“Sort of a family tradition, then?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Did your father expect you to join ASP?”
Vick nodded. “He insisted on it. If I hadn’t, he would’ve booted me out of the house.”
“Do you remember when you joined?”
“Oh, yes. The first day I was able. On my eighteenth birthday. ASP makes a big ceremony of it—putting on uniforms and lighting torches. They talked about how I was making the transition from boyhood to manhood.”
“It’s sort of a rite of passage for the Vick men, then?”
“Exactly.”
“Your honor, I object.” Swain rose to his feet. “We’ve been very patient with this line of questioning, but I don’t see what it has to do with this murder case.”
He did, of course. He understood its purpose just as well as Ben did. The purpose was for the jury to get to know Donald Vick, the person. For him to become a human being, rather than a cardboard villain.
“Your honor,” Ben said. “I needn’t remind the court that my client is charged with a capital offense. The jury should have the opportunity to learn all they can about the man whose fate they will determine. I ask for the widest possible latitude.”
Judge Tyler frowned, but he overruled Swain’s objection.
“How often were you involved in ASP activities?” Ben continued.
“New members are expected to spend their first two years in what amounts to an apprenticeship for ASP.” Vick looked at the jury from time to time, establishing an easy rapport. He was so fresh-faced and clean-cut, after all; it was just possible he might turn the jury around. “Personally I had hoped to go to college, but …” He shrugged. “My father and ASP had other plans.”
“What did you do during this … apprenticeship?”
“At first I handled clerical tasks in the Montgomery office. Busywork, mostly. Then, a few months ago, after this new camp was set up outside Silver Springs, I was transferred here.”
“Did your responsibilities change?”
“No. I still handled the clerical chores. Requisitions. Food, supplies. For some reason, Mr. Dunagan never assigned me more challenging duties.”
“Did your clerical chores include ordering weaponry?”
“Yes. I did all the ordering and the picking up. Not just on those crossbow bolts.”
Ben checked the jury reaction. They made the connection. His testimony cast a different light on the evidence.
“Why did you take a room in town? Couldn’t you have stayed in the barracks at the ASP camp?”
“Oh, yeah. But—I don’t know. I preferred to have some privacy from time to time. I didn’t get on all that well with the rest of the ASP guys.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I guess we didn’t share that many interests.”
“What did the ASP members like to do?”
“Oh, drink. Lots of drinking. And talking about women like they were … well, you know. In a manner I don’t find appropriate. And they talked about what they were going to do to those Vietnamese people. Most of them never did anything to any of them and never would. But they loved to talk about it.”
Ben stood beside the jury box so Vick could easily look from him to them. “How did you feel when they talked about the Vietnamese?”
“I didn’t care much for it.”
“Why not? You’re a member of ASP, aren’t you?”
“Yes … I’m a member. …”
“And you believe in the superiority of the Caucasian race, don’t you?”
“I guess. But that doesn’t mean we have to go around beating up on all the other races. On the contrary, it seems to me that if we’re really all that superior, we should be able to live peacefully with other people.”
Ben paused, leaving plenty of time for Vick’s words to sink in. The alleged hatemonger was much more the philosopher than anyone the jury had heard from thus far.
“Donald, did you participate in the car bombing on Maple Street several months ago?”
“No. It’s true I requisitioned the materials that must have been used, but I didn’t know that was going to happen when I ordered them. I was just doing what I was told.”
“Told by whom?”
Vick hesitated. “By Mr. Dunagan. He controlled all supply orders. I only made purchases on his instruction.”
“Donald, do you remember what you were doing the night of July twenty-fifth?”
“Yes. After dinner, around ten, I went out for a walk.”
“That seems odd.”
“No, I walked almost every night. It was my habit. Mary Sue could’ve confirmed that. If anyone had asked her.”
Sure, Ben thought, rub it in. “Why did you walk at night?”
“Do I need a reason? It’s beautiful country out here, and especially beautiful at night.” Good answer; jurors tended to be civic-minded. “Gave me a chance to get away from all the swearing and chanting and plotting. Gave me a chance to think.”
“Do you recall your stroll being interrupted by Sheriff Collier?”
“Of course.”
“Were you irritated with him?”
“No, he was just doing his job. He was nicer about it than some I’ve seen.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, it was pretty much as Sheriff Collier described it.”
“Whose blood was on your shirt?”
The air in the courtroom seemed suspended; at last a question that got to the heart of the matter.
“That was my blood. I got hurt that afternoon at the Bluebell Bar. During the fight. I suppose I should have changed my shirt, but it never occurred to me.”
“And since the sheriff never analyzed the bloodstain, he never found out it was your own blood.”
“I guess that’s right.”
“The sheriff also claims that after he told you Vuong was dead, you said, ‘He deserved to die.’ Is that true?”
Vick paused only a second before answering. “Yes.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true.” He directly confronted the jurors. “That’s not to say I was glad he was dead. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially not the way it happened to him. But he did deserve to die.”
“Donald.” Ben slowly approached the stand. “Did you kill Tommy Vuong?”
