Dying Declaration (38 page)

“Sustained,” Silverman said. “Mr. Arnold, I think you’d better change your line of questioning.”

“I’m sorry for calling her a witch,” Tiger said sincerely, looking up at the judge with puppy-dog eyes. Then Tiger quickly looked back down at his lap.

Nikki just wanted to run up and hug him. Then she saw a thin, sweet smile cross the lips of Silverman and a sympathetic smile form on the face of practically every juror in the box.

“It’s okay,” Silverman said. “We’ve all been called a lot worse.”

Then Tiger himself grinned, the big toothy smile of a boy who has just gotten all his permanent front teeth but not yet grown into them.

“No further questions,” Charles said, also smiling.

“That’s my boy,” Thomas said softly.

64

“THE DEFENSE RESTS,”
Charles said proudly. Tiger had returned to his seat in the spectator section, showing off his tattoo for some curious reporters. Stinky, who had been at day care that morning, would come to court during the lunch break. Charles knew it would be important to have both kids there for closing arguments.

“Rebuttal witnesses?” Silverman raised an eyebrow at Crawford.

She stood and looked at Charles. “The commonwealth calls Buster Jackson. He’s in lockup, so it may take a few minutes to get him here.”

Charles had the sinking feeling of a case headed south—the same type of feeling he experienced when he found out that one of the officers who arrested Buster was black. Buster Jackson! Whatever it was that Buster had to say, it wouldn’t be good. Charles thought about trying to exclude Buster from testifying based on the fact that he wasn’t on the Barracuda’s witness list. But Charles knew that the court would generally allow an attorney to call a rebuttal witness who wasn’t on the list,
especially if the testimony was unavailable or unanticipated when the trial started.

“What’s
this
all about?” Charles whispered to Nikki. She passed the message along to Thomas, who seemed to have no idea.

Charles stared at Buster as he took the stand but couldn’t get the big man’s attention. This was going to be bad. His own client appearing as a witness for the other side and avoiding eye contact.

The Barracuda had dressed Buster up, but he still looked like a thug. The suit coat could not hide his massive pecs and lats. And the dress shirt seemed to strain around his neck—what there was of a neck—and barely hold together. The huge forehead that shadowed his dark eyes, the close cropped hair, the scruffy Fu Manchu, and the occasional gleam from the gold tooth all gave Buster the look of a professional prizefighter. He wore the clothes of a preacher on the body of a brawler.

The Barracuda walked him through the preliminaries. Like any good lawyer, she decided to air out the dirty laundry on direct so it would not come up for the first time on cross. This forced Buster to confess his two prior drug convictions and his pending charge for possession with intent to distribute cocaine.

“Has the commonwealth promised you anything in exchange for your testimony today?” the Barracuda asked.

Charles tensed, holding his breath. He had already concluded that he would have to withdraw from Buster’s case as soon as the Barracuda was done with her direct examination. He knew Buster must have cut some kind of deal. And now he was about to find out, in open court, about an apparent immunity deal where his own client would stab another of his clients in the back.
This was bizarre.

“Yeah. In exchange for ratting out Pops
and
coppin’ a plea this morning,” Buster corrected.

“I stand corrected,” the Barracuda said. “Has the commonwealth promised you anything in exchange for your testimony in this case
and
your guilty plea on the pending charge of possession with intent to distribute?”

“Yeah,” Buster said gruffly. “You spring me on time served. Which ain’t so hot ’cause me and my lawyer had a motion to dismiss pending anyway based on racial profilin’ by your boys, plus—”

“Who is your lawyer?” the Barracuda interrupted.

Buster narrowed his eyes and gave Crawford a reproving glare for the interruption. “Can I finish here?” A beat of silence followed, accentuating the animosity between lawyer and witness. “Plus, that guilty plea will be on my rap sheet, and I’ve got three years probation. If I get busted again, I’m toast.”

“Are you done?” the Barracuda asked.

Buster stuck out his lips in defiance and nodded.

“Then please tell us who your attorney is on the possession-with-intent-to-distribute charge.”

