Blood on the Leaves Page 26

  “You wanna talk?” Reynolds asked gently.

  “I threw the first punch,” Christopher replied with little comfort.

  “You’re supposed to throw the last.”

  “It was my last.”

  “How many guys?”

  “Four. They all thought Matheson was a hero and they said you were a Tom.”

  “That’s when you threw the punch?”

  “No. They said you were an asshole. Cared more about winning than finding the truth.”

  “You hit ’em then?”

  “No. They called me a punk. That’s when I hit ’em.”

  “Oh . . . Well, as long as you’re defending our family’s honor . . . Can you eat?”

  “What did Mom make?”

  “Tuna casserole.”

  “No.”

  Reynolds stood next to his son, and they both looked out the window. He placed his arm around Christopher’s shoulders. “Wanna sneak out for a pizza?”

  “Won’t Mom get upset?”

  “What’s she gonna do about it, beat you?”

  “Hey, Dad”—Christopher frowned—“could you quit with the cute stuff?”

  “Sorry,” said Reynolds. “Just wanted to look at the bright side.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you still got two good eyes.”

  They walked to the door, and Reynolds opened it, then placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “So, you wanna tell me again about that punch you threw?”

  “It was a beauty, Dad, except I didn’t follow it up with anything.”

  Reynolds nodded understandingly. “I know the feelin’.” They both left the room.

  CHAPTER 46

  TUESDAY MORNING DR. Nelson Stokes explained the intricacies of DNA. He told the jury that every individual has his own unique genetic makeup, which distinguishes him from anyone else who’s ever lived, is currently alive, or will be born anytime in the future. “Think of it as God’s special nicknames for all His children,” he said, to the appreciation of Blaze Hansberry. Reynolds thought the rest of the jury found him condescending.

  Stokes described the various tests performed, then showed examples of enlarged laboratory plastic strips, which offered a comparison of Dr. Matheson’s DNA with the blood evidence discovered underneath Earvin Cooper’s fingernails. He identified the pattern of thin lines that formed “a scientific match with the defendant, providing conclusive proof that Dr. Matheson and the victim were engaged in a bloody confrontation.”

  Miller offered numerous objections, most of which were overruled. But his constant interruptions had the desired effect of making the doctor’s tedious presentation even more unbearable.

  Tanner gave the jury an extra ten minutes for their morning break and an extra half hour for lunch. When they returned for the afternoon session, it took Reynolds less than thirty seconds to mercifully conclude his questioning.

  “Dr. Stokes, you conducted DNA tests on blood found underneath Mr. Cooper’s fingernails, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are the odds the DNA you analyzed belongs to anyone other than the defendant?”

  “Seven and a half billion to one.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Tanner appeared as relieved as the jury that Reynolds had completed his portion of the examination. He turned to Miller. “Counselor, you may begin your cross of the witness.”

  Miller stood and gave a comforting nod to the jurors and walked toward the witness. “Dr. Stokes, you’ll have to forgive me if I ask some rather naive questions, I’m just an old country lawyer. I don’t know much about DNA except for what I learned by watchin’ case after case of high-profile defense teams pretty much destroyin’ the reliability of all that testin’ you do.”

  Reynolds knew once Miller started dropping his “g’s” he was setting up the witness for the kill.

  “Now, from the little I know about this evolvin’ science, I’m somewhat concerned, and maybe you can alleviate my fears. Isn’t it true that the people responsible for handlin’ genetic material need constant trainin’?”

  “That’s true for all occupations involving technology, and yes, it’s particularly the case with this form of science.”

  “I happen to have a list of county and state employees who initially collected then conducted the preliminary analysis on the DNA evidence you spent all morning long describing. I took the liberty of reviewing their training and the type of equipment they used.” He moved to the defense table and retrieved several computer printouts. “Your Honor, permission to approach.”

  “Granted.”

  “Defense would like to introduce exhibit seventeen-A into evidence.”

  “Court reporter will so mark and record,” instructed Tanner.

  “Dr. Stokes, might you take a moment and evaluate that information, and if you can, would you kindly explain to the jury whether or not in your expert opinion the laboratory technicians on that list have maintained the proper ongoing professional training required to fulfill their duties?”

  Stokes read the material. He frowned noticeably, and his eyebrows arched several times during his review.

  “Dr. Stokes, I take it by your facial expressions you have some concerns you might like to share with the rest of us.”

  The witness became stoic. “The training hasn’t kept pace with the technology in all instances, but I’m certain these people are qualified to perform the jobs they were hired to do.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t belittle our hardworking and dedicated state employees who do the best they can with poor training, limited resources, financial cutbacks, and outdated equipment.” Miller folded his arms across his chest. “That equipment I just mentioned is outdated, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?”

  Stokes shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s better and more advanced equipment in the scientific marketplace, but what they use is perfectly adequate.”

  “Somehow the phrase ‘perfectly adequate’ doesn’t exactly generate an abundance of confidence. If you were having a heart transplant, would you feel comfortable having the surgeons use ‘perfectly adequate’ equipment?”