“No. Maybe he deserved to die, but I’m not an executioner. I wouldn’t do that. And I didn’t.”
“Thank you, Donald. No more questions at this time.” The jury remained very still as Ben returned to defendant’s table. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Vick’s earnest testimony had had a real effect on them.
“Fine.” Judge Tyler swung around in his big leather chair. He appeared to have been as mesmerized by Vick’s testimony as everyone else. “Mr. Swain, you may inquire.”
56.
“WELL, MR. VICK,” SWAIN said. “I had no idea you ASPers were so sensitive.” No one so much as smiled. His attempt at sarcasm had fallen flat.
“Was that a question, sir?” Vick asked politely.
“No.” Swain cleared his throat. “But this is. You seem to have omitted a very important detail from your story. Where were you on the afternoon before the murder took place? Say around four o’clock.”
Damn. Beneath the table and out of sight of the jury, Ben clenched his fists. He had hoped Swain would discuss some of the subjects brought out on direct first. But Swain was going straight for the jugular.
“I was at the Bluebell Bar.”
“Just stopped in for a drink?”
“No. Actually I don’t drink.”
“Oh, of course not.” Swain grinned. “You’re probably a buttermilk man.”
Vick didn’t flinch.
“If you don’t drink, why were you at the Bluebell Bar?”
“I was looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Vick took a deep breath. “Tommy Vuong.”
“And w
hy were you looking for him?”
Vick looked across the courtroom at Ben. His mouth remained shut.
Ben jumped to his feet. “Objection!”
Tyler peered down at him. “Got any grounds, counsel, or do you just not want the witness to answer?”
“I object … on grounds of relevance, your honor.”
Swain piped in. “Of course this is relevant. It goes toward establishing the defendant’s motive. It also establishes a predisposition for violence toward the victim.”
“We’ll stipulate that Donald wasn’t fond of the victim, your honor. So the question is unnecessary.”
Tyler shook his head. “The objection is overruled.”
Ben didn’t sit down. “Then I object on grounds of … um … lack of proper foundation.”
Swain’s forehead crinkled. “Do I have to respond to that, Judge?”
“No.” He pointed his gavel at Ben. “The quality of your objections is quickly deteriorating, counsel. Overruled. I suggest you sit down.”
Reluctantly Ben did as the judge told him.
“Let me ask it again,” Swain said. “Why were you looking for Tommy Vuong?”
Vick took another deep breath. “I would prefer not to say.”
“Is that a fact?” Swain looked to the judge. “Gosh, your honor, the witness would prefer not to say!”
Judge Tyler frowned. “The witness will answer the question.”
Vick closed his eyes and swallowed. “I won’t.”
“What?” Tyler drew himself up like a grizzly bear rearing for an attack. “What do you mean, you won’t?”
“I mean, I won’t answer the question. I can’t.”
“Mr. Vick, you took a solemn oath to tell the truth. The whole truth.”
“Yes. But long before today I made another promise. And I can’t break it.”
Tyler peered down at the witness. “If you do not answer the district attorney’s question, sir, there will be severe consequences.”
“If I do answer the question, someone else’s life will be ruined. I won’t do that.”
Ben could tell the jurors were disturbed by Vick’s sudden recalcitrance. Whatever good he had done for Vick during his direct examination was slowly oozing away. “Your honor, perhaps if Mr. Swain could phrase the question differently.”
“Okay,” Swain said. “I’ll play along. What did you say to Tommy Vuong?”
“I—I can’t tell you.”
“We’ve heard you two talked for several minutes. What did you talk about?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t say.”
Swain spread his arms wide. “Your honor … what can I do?”
“Once again,” the judge said, “I instruct the witness to answer the question!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I mean no disrespect. But I can’t do that.”
“You will do that!” Tyler pounded his gavel. “I will not allow this contempt of court!”
“You’ll have to, sir.”
“I will insist on an answer if we have to stay here all night!”
“Then I invoke the protection of the Fifth Amendment and respectfully decline to answer.”
Ben closed his eyes. It was enough to make a lawyer cry. His defendant agrees to take the stand, only to plead the Fifth and refuse to answer the DA’s questions. It would’ve been better if Ben had never put him on the stand at all.
“So that’s it, then?” Tyler demanded. “You’re going to take the Fifth?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“In that case,” Swain said, “what’s the point of proceeding? I have no more questions.”
And no need to ask them, Ben realized. The expression on the jurors’ faces had changed dramatically. There was outright hostility toward Vick now. He was hiding something.
“Very well,” Tyler said. “Mr. Vick, you’re excused. Get out of here.”
Vick scurried out of the box, without once looking back at the jury. It was just as well. He wouldn’t have liked what he saw.
“Any further testimony, Mr. Kincaid?”
“No, sir,” Ben said regretfully. “Mr. Vick is our only witness.
“Any rebuttal from the prosecution?”
Swain shook his head happily. “I see no need, your honor.” And of course, he wanted to rush this trial to its conclusion while the memory of this disaster was still fresh on the jurors’ minds.
