Blood on the Leaves Page 27

  “What about that guy Matheson threatened at the university just before he got arrested?” Vanzant asked. “He’s available to testify, and it would show the professor’s violent nature.”

  “What’s he gonna say?” responded Reynolds. “‘I spat in the professor’s face and he should’ve handled it more serenely’?”

  “James is right,” agreed Sinclair. “After they learned what he did to Matheson, they’d threaten him, too.”

  “Maybe we were wrong not to charge him with Arnold Rankin’s bombing death,” said Vanzant.

  “A gas receipt and a year-old purchase of dynamite isn’t sufficient to indict him,” countered Reynolds.

  “Yeah, but cumulative evidence might be enough to sway some of the jurors.” Vanzant reached for his pouch of tobacco and discovered it was empty. “When it rains, it pours,” he said despondently.

  “Had we indicted Matheson on any of the other murders with the evidence we’ve got, we would’ve lost all credibility with the jury,” argued Sinclair. “We haven’t got that much as it is.”

  Vanzant pulled out a folder and handed it to Reynolds. “Maybe this will help.”

  Reynolds and Sinclair both studied the contents.

  “Let’s get him on the stand pronto,” ordered Vanzant.

  “We’ll have to bump the pathologist’s report,” said Sinclair.

  “From what I’ve been told about this jury,” remarked Vanzant, “they’ve had their fill of scientists and doctors. Let’s give ’em a taste of common folk.”

  Reynolds sat back. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

  Vanzant looked at the two attorneys. “I’ve already scheduled him. He’ll be your next witness.” He walked toward his desk and flicked on his fan.

  Reynolds took it as a sign to leave. He picked up his materials and left with Sinclair. Once they reached the safety of the hallway, he pulled her aside.

  “We’re not gonna have time to meet with this guy or prepare him for testimony or even determine if we should put him on.”

  “I know.” Sinclair nodded sympathetically. “But it looks pretty straightforward. Anyway, our not having had time to interview him means we aren’t obligated to give Miller any more information than we’ve got in that file.” She walked with Reynolds down to her office. “If we knew for certain Matheson would take the stand, we’d use it as impeachment and not share it with Miller at all. But we can’t afford to take that risk.”

  “I know Todd too well,” Reynolds warned. “When he’s prepared, he’s dangerous. When he’s not, he’s a barracuda.”

  “That explains it,” said Sinclair.

  “Explains what?”

  “Ever since I met him at your home, I’ve been trying to figure out where I first saw him. It was swimming with the other sharks.”

  CHAPTER 48

  BOBBY GELON SAT in the witness chair and answered all of the questions posed by Reynolds. Gelon, at five-four in shoes, peeked over the dark wood railing at the jury and spoke in short, gruff sound bites. He rocked back and forth occasionally, which caused his bald pink head to disappear then reappear between responses. He told the jury he was forty-two, but Reynolds knew they didn’t believe that, either.

  “It’s your testimony the defendant purchased a pair of size-thirteen work shoes from you?” asked Reynolds.

  “Five months ago, sure did.”

  “How can you be certain that person was Dr. Matheson?”

  “Never forget him,” Gelon said indignantly. “Seemed like the man went out his way to be rude and obnoxious. Had a real chip on his shoulder. Thought for sure he wanted to pick a fight.”

  “No further questions.” Reynolds sat with an uneasy feeling.

  “Mr. Miller, your witness.”

  Miller started to rise, but Matheson pulled him down. “Ask him about his employment practices,” he whispered, “whether he’s had any discrimination lawsuits.” He pushed a file toward Miller, who opened it and quickly scanned the pages. He looked up from the file and gave the professor a curious look.

  Miller rose and approached the podium, carrying the file. “Mr. Gelon, how long have you owned your shoe store?”

  “Been in the family fifty years. My granddaddy trained my papa. He trained me. I’m trainin’ my two boys.”

  “You employ non-family members?”

  “Got twelve. Half of ’em part-time.”

  “How many are black?”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Gelon’s hiring practices are of no concern to this court,” argued Reynolds.

  “The jury has a right to determine if his motives go beyond civic duty,” rebutted Miller.

  “The witness may answer,” ruled Tanner.

