Blood on the Leaves Page 22

  Sinclair handled the opening. She spoke for slightly over two hours, using a variety of exhibits. The prosecution had failed to arrange a tour of Matheson’s residence. Reynolds wanted the jury to observe the professor’s “work room,” up close and personal, to gain an appreciation for the brooding environment in which past atrocities had been recorded and future murders predicted or planned. He thought it would be helpful to provide a different impression of the handsome and charismatic defendant—an intimate insight into what he did at night.

  Early in his career Reynolds had prosecuted a brutal rape case involving an adolescent girl who had accused a wealthy businessman of the assault. The defendant happened to be married to a beautiful debutante. He also had two adorable children, an impeccable reputation in his community, and a secret room in his basement filled with pornographic videotapes of young children being molested. Once the jury saw that evidence, they were ready to believe the worst. Reynolds hoped Matheson’s room would have the same impact, but the judge disallowed the request. Tanner didn’t want to provide the media any more opportunities to sensationalize the case. In addition, he sought to protect the jurors from being photographed by the tabloids. He couldn’t guarantee their privacy after the trial ended, but he’d do what he could to safeguard it until then, even though his gut told him half were already practicing posing in the limelight.

  So, instead of a tour, Sinclair had put together a display of Matheson’s study, positioning the exhibit so that the jurors would see it throughout her presentation. She distributed photos of Earvin Cooper’s burned corpse and foreshadowed the testimony of a forensic pathologist whom the state would call as their witness. She expected him to describe for the jury “how Mr. Cooper struggled valiantly against the defendant and was able to inflict a great deal of punishment likely to cause noticeable injuries on his assailant.” Sinclair then unveiled several enlargements of photos taken at the police station the night Matheson reported his attack. “Which, coincidentally,” she informed the jury while standing between photos of Cooper’s burned corpse and Matheson’s swollen bruises, “occurred the very evening Earvin Cooper engaged in a desperate and sustained battle for his life.”

  Reynolds studied the twelve members of the jury during important sections of Sinclair’s presentation. They were attentive, and most took copious notes. A few sneaked looks at Matheson, and two or three of the black members of the panel occasionally glanced at Reynolds. He assumed they were waiting for him to do or say something, and he wanted them to keep that thought. He’d once participated in a high school play where the director told him the key to a successful performance rests on the actor onstage who hasn’t yet spoken. “That actor,” announced the instructor, “controls the audience.”

  Over time, he’d learned that the same principle applied in a courtroom. It helped to have jurors wonder about him and anticipate his next move. Hopefully, when he finally broke his silence, the real drama would unfold, leading to a satisfying resolution in the third and final act.

  After Sinclair completed her presentation, Tanner provided an early lunch break. He didn’t want Miller to be interrupted with a long delay in the middle of his opening argument. For security reasons, the jury ate in a private dining hall, with food catered by court personnel. A clumsy attempt to truly integrate the jury around one long table failed when the jurors rearranged their reserved seating assignments. The four whites clustered together while the blacks moved freely among themselves, depending upon the specific topic of discussion or expressed interest. Alternates secluded themselves in a distant corner of the room.

  Mrs. Whitney, the oldest jury member, took Blaze Hansberry under her wing. “You remind me of one of my granddaughters,” she said affectionately. “She put those braids in her hair, too. Ain’t they difficult to wash?” she asked.

  Blaze laughed and assured Mrs. Whitney, “My hair’s clean and my soul’s cleansed.”

  Mrs. Whitney didn’t doubt the power of the Lord but hinted, “A hot-comb wouldn’t hurt none.”

  When the jury returned, the exhibits were gone but nothing else in the courtroom had changed, including the presence of an overflow crowd. The bailiff called the court to order, and Judge Tanner notified the jury they’d now hear from the defense. He took a sip of water. “Mr. Miller, are you ready to present your opening on behalf of your client?”

