Drowning of Stephan Jones (20 page)

After all, Stephan was
real
! Cried
real
tears! Upon his birth wasn’t he given a
real
name and upon his death wasn’t that
real
earth thrown over his mahogany casket? Even now, isn’t he being grieved for by real people? Family? Friends? Frank Montgomery? Why should it be so hard for anyone—even jurors—to feel that a crime, a terrible crime, had been committed?

Eddie Jameson, her mother’s friend who wrote many articles about the drowning of Stephan Jones for the local newspaper, said something that she couldn’t help remembering: “It’s more embarrassing for a lawyer to defend a gay man’s right to life than it is to defend a murderer’s right to take that life.”

Carla’s mother had expressed worry about how her daughter would be treated on the stand, but she knew there was absolutely nothing she could do. Mr. Dillman jutted out his face within a handsbreadth of Carla’s. Then, for a second that seemed endless, neither Carla nor anyone else in the entire courtroom had any idea what to expect. Except, perhaps, to expect the unexpected. Finally Mr. Dillman thrust his freshly shaven chin skyward before spitting out his final words. “I have absolutely no further questions of this witness.”

Chapter 21

I
F
C
ARLA
W
AYLAND
felt rudely and roughly treated by the top law enforcement officer of the state, then that was merely a tiny, but terrible sample of the cross-examination leveled against her by the one-hundred-fifty-dollar-an-hour legal mind hired to defend Andy Harris. To everyone who’d listen, Larry Harris bragged, “When it comes to my son, only the best legal mind in Little Rock would do.”

“Miss Wayland,” barked Chip Burwick. “We have all listened most attentively as you testified at considerable length how on prom night, you witnessed your five friends beating up on the victim. Frankly, it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you please speak up?”

With a conspicuously conscious effort, Carla this time threw her voice nearly the entire length of the room. “YES, SIR.”

He exhibited a let’s-be-friends smile that she immediately rejected. “It’s been my experience that sometimes even people of goodwill give testimony that, on later reflection, they may come to believe is a mistake.” Chip Burwick enunciated each word carefully so that there would be no mistaking precisely what it was he was saying. “And so, if you feel that your previous testimony was in any way in error, then now is the right time to correct that error by speaking up. Would you now like to make any changes in that testimony?”

“No sir, what I said before is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

The attorney for the defense smiled as though he and he alone were privy to an especially deep and dark and delicious secret. “Very well, Miss Wayland, we’ll do it your way. Do you still maintain that you could see, actually see, a beating taking place when you admitted that the event happened beyond
the reach of the car’s headlights?”

“Well, yes sir, I ...”

Chip Burwick shook his head as though somebody was in the process of telling him a tall tale. “Mr. Cecil Sawtelle of the National Weather Service testified in that very chair—and under oath, mind you—that there was considerable cloud cover on the night in question. Couldn’t you have been mistaken about what you thought you saw?”

Carla nodded as she began to wonder if that was what was wrong with her own worn and weary brain cells. Kind of foggy with cloud cover, making it difficult to think. Making it particularly difficult to think cleanly and clearly. “No, sir, I didn’t make a mistake. I left the car and walked across the bridge, so I know what I saw!”

Suddenly a great smirk slinked across Chip’s face, and his eyes narrowed as though he were peering at his target through a high-precision gunsight. “Wow! To be able to see all that you
say
you saw! Considering the known fact that, whatever happened, happened beyond the scope of the car lights. Considering the known fact that there was considerable cloud cover that night!” Chip had a knack for hammering home the information. “Boy, you must have really keen eyesight, that right?”

“Well, I ... yes sir.”

Then whipping a square of white paper from his vest pocket, Mr. Burwick waved it overhead like a flag before presenting it with a grand flourish to the now obviously weary and wilting witness. “For the sake of the jury would you kindly identify the paper that you are now holding?”

“You want me to read it out loud? What it says here?”

“I want you to tell me what you’re holding. For what purpose, Miss Wayland, this was written.”

She glanced down at the paper once more before looking up to face the smug, good looks of Roswell “Chip” Burwick, Esq. “Well, what this is is a prescription for eyeglasses written by
Doctor John C. Taylor.”

