Blood on the Leaves Page 20

  “I was just looking for the hidden cameras or recorders,” she answered politely, then took a sip of water, which made her perfectly shaped lips glisten slightly.

  “Ms. Rochon, I can assure you I wouldn’t tape you without your knowledge or permission.”

  She smiled and gazed around the room a second time. Reynolds studied her for a moment and thought she and Matheson must have made an extraordinary pair. “I appreciate your agreeing to see me,” he said.

  “I didn’t think I had a choice. I assumed if I refused you’d find a way to legally force me to appear. So I thought it best to come and dissuade you from doing that.”

  “Have you visited the professor?” Reynolds asked.

  “He wouldn’t place me on the visitors’ list. I sent him a note of support, but I’m sure you were able to read that before he did.” If she felt any resentment, it remained attractively packaged.

  “As far as I could gather, you were the last woman involved with Dr. Matheson.”

  “Thank you,” she responded with a glimmer of a smile. “That’s nice to know.”

  “How long were you two in a relationship?”

  “I should probably ask you. Just how much of my life have you investigated?”

  Reynolds concealed both a smile and his admiration. “My records indicate two and a half years, that seem right?”

  “Two years, eight months,” she corrected him.

  “And it ended over a year ago?”

  “Thirteen months, two weeks, four days, give or take.”

  “You always have such a good memory?”

  “For things that are important and events that hurt like hell.” She took another sip of water, then placed the bottle on the desk.

  “I take it you loved him?”

  “I disagree with your use of the past tense, but outside of that we have no argument.” She shifted her body in discomfort or impatience. “Mr. Reynolds, since you’re delving into intimate matters, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Seems only fair.”

  “Did you volunteer for this case, or were you assigned?”

  He braced himself for the “Uncle Tom” accusation. “Would my answer make a difference on how you viewed me?”

  “I view you as the enemy. Your answer would only reveal how dangerous you are.” She stared through him with almond-shaped eyes, and he finally saw the belligerence.

  He leaned back in his chair and realized he’d never call her as a witness unless he had absolutely no choice. “Have you ever lost a friend or relative to violence, Ms. Rochon?”

  She glanced away for a second. “I had a younger brother who was robbed and murdered.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sympathetically. “I hope he had as effective an enemy as me working on his behalf.”

  She placed her hands together, and her expression softened. “What do you want from me, Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Why did the two of you break up?”

  She gently touched her mouth. “You ever hear Dr. Matheson give a lecture to his students or speak to the community?”

  Reynolds nodded yes.

  “He resented black leaders who’d offer their help only if they got paid. He said they’d arrive late like royal peacocks, claiming their commitment to the struggle, then leave early in chauffeured limousines. Martin never accepted a dime from any community organization. He donated his money and time to anyone who needed advice or support or just someone who genuinely cared and wasn’t afraid to demonstrate it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a person you’d leave,” remarked Reynolds.

  “I didn’t,” she confessed. “He left me. It wasn’t that we ever formally ended the relationship. It’s just after a while loving the people reduces your capacity to love the person.”

  “I find it hard to believe a man wouldn’t make the time to be with you no matter how many people needed him.” The words escaped before he could rearrange them more professionally.

  “I’m afraid I was the one who wouldn’t spend the time. After he started researching and preparing his course, I refused to enter his den. There were so many horrible pictures. I’d get sick every time he found a new batch. Eventually, I couldn’t even visit his home or watch him as he worked, or . . .” She diverted her eyes. “Or stand to hear him cry.” Her voice trembled. “I wish I’d been stronger.” She looked at Reynolds. “I wish that with all my heart.” Her face saddened, but it remained flawless. “He was the most passionate man I’d ever loved, and yet the most gentle. And those damn pictures took away his ability to touch or be touched.”

  Reynolds didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, she broke the silence.

  “If you’re planning on calling me as a witness, I’ll never say anything to hurt him, even if it means I have to lie.”