  “I am. Thank you, Your Honor.” Miller rose from his chair and stepped in front of the defense table. Reynolds expected him to stay relatively close to his client so the jury wouldn’t have difficulty observing them both. If you have the biggest cannon you don’t need to shoot it. You simply showcase it prominently.

  “Let me first begin by thanking each member of the jury for your willingness to represent the people of this state and ensure justice is done.” He touched the back of his ponytail. Reynolds assumed one of two things: Either Miller needed magic more quickly than usual, or he was playing to the sketch artist seated behind him in the front row.

  “Have you ever given a young child a puzzle?” The jurors searched their memories. Reynolds saw a few of them nod affirmatively. “Nothing too complicated. Colors are bright. Pieces are large. Each one fits inside the contours of a thick board, and when it’s put together it looks just like the picture on the box. Remember watching the child try to figure out what to do with all the pieces once they’d been dumped on the floor?” Miller paused for a moment and searched the twelve faces that remained glued to his.

  “The first response is one of excitement and wonderment as the child’s little fingers pick up a section and try to push it and squeeze it and smash it till it connects with some other section. In a matter of moments what started out as sheer ecstasy turns quickly to frustration and anger and tears. But after sucking fingers and tugging on ears to find equilibrium, the child turns right back around and tries again.” He extended his hands and smiled. “Of course, he or she might have to spend a minute or two finding those pieces that have been thrown against the wall.”

  Mrs. Whitney laughed quietly and nudged Blaze, who smiled.

  “But with your help the child manages to locate everything,” Miller continued. “The little one struggles a bit more, comes close to giving up again, and just when you think it was a big mistake to choose that gift”—he clapped his hands together—“miracle of miracles, two pieces fit together, then three, then four, and before you know it, the child’s staring at the most beautiful picture of a green-and-purple dinosaur ever assembled.”

  He stretched out his arms wide and held his head high. “The child shouts, ‘Mama’ (or ‘Daddy,’ or ‘Grandpa’), ‘come see what I made!’” He wiggled his index finger accusingly at them. “And you rush over, all proud, and tell your puzzle builder what a great job he or she did, and before you can find your Instamatic to record the greatest achievement of their lives, what does your gifted progeny do?” Miller looked at the jurors and arched his eyebrows, waiting for the answer. “That’s right. The precious child yells, ‘I wanna do it again,’ and proceeds to rip the puzzle totally apart to start the entire process all over.”

  The jurors laughed. Miller put his arms across his chest and rocked back on his feet twice before coming to a relaxed stance. “Well, the law’s a little like that. We try to turn justice into a simple puzzle that can be completed without too much heartache.” He took his first step toward the jury. “The state will present you with their pieces in the form of evidence they contend results in a picture of guilt.” He placed his palms together and unevenly interlocked his fingers. “I’ll try to explain to you why the pieces don’t fit.”

  He moved two steps closer to Reynolds and Sinclair. “Sometimes the prosecution’s evidence isn’t quite as strong as they initially assumed. They’ll be tempted to change some of the pieces.” He looked directly at the prosecutors, then faced the jury. “But you won’t let that happen, because, unlike a child, you’re not allowed to bend and twist the truth so it’ll become your version of the facts.” Hi
s voice rose with indignation.

  “This isn’t a simple game anymore; a man’s life is at stake; a man’s freedom’s in jeopardy. And who, precisely, is this man?” He crossed to the defense table and stood behind Matheson. “The state will have you believe he’s a murderer,” he spoke softly, “a man who advocated violent revenge and in the end decided to take justice into his own hands.” His voice became slightly louder. “But, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, no matter how hard you try and force those pieces together, they’ll never fit the true picture of Professor Martin Matheson.” Miller pointed at Reynolds. “He may be a puzzle to the prosecution, but he’s no mystery to the community.”