  Reynolds stood. “Objection, Your Honor. We’re not discussing heart transplants.”

  “I agree with counsel,” said Miller. “We’re dealing with a man’s life and freedom, but I’ll withdraw the question.”

  Reynolds sat down and decided he wouldn’t object again unless absolutely necessary.

  “If I could”—Stokes tentatively raised his hand—“might I address your concerns regarding the equipment?”

  Miller smiled politely. “Please try.”

  “Thank you. Regardless of any perceived problems either in personnel, training, or equipment, I want to remind the jury that I personally conducted these tests, which formed the basis for my opinions. I can assure the court that my laboratory utilizes the most advanced and precise technology available.”

  “Thanks for reminding us of those facts,” said Miller, looking none too thankful. “Perhaps you can help resolve another concern. I was taught in basic introduction to science, ‘Garbage in, garbage out.’ Does that principle still apply?”

  “It does,” answered Stokes reluctantly, “but—”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Miller, cutting him off. “Now, I reviewed the report you furnished the court. And frankly, I may have misunderstood some of the information.”

  “That’s quite understandable,” offered an annoyed Stokes.

  Miller ignored the remark. “One of the samples you use to determine statistical probability is based on African-American males.”

  “Correct.”

  “So, when the report indicates a sample base of five, does that represent millions?”

  “No. Five is the accurate number.”

  “Five people?!” Miller expressed incredulously.

  “That may sound insufficient, but—”

  “It does indeed. Tell the jury the backgrounds of those in the sample.”<
br />
  “The backgrounds?”

  “It states in your report they were African-Americans. Can you tell us if they were born in this country? Were they the products of interracial marriages? Any health problems that might affect the tests?”

  “They live in Detroit.”

  “So they were foreigners?” Miller’s question caused an immediate outburst of laughter.

  “Mr. Miller, could you save the humor for another time and place?” warned Tanner.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I hadn’t realized how funny this was until Dr. Stokes answered my questions. I’m through with this witness.”

  Tanner gave Miller a stern stare that lasted several moments after he took his seat. “Any redirect, Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, just a few questions.” Reynolds had already decided he’d need to call two or three additional scientists to compensate for Stokes’s unimpressive testimony, but he wanted to make a reasonable effort to rehabilitate this witness.

  Stokes reviewed the nature of statistical sampling and discussed the number of tests conducted on thousands of human subjects around the world. He described the sophistication and reliability of the tests and the type of DNA data pool the worldwide scientific community could draw upon in rendering their conclusions. Reynolds asked how many times in his experience mistakes in handling DNA, or outdated equipment, had resulted in the misidentification of a defendant on trial. “Zero times,” answered Stokes. “It might exculpate a guilty person, but it would never cause an innocent one to go to prison. Mistakes in the laboratory don’t create someone else’s DNA.”

  Reynolds thought he’d done as much as he could to restore credibility to his witness, and finished his redirect.

  “Mr. Miller, any recross?” asked the judge.

  Miller rose from his seat. “I’ll be brief, Your Honor.”

  Tanner looked at his watch. “I’m sure the jury will appreciate that.”

  “Dr. Stokes, you indicated that mistakes in analysis could never misidentify a subject and therefore contribute to an innocent defendant’s being wrongly imprisoned.”

  “That’s correct,” responded Stokes. “As I said, the lab can’t create DNA. It can only analyze what already exists.”

  “But mislabeling occurs all the time, doesn’t it? Hospitals operate on the wrong person, remove or replace a healthy organ, or send a baby home with someone else’s parents.”

  Stokes shook his head and waved his index finger. “That’s a completely different subject, and you know that, Counselor.”

  “I realize you’re a renowned specialist in your field, Doctor, but I didn’t know you could also read my mind.” Miller addressed the jury. “I can’t even do that with precision, and trust me—I’ve tried.”

  Reynolds watched August Cobb and Faraday Patterson nudge each other and smile.

  “Do you happen to know how Dr. Matheson’s blood was made available so that you and others could conduct DNA tests?”

  “I’m not sure I understand your question,” responded Stokes.

  Miller retrieved two sheets of paper. “Defense introduces exhibits thirty-four-A and -B.”

  “So marked,” ruled Tanner.

  “Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

  The judge nodded. Reynolds looked at Sinclair, concerned.

  “Dr. Stokes, please take a moment and review that paperwork.”

  Stokes skimmed the two sheets and looked up at Miller.

  “Isn’t it true that Dr. Matheson voluntarily provided two blood samples while he was being treated for injuries sustained in an attack?”

  Stokes looked at the information again. “It would appear so.”

  “And where was he when those samples were taken?”

  “Based on the information contained in this report, apparently the blood was taken at a police station.”

  “And you have no way of knowing what happened to that blood after it was in the custody of the police, do you, Doctor?”

  “I would have no reason to know, sir.”

  “You’re telling this jury that although you personally analyzed DNA evidence, you don’t care what happened to it or how it was handled before it got to you; is that your testimony?”

