Gideon - 05 - Blind Judgement (38 page)

Besides, everybody said that black man who cut meat in the plant did it. But thinking about it now, I realize that I probably wasn’t around as much as I made it sound. I could have been gone as long as thirty minutes. It was the only break I got.”

Going through the motions, that’s what I’ve been doing. I ask, “Have you seen Darla lately?” “She called me a couple of weeks ago,” Mary Kiley says, lighting up another cigarette, “and said she had been subpoenaed to testify She asked if I had been. I guess that’s what made me a little curious.”

I look toward the screen but don’t see her daughter.

“Would you be willing to testify to what you’ve told me if the judge lets you?”

Mrs. Kiley stretches unselfconsciously, thrusting her small breasts against Elvis’s guitar.

“I guess,” she says, her face deadpan, “this means we’ll be losing a volunteer.”

I race out to Brickeys and give Class a pep talk.

“You can convince that jury you didn’t do this,” I encourage him. He is back in his orange jumpsuit and looks at me through the glass, wanting, I think, to believe me.

“Don’t look down; don’t mumble. When Butterfield questions you, make sure you understand what he is asking. You can say that you don’t understand him…”

I leave in an hour. We’ve gone over his testimony three times. I resist the urge to tell him that I may be able to try to help him for a change. I have no assurance whatsoever that at this late date Johnson will let me call someone who is not on my witness list.

From the Cotton Boll (where I’m almost too late to get anything to eat) Mr. Carpenter lets me call the Ting residence from the counter. Connie answers, and I tell her about my conversation with Mary Kiley.

“She’s willing to testify Connie.

I think she believes Darla might have killed your father. Darla called her to see if she had been subpoenaed.”

“You’re going to get him off, aren’t you?” Connie says, her voice bitter.

“By itself, this won’t be enough,” I say, watching Mckenzie bring out a dinner salad for me, “unless Darla can be shown to have a motive.”

“Well, you should be happy then,” she hisses into my ear.

“Eddie went back to the plant thirty minutes ago.”

This is Tommy’s doing, I realize. Perhaps their mother. Connie is too bitter.

“Please have him call me if he finds something.”

Connie hangs up the phone in my ear without promising me anything. As I eat a chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, Mr. Carpenter sits with me and tells me the gossip about the trial. It looks bad for Class, but Paul never should have been charged. He adds, “Of course, the people who are saying that are the same ones who, if he’s convicted, will say they knew from the beginning he was guilty.”

I spoon some gravy on the chicken. I could get used to a ten-thousand-calorie-a-day diet. I wonder what people are saying about me but don’t dare ask. I don’t need to lose any more confidence than I already have.

“I guess Paul can run for governor if he’s acquitted,” I say, reminded of a comment Angela made the first time I saw her.

“Governor?” the old man laughs.

“He’s too arrogant to be elected dog catcher! It’s Dick who should have run for office. He would have made a difference.”

The old man doesn’t have a clue. A prominent politician hasn’t come out of east Arkansas for decades. It’s been too bogged down in the politics of race. Mckenzie brings out my bill: $6.50.1 notice she has written at the bottom good luck!

and drawn a “happy face.” I nod vigorously and wink at her. I will need it.

At four in the morning the phone rings, waking me out of a deep sleep.

I have dozed off in my clothes. The last time I remember looking at the clock it was one, and I had been in the middle of taking a stab at constructing my closing argument, a futile exercise since I don’t know what the evidence will be.

It is Eddie Ting, who sounds exhausted.

“All I can tell you,” he says, “is that it looks like some receipts where we purchased hogs have been altered to make it appear we bought fewer than we did, but it would take an accountant to figure out if anything is wrong. Can you get the judge to delay the trial? I could get my CPA in here and see what’s been going on.”

I rub my face, knowing a continuance is out of the question. Johnson may not even let Eddie testify.

I explain this to him and too tired to think, ask, “How do we know it was Darla and what would she get out of it?”

Eddie responds, “Since she was the bookkeeper, she might have been in on some deal where hogs were being stolen before they were even slaughtered.”

This sounds hopeless, but it is all I have.

