Blood on the Leaves Part 31

"I have no control over what this jury believes. I answered your question truthfully. The photos over time began to blur together, one example of brutality after another."

Reynolds prepared himself to ask his next question.

"Except for one particular photo," Matheson added teasingly.

Reynolds wondered if he should pursue the matter but knew the jury would be furious if he didn't, or worse, Miller would follow up in redirect. "What was special about that one photo, Professor?"

"It was taken in the aftermath of a church bombing."

"And that made it unusual?"

"It was in color, so naturally it stood out from all the rest. A nine-year-old girl was being carried out of the rubble. She wore a pink-and-white dress with a matching ribbon in her hair. She'd worn gloves, except the bomb had blown away several of the fingers on her left hand, but the upper section of the glove remained intact, covering the thumb and index finger and the rest of her wrist. Her body was twisted in ways made possible only in death." He looked at the jury and spoke so softly that they needed to lean forward to hear him. "Her eyes were open but lifeless. There was a slight hint of makeup on her cheek. She had a gold religious medal around her broken neck. And I saw blood on a mouth that probably had never worn lipstick." He stared at the floor for the first and only time, then spoke sadly. "She looked too innocent ever to have lived."

Matheson's shoulders slumped slightly. "But she had lived. With dreams of finishing school, driving a car, making love, one day holding her baby in her arms. All the things a child has a right to expect to do one day." His eyes rose slowly to meet the state's prosecutor. "Yes, Mr. Reynolds"-he sat erect, back straight-"the photos affected me, then and now."

Reynolds looked at the jury, who'd shifted their attention from Matheson to him. He'd stood in front of enough juries, studied enough poker faces to know he'd lost them and had very little time to win them back. He walked closer to them. He attempted to empathize with them and hoped they'd return the favor.

"Did those photos affect you enough to murder the men responsible?"

Miller stood to object, but Matheson placed his hand up to stop him. He sat back down. The professor answered the question very slowly and deliberately, without emotion. "Murder them, their supporters, the people who brought them into this world, and anyone else who'd protect them."

Reynolds had gotten the answer he knew to be true and the one likely to cause the jury to vote not guilty. Just to be sure, Matheson wrapped the verdict in a neat package and set it before the jurors to unseal.

"But fortunately," Matheson said in a lighter tone, "my father taught me there'd be a final justice. One we'll all have to face. They received theirs. This jury will determine mine."

Reynolds continued the cross-examination for another hour, asking questions about Matheson's whereabouts on the night of the crime. At one point he grilled the defendant regarding the alleged men who'd attacked him that night.

"Describe for the jury in detail how that happened."

Matheson responded and sounded convincing.

"Did you fight back?"

The professor joked that he did the best he could, and the jury laughed with him.

"How many of them were there?"

Matheson estimated five or six but wasn't certain.

Reynolds quickened the pace. How old? What did they look like? What did they say? Did anyone see or hear the struggle? Where exactly did it take place? How had he managed to fight them off and escape?

Matheson provided as much detail as he could, starting or ending many answers with "to the best of my recollection."

Reynolds shifted to the fountain pen found at the scene and the discovery of Matheson's blood on the victim. Each of his questions was crisp and logical and established motive and opportunity, and Reynolds knew none of it mattered. When he finished, it didn't surprise him that Miller had no redirect. His client hadn't been impeached by anything he said. Even Tanner appeared a bit embarra.s.sed for Reynolds and addressed him sympathetically with a kindness reserved for attorneys who'd been thoroughly outcla.s.sed.

If Reynolds intended to s.n.a.t.c.h victory from the jaws of defeat, it would come from his closing argument. Despite judges' admonitions, jurors were moved by lawyers' summations. Any remaining chance to gain a verdict of guilty-to make good on the promise he'd made to the black victims about the sanct.i.ty of life-rested solely on Reynolds's ability to do with words what he couldn't do with evidence. He'd stand before a jury of twelve men and women and make them see the truth. If he failed, he doubted he'd have the will or desire to address another jury again.

The defense rested its case, as did the state. Tanner adjourned the session, and the reporters rushed out of the courtroom to meet deadlines. The lawyers had one final match to play, and after that the fate of Martin S. Matheson would be in the hands of the jury.

CHAPTER 57.

REYNOLDS FLUNG A book across the conference room, striking the wall. Sinclair sat down opposite him at the table. "I hope that wasn't Baldwin," she said. "I hadn't finished reading him."

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d did it! He killed all those people and he's gonna get away with it!" Reynolds placed both hands over his face.

Sinclair looked at him sympathetically. "If that's your closing argument, we're in deep trouble."