  Reynolds rose angrily. “Objection!”

  “That is not my testimony! I said . . .” Stokes exhibited his first real sign of anger and confusion.

  “There’s an objection, Dr. Stokes,” Tanner interrupted.

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” replied the flustered witness.

  Tanner looked at Reynolds. “Your basis.”

  “Intentionally misstates Dr. Stokes’s testimony, and further, Your Honor, I believe Mr. Miller is raising another totally unfounded inference regarding police conduct in this case.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Miller isn’t going to travel down that road, unless he can provide more than mere speculation to this court. Am I reassured of that fact, Counselor?” Tanner stared at Miller.

  “Wouldn’t think of doing otherwise, Your Honor.”

  “As far as your initial objection, Mr. Reynolds, the court sustains it,” ruled Tanner. “Mr. Miller, you may proceed with this witness.”

  “I have no further questions.”

  “Mr. Reynolds?”

  “I have none, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” remarked Tanner. “The witness is excused.”

  Stokes left the court in a huff.

  “This concludes the session for today. We’ll meet tomorrow and attempt to complete as much testimony as we can before we go into our half-day schedules for the remainder of the week.” Tanner turned his attention to the jury. “You’re reminded of the court’s previous admonishment regarding discussing any facet of this case. Have a good evening and try to get yourselves some well-deserved rest.”

  Miller joked with some of the spectators behind him while Reynolds and Sinclair remained seated at their table in defeat.

  Reynolds was preparing to leave when he noticed Regina holding up a large tan envelope and smiling at Matheson, who nodded in appreciation.

  It had taken her longer than expected, but she’d finally located the information. Though it had required her to travel to the main library in Natchez, the trip resulted in not one but two articles of interest. The first described the grisly lynching of Thaddeus Edwards, a thirty-six-year-old truck driver and father of six daughters and one son. The victim had been mutilated and stabbed through the heart. His body was discovered still hanging from a tree in the state park just off the main trail leading to the picnic area.

  While copying the article, Regina had noticed a small column at the bottom of the page, with a heading that caught her interest: FIVE-YEAR-OLD NEGRO BOY FOUND ALIVE. She skimmed this second story and stopped at the name James Reynolds. She learned that the boy, known at school as “Jimmie,” was the only child of Lydell and Sonya Reynolds. She readjusted the microfiche machine, pressed the Print button, and made a copy.

  CHAPTER 47

  WEDNESDAY’S SESSION STARTED with a bang or, more accurately, the threat of one. All occupants left the courthouse in an orderly fashion as members of the bomb squad searched every inch of the facilities, starting on the fifth floor and working their way down to the basement. Miller approached Reynolds and Sinclair, who stood outside near the parking lot at a reasonably safe distance from the main activity.

  “Burning down the building won’t save you,” quipped Miller.

  “It’s not a fire drill,” Sinclair informed him. “We’ve got a bomb threat.”

  Miller leaned close to Sinclair and lightly sniffed. “Maybe someone didn’t like your perfume.”

  She gave him a hostile look.

  “Although I am rather fond of the bittersweet scent losing prosecutors exude.”

  She stared at Reynolds. “James, I know he’s your friend, but I’m gonna hurt him. I’m really gonna hurt him.”

  After the court proceedings were canceled for the day, Reynolds and Sinclair returned to their
office to regroup. Miller lingered behind and strolled through the festive crowd. With his hectic schedule he hadn’t previously noticed the outdoor community that had emerged since the beginning of the trial.

  Territories were allotted for various factions and political causes. The media reserved the best locations, setting aside space for catering and celebrity trailers. Food vendors and artists fought daily for the remaining spots, while entertainers and troubadours roamed freely, accepting donations for each performance, trick, or face-painting.

  Miller stopped at a booth and perused so-called Third World propaganda in the form of leaflets, newsletters, and books. He read about the government’s “AIDS conspiracy” and their “secret plans at genocide aimed at people of color.” He shook his head at the notion that his government could successfully plan anything, let alone manage to keep it secret for longer than seventy-two hours.

  He walked to another area and browsed a series of charcoal sketches, original posters, and oil paintings. Some of the exhibiting artists were quite talented, while others simply stamped slogans on canvas or cheap T-shirts and sold their products to the highest bidder, providing discounts for volume purchases.

  He headed toward his car after discovering two posters displayed on easels next to each other. Both posters revealed the same basic drawing of a lynching. The first showed a man’s black silhouette hanging from a tree; the body cast a long white shadow. The second reversed the images; the hung victim was depicted as a white silhouette that cast an equally long black shadow, perhaps slightly longer.

  Miller expressed interest in both until informed by the artist that he’d sold out of the white version but would have more in stock before the trial ended. Miller promised the man he’d come back later, then proceeded to his vehicle without making any more stops.

  Sinclair and Reynolds attended a strategy session with Vanzant. They’d listed the names of all their witnesses and discussed the possibility of adding others.