“Will you testify about this tomorrow,” I ask, “if the judge lets you?” “They said I could,” Eddie answers wearily, “if I found something suspicious.”

I don’t have to ask who “they” are. Before I hang up, I ask if he has had any reason to believe Darla was not as wonderful as she has seemed.

“In retrospect, doesn’t it seem she was trying to head you off by coming up with that stuff on Jessup?”

“I guess it’s possible,” Eddie says, now cautious.

We talk for a few more minutes and he agrees to meet me at the courthouse with the receipts at seven. I get up, wondering whether Johnson will take me seriously after yesterday’s performance. I haven’t given anyone so far much of a reason to drag out this trial.

“Neither of these individuals appears on your witness list, do they, Mr.

Up close they look as cheap as my own.

I am getting used to this form of inquisition by Johnson. This is obviously his way of making a point. He was not at all happy when I called him at six this morning to ask for a hearing back in chambers before the trial to see if he would permit me to put on witnesses I had not previously disclosed to Butterfield.

“No, sir,” I say, knowing if I begin to argue now he will interrupt me.

“And you are not saying that you misunderstood the court’s cutoff date for disclosing your witnesses, are you? I can ask the stenographer to find your response to me if you wish.”

“No, sir,” I say, hating Johnson at this moment. What a pedantic asshole.

“And you are not contending,” he says, “that neither Mr. Edward Ting nor Mrs. Mary Kiley is a rebuttal witness?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what conceivable grounds do you have for them testifying?” he asks, his voice turning into a high whine at the end.

“So far as I can tell, the prosecution has been scrupulously fair to your client and has made available to you everything it has had in this case. And now you are attempting to spring surprise witnesses on him.”

“The prosecutor has been fair, your honor.” I wait for him to nod so I can speak without him cutting me off. Finally he does, and I say, “Your honor, the reason I’d like to call these witnesses is simple justice. It was only yesterday in the middle of Mrs. Tate’s testimony that I began to realize that she might be involved in Mr. Ting’s murder.

If I’m allowed to put Mr. Ting on as a witness, he will show the jury that Darla Tate has falsified receipts in the past year, and Mrs. Kiley will testify that she cannot say that Mrs. Tate was at the school between the hours of two and four on the day Mr. Ting was murdered.

Certainly, it would be fair for the prosecutor to have some time to interview these witnesses, and they are waiting outside his office right now to talk with him.”

Johnson glares at me as if I am some kind of habitual criminal he has given too many chances already.

“Why haven’t you investigated the possibility that Mrs. Tate might be involved before now?”

I attempt a feeble smile. I could talk for an hour about how stupid I’ve been, but I don’t think we have the time.

“I had, but I didn’t find anything. I guess I kind of got suckered, your honor.”

“What do you say, Mr. Butterfield?” Johnson says to his supposed friend.

Butterfield, not nearly so ebullient or friendly since yesterday, glares at me and says, “Mr. Page has had almost three months to decide to calf these individuals, your honor. If he is allowed to bring witnesses at the last second, you will have prejudiced the state’s position by preventing me from having a careful opportunity to prepare my case. The state is entitled to a level playing field.”

Johnson, who without his robe looks as slight as a welter-weight, frowns at the suggestion he is not being even-handed.

“Would your client be prejudiced,” he asks Dick, who has been quietly sitting in the corner the entire time, “if I allow these individuals to testify?”

To give himself more time to think, Dick takes off his bifocals and rubs the lenses with a handkerchief.

As he does so, it strikes me how easily Darla could have been hired by Paul to murder Willie. No one knows as much about the plant and its employees. In retrospect, Darla made a point to sound bitter toward Paul when I talked to her that first time in her house, but the information she gave me about him and the bank was available from many sources. Of course, at this point I have no way to prove anything.

Jamming his handkerchief in his pocket but continuing to fidget with his glasses, Dick finally answers, “Your honor, I have no choice but to oppose Mr. Page’s effort to introduce surprise testimony on what may be the last day of the trial. I don’t expect anything either individual may say will prejudice my client, but I’m being forced to make a spur-of-the-moment decision, and so I must object.”