"I ought to let Matheson give it for me. He's controlled everything else." He rose from his seat and paced the floor. "I really thought I could get to him. Show the jury what he is."

"You showed them a man capable of murder."

"I showed them a man."

"If you want, I'll handle the first closing. Go over what little evidence hasn't been discredited. Miller can then destroy my argument." She collected her paperwork. "That'll pave the way for you to give a brilliant, impa.s.sioned speech. Matheson will jump up and confess, throwing himself on the mercy of the court." She opened the door and turned to him. "It could happen," she said optimistically, then left the office.

Reynolds removed a .38-caliber pistol from his coat and placed it on the table. After he'd been attacked he decided to take it wherever he went. He'd gotten a license to carry a concealed weapon almost a decade ago. He'd successfully prosecuted two local gang leaders who, after the verdict, ordered their followers to kill him. He never told Cheryl about the threats, nor did he let her know about the gun until she accidentally knocked over his briefcase and it slipped onto the floor. He had offered a few lame excuses, then promised to get rid of it.

He poured himself another cup of coffee and retrieved the book he'd thrown against the wall. He read the t.i.tle and discovered it was Richard Wright's Native Son. He raised it over his head, about to throw it out the window, when he thought better of it. He sat down at the table and placed the book in front of him, strumming its cover several times with his fingers. He suddenly stopped and opened the book. He flipped through the pages and paused occasionally to read notations he'd made in the margins. He closed the book and held it in both hands. After deliberating for about thirty seconds, he took the book and moved to a more comfortable chair. He sat and opened the novel to the first page and began to read.

Monday morning Tanner reviewed numerous procedural matters with the attorneys. Sinclair would conduct the state's initial closing late in the day, and Miller would do his first thing tomorrow. Reynolds would present his final argument in the afternoon, and the judge would issue his instructions to the jury on Thursday. After that, deliberations would commence.

The session got under way at two-thirty, and Sinclair launched into her closing. She covered the salient points, reminding the jury of the key evidence and cautioning them that "no matter how much you may have liked the defendant's students-and I'll admit they were extremely likable-even they couldn't explain the discovery of their professor's pen a few feet away from Earvin Cooper's murdered body." She moved closer to Matheson. "Nor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, could they rationalize the presence of the defendant's blood underneath the fingernails of his victim."

She debunked the defense's "wild and totally unfounded allegations that a visitor to the police station discovered the pen, then, for reasons better left to the imaginations of science fiction writers, felt compelled to murder someone on the professor's infamous list." Yes, she conceded, the collection and a.n.a.lysis of DNA "requires great care, but if there were mistakes, they'd incorrectly eliminate the professor as a suspect, not deliver the perfect match the laboratory ultimately came back with."

She spent little time with the "inflammatory notion" that any of the evidence existed because police officers "violated their oath to uphold the law and committed a felony act." The idea they'd frame Matheson was not only preposterous, she claimed, "it's also a desperate attempt on the part of defense counsel to smear decent public servants so that a murderer might go free."

Reynolds observed the jury and knew, irrespective of how entertaining and informative Sinclair might be, they were more interested in the main event. They'd come to see the match between Miller and Reynolds, where the prized trophy was at stake. How they'd eventually score that compet.i.tion would determine Matheson's future and perhaps their own.

Sinclair concluded her argument in the same fashion she'd opened the trial. She displayed the photo of Cooper's slain body and placed it directly next to an enlargement of Matheson's bruised face. "You've had to tolerate a great many gruesome and horrible photographs in this trial," she said regretfully. "I apologize for the discomfort they may have caused. I ask you to look once more at the picture of Martin Matheson's victim." She touched the display board that held Cooper's photo. "And, ladies and gentlemen, how can you be certain that the defendant murdered Earvin Cooper?" She stepped to the second poster and pointed to scratch marks on the side of Matheson's left cheek. "Because in one of his last dying efforts the victim managed to leave behind his fingerprints on the face of his a.s.sailant."

She returned to the podium, closed her notebook, and pleaded with the jury: "Earvin Cooper identified his murderer for us. He concealed the clue to his killer in the only safe place he had- underneath the fingernails on his burnt and blistered hands. The blood found there points to one man and only one man. Martin S. Matheson took the life of Earvin Cooper, and because of that, the state implores you to return a verdict of guilty to the charge of first-degree murder." Sinclair thanked the jury and resumed her seat next to Reynolds. A few jurors continued to take notes-most noticeably Aubrey Munson, who'd filled several pages.