  “To protect him?” Reynolds asked.

  “To save him,” she answered.

  Reynolds nodded his head in understanding. “Will you be coming to any of the trial?”

  “I don’t think I could bear that. But I’ll tell you something”—she gathered her purse and rose to her feet—“if he’s not acquitted, I’ll be the first one leading the candlelight vigil until he’s released.”

  Reynolds stood and extended his hand. “It was very nice meeting you, Ms. Rochon.”

  She shook his hand and left.

  Reynolds sat in his chair, leaned back, and placed his feet on the corner of the desk. He stared across the room for a long time, then studied files of information he’d collected on possible witnesses. Matheson’s commitment to the community and devotion to his students were true. Reynolds had received more than enough testimonies on his behalf to be certain of that. He identified with the professor’s disdain for those “leadership conferences” or “state-of-black-America think tanks,” which usually were held in plush resorts. Up until five years ago, he himself had annually attended the best two or three.

  The keynote speakers and panelists were often recycled versions of one another, activists and intellectuals touring as part of the caviar circuit. And when they spoke, they more often than not resembled incoherent performance art—the declamatory equivalent of the NBA Slam Dunk Contest, where style rules over substance, and an inordinate amount of energy is expended for two insignificant points. The irony, of course, was that the ensuing celebration left them poorly equipped to defend against their opponents who scored efficiently and often.

  Reynolds faulted these inspirational/motivational presenters for seldom producing written remarks, which only partially contributed to their frequent lack of logic as well as subject-verb agreement. For all the fancy chicken dinners served and the time spent in heated and emotional debates, Reynolds inevitably left these sessions assured of three things: There was no new information exchanged, no plan offered, and no reason for white folks to worry.

  So after sufficient heartburn and heartache, he stopped attending formal gatherings designed to enrich the defenders of the poor. Actually, Reynolds openly shared these sentiments in his last keynote address at a forum on black issues. He received exuberant applause and no more invitations to participate in future sessions—indisputable proof that whistle-blowers remained the most admired and unemployable people on the planet. Or as the saying goes, truth crushed to earth shall rise as an unrecognizable vapor.

  He looked at his watch and knew Angela and Christopher were once again asleep without his giving them a good-night kiss. By the time he got home, his wife probably wouldn’t want one. He thought about Matheson losing the ability to touch, and realized there were countless ways to achieve that frightening condition. Reynolds desperately wanted to avoid them all.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE NEXT MORNING’S headlines described the first day of jury selection. The story shared the front page with the other important news of the day. The body of Travis Mitchell was found, badly decomposed, in a marsh ten miles west from his home in Polarville. His limbs had been hacked off and placed inside a p
lastic garbage bag discovered near the rest of his remains. Upon being notified of the grisly finding, Mitchell’s wife had fainted, and remained under a doctor’s care.

  Mitchell had been accused forty years ago of murdering and mutilating a fifteen-year-old black boy for allegedly whistling at his wife. An all-white jury acquitted the former deputy sheriff of the charges stemming from the incident, although its foreman was quoted as saying, “He probably did it; under the circumstances, what kind of man would he be if he didn’t defend his wife’s honor?” The article went on to report that Mitchell had two sons and a grandson who currently worked in law enforcement.

  Miller requested an urgent meeting with the judge in chambers. “Your Honor, I personally observed prospective jurors reading the paper while they waited in the assembly room.”

  “Mr. Miller, your client might be well served by people who don’t read, but that standard doesn’t apply to the court.” Tanner took a sip of tomato juice. “After jury selection, I’ll instruct them not to read or listen to news accounts, but I’m rejecting any recommendation to sequester the group during the trial. I’ll revisit the idea once we reach the deliberation stage.” He looked at Reynolds, who’d been sitting quietly. “Any objection?”

  “Not at this time, Your Honor,” Reynolds answered.

