All these technicalities made me feel like leaving the courtroom again.
Then West brought me into his opening arguments.
“On the other hand, as one might expect, there will be witnesses to say, ‘I’ve also listened to the recording, and I think that’s Trayvon Martin’s voice,’ ” he said. “I would expect his mother to say that. She certainly wants it to be his voice.”
I didn’t want it to be Trayvon’s voice. I knew it was Trayvon’s voice.
West claimed we didn’t know what we were talking about. “They have not involved themselves in understanding the evidence of the case, though,” he said, which raised an objection that was sustained. At this point I wanted to scream: “But we did! The evidence shows that George Zimmerman killed our son!” But with the reporters and court television cameras on me, as well as surely every eye in the court, I struggled to keep still—and quiet.
West continued bringing up evidence, refuting evidence, discrediting my son, and discrediting the prosecution’s version of events.
“If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times,” he said, finally concluding his opening. “That Trayvon Martin was unarmed. What the evidence will show you, is that’s not true. Trayvon Martin armed himself with the concrete sidewalk and used it to smash George Zimmerman’s head. No different than if he picked up a brick or bashed a head against a wall. That is a deadly weapon.”
Tracy and I both startled at this claim and looked at each other in disbelief. A concrete sidewalk is a deadly weapon?
—
The first witness the state called was Chad Joseph, now fifteen, the son of Brandy Green, Tracy’s girlfriend, and Trayvon’s young friend in Sanford. When Trayvon said he was going to the 7-Eleven store on the day he was shot, it was Chad who asked him to buy him a bag of Skittles.
Chad was a seventh grader on the night of February 26, 2012. At the time of the trial, he wasn’t yet in high school. When the judge swore him in, he stood there, a smart, skinny kid in a neat white polo shirt, now in the middle of a murder trial. He held his thin right hand up in the air, unsure of what to do next.
“Do I repeat that?” he asked after an awkward moment.
“You have to say yes,” the judge explained.
Chad said a nervous “Yes,” and took the stand, where prosecutor John Guy questioned him briefly. Chad explained that he and Trayvon were home on the Sunday night of the killing, playing videogames and waiting for the All-Star game to begin. When Trayvon left for the 7-Eleven store, Chad said, he stayed behind to continue playing videogames in his room on the second floor of his mother’s house.
At some point, Chad called his cellphone to see where he was.
“Did Trayvon Martin answer his cellphone when you called him?” Guy asked.
“Yes,” said Chad.
“Did he tell you what he was doing?”
“Yes.”
“And what was that?”
“He said he was on his way back,” Chad answered.
“Did he tell you anything about the weather conditions outside?”
“That it was raining.”
That was the last time he would speak to Trayvon. He learned Trayvon had been killed when he returned home from school on Monday.
I thought defense attorney O’Mara stumbled in his cross-examination. Chad had a hard time understanding O’Mara, and couldn’t remember some of the details from that evening. Like: Was Trayvon talking to anyone else on the phone while they were playing videogames? And how long had they been playing videogames that day? He didn’t know how long it would take to walk the distance from his house to the spot where Trayvon was killed. He said he knew he could throw a football that far, but was unsure about a softball.
We felt the state attorneys would ask Chad more questions to establish Trayvon’s character—a feeling that would continue to haunt us throughout the trial.
Next up was Andrew Gaugh, the cashier who helped Trayvon at the 7-Eleven. When Guy asked if Trayvon looked or did anything suspicious, Gaugh said no. But when O’Mara questioned him, he asked if he remembered anything about Trayvon coming into the store that night—or if he was just recalling him from the video—and the cashier said he didn’t remember him at all. He was face-to-face with Trayvon and he didn’t seem to think he looked suspicious.
Next up, the 911 operator Sean Noffke. He described the defendant’s call to the dispatcher, at least before shooting Trayvon, as standard. The state played the nonemergency call again, and the defendant’s words that Trayvon looked “suspicious…like he’s on drugs or something” resounded through the courtroom. And then, once again: “These assholes, they always get away.”
Noffke testified he could tell when the defendant had gotten out of his vehicle and begun following Trayvon, because he heard the car door’s chime when it opened and the wind created static on the phone. He said it was against policy to give any commands to callers. Never would he tell them to chase a suspect, but neither would his suggestion that the killer stop following Trayvon bear any resemblance to a command.
I thought back to what he said: “Are you following him?” And after the defendant said, “Yes,” he said, “Okay, we don’t need you to do that.”
Which sounded like a command to me.
On cross-examination, the dispatcher testified that there was no hate or malice in the voice of the defendant, despite what I thought were very hateful words. I felt sure that O’Mara was trying to show that his client was calm and collected.
They played the tape again.
“These assholes, they always get away.”
“Was there any anger in that comment that you heard?” O’Mara asked.
“It sounded calm to me,” Noffke said.
Again the cross-examination was brief and unsettling, and soon the first day had ended. We returned to our hotel for another sleepless night—I didn’t know what to make of this testimony yet, but we were anxious about what was coming next. Later that night, back in the hotel, as coverage of our trial dominated the evening news, I wrote a note to myself: June 24: I don’t know what I expected the evidence to show. The opening statements were very sad for me.