  Reynolds watched Octavia Bailey and Vernetta Williams move their heads side to side the way a congregation acknowledges a profound truth revealed by the pastor. It’s a rare moment when shaking your head no really means an unequivocal yes.

  “He’s a dedicated scholar with a passion for education and a fierce determination not to allow history to be distorted or forgotten.” Miller became more emphatic and deliberate in his delivery. “He’s a black man unapologetic for his intellect and unwilling to remain silent about what he knows, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us—and make no mistake: We’ve been made to feel terribly uncomfortable.”

  Miller approached the jury and put his hands on the railing. “In the prosecution’s opening, they showed you photographs of the professor’s work area at home. They made you look at the horrific burnt corpse of Earvin Cooper, the tragic victim of a senseless homicide. And then, ladies and gentlemen, very cleverly they displayed the photo of my client, who himself was the victim of a violent and cowardly assault.” He took his hands off the railing and slowly paced in front of the jury box, looking at each member as he spoke. “You want to know why they did that?” He waited for a moment. “Because they want to take distinct pieces from three different and unrelated puzzles and have you believe that it creates an image of a criminal.”

  Miller walked to a slide projector. “Well, let me show you Professor Matheson’s only crime.” He flipped on a switch. A brutal image of a naked black man in flames flickered onto a large white screen and caused a number of jurors as well as others in the courtroom to gasp.

  Reynolds jumped to his feet to offer an objection, but Tanner moved on his own. “Mr. Miller,” the judge said with authority, “turn that off and approach the bench with opposing counsel.”

  Miller turned off the projector and joined Tanner at the bench. Reynolds and Sinclair also arrived and engaged in an animated discussion. Matheson studied the jury. All except Aubrey Munson were straining their necks to get a good look at the activity occurring among the lawyers and Tanner. Munson watched the professor. The two men made eye contact for several moments before Munson retrieved his pad and wrote a brief note.

  Reynolds tried to maintain his calm, but his emotions were greatly tested. “There’s no reason to show photos of lynchings over thirty years old!” he told the judge. “Our jury includes eight blacks. How do you expect them to feel when they’re forced to see those?”

  Miller seized the moment. “If Mr. Reynolds is suggesting African-Americans won’t be able to discern the truth after reviewing all relevant evidence, he should’ve stated that for the record in the opening argument.”

  “Your Honor,” said a frustrated Sinclair, “how can you—”

  “Thank you, Attorney Sinclair. As always, I appreciate your wise counsel, but I’m going to call a brief recess so we can continue this in chambers.”

  The attorneys returned to their places. Tanner informed the jury there were some procedural matters to resolve and promised to reconvene as quickly as possible. The judge met with Reynolds and Matheson in his chambers and requested that the court reporter take minutes. Tanner didn’t conceal his dismay as he asked, “Mr. Miller, do you have a legal basis for admitting these photos?”

  “I’ve prepared a brief for your review that cites case law.” Miller handed the judge a thick file. “The defense maintains that Professor Matheson is being victimized because of his unpopular beliefs and teaching methods. We have a right to pursue that theory and to demonstrate to the jury exactly what brought him to the attention of local authorities.”

  “What brought him to the attention of local authorities was his blood at the crime scene,” insisted Reynolds.

  “I look forward to your presentation on DNA testing,” challenged Miller.

  “As will I,” snorted Tanner. “You’ll have my ruling within the hour. I’ll give the jurors most of the afternoon to digest their food while I do the same to your briefings.” Tanner leaned his body forward and pointed at Miller. “If I decide in your favor, I expect any presentation will be handled in the most respectful and least inflammatory way possible.”

  “I fully appreciate that concern, Your Honor. And I will certainly comply with the spirit of your request,” Miller said diplomatically.