“Right! Exactly right!” exclaimed the counsel for the defense while clapping his hands together in an uncontrollable show of enthusiasm. “Now kindly read the name of the patient, the person for whom these glasses were prescribed.”

Her head felt as though it were now going through the spin cycle. Why it couldn’t be true—why, it wouldn’t make a bit of sense for Mr. Burwick to make a big deal over the fact that sometimes when she had a lot of reading to do, she remembered to put on her glasses.

“Answer the question, Miss Wayland! For whom were these glasses intended?”

“Me.”

Cupping his hand around his ear as though he had, within the last thirty seconds, grown deaf, Chip called out loudly, “Kindly repeat so I can hear your last statement. For whom were these glasses intended?”

“Me,” she replied. “They were intended for me.”

Then, as though coming from a great Greek chorus with perfect pitch as well as perfect timing, an oversized ensemble of, “HMMmmmm ...” echoed throughout the room. Mr. Burwick, hands on hips, paused dramatically, allowing the jurors to digest that choice little morsel of information. But in the very next moment the stillness was shattered by his next question. “Miss Wayland, are you a popular girl?”

Carla stared in shocked disbelief at the questioner; her already moistureless mouth grew as parched as the Sahara. “Sir?”

Mr. Burwick allowed the barest beginning of a smile to play lightly across his lips. “The question was, Are
you
a popular girl?”

“I ... I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on now, Miss Wayland,” he chided, giving her a knowing wink. “It’s such an easy question. Are you popular?
How many boyfriends have you had before Andrew Harris?”

Carla’s eyes sought out Mr. Wayne Dillman, the man whose side she was on. She was waiting for the prosecutor to shout out something helpful like “irrelevant,” but she waited in vain.

“Please ... just answer the question!”

Much of what Carla was feeling was revealed in her voice. With a dusty, dry-boned whisper, she responded, “I don’t know.”

“Answer the question!”

“I already told you—I don’t know!”

“Allow me to help you out. Prior to Andy Harris, have you had more than ten boyfriends?”

“Ten boy friends? Uh, no sir.”

“Well, how about eight?” chirped Chip, as though he were just now happily getting into the swing of things. “Have you had, say, more than eight boyfriends?”

Before seating herself in the witness stand, Carla had carefully instructed herself not to squirm. Is it possible, she wondered, that she had been squirming? “No sir, not that many.”

“Six? As many as six?”

“Well ... no, not six.”

“Four?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think—not four.”

“Two?” Chip demanded, arching one of his shaped-like-a-comma eyebrows. “Have you had at least two?”

Slowly and sadly the girl shook her head no. It was as though even this small effort took too much, way too much effort. Then, shielding her eyes from scrutiny as though she were well on her way to becoming an object of public pity, she dropped her gaze downward as though ail the answers demanded of her could best be found by examining all ten of her long and slender fingers. She sought out her mom and her friend Debby in the crowd—just looking at them would give her the courage she needed.

Gently, Chip Burwick caressed the knot of his designer necktie before addressing Judge Bernhardt. “If it pleases the court, Your Honor, allow the record to show that the witness has indicated by the negatively shaking of her head that she has had fewer than two boyfriends.”

“So be it,” intoned the judge. “Let the record so show.”

“Miss Wayland, to be completely accurate—and I hope that you will agree with me that this jury which represents the public deserves no less—isn’t it true that prior to Andy Harris you’d never had a boyfriend? That Andrew Harris was, in fact, the first and only boyfriend that you’ve ever had?”

How could Mr. Burwick ask that? To admit to that would make her enemies cheer and everyone else think of her as a total loser. A very public loser. Allowing herself what she rarely allowed herself—a furtive glance over at the defense table to momentarily gaze upon the guy who was once “her guy” — she could see that he was beginning to enjoy—no, he already
was
enjoying her discomfort. “Oh, no, sir,” she heard herself respond. “Andy—he was not the first or only boyfriend that I’ve had.”

Then as swiftly as a master magician’s sleight-of-hand, the lawyer for the defense whipped from his suit jacket a folded sheet of pale pink paper. “Do you recognize this handwriting, Miss Wayland?” he demanded while thrusting the letter a few inches from her face.