Charles jumped up. In his law school classes, he had always taught his students that the most important thing any lawyer brought to the courtroom was his or her own credibility. Once you lost that, you lost everything. And Buster Jackson was about to paint Charles as the type of lawyer who would represent anybody, claim anything, just to see the guilty walk.

“Objection,” Charles said. “May we approach?”

But before Silverman could answer, Buster extended his muscled arm and pointed his thick finger straight at Charles. “That man,” he said.

Charles felt like he had been shot. He slumped back into his chair.

“The witness will wait to answer the question until
after
I have ruled on the objection,” Silverman scolded. “Is that clear?”

“Yeah, sure,” a surly Buster said. But the damage had already been done. And to make matters worse, Charles knew the jury would think he was trying to hide it with his objection.

“Are you presently an inmate in the Virginia Beach City Jail?” the Barracuda asked.

“Yeah.”

“And who is your cellmate?”

“That man.” Buster pointed. “Thomas Hammond . . . Pops.”

“Did Mr. Hammond discuss this case with you last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to the very best of your memory, precisely what he said.”

“Well, last night Pops was mopin’ around the cell . . . and I’m like bustin’ on him tryin’ to get him to chill a little. Ain’t nothing workin’. So, I’m like, ‘Pops, what’s doggin’ you, man? I heard your lawyer broke bad in court today, but you’re actin’
like you’re goin’ down.’” As he spoke, Buster, who had been looking at the Barracuda, now shifted and faced the jury.

“So, Pops says, best I remember, ‘We had a good day in court, but I still need to testify and my lawyer says I can’t.’ Pops says, ‘If I don’t testify, the jury will wonder why. If I do testify, it all comes out. How can a jury let me skate if’n they hear—Pops is always sayin’
if’n
—‘if’n they hear that I knew my boy was gonna die, but I wouldn’t take the kid to the hospital? What else can a jury do to someone who demanded—I mean flat out demanded—that his woman not take the kid for three solid days—all the time knowin’ the kid is dying?’”

The Barracuda waited for several seconds to let this testimony sink in. Then she took a few sideways steps and asked another question, obviously designed to have the witness repeat the same damaging information.

“Is that what Thomas Hammond said to the best of your memory, that he knew Joshua was dying but refused to take him to the hospital for three days?”

“’At’s what he said. He talked like it was him, his decision, nobody else’s.” Buster flipped up his palms. “’At’s what I know.”

“And what did you say to him after he confessed these things?” the Barracuda asked.

“I jus’ told him, ‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.’”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning Pops had to decide if he was gonna take the stand or roll the dice on the Fifth.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I called you.”

“No further questions. Please answer any questions that Mr. Arnold might have.” And with that, the Barracuda sat down and rested her case on the broad shoulders of Buster Jackson.

Charles wasted no time in going on the offensive. “First, Your Honor, I’d like to make it clear that I am withdrawing as counsel of record in the case of Commonwealth versus Buster Jackson. It would be unethical to continue representing someone I’m about to prove a liar.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” the Barracuda called out. “I don’t mind if Mr. Arnold wants to withdraw in Mr. Jackson’s case, especially since that case is basically over. But his gratuitous comment is prejudicial, unprofessional, and uncalled—”

“Unprofessional?”
Charles snarled. “You’re calling
me
unprofessional?”

“Counsel,” Silverman snapped, his face flushing. “Mr. Arnold, you keep your editorial comments to yourself. Ms. Crawford,
you stop baiting him.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Charles said.

“Yes, Your Honor,” the Barracuda echoed.

“Your motion is granted,” Silverman said.

Charles quickly turned to the witness. “Now, let’s talk rap sheet,” he said. “1999. Possession with intent to distribute marijuana. Right?”

“That’s right, Rev.”

“Don’t call me Rev,” Charles demanded.

“Hey,” Buster replied with a smirk, “you’re the one always comin’ to jail and preachin’ at us.”

“2001. Possession with intent to distribute cocaine and possession of an illegal firearm, right?” Charles continued.

“Yeah.”

“2004. Possession with intent to distribute cocaine again. Have I got that right?”

“Already discussed that charge with the prosecution lady.”

