, the jury and the media were my audience. “You’re wasting the taxpayers’ money, not to mention their patience,” I said as I pointed to the jury box and made a face like that man should be ashamed of himself. “Today ladies and gentlemen, you will not be shown one piece of evidence. Allow me to repeat that,” I said and walked up closer and looked each juror in the eye. “You will not be shown one piece of evidence. The government’s case is based on what is known in the legal academia of law as circumstantial evidence. To a law professional, it means they have nothing, NADA!” I turned around to face the courtroom. I saw Life with his hand cupped under his chin watching me intently.
“Seventy eight witnesses will be paraded before you to testify against my client. But you, the jury, don’t be fooled. I want you to think critical, logical, to be rational, as well as objective. Ask yourselves, what are these people, so-called friends, associates of the defendant getting in return for their testimony? Is their testimony sincere? Are they doing this out of the kindness of their hearts? Their need to help justice prevail, or are they getting paid in some other way?” With that I walked across the courtroom floor and stood in the middle.
“When I worked as a prosecutor for the government, there were people that we referred to as paid informants. Men and women that could manufacturer a story as quickly as you could recite your phone number. These men and women are known to you and I in the real world as rats –”
“Objection!” Scandels was on his feet, face beet red, fuming mad. “Your Honor, Ms. Evans is trying to make a caricature of the government’s witnesses, notwithstanding she is outside the scope of argument.”
The judge turned and looked at me with an icy glare.
“Sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard the last statement. Ms. Evans you know better than that,” the judge scolded.
I continued, determined not to let Scandels break my rhythm. “As I was saying –” I cut my eyes at Scandels, and turned back to the jury, heard the soulful murmur of old Black folks, a chant like a solemn hum with an occasional “Thank you Jesus.” I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise as the jury looked at me transfixed. “Today you’ll learn that inmates in federal prison routinely buy, sell and steal narcotics, concoct testimonies, then share their perjury with federal authorities in exchange for a reduction in their sentence. Often, these inmates testify against people they’ve never met. They corroborate on crimes they’ve never witnessed. They lie with virtual impunity, often with the government’s blessings. They act as modern day slave catchers in the inhumane brutalization of Black people. These federal agents and prosecutors have been accused of helping move the scheme along and in most cases they provide convicts with information in order to help them fabricate their lies.”
“Objection! This is ridiculous. The defense is mounting a vicious attack on the government and not the case.”
“Your Honor, I intend to show that the government is also at fault and as much a culprit in this case and that is part of my defense.”
“Overruled. The defense is entitled to present its case even if it intends to make accusations against the government.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. I had the jurors’ attention now. So I plotted deeper.
“How can you have a drug case based on lies and innuendos, rats testifying–oops, excuse me,” I said just as Scandels was about to rise from his seat to make another objection. The judge rubbed his baldhead in frustration. “The defendant is estimated, by the government, to be worth over two hundred million dollars and trafficked in the billions of dollars in cocaine, but yet has no real evidence. I snapped my finger. “Which raises doubt.” I slammed my hand down on the jury box hard. “The law says you have to convict him without a shadow of a doubt. If there is an iota of a doubt in your mind, you have to set him free. All I ask is that you humbly study the evidence, don’t be fooled by the smoke screen of lies and deceptions. Make your conclusion based on facts, not fiction.” With a strong feminine baritone I exhorted, “If the evidence doesn’t fit, you must acquit.” I repeated over and over as I walked up and down in front of the jury box, making sure to pound it into each one of their heads. I had to get into their psyche, use words like a chisel to cut away at the stereotypical views that all white folks harbor about Blacks and they’re not even conscious of it. I learned a lot from the Rodney King trial. You can brainwash a jury into believing what you want them to believe, but first you had to get inside their heads. Psychological warfare.
An hour and twenty minutes later I was finished. The courtroom was buzzing. I thanked the jury and repeated one more time. “If the evidence doesn’t fit ...” I watched as the jury and the courtroom returned a chant to my surprise.
“YOU MUST ACQUIT!” I looked over at the prosecutor’s table. Scandels was pissed.
David Scandels rose from his chair. I could see he was trying to mask the shock of my opening argument. He adjusted his tie, a tuff of salt and pepper hair hung over his left eye and gray hair ringed his temples. At 55 years old, he still possessed the American golden boy image. He represented the epitome of patriotism. He served in Nam, was awarded a Purple Heart for being wounded in duty, and came home a hero. With his opening statement he went straight for the heart with a dagger.
“What is our country coming to when common criminals, thugs come in here and try to derail justice? The defendant here today is on trial for being one of the biggest drug lords the state of Florida has ever known. He has ties with organized crime. His deadly crew of henchmen, known as the Miami Boys, are known to be responsible for more than over two dozen assaults and murders just within the last two years alone.” Scandels turned to the jury and spread his arms as if he were making a plea, “This is simply about law justice, equity and fairness. I intend to prove to you within the next few months of this trial that the defendant, Life ThugStin …” Scandels intentionally lisped Life’s name, “is a menace to our society and I intend to put him away for the rest of his natural life.” In the corner of my eye I saw Life’s body flinch as the formidable Scandels’ presence seemed to fill the entire courtroom. Disturbing quiet set in. It was then that I realized he was good, real good and he avoided the main issues, like the government not having any real evidenc
e. At the end of his opening argument, Scandels turned to face the courtroom; this was done solely for the benefit of the press.
“There’s a war going on in America, and it’s a war on drugs and the people that sell them to our children and family members. The defendant Life Thugstin is one of the reasons I’m fighting this war, and I intend to win.”
Forty five minutes later Scandels was finished. I tried to check of the pulse of the jurors’, a few were nodding their head in agreement. That wasn’t a good sign. Taya Baker, my assistant, sat to my left with Adrienne Greene next to her. Life Thugstin sat perched in the middle of sisterhood.
“The prosecution calls its first witness, Steven Davis.” Stevey D was a diminutive man, barely five feet six, slight in build with almond skin. He wore a large gauze bandage on his head that strangely resembled an oversized turban.
“Could you please state your name for the record?” Scandels asked and leaned against the witness box resting his arm on top like he was about to have a conversation with an old friend. I had been observing Stevey D since the bailiff had sworn him in. He had a jerky nervous motion about him. I could see Scandels trying to make him comfortable on the stand. It wasn’t working. His beady eyes darted all around the courtroom like he wanted to bolt for the door. The bailiffs hovered nearby, just in case.
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