“Very well. I’ll entertain any motions from counsel.” He checked his watch. “It looks like we can just squeeze in closing arguments before quitting time. And then,” he said to the jury, “this matter will be in your hands.”
57.
DISTRICT ATTORNEY SWAIN BEGAN his closing in a voice so hushed the court reporter had to strain to pick up his words.
“Donald Vick doesn’t want you to know the whole story. He only wants you to know pieces of it—the safe parts, the parts he can get away with telling. We, on the other hand, have shown you the whole story. We have shown you all the evidence. We have held nothing back. As a result, I believe that each of you can see what really happened.”
He pushed away from the jury box and crossed the courtroom, drawing the jurors’ eyes toward the defendant. “We know for a fact that Donald Vick is a member of a hate group called ASP, that he is the sworn enemy of the Vietnamese members of our community, and that he is a hothead who continually agitated for violent attacks against the Vietnamese.
“We know that on the afternoon of July twenty-fifth he sought out Tommy Vuong and found him at the Bluebell Bar. He has admitted this to you. He refused to tell you what they discussed. Witnesses have testified that soon thereafter Vick began beating Vuong with all his might. If it had not been for the intervention of others, Vick might well have killed Vuong then and there.
“We know that Vick had access to the murder weapon, and that he himself ordered and received the crossbow bolts. We know he used it, too—his hair was caught in the firing mechanism and his blood was smeared on the frame when the weapon was found shortly after the murder occurred. Which was only a few scant hours after Vick attacked Vuong in the Bluebell Bar.”
He returned to his original position directly in front of the jury. “I ask you to consider the evidence that has been presented, to consider it with your minds, and your hearts. Is there any other explanation for these facts? Is there any possible conclusion other than the conclusion that Donald Vick fired the fatal shots?”
Swain lowered his hands slowly to his side. “I suggest to you that there is not. We all want to live in a safe place. We want to live where our children can play, where we can raise a family, where our elderly can retire—without fear. Silver Springs used to be like that. But it isn’t anymore. Now you can’t walk the streets without wondering whether someone might step out of the shadows and put a crossbow bolt in your back.”
Ben started to object, then decided against it. Swain’s closing was dangerously close to being improperly prejudicial. He was asking the jury to convict in order to purge the community of evil, not because the evidence proved Vick’s guilt. But the jury had already heard it, and they were already hostile toward Ben’s client. He didn’t want to make matters worse by annoying them with a poorly timed objection.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Swain continued. “We can reclaim our town. We can take it back. You—the ladies and gentlemen of this jury—can put out the word that terrorism, and violence, and intolerance will not be condoned any longer.
“We have shown you Donald Vick’s motive, his nonexistent alibi, his access to the murder weapon, and the uncontested trace evidence found on that weapon linking it to Donald Vick. I respectfully submit that we have met our burden. And I request—indeed, for all our sakes, I urge you to render a verdict finding Donald Vick guilty as charged.”
As soon as Swain reseated himself, Ben slowly rose and approached the jury, well aware that he was about to do more than simply argue for a favorable verdict.
He was pleading for a man’s life.
&
nbsp; “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. ASP is not on trial. The future of Silver Springs is not on trial. Donald Vick is on trial. Period. And you are not being asked to determine what’s good for the community, or for your children, or for future generations.
“You are not being asked to take a stand against hate groups, or racists, or terrorists. You are only being asked to answer one question: has the prosecution proven that Donald Vick is guilty of murder in the first degree beyond a reasonable doubt? And if your answer is no, then the judge will instruct you that you must, not should, but must, render a verdict of not guilty.”
Ben returned to counsel table, bringing Vick back into the jurors’ field of vision. He wanted to remind them that this was a real living breathing person they were talking about.
“Every piece of evidence presented by the prosecution—without exception—has been circumstantial. None of it directly proves that Donald committed this crime. No one saw him do it, no one heard him do it, no one saw blood on his hands.”
Stupid choice of words; the jury would remember the blood on his shirt. Too late now—best to keep moving ahead.
“The prosecution’s version of the facts is, at best, only one possible version of the facts. It is not an inescapable conclusion. Just for a moment let’s imagine another possibility. Picture that lonely country road in the middle of the night—only this time let’s imagine that it was you out for a midnight stroll.
“Let’s suppose, just to make it interesting, that you had an argument with someone that afternoon. I’ll bet each of you has had a fight with someone at some time in your life. I bet each of you has lost your temper and done something you later regretted. But let’s suppose that just after you lose your temper and have that fight, the person you fought with is killed. And when the police come for you, you haven’t had the foresight to concoct a clever alibi. So they arrest you. Picture yourself sitting in that chair at the defendant’s table. On trial for your life.
“Preposterous, you say? That could never happen?” Ben spread his arms. “But that’s what the case against Donald Vick is. The prosecution wants you to convict him because he didn’t like Tommy Vuong, because he fought with Tommy Vuong, and because he didn’t have an alibi when Tommy was killed. But you say—that could happen to anyone. And I say to you—yes, you’re right. And that’s exactly the point.”
Perfect Justice Page 24