My family drove up to Sanford from Miami to support us in court in shifts. One set of relatives would leave as soon as another arrived. My sister Stephanie, who stayed for most of the time, slept in a hotel room adjacent to mine, and I stayed with my cousin Penny. In the beginning, she would turn on the news, which covered the trial nonstop. It was trending at or near the top of every social media platform, an inescapable topic of discussion that had galvanized the nation.
Guilty or not guilty.
A shooting by “a depraved mind” full of spite and hate—or a case of self-defense?
This had become my life, and after spending all day in court, I’d frankly had enough of the topic. So I decided not to watch news or commentary about the case after court. Instead, we’d have dinner with our family members and attorneys, where, of course, they would discuss the case, and then I would find escape in watching old television comedies: Sanford and Son, Good Times, The Golden Girls, whatever could bring a moment of escape.
Because in the morning, I knew, it would start all over again.
Up early after a sleepless night, we once again rode from our hotel in Lake Mary to the courthouse in Sanford in Parks’s rental car. So that we could escape the media village, Parks dropped us off in the back, where we once again went through security and into our little room, then into the hallway, to join hands together and pray.
—
The state called Wendy Dorival, the volunteer program coordinator at the Sanford Police Department who had helped the defendant establish the neighborhood watch program and given the presentation on crime prevention, home safety, and community engagement at the defendant’s request. Part of her instructions, of course, were to tell volunteers to call the Sanford Police Department’s nonemergency line if they saw something suspicious.
“Do
you tell them to do anything else at that point?” John Guy asked.
“No. They’re the eyes and ears,” Dorival said.
“What do you tell volunteers about following someone they believe might be involved in criminal behavior?”
“We tell them they don’t do that. That’s the job of law enforcement.”
“And what do you tell neighborhood watch participants about confronting someone that might be involved in criminal behavior?”
“Not to confront…let the police department do their job.”
Again, I wanted to scream, “But Trayvon was not involved in any criminal behavior!” I was worried that the prosecution—our side—was allowing the defense and its witnesses to eat away at the innocence of Trayvon.
Guy then put up a slide that was a part of Dorival’s presentation for introducing residents to the neighborhood watch program. At the top, in big, bold letters, it read: “Neighborhood Watch is…NOT the Vigilante Police.”
“What did you explain to the defendant and other attendees about that slide?” Guy asked.
“Basically that they are the eyes and ears of law enforcement…that they’re not supposed to take matters into their own hands…and to let law enforcement take the risk of approaching a suspect,” Dorival said.
Dorival was the second witness from the Sanford Police Department, and she, like the dispatcher, seemed to us to be biased in favor of the killer, as well as most Sanford police personnel seemed to be. It appeared to us that the people who were supposed to enforce the law and aid in administering justice were now seemingly taking the killer’s side.
—
There were people who supported us, but were afraid to show their support. When I would go to the restroom, people would come up and say, “We’re with you.” Some of them were from the police department. Maybe they were parents, too, and could imagine what it must be like to lose a child who wasn’t committing a crime. But they wouldn’t say that, or show their support, in public. There were the issues of job security, promotions, and more. So they remained silent when others could hear them. Even so, their support was a boost of confidence, especially coming from Seminole County.
Often, throughout the trial, my cellphone would vibrate and I would look down and find a text from my pastor, Arthur Jackson III. He would send me inspirational lines from scripture, text messages of support, prayer, and praise:
Romans 8:28: We know all things work together for the good of those that love the Lord, to those who are called according to his purpose.
Psalm 30:5: For his anger lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.
Psalm 23: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…
Psalm 121: I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer.
Sometimes his text just read, “Hey, I’m thinking about you and praying for you, be encouraged.”
Several times during the trial, I would turn around to find pastors sitting in the row behind me, giving me the ministry of presence. They didn’t have to say anything; they gave me strength just by being there.
I would need that support today. Because they were going to show the crime-scene pictures of my son’s dead body.
The prosecution called a high-ranking officer who arrived at the crime scene after Trayvon was shot: Anthony Raimondo, a sergeant with the Sanford Police Department and a former marine with more than fifteen years of law enforcement experience. He didn’t seem like he could sugarcoat the cold, hard facts if he wanted to—it seemed like his temperament was to go straight into it, no matter how unpleasant. He took the stand in his police uniform, his head and face neatly shaven to testify about finding Trayvon dead on the ground.
By the time Raimondo arrived at the scene of the shooting, two other officers were already there. One had the defendant in handcuffs; Sergeant Raimondo instructed the officer to put the defendant in a patrol car. Another officer was standing over Trayvon’s body, which was facedown on the ground with his hands beneath his body. The photo was shown.
I caught only a glimpse of it, and it broke my heart, never to be healed again. It hurt so badly. My God, please give me strength. I quickly turned away. Tracy must have looked longer than I did, because it was so traumatic for him that he stood up and left the courtroom. I looked over at the killer: he showed no emotion whatsoever.