“And those are just the felony convictions, aren’t they?”

“If you say so.”

“They don’t include your misdemeanors, do they?”

“Prob’ly not.”

“They also don’t include juvenile offenses, right? I mean, you’re only twenty-three, so you’ve just been working on this rap sheet for five years.”

“Didn’t say I was perfect.”

“That’s for sure,” Charles scoffed. He took a few steps closer to the massive witness and noticed a few beads of sweat forming on the big man’s forehead. Charles felt his own shirt sticking to his skin, his own heart pumping overtime. He would have to make Buster mad, provoke this mammoth man who would be discharged from jail today. He didn’t have much time to consider the irony: intentionally baiting the same man who had terrified Charles that first night in the Virginia Beach jail. What other choice did he have?

“You’re aware of Virginia’s ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule, aren’t you?”

Buster nodded.

“Your third felony conviction means you serve some serious time, right?”

“That’s right, Rev. But I wasn’t planning on doin’ much time, ’cause you were gonna get me off on that racial profilin’ defense,
remember?”

Charles felt the muscles tighten in his own face. He forced himself to control the frustration so he could think clearly.

“A judge hadn’t decided on that yet, had he, Mr. Jackson?”

“True.”

“And you were worried enough about it to try everything possible to deal your way out, weren’t you?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Well, Mr. Jackson, was this the first deal you tried to cut with the prosecution while you’ve been sitting in prison waiting for trial?”

This stopped Buster in his tracks. He narrowed his eyes at Charles but didn’t answer.

“I can wait all day if I need to,” Charles mocked.

“No,” Buster said grudgingly.

“Truth is, you tried to rat out another inmate, a man accused of murder, in exchange for your freedom, didn’t you?”

“I talked to that lady—” Buster pointed at the Barracuda—“’bout some-thin’ I heard this dude named A-town say. But there was no deal.”

“But you tried to cut a deal—” Charles’s voice had a razor edge—“didn’t you, Mr. Jackson? You tried to cut a deal, and she said no.”

“I mighta been lookin’ for one.”

“And when this guy named A-town, as you call him, heard about you snitchin’ on him, he tried to kill you, didn’t he?” Charles paused. He got no answer as Buster stared straight ahead. “Didn’t he?” Charles insisted.

“Maybe,” Buster growled.

Charles paced in front of Buster and stopped directly in front of the jury box. “And tell me, Mr. Jackson, who saved your life when A-town tried to ambush you and stab you while you were in the rec area? Why don’t you tell the ladies and gentlemen on this jury who it was that risked his own life to save you from being stabbed to death by A-town?”

Buster’s eyes went from Charles to the jury members, then back to Charles.

“Well?” Charles asked.

“Pops,” Buster said softly.

“Who?”

“Pops.” This time much louder, defiant.

“And afterward, you and ‘Pops’ became cellmates, right?”

“You got it.”

“So now you want the ladies and gentlemen of this jury to believe that my client, who knows you already tried to snitch on another inmate, who saved your very life, just happened to come up to you last night and bare his soul to you—the jailhouse snitch?”

“That’s basically it,” Buster sneered.

“And this is how you reward someone for saving your life? By coming in here and lying about some alleged confession last night?”

“I ain’t lyin’, Rev. It’s the truth, and ‘the truth shall set you free.’”

Charles shook his head. “No, Mr. Jackson, I’m afraid it’s not the truth that’s setting you free. It’s an overzealous prosecutor who’s willing to let a three-time drug dealer walk so she can try to convict a father of two—”

“Objection,” the Barracuda shouted. “I
strenuously
object.”

“—and further her own career.”

Silverman banged his gavel and demanded order. While Charles seethed, Judge Silverman delivered a strong tongue-lashing in front of the jury. After the judge finished, he asked Charles if he had any further questions.

“Just one,” Charles said. He glared at the witness. “You did say three days, didn’t you? You did say that Pops said he had waited three days, not five days. Right?”

“Three days,” Buster said.

Charles nodded and headed back toward his counsel table.

“Anything else?” Silverman asked.

“For this guy?” Charles asked. “Why bother?”