by J J Miller
For a moment I thought of Demarco Torrell and how similar his words had been despite his horribly different circumstances.
Just then there was a sound at the door.
“Hello?!” a man called out.
“That’s Evan,” Amy said. “In here, sweetheart.”
The sight of Evan Harrington didn’t match my expectations. I wasn’t sure why, but I’d expected a shorter man. Yet he was six three and, like his wife, he exuded a terrific sense of bon homie. Lean, unshaven, and dressed in a t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, he walked up to me and extended his hand, relaxed and smiling. He saw me looking cautiously at his other hand, which held a selfie stick with a small camera attached.
“Oh, my goodness, I forget I’m using it half the time,” he said. He placed the camera on the kitchen bench before putting out his hand once more.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you, but nature caught us napping.” He lifted up the box of diapers. “I can’t believe we ran out. You’d think we’d at least be on top of the diaper supply.”
“We’re just so busy,” said Amy. “Maybe a little too much. Why don’t you boys go and talk. I’ll change Rhapsody and then fix some drinks. Brad, is homemade lemonade okay with you? I promise, it’s good.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Come with me, Brad,” said Evan. He darted back to the bench to collect the camera. “We’ll go up to the office.”
After climbing the stairs, we passed a couple of bedrooms and then came to room in which a young man was sat facing two large computer monitors.
“Brad, this is Phillip, our editor. And this is where we edit the videos, or at least Phillip does. We couldn’t do a daily vlog without hiring an editor. But I still edit when Philip’s not available.”
Phillip stood and we shook hands.
Evan passed the camera to Phillip.
“Here’s some B-roll from the diaper run,” he said. “Got a good-piece-to-camera about a couple of things too.”
“Cool, I’ll get that ingested and have a look.”
“Thanks Phil.”
Evan continued down the hallway, opened a door and I followed him into the home office. The room had one desk with a closed laptop on it and two office chairs. Evan pulled one out and rolled it toward me then seated himself on the other. I couldn’t help but think that, so far, he was everything his YouTube audience liked about him: open, friendly, a tad absent-minded perhaps, yet purposeful.
I’d wondered, as I watched his videos, whether charisma simply came after having attained a certain degree of YouTube celebrity. Because YouTube celebrity was definitely not the same as Hollywood celebrity. Looks, artistic talent or sex appeal were not prerequisites. Being geeky or bland or possessing Average-Joe dullness were not impediments to YouTube fame. In fact, they were adored by millions because they were so much more real than movie stars. The small screen was far more democratic about who could rise to the top. Being an average person with confidence and a good idea could be all it took to become world famous and have millions of dedicated fans hanging off your every post.
Evan tapped his thighs and leaned back in his chair.
“So you want to talk about my relationship with Luke Jameson?”
“That would be a good place to start.”
“You don’t believe it was your client who killed him?”
“My client says he didn’t do it. So if there’s any evidence to prove his innocence, then I need to find it.”
“And what, you’re hoping to prove I killed Luke Jameson?”
“I’m not hoping to prove you did anything. I just want to better inform myself about the events leading to Mr. Jameson’s death. And I do know that you didn’t like him and that the feeling was mutual.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“It’s what I’m led to believe.”
Evan tightened his mouth into a half smile.” So fire away. What do you want to ask me?”
“I understand you assaulted Mr. Jameson the day before he was shot. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
Evan was still looking at me in the most pleasant way, waiting to be invited to continue.
“Would you mind elaborating on why you did that?”
“Sure. In short, he crossed the line. He’d insulted me and my family too many times. He claimed we were not what we purported to be. I was sick and tired of his attacks.”
“And what do you purport to be?”
“A good Christian family. One that has faults but one that lives by a bright light—the light of Jesus Christ, our savior. He’s a source of great nourishment for us. He gives us the presence of mind to savor what we have. You have seen our house. It’s not extravagant. It’s not a mansion. And yet Luke Jameson would have everyone believe we are misleading people and are fixated on making money. He was a lapsed Christian—you know that, right?—and, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no crime in that. But his public criticism of us was just so, so spiteful. I wasn’t going to let his abuse go unchallenged. And I guess pride got the better of me.”
“Was assaulting him the Christian thing to do?” I asked. I wasn’t being righteous, I just wanted to hear how he justified his behavior.
“No. I’m sorry for my actions and for my anger getting the better of me. But when Jesus overturned the merchants’ tables in the temple of God, was that an act of peace? No, it was a line in the sand, an act of self-respect, an expression of rage that has resounded for two thousand years.”
“Are you saying anger can result in something good?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way—but in a sense, sometimes yes. As a human condition it has a certain integrity, but it needs to be tempered, so to speak.”
“Why was Mr. Jameson out to hurt you?”
“Because I was vocal about his treachery toward God.”