  “I suggest we carry on with our respective duties.” Tanner finished his juice, then motioned the lawyers toward the door.

  The morning session proceeded efficiently. Reynolds and Miller accepted two additional jurors, both black: August Cobb, a retired insurance salesman; and Vernetta Williams, a nurse and mother of three. Reynolds stayed clear of young black men but, for the moment, did keep Blaze Hansberry, a twenty-four-year-old African-American woman, on the list. She professed to be born again; that this should be necessary at such a tender age left the prosecution team with a few reservations. Reynolds agreed with Sinclair that even dyed-in-the-wool sinners didn’t contemplate absolution and a rebirth until they reached middle age.

  After the second morning break, Aubrey Munson took his turn with the lawyers. Munson had gotten this far because he lied extensively on the questionnaire. He indicated he had no difficulty with interracial dating and felt the world was a better place because of diversity. He also enjoyed paying tribute to Dr. King and considered it his favorite holiday next to “Christmas, Easter, and, of course, the Fourth of July.”

  “Do you believe you could set aside any preconceived notions about this case and render a fair and impartial decision based solely on the evidence presented?” asked a skeptical Miller.

  “Not only do I believe it,” responded Munson, “I’d swear to that fact before God Almighty just as I did when I last had the privilege of performin’ my civic duty.” He reminded Miller he’d been a juror in a prior difficult trial and had managed to maintain his objectivity “till the last dog died.”

  Miller consulted with Matheson and red-circled Munson’s name. “I’m gonna use a peremptory challenge. This guy is lying through his teeth.”

  “I want you to select him,” declared Matheson.

  “Martin, trust me on this. There’s no way that—”

  “I want him on the jury. Period.” Matheson sat back in his chair and put Munson’s name on his notepad under the Yes column.

  Miller turned to face the judge. “This juror’s acceptable to the defense,” he announced weakly.

  “Mr. Reynolds, do we have a second from you?” asked Tanner, who had already begun to write Munson’s name in the category marked Satisfactory.

  “The state has no objection to this juror,” Reynolds informed the judge after briefly checking with Sinclair.

  Munson’s slight smile disappeared quickly after glancing at Matheson, who had turned to wave at Regina and Delbert, seated in the row behind him.

  Tanner decided to work through lunch, giving the lawyers added incentive to find at least three more jurors before their afternoon break. They found two: Faraday Patterson, a black factory worker in his mid-fifties, divorced with no children; and Cindy Lou Herrington, their first white female, a homemaker and seamstress, mother of two “grown and, praise God, livin’-on-their-own daughters.”

  Before the dinner hour they’d managed to select two more women: Octavia Richmond Bailey, a black librarian, forty-eight, never married; and Harriet Keela Dove, an administrative assistant, white, thirty-nine, married three times.

  Tanner checked with the bailiff regarding the jury panel’s availability and made some notes on his chart. “Gentlemen,” he said to the attorneys, then noticed Sinclair, “and gentle-lady, I’ve been advised we’re running low on the number of citizens remaining on our panel. We’ll have to supplement the pool with new recruits in the morning.” The judge tried to locate one of his notes. “Mr. Reynolds, have you decided on that juror you asked the court to set aside? I can’t recall her name.”

  “Blaze Hansberry, Your Honor,” Reynolds answered. “We’ll make a decision on her no later than midday tomorrow.”

  “Fine. That concludes our proceedings for today,” Tanner announced. “We’ll meet tomorrow to complete jury selection. To be on the safe side, I suggest we include four alternates.”

  “The state agrees with that number,” advised Sinclair.

  “I wasn’t seeking agreement, Ms. Sinclair, but the court will take notice of your unsolicited endorsement.” Tanner rubbed his neck with the tips of his fingers. “I’d like to begin opening statements no later than Thursday of next week. That means exhibits need to be reviewed by both sides Tuesday morning. Any disagreements will be resolved by me with my usual judicial flair.” Tanner stood behind the bench. “We’ve accomplished a great deal today, counsel. Let’s hope the trial goes as smoothly. Mr. Miller, I presume by now you’ve reviewed the state’s witness list.”