I glance at Johnson, who is tapping the tips of his fingers together, and replay what Dick has just said and the way he said it. I am confident he has too much integrity to allow Paul to take the witness stand and lie, but Paul could easily be lying to him, and Dick, no fool, may suspect it. Still, he has a duty to represent him, and the most prudent course of action is to take no chances and wind up the testimony as soon as possible.

Johnson holds his fingers still and says, “A man’s life is at stake, and I’m not going to punish him because his lawyer may have overlooked something that possibly may be offered in his defense. Would it not be fair to you, Mr. Butterfield and Mr. Dickerson,” he says, “if I allow you an hour to interview these people and then you come back into chambers with Mr. Page, and we’ll discuss where to go from there?”

Neither is being given a choice, but Johnson has implied that he might give them a continuance.

Both give their assent, and then we all stand as the judge makes a show of consulting his watch.

“Please be back here precisely at eight-fifteen.”

My face has begun to burn a bit, too, and I get up and follow behind Butterfield out of the judge’s chambers to wait for Class. Once the door is closed behind us, Melvin says out of the side of his mouth, “And I bet you thought the judge and I were friends…”

Side by side for a moment as we go down the stairs, I have to laugh. I

deserve whatever beating I get. I haven’t been right about anything since I started on this case. I should have suspected Darla from the beginning, but at the time I wasn’t interested.

“Well, he’s not exactly Mr. Congeniality, is he?”

Even Dick laughs.

I stand by as Butterfield explains to Mary Kiley and Eddie Ting that the judge is allowing him and Dick to interview them. Neither seems surprised, but Mary Kiley, I can tell, needs a cigarette bad. Eddie looks as if he didn’t get even an hour’s sleep, and she doesn’t look much better. It is no fun being a witness. Afterward, I go wait in the courtroom for Class, who arrives just as Butterfield sticks his head in the door and crooks his finger at me. Upstairs, back in Johnson’s chambers, both Dick and Butterfield say they still object to the testimony of persons not previously identified on my witness list, but that if the court lets them testify, neither is asking for a continuance.

Butterfield says, “I’m ready to proceed, your honor.”

Dick nods. Neither man would say a word to me on our way up the stairs. This could mean one of two things: they aren’t worried or they don’t want me to have any more time. Johnson shrugs, “Let’s get started, then.”

Back in the courtroom, I notice that though the spectator section is just as crowded as the last two days, its composition has changed.

There are more blacks and fewer whites, which, I interpret, means that they heard there is no evidence against Paul. For the first time, I notice a group of Chinese in the back sitting with the Tings. They may have been here all this time, and I never noticed them. God only knows what they think of the criminal justice system in Bear Creek.

I begin by calling my character witnesses first, and they do well, though Doss’ SAME minister gets a little carried away.

“Mr. Bledsoe’s reputation as a law-abiding nonviolent citizen is as spotless as the son of God’s.”

I turn and see Butterfield scratching his head as if he might be thinking that Jesus is usually portrayed these days as a revolutionary who set out to overthrow the established order, but he decides to let it go. Now that we’ve opened up the door on my client’s character, Butterfield can attack it, but Class appears to have led a pretty quiet life, and the prosecutor sits with his hands in his pockets as if this testimony is so much window dressing, which of course it is.

I decide to call Mary Kiley before Eddie Ting and instantly understand why Butterfield was ready to go forward. Instead of the assertive woman who last evening was willing to stick her neck out, today Mary Kiley seems a timid, shy soul who knows she is in trouble for telling the prosecutor one thing and me another. In her own backyard, she projected a strong, almost bitchy, personality; now, she seems like a little girl who will parrot the last person who talked to her.

Wearing a white dress that gives her a childlike quality, she has to repeat her name three times before the court reporter can get it down.

By the time she sits down, all I have managed to establish is that she isn’t certain that Darla was at the school all afternoon.

On direct examination, Eddie Ting’s testimony is straightforward enough, but as Butterfield begins to wind down, it is clear its usefulness is limited. Paul is motionless while Dick leans forward to hear better. Butterfield is like a giant stork flapping from behind the podium as he follows the timehonored tradition of calling attention to himself and away from the witness on cross-examination.