  “I can tell you that under normal circumstances I’d grant your motion ’bout as quick as I’d allow a blind man with arthritis to give me a shave and haircut.” Tanner unwrapped some chocolate candy and popped a piece into his mouth. “But given the unprecedented attention paid to this case, I don’t want anyone thinking Professor Matheson didn’t get the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Your Honor, if I can—”

  “You already did, Mr. Reynolds, through your cocounsel’s presentation. If anyone opened the door to the professor’s course and to his use of the photos, it was the state. Now you’re gonna have to live with it.” He looked at Miller. “Within reason. Is that understood?”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor,” promised Miller.

  “We’re going to have a shortened work schedule next week. Because of scheduling conflicts as well as some logistical problems, we’ve got half sessions on Thursday and Friday.” Tanner opened his center drawer and removed a calendar. “Mr. Reynolds, you should look at your witness list, and if you wish to revise it in accordance with our time constraints, I’ll allow that, assuming there’s no objection from defense.”

  “They can come early, late, or not at all,” postured Miller. “In the words of Joe Louis, ‘they can run but they can’t hide.’”

  “I believe Mr. Louis had difficulty being understood in his later years,” commented Tanner. “Try not to follow in his footsteps.” Tanner ate another piece of candy. “Mr. Reynolds, what’s your poison? You wanna stay as planned or make changes?”

  “I’d like to discuss it with Ms. Sinclair at the break, Your Honor, but I don’t anticipate making any adjustments.”

  “Mr. Miller, if I allow you to continue with your slide show, how long do you intend to shock our sensibilities?”

  “Judge, as you well know, some sensibilities are more easily shocked than others.” Miller looked at Reynolds. “I’ll do my best to disturb everyone’s within an hour.”

  “An hour?” objected Reynolds. “That’s outrageous! There’s no justification to put this jury through a barrage of—”

  “Try forty-five minutes, Counselor,” Tanner offered the compromise. “Or I’ll invoke Article Four, Federal Rules of Evidence, Section Four-oh-three, and deny your request on the grounds the evidence is prejudicial, confusing, and an undue waste of court time. Do I need to provide you with any additional citations?”

  “No, Your Honor, that’s quite sufficient,” agreed Miller.

  “And I’m tellin’ you now,” warned Tanner, “if you start playin’ the violin or any other background music while you show those photos, I’m pullin’ the plug. Catch my drift?”

  “Does pulling heartstrings count as music?” Miller asked.

  “Mr. Miller, I’m tempted to tell you what to pull, but I’ll wait for a more appropriate time. I suggest you both leave me to my chores so we can salvage the afternoon.” Tanner started reading Miller’s brief. The judge waited until both lawyers were gone, then returned the pages to the file. He placed his feet on the corner of his desk, leaned back, and closed his e
yes.

  CHAPTER 39

  AS REYNOLDS EXPECTED, the ruling went against the state, and Miller took full advantage of it. For the past sixty-five minutes the slide projector had displayed one horrific image after the other. Miller described each picture, his voice crackling occasionally with emotion. At times, he’d show the photo without speaking, particularly when the brutality of the crime was directed against women or children. The sound of the projector, combined with the beam of light, cast an eerie presence throughout the courtroom.

  “This man was taken from a local jail with the assistance of a deputy sheriff. A mob mutilated his body.”

  Reynolds studied the jury, grateful he’d have a full weekend before he needed to face them. On the other hand, he worried these images might stay in their thoughts for the next three days. If so, the case was doomed before it began.

  “They poured gasoline over his remains,” Miller said in a tone of quiet reverence, “and burned him at the stake.” He let the jury study the slide until a few turned away. “As was the case in so many of these crimes, no charges were ever brought against the perpetrators.”

  “Mr. Miller,” Tanner interrupted, “are you almost finished?”

  “Just one more slide, Your Honor.” Miller nodded to Regina, who provided technical assistance and operated the projector. She pressed the Advance button, and a new slide appeared on the oversized screen. A group of whites surrounded the lynched body of a black man who hung from a tree, one hand severed, neck broken, a knife plunged into his heart. In the background a few yards away glowed a large burning cross.