“You mean he lapsed, and so he’d committed a terrible sin.”
“Something to that effect, yes. He abandoned Our Lord Jesus Christ when he should have been thanking him for the riches God endowed him with.”
“What about the lapses in your own commitment to God? You know, your widely reported infidelities.”
He riled a little as I said this. His lips tightened and he drew in a sharp breath.
“Of course, you have read about that. Well, as you know we handled that like everything else we do as a family—under the eyes of God. I confessed everything to Amy, and she was kind enough to forgive me. I made a promise to God that I will be a better man, a real man and not a boy seeking sinful distractions from my responsibilities and my greatest source of spiritual strength, my family. I don’t like having sinned, but I have atoned, and I am a better man, a better husband, a better father. Just ask Amy.”
It was clear that deep emotions were stirring within Evan’s soul.
“This is hard for me to talk about with you,” he continued. “But I can do it quite freely because of the healing that my wife and my family and my God have allowed me to receive.”
I must admit I was convinced by his candor. But as a defense lawyer, being cynical was a tool of the trade I could never afford to abandon. I’d heard rapists tell me they were just “nice guys” at heart. I’d heard murderers protest their innocence with a torrent of Oscar-worthy lies. You just can never be certain whether or not someone is telling you the truth.
“It strikes me that while you and your family are willing to forgive your own sins, you did not extend the same generosity to Mr. Jameson. Is there a reason you disliked him so much?”
Evan shifted a little.
“Have you seen what he does on his channel and other platforms?”
I’d seen enough. You didn’t have to spend too long on Luke Jameson’s channel to see that he’d been living out the bad-boy dreams of teenage boys the world over. Hanging out with strippers, playing in a punk rock band, and travelling the world riding motocross bikes and surfing. Everywhere he went he had chicks hanging off him, all looking smugly i
nto the camera like they were queens of the high life. He was a loudmouth too—firing off about censorship and internet controls with a loutish spit to his tone. To me he was barely watchable, but to others he was a hero: no less than twenty million people subscribed to his channel.
“I’ve seen his work, if that’s what you call it,” I said. “Can’t say I’m a fan and I can’t see what people see in him, but I guess twenty million people would disagree with me. That’s a lot of subscribers, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah it’s a lot, but a lot of other YouTubers have more.”
“How many do you have again?” I knew already, I just wanted to see how much it bothered him.
“Two million,” he said, with an attempt to inject pride into his words that didn’t quite come off.
“Sounds like a lot to me. And it’s enough to make a living out of?”
“Yeah, it’s working out really well.”
“Why do you think Jameson turned away from his faith?” I asked.
“I think he discovered that the more outrageous he was, the more money he made. But, you know, there are plenty of people out there making more than he did without selling their souls to the devil.”
“Is that what he did? Sold his soul to the devil?”
Evan nodded without speaking, as if he was weighing up whether to answer with words.
“There is no question that’s what he did,” he said. “And look where it got him.”
“You think he brought his death on himself?”
“I’ve got no doubt about it. To me, it’s almost like God pulled the trigger.”
He was quite agitated now. Something was boiling inside him, an anger he was trying hard to contain. His arms were folded across his chest and his breathing was audible.
“Are you glad he’s dead?”
“I wouldn’t have said that but, because you have...yes I’m glad he’s dead.”
His mouth stretched into a rueful smile.
“Evan, where were you when the shooting happened?”
“Ah, I was wondering when you were going to ask me that. But that’s where we’re going to have to leave our chat.”
“It’s a very simple question, Evan.”
“Yes, I know it is, Mr. Madison. And I’ve told you about as much as can tell you, for now at least.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He stood and gestured an arm towards the door. I got to my feet and walked past him into the hallway. He shrugged, almost apologetic.
“It means I’ll see you in court, as they say,” he said, waiting for the penny to drop. “Jessica said to say hi.”
Damn it! Jessica Pope had secured him as a prosecution witness.
“You’re an eyewitness?”
“Yes.”
“So you were there at the shooting?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is interesting—you being Johnny on the spot when your hated rival is murdered.”
“Some would call it fate.”
We walked downstairs and back to the front door. Passing through the living room, I heard happy squeals and splashing coming from the back yard. Evan opened the door for me and held out his hand. We shook, and I stepped out onto the steps.
“Well, Evan. Thanks again. And if this case does go to trial, I look forward to you answering all my questions under oath.”
“I live under oath every day of my life, Mr. Madison.”
“Well, good for you.”
I approached my car and hit the remote button to unlock it. As I touched the door handle, my phone rang. I fished it out of my coat pocket and was surprised to see Jasmine’s name on the screen. I’d figured it was just about impossible for her to call me from her place since the coverage there was so bad. I immediately sensed that something was wrong.
“Hello, Jasmine.”
I could hear her breathing hard, like she’d run up a flight of stairs.