Raimondo described how he tried to find a pulse, and when he was unable to find one he rolled Trayvon over on his back. When he still couldn’t find a pulse, he attempted CPR, putting his mouth on my son’s mouth and trying to breathe for him.
Later, another photograph was displayed showing Trayvon lying faceup, with his head, stripped of its hoodie, cocked back, and his mouth and his eyes open, staring toward the sky.
He didn’t look like a thug who attacked a stranger in the night.
He looked like a kid.
At this point, I kept my head down and began to silently pray: “Lord, please help me remain calm. Please help me to stay strong for Trayvon.”
Later I tweeted, “The love I have for my son exceeds the death of my son. I love you Trayvon forever!!!!!” And I prayed, My God, please give me strength.
Raimondo continued, describing how another officer attempted to help him give Trayvon CPR, compressing his chest as Raimondo breathed into his mouth.
“Did you hear anything when you were performing CPR on Trayvon Martin?” Guy asked.
“Yes, sir,” Raimondo said.
“What was that?”
“Bubbling sounds, sir.”
“What did those bubbling sounds indicate to you?”
“It meant that air was either getting into or escaping from the chest in a manner it was not supposed to, sir.”
“And what did you do upon hearing those bubbling sounds from Trayvon Martin’s chest?”
“I called out to the crowd that was gathering nearby, and I asked for Saran Wrap and Vaseline, sir.”
“What would be the purpose of Saran Wrap and Vaseline?”
“I was going to try to seal the chest wound, sir.”
Raimondo described the last attempts to revive my son.
A neighbor rushed out and gave him a plastic grocery bag, with which he attempted to seal the bullet’s exit wound. He lifted Trayvon to a seated position with one hand on Trayvon’s stomach and another behind his head. He felt the cold can of the fruit juice in the front pocket of Trayvon’s hoodie, but he couldn’t find the bullet hole in his back. At this point, an ambulance arrived, and the EMTs hooked Trayvon up to an EKG machine. Unable to revive him, the sergeant testified, they pronounced him dead at the scene.
“I put an emergency blanket over Mr. Martin’s body, sir,” said Raimondo.
“What was the purpose of that?”
“Well, one, it was respect for the deceased,” he said. “Two is to mitigate trauma that witnesses or family members may be exposed to if they arrived on scene, and then three was to preserve any physical evidence on the body, sir.”
I still couldn’t bring myself to look as Guy showed more pictures of Trayvon’s body at the scene: one from every angle, one with the blanket on, another with the blanket off. All I could do was try not to look and continue to pray.
Back in our hotel in the suburb of Lake Mary, I typed notes on my cellphone. On this night, I wrote many things, including: Sanford Crime Scene Unit said Trayvon had $40.15, a red lighter, a cellphone, head phones, Skittles, Arizona fruit punch, his watch and khaki pants.
I was shattered, filled with grief and pain from all I’d seen and heard throughout the day. My body was showing the strain: I was still losing weight at a rapid rate, which I knew was due to my thyroid disorder. The weight was coming off me so fast that my clothes began to hang on me. I looked in the mirror and could see myself disappearing, pound by pound. I couldn’t show weakness. Not now. Not when we had come this far.
So where my body seemed to be wasting away, I’d put on more clothes so no one would notice. I called it “layering up”; I’d put on thermal undergarments, which bulked up the clothing on top of it. I wanted to look like myself. But I was disappearing.
No amount of layering could disguise the enlarging bulge in my neck. But I couldn’t tend to that now. I had to keep moving forward, afraid that if I stopped, I would never move again.
I laid out my clothes for the next day in court: the suit the public would see and the layers to bulk it up beneath, which nobody would know about but me.
Somehow, when I drifted off to sleep in the hotel room bed that night, I felt hopeful. Because I knew that the next morning would bring the prosecution’s star witness, the last person who spoke with Trayvon on his ever-present cellphone, only minutes before he was killed: Witness #8, the twelfth witness to testify at the trial thus far, Rachel Jeantel.
—
According to the attorney Lisa Bloom’s book about our case, Suspicion Nation, Rachel Jeantel spent the two days before she was called to testify alone in a small room in the courthouse and was told by the prosecution to review her grueling video depositions, which surely brought up bad memories. She had driven five hours from her home in Miami Gardens to Jacksonville to give her deposition, only to be kept waiting for so long that she finally escaped back home, and only came back a month later under court order.
She was nineteen now and frankly scared about the murder trial that lay ahead. The prosecution had only spent twenty minutes preparing her, we’d later find out. “Just tell your story, who you are, how you knew Trayvon. Stay calm, be respectful….Your testimony should last an hour,” Bloom wrote that de la Rionda told Rachel before she took the witness stand. Two women from her church had helped her with her clothes, and a Miami attorney, Rod Vereen, tried his best to help coach Rachel after being contacted by friends who knew her, who, according to one newspaper, told him, “There’s a [young lady] who is going to testify. She has no idea what she is in for.”
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