  “I ain’t got no blacks workin’ for me. Never have.” Gelon’s rapid-fire response caused several jurors to smile in amusement, while it had the opposite effect on others.

  Miller paused and scratched behind his right ear. “You seem pretty proud of that. Did your father ever hire any blacks?”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Gelon’s father didn’t sell shoes to the defendant,” objected Reynolds.

  “The defense would like to introduce several lawsuits filed by African-American consumers and applicants for employment that clearly demonstrate a pattern of discrimination in the business practices of Mr. Gelon, his papa, his granddaddy, and in all likelihood in the future, his two boys.”

  “Mr. Miller, you will show proper respect in my courtroom. Understood?” Tanner didn’t flinch.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I’ll share these documents with the state. Perhaps we can stipulate their admission this afternoon.”

  “That’ll be fine,” agreed the judge.

  “Mr. Gelon, were there any other employees or customers in your store when you say Professor Matheson purchased the boots?”

  “Nope,” replied Gelon nonchalantly. “Just before closin’ and I was by myself.”

  “How convenient,” Miller replied. “Could you tell this jury why you waited so long before calling the district attorney’s office?”

  “Didn’t know my information was valuable.”

  “By ‘valuable’ do you mean you wanted to see how much it was worth to a tabloid newspaper or a television station?”

  “Objection,” argued Reynolds.

  “Sustained,” ruled Tanner.

  “You think coming forward in such a high-profile case might be good for your business?” asked Miller.

  Gelon rocked out of sight, then reappeared. “Hadn’t given it much thought till you asked the question just now.”

  “Well, since you’re thinkin’ ’bout it,” Miller said sarcastically, “would you hazard a guess if your appearance will be good for your store, bring in new customers?”

  “Don’t rightly know, but I’ll be happy to leave my business cards at the door,” answered a grinning Gelon.

  “And let me expedite that for you as rapidly as possible,” Miller said with disgust. “I have no further questions of this witness. Mr. Gelon can get back to his family business.” Miller took his seat but avoided looking at Matheson.

  Reynolds declined the opportunity to redirect. Tanner excused the witness. The rest of the afternoon the jury heard from the state’s pathologist, who described the injuries sustained by Cooper and the cause of death. He speculated on the duration and effectiveness of the victim’s struggle and the type of injuries he may have inflicted on his assailant. He explained his autopsy reports and utilized three large easels to display anatomy charts. The doctor was proud that his work had been the subject of a documentary broadcast on a premium cable network. He described various methods a pathologist could use to reconstruct a body and informed the jury that a careful autopsy not only revealed answers to how a person was murdered but also offered important clues to who may have committed the homicide.

  After Reynolds finished direct, Miller asked the doctor why the Association of Crime Scene Reconstruction had expelled him eight years ago for unethical behavior, and “was that also t
he reason why the Southwestern Association of Forensic Scientists censured you the following year?”

  Miller notified the judge he had no more questions.

  Friday afternoon consisted of more of the same. Two DNA experts testified for the state and explained the basis of their scientific judgment that the blood found on the victim’s body matched the defendant.

  Tanner dismissed the jury a half hour early and advised them to have an enjoyable weekend. He kept the lawyers for an additional hour and forty-five minutes to review motions and make rulings from the bench.

  The session ended at 6:15, and the prosecution team headed back to the DA’s office, where Reynolds sat dejected in their conference room.

  “You want a cup of coffee?” Sinclair offered.

  “No, thanks. Given my luck, caffeine will make me drowsy.”

  She filled a large ceramic mug for herself. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some rest.”

  “After this is over, all I’m gonna do is stay in bed. I might not sleep, but at least I’ll be balled up in a fetal position.”

  “You think Matheson might’ve owned two pens exactly alike? We could check the most exclusive writing and stationery stores.”

  “You really want to know what I think?” He stood up and walked to a duplicate poster display of the Cooper crime scene. “I think Matheson created an elaborate trap and we fell right into it. He never lost that pen. He knew all along there’d come a time when he’d need to use it.”

  “Whoa, slow down, Mr. Prosecutor.” She put an extra sugar in her coffee. “That’s a bit too far-fetched even for the most avid conspiracy theorist.”