  “I have, Your Honor.” Miller rose from his seat and addressed the judge. “A finer group of men and women couldn’t be found if I subpoenaed them myself. And I would’ve if the prosecution hadn’t beaten me to the punch.”

  Tanner looked at Reynolds and Sinclair. “Defense counsel is pleased with your witnesses; that should give you pause.” The judge proceeded from the bench. “I wish you a pleasant evening, and may your night-light never dim beyond its natural limitations.” By the time he entered his chambers, he’d completely taken off his robe.

  Sinclair sat back in her chair, stretched out her legs, and released a sigh of relief. Reynolds looked at the rear of the courtroom and saw Brandon Hamilton proceed directly toward Matheson, who appeared genuinely delighted to see his young student. The professor gave Brandon a fatherly hug, and the two men smiled broadly. They exchanged as much information as possible before being interrupted by two deputies.

  Regina carried a stack of files and gave them to Miller but couldn’t reach Matheson before the guards led him away. She sat down, dejected, and then noticed Reynolds staring at her. The two made sustained eye contact before Miller and Brandon sat next to her. Miller placed an outline of activities on the table, and both students reviewed and discussed their respective assignments.

  Sinclair tapped Reynolds on the arm and nodded in the defense table’s direction. “Shouldn’t one of them be at school and the other in jail?” she asked with little energy.

  “The Lord moves in mysterious ways.” He noticed the Reverend Matheson, still in his seat with his head bowed in prayer.

  “Can we go home now?” Sinclair pleaded.

  “I’ve already ordered Chinese takeout.”

  “We had Chinese last night,” she reminded him.

  “Yeah, but it was cold by the time we ate it.”

  “What makes you think it’ll be any different tonight?”

  “Because I told them to deliver it at midnight.”

  “Oh, then we can save any leftovers for breakfast.”

  “There you go!” Reynolds reached for Sinclair’s hand and helped her from the chair. They walked out of the court, both ignoring Miller’s pleasant wave.


  Matheson put together his own defense strategy, including how he wanted Miller to handle the opening. Miller complained about both the plan and the forced selection of Munson on the jury. The two men met in the lawyer’s room reserved at the jail. They were allowed limited time, and Miller didn’t want to misuse it with arguments he couldn’t win, so he changed the subject.

  “I’ve gotten calls from every high-profile black attorney in the country. They’ve offered their services free of charge.”

  “They can’t stand the fact I’ve got a white defense counsel handling the most publicized civil rights case since the murder of Emmett Till. What about black organizations? I assume they’ve remained safely noncommittal.”

  “No one’s formalized a position one way or the other on your guilt. But they’ve given news conferences condemning historical injustice that—and I’m quoting now—‘has given rise to a climate of mistrust, despair, and outrage.’”

  Matheson smiled. “Their speeches are meant to inflate their own importance and increase their dwindling memberships. They’re probably praying for my conviction. I’d be much more useful to them as a captive martyr.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “If I were free, they’d have to choose between alienating their community base or compromising substantial donations from their white benefactors. They’ve spent decades perfecting the fine art of criticizing institutions while soliciting money from them. So far, they’ve been able to tiptoe around charges of blackmail and extortion by claiming it’s a reasonable business expense to eliminate past vestiges of racial discrimination. Aligning themselves with someone like me pushes the envelope a bit further than civil rights etiquette allows.”

  “I take it you enjoy their dilemma?”

  Matheson provided a hint of a smile. “Maybe, a wee bit.”

  Miller started feeling a kinship with this man. How could he not be drawn to someone who enjoyed disrupting both the people and the palace guard?

  “You’ve gone through your own trials and tribulations with black organizations, or am I unearthing unpleasant territory?”