Tanner issued his standard instructions to the jury before dismissing them. The spectators left the courtroom, subdued, and milled around the rotunda. Reynolds congratulated Sinclair on the job she'd done, while Miller put an encouraging hand on Matheson's shoulder.

The professor appeared in good spirits and shared a joke with the guards, who waited for him to finish with his lawyer. Reynolds noticed that both guards laughed, which signaled progress, since one was black and the other white. Maybe Matheson had turned over a new leaf and decided to promote racial harmony and reconciliation. That bit of fantasy quickly dissipated when the professor looked at Reynolds and mouthed the words "good luck."

Matheson turned to leave when suddenly, Earvin Cooper's widow rushed past security and tried to strike him with her purse. She screamed every conceivable profanity until subdued by court deputies. Matheson's guards quickly led him away from the disturbance. Miller followed behind.

Ruth Cooper wept uncontrollably. The deputies discussed whether to take her into custody, when Reynolds intervened on her behalf. Sinclair took the distraught woman aside while Reynolds negotiated with the officers to allow him to handle the matter. They agreed but remained in the room to monitor her behavior. Reynolds thanked them, and as he proceeded to join Sinclair, he observed Regina standing in the rear of the courtroom. She watched Mrs. Cooper for several moments before finally leaving. Reynolds wondered if that look of concern was compa.s.sion for the woman or distress at what had almost happened to the professor. He decided he couldn't be sure of the real motivation driving any of Matheson's students, particularly this one.

CHAPTER 58.

MILLER FINISHED A peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich and drank a gla.s.s of cold beer. He lay down on his couch and thought about his closing. As always, he'd deliver it without notes. He believed that juries resented lawyers who read to them, and, more important, that they doubted they were telling the truth. He couldn't refer to paperwork while he spoke from his heart. That would be an invitation to observe his planned spontaneity. Jurors liked to cry or feel outraged but not if it was from a manipulative script.

A magician had to perform the same trick every night as if it were new, never allowing the audience to question the existence or power of magic. A lawyer must do the same, convincing the jury it was really the prosecution who was running the sh.e.l.l game. But this time Miller felt he'd engaged in sleight of hand. He'd never been bothered before at the thought his client might be guilty; if the state couldn't prove it, tough luck. After all, he hadn't created the rules; he'd only mastered them.

As he looked back at his career, he remembered less than a handful of cases he regretted taking. This case deviated from the norm. He wanted to be brilliant for reasons that had nothing to do with obtaining his client's acquittal. He felt comfortable that the state hadn't proven its case, although given the pa.s.sions involved, any verdict was possible. He had a more selfish motive for achieving victory. After having endured rejection from every black organization that had once actively sought his pro bono skills, he now had the delightful opportunity to fling their betrayals back into their smug and hypocritical faces. He'd lived long enough with their arrogance. The struggle had escalated to a level where "no whites need apply," except, of course, when impoverished defendants required representation. Consequently, for the past two decades he'd subsisted on a diet of drug felons and spouse abusers and petty thieves-the remnants of a Civil Rights Movement that had abandoned them in favor of addressing the urgent needs of corporate America.

But now, in a matter of a few weeks, all had changed. He'd landed a case that epitomized the black struggle in all its glory. Professor Martin S. Matheson represented four hundred years of an evolving system of justice forced to come to grips with its own inherent contradictions of greatness and failure. And no one felt more conflicted about the possibility of resolving that dilemma than the lawyer who would soon argue for his client's freedom.

He didn't know how many miles he'd marched, or how much of his money he'd given to losing causes. He didn't want to know how many insults he'd tolerated or death threats he'd ignored. The only thing he wanted to know was whether the sum total of that experience had led him to this moment. Had he suffered so much simply to reach this monumental crossroads, the intersection between his pain and his payback, his idealism and his will to win, no matter the repercussions? When all was said and done, civil rights remained the one thing he'd never deserted despite its having deserted him. Hadn't Earvin Cooper's civil rights been violated, and since when did the horror of lynching depend solely on the color of the victim?

In a show of startling affection, Miranda leaped onto the couch and snuggled next to him. She'd never done that before. Cats, he thought-such strange creatures. What would possess her to reach out to him tonight of all nights? Clairvoyance aside, her timing seemed remarkable. Thank G.o.d they don't allow her kind to serve as jurors or IRS officials. He stroked her fur and she purred, her body rising in sync with the movement of his fingers. He didn't want to admit it, but she'd brought him a moment of peace. This stray cat, who half a dozen years ago moved into his life of her own volition, had been his one true companion. And at his moment of need, his crisis of conscience, a mere animal had gotten him to observe the golden rule. In soothing her, he'd brought himself a bit of temporary comfort.