Audibly Carla took in a lungful of air. “It looks like it might be ... mine.”

“Don’t play games with me!” barked Chip. “Is it or is it not your handwriting?”

Although she continued to stare at the letter, it wasn’t actually necessary to read its entire contents to realize not only who had written it, but also who had received it.

“Did you write this letter?”

“I ...

“Did YOU write this letter!?”

“I—yes! Yes, I wrote it.”

“Read it!” commanded the counsel for the defense.

A peek over at Wayne Dillman to see if he was poised to object to this much too personal demand immediately showed Carla that he wasn’t. As she focused on the words she had written, she felt the pain of having her privacy snatched from her. Clutching her throat as though that were going to help squeeze the words out, she began to read:

Dearest darling Andy,

All day and all night I dream of you.

I can’t imagine what I’ve done to deserve your love, but I’m so happy that I have your love.

You will always Always ALWAYS have mine.

You’re my first love! My best love!

My only love!

I love you today, tomorrow, and forever!

Carla

The girl looked up from the letter she had read to see Andy’s attorney, hands dug deep into his pants pockets grinning at her discomfort. He twirled on the heels of his highly polished black shoes. “My first love ... my best love,” he mocked. “My
only
love. Please be advised, Miss Wayland, that lying to this court constitutes perjury, a punishable offense!”

Is that what she had done, Carla asked herself. Lied in this courtroom? Lied under oath? Lied merely to save herself from the humiliation of publicly admitting that never in her life had a boy liked her. Never until Andy Harris had a boy liked her!

Even as she felt Roswell “Chip” Burwick invade her space, Carla Wayland still did not look up. “Miss Wayland, let’s momentarily leave the numbers game. Please be good enough to tell this court what the following people have in common: Kimberly Ellen Watters, Jenny Lee Larsen, Sharon McAlister,
Jennifer Masters, Bonnie Sue Andrews, and Karen Sue Benson?”

Lifting her eyes—even the effort of hoisting up her buttery brown eyes to face the counsel for the defense—added just that much extra energy to what was already bone-tired fatigue. “Girls ... they’re all girls I know.”

The lawyer scoffed. “Oh, I bet you can do better than that. Specifically
who
are these girls?”

Carla took a deep breath. “Well, they’ve graduated Rachetville High School, everybody except Jenny Lee who is in the junior class with me.”

“All right let’s not play games, for instead of dancing with you”—Chip Burwick was moving closer and closer still to the witness stand—“you—the girl he brought to the prom—he danced with these girls? Isn’t that so? Didn’t he dance with them!?”

“Well, no—I mean—”

His face was now within striking distance of her face. “Did he dance with them?”

“Well ... we—Andy and I both—”

“Answer the question: Did he dance with them?”

“I guess he...

“Just answer the question: Did he dance with them?” His warm moist breath blasted heat against her face. “Dances he didn’t dance with you, he danced with them?”

“Yes ... yes.”

“Miss Wayland, why don’t you make a clean breast of it? Why don’t you come right out and admit that if Andrew Harris had paid more attention to you and less attention to those other young ladies, you would not have gone to such lengths to punish him?”

“No!”

“And without the jealousy factor,” continued Mr. Burwick without any noticeable pause, “there would have been no trial
because there was foolishness, YES! There was recklessness. YES! There was an accident, YES! There was a tragedy, YES! But there was NO malice, NO premeditation, and certainly there was NO crime!”

Chapter 22

T
HE TRIAL OF
the Rachetville Five ended dramatically on October 9 at 11:35 in the morning when the foreman of the jury, Horace Morris, cleared the phlegm from his throat before announcing the verdict: “involuntary manslaughter.”

Relief and happiness exploded throughout the courtroom as the young defendants hugged, kissed and cheered. Repeatedly jabbing the air with his right fist, Andy yelled to nobody in particular, but to everybody in general, “We did it! We
did
it!” Almost immediately Chip Burwick’s cheeks were imprinted, although not necessarily improved by, multiple lip-prints from Elna Jean Harris.