“Brad, something terrible has happened.” What could be more terrible than having a son charged with murder? “It’s Demarco. The police say he killed another man.”
“What? He’s been charged with a second murder?”
“Yes, oh my God. Oh my God.”
Jasmine’s voice faded. I heard another voice beside her telling her to sit down.
“Jasmine!” I shouted.
I held the phone to my ear with no response.
“Jasmine!”
Someone picked up.
“Hello?” A woman asked.
“Hello,” I said. “Who’s this? What’s happened to Jasmine?”
“She collapsed, but she’s okay. She’s sitting on the pavement. I’ll need to get her back inside the house.”
Jasmine must have gotten herself outside somehow to make the call.
“Please, can you ask if she was told the name of the second man police say Demarco killed? Please.”
“Hold on.” I heard her cup the phone and then ask Jasmine, “What’s the name of the man who was killed?”
When I heard Jasmine’s answer, it didn’t register as news but rather as something dreadful that already seemed apparent.
“Sir? She said it was Toby. Toby Connors.”
10
On my way to see Demarco, I called Mike Bayer, the detective leading the investigation into what was now considered a double murder. I had a good relationship with Bayer, and I knew he’d tell me a fair bit of what the cops knew. Looked like a hit, he said. The killer had finished Connors off with a shot to the back of the head. Ballistics on the two bullets buried in Connors’ body indicated it was the same weapon used to kill Luke Jameson. On top of that, Demarco Torrell’s DNA was found in the passenger seat of the vehicle. Hard to tell precisely, but the medical examiner’s guess was that it had all gone down the same day Jameson was shot.
“Looks like your boy saw fit to have himself a spree,” Bayer said.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“Nothing makes sense—apart from the evidence. You better get your boy to explain what the hell possessed him to kill two people in a day. You know what this looks like don’t you, Madison?”
“Looks like a mess.”
“That too. But this is black gang violence crossing into white territory. Two young white men murdered by a young black gangster out to prove how tough he is.”
“Now that’s a convenient way to package a case.”
“It doesn’t need wrapping paper and a bow. Black on white hate crime. You don’t think that’s how a jury’s gonna see it?”
“Well, I’m sure that’s the picture Jessica will paint for them. Gotta go.”
I hung up. I couldn’t believe how bad this looked for Demarco.
I waited a few minutes before Demarco was brought into the visitation room. When he did enter, he stood still, saying nothing.
“How you holding up?”
“Love it here, man. Big screen TVs and hamburgers. Never want to leave.”
I tried to imagine what it was like to be his age and charged with two murders. Still, I wondered, how did I know he wasn’t guilty? As a defense attorney, whatever I thought was true or not didn’t matter. My job was to ensure my client got a fair hearing. To Jessica Pope this must have seemed now more than ever a slam dunk case.
“You think I did both these killings?”
“What I believe makes no difference. What I can prove or disprove is what matters. So I need details. Starting with what happened that day.”
“I already told you.”
“You need to tell me again and again until it actually makes sense to me. Because right now it’s not looking too flash. The cops are saying the same weapon was used in both murders. They found your DNA in Connors’ car. And we have witnesses swearing they saw you shoot Jameson at point blank range. So if I’m going to help you, I need a reasonable explanation for this series of events. I need to know why you apparently had a front row seat to two murders yet had a hand in neither.”
“Whatever.�
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“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, if God wants to see me taken down for this, then maybe that’s just karma for things I done before.”
“Nothing you’ve done in the past is worth you taking the blame for a double homicide you didn’t commit. Maybe there’s something important you haven’t told me yet.”
He looked at me like he was done talking already.
“How did you meet Toby Connors?”
“Like I said. He was standing outside the mission. Like he was waiting for me.”
“You said that God had something to do with this?”
“I was pumped up. I’d just had a talk with one of the carers in the mission, and I was riding high with the love of God in my heart. She said, ‘God will lead the way to your salvation, your truth, your eternal peace.’”
“Why was she saying things like that?”
“Because that’s what we did. We prayed together. She wanted to help me turn my life around. And I felt that it was working, you know. I actually felt sure I was going to make a change. Man, was I right.”
“Who is this woman?”
“She works at the mission.”
“What’s her name?”
“Fran.”
“Fran who?”
“Dunno. I just know her as Fran.”
“Okay, so you walk out of there all pumped up. What were you going to do?”
“Well, to be honest I was thinking about my dad a whole lot, and about how I wanted to make him proud of me.”
“Okay, so?”
“So I walked out the gate and this white guy was standing there. This Toby dude. He says to me straight up, ‘Hey, you want to earn a thousand bucks?’ Naturally, I thought he was shitting me, or else trying to get me to offload some stuff for him. You know, drugs or something. But he didn’t look like that. He looked like some white dude who had no place being in Skid Row.”