The phone rang at midnight, and Miranda jumped off his lap and followed him to the corner table. She'd never done that before, either. He lifted the receiver and heard a woman's voice ask, "Is this Todd Miller?" He replied affirmatively and listened to a message that ended with heartfelt condolences. He hung up and returned to the couch but this time didn't lie down. Miranda climbed onto his lap and pushed her back against his side. He placed his hand on her head and ma.s.saged her chin. Tears streamed down his face, and yet his expression remained frozen. His father had managed to make him cry once more.

Tanner delayed closing arguments for three days. The weekend would give Miller an additional forty-eight hours to handle the funeral arrangements. He returned to the retirement community and asked permission to enter his father's room. He'd been there for only a few minutes when a nurse's aid entered.

"Mr. Miller?" the black man asked. "I'm Nelson Allen; I was a.s.signed to take care of your father."

"Todd Miller," he said, offering his hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"One of the staff told me you were here. I hope I'm not disturbin' you; I just wanted to stop by and tell you how sorry I am for your loss." Allen looked to be in his late forties and had a large round face divided by a thin mustache. He possessed broad shoulders and thick hands, and Miller wondered what type of h.e.l.l his father had put this poor guy through.

Miller hesitated, then asked, "Did you know my father well?"

Allen laughed. "Your dad was a handful and then some."

"I trust he didn't make your life too miserable."

"The judge?" Allen exclaimed. "No, no. I enjoyed comin' to work so I could listen to all his stories."

Miller smiled proudly, and his feeling of admiration both surprised and scared him.

"I worked the late afternoon and night shifts, so me and your dad got to be pretty close."

"Really?" The word slipped out of Miller's mouth. Would the surprises ever cease?

"He talked about you a lot until his mind . . ." Allen stopped and looked at Miller with embarra.s.sment. "Until he started havin' trouble rememberin' things."

"Were you with him the night . . ." Now it was Miller's turn to search for the right words. "The night it happened?"

"He died very peacefully, Mr. Miller."

Miller felt enormous grat.i.tude at hearing that.

"I stayed with him almost to the end. I'm not sure he knew I was there or who I was. I said a prayer for him like usual and held his hand to calm him down." Allen became quiet for a moment. He rubbed the side of his face and slowly gazed around the room. "Was your dad always such a restless sleeper?"

Miller thought about it and nodded sadly.

"I sleep like a baby soon as my head hits the pillow."

Miller looked at the empty bed and tried to imagine the position of his father when he died.

"Well, look, I didn't mean to barge in on you; like I said, I just wanted to express my-"

"Mr. Allen, you said my father spoke about me a lot."

"Sure did."

"I'm just curious," Miller said, proceeding awkwardly. "I was wondering, if it's not too much of an imposition . . ."

Allen laughed. "Your daddy used those kind of words all the time. *If it's not too much of an imposition, could you bring me my bedpan?' *Could I impose on you to take away this lunch tray?' He always sounded like a judge except for those times we'd talk about you. Then he sounded just like any other father."

Miller took a deep breath and held on to it as long as he could. When he believed he'd managed to control the emotion welling up inside, he released it.

"You must've been very proud of him-him bein' a judge and all."

Miller didn't respond.

"He sure was proud of you."

Miller started on his second deep breath.

"Used to tell everybody 'bout all the cases you'd won. He'd strut up and down the cafeteria and thump the counter to get everyone's attention."

Miller smiled and thought about his father thumping the dining room table to make his point. On occasion he'd just tap his left thigh three times, and the family would wait anxiously for the lecture or a decision or simply permission to commence the Sunday meal.

"He spent the most time explainin' your legal battles against the government. That would get him truly animated. He'd point his fist at anyone who'd listen, and punched the air when he got excited. Then, all of a sudden he'd stop, get completely quiet, like he was embarra.s.sed or disappointed."

"At me?" asked Miller, genuinely afraid of the answer.

"I think at himself."

"Why do you say that?" Miller asked incredulously.

"Just a feelin' I had about him. He told me you were the third generation of lawyers in the family. Then he'd always get real sad. Said you were the only one who . . ." Allen became uneasy.

"I was the only one who what?" Miller's voice cracked.

"The only one who really honored the law the way it was meant to be honored."

Miller's shoulders sank, but his heart soared and then felt as if it would shatter.

"When he started to get worse, with the memory and everything, I'd help him finish his stories about you. Heck, I'd heard 'em so often, I probably could practice law by now." Allen now fought back his emotions. "In the end, I thought I'd see him smile once or twice, but he didn't seem to understand too much. It's a awful thing, that disease, makes a man forget the people he loves most."