  He approached her and pleaded his case. “He made sure Officer Macon was the one who originally noticed the pen; then he filed a lost-and-found report without ever checking with him.”

  “So?”

  He sat down next to her. “He volunteered to have the police take a sample of his blood under the pretense it might help them capture his assailants.”

  “Why would he give the police incriminating evidence and put himself in jeopardy?”

  “Not himself. Us. He counted on a jury having no faith in the justice system, and with good reason. This whole trial is taking place because the courts failed to punish the man Matheson’s accused of murdering. That message isn’t lost on those jurors.”

  “You think he planned the perfect crime that far in advance?”

  “Not the perfect crime, the perfect cover. He wanted to be caught. He just didn’t want to be convicted.”

  “No one’s that diabolical, James.”

  “Look, I know you think it’s far-fetched, but the man selected a small shoe store isolated in some remote town. He ordered the largest pair of boots available, paid cash, then argued with the only person in the store, who just happened to be a known racist with a public record of discrimination complaints.” Reynolds studied Sinclair’s face and could tell she was at least considering his theory. “You believe there’s any way Matheson would patronize that shop unless he intended to set us all up?”

  “The store owner has a motive to lie. Miller demonstrated that.”

  “You believe Gelon wasn’t telling the truth?”

  “The guy’s a bigot. Maybe he wanted his ten minutes of fame and some free advertising,” she said without conviction.

  “That guy didn’t drive all the way down here and make up some story about selling shoes to Matheson, and you know that.”

  “Maybe I do,” admitted Sinclair. “But I’m not sitting on the jury.” She stepped away from Reynolds. “It just strikes me as too bizarre. I mean, why would Matheson volunteer the blood samples?”

  “He assumed they’d find his blood at the murder scene.”

  “In a burned-out barn? My God, James, will you listen to yourself? I know you’re frustrated—we all are. But you’re imagining a sinister master plot behind everything that’s happened. Murdering old men is bad enough, but not even the devil could be that cunning or evil.”

  “I’m telling you, Lauren, he’s played us like a violin, and the concert isn’t over yet. Matheson deliberately left behind enough evidence to get himself arrested, knowing full well he’d undermine its credibility. The man developed a scheme to destroy our case before we ever put it together.”

  “If half of what you’re saying is true, then Melvin was right not to indict on any other counts of murder. If he gets off on this charge, we’ve got six more bites at the apple.”

  “If he’s acquitted on this one, we’ll never make another murder charge stick.”

  “Then he’s won,” Sinclair said in resignation.

  “Not yet,” advised Reynolds. “There are still some people whose testimony Matheson may not be able to tarnish.”

  “I thought we were through with our witness list.”

  “I’m working on a long shot.”

  She watched him walk to the end of the conference table, where he grabbed his coat and retrieved a small phone book.

  CHAPTER 49

  REYNOLDS DROVE THROUGH an impoverished area of Natchez, unable to pass the slow-moving garbage truck that left behind more trash than it removed. Though only a few miles from his mother’s place, this neighborhood could have been dropped from another planet. Homes were little more than tar-paper shacks. Unsafe porches teetered on decayed wood. Torn and frayed welcome mats prepared visitors for greater disrepair once inside. Front and side yards were dumping grounds for broken-down cars, secondhand parts, makeshift furniture, and worthless appliances. Reynolds discovered an occasional garden or vegetable patch overshadowed by piles of discarded plastic junk and scrap metal.

  The garbage truck made a tight turn and rolled over a child’s bicycle. As it went around a narrow corner, it struck the edge of the curb and bounced hard, scattering additional litter across the road. Reynolds searched for street addresses, but many of the numbers were missing. He relied on bent and dented mailboxes to help navigate him through unfamiliar terrain. His car slowed down and pulled in front of a large house. He couldn’t tell whether the scaffolds surrounding the home represented renovation or decay. Either way, they seemed insufficient for the repair of a structure so damaged by time and neglect.

  Reynolds exited his car and took along his briefcase. He observed two young black girls on the front lawn. The older one, around nine, jumped rope. The other, probably her younger sister by two years, mimicked her. When Reynolds approached, they stopped playing and stared at the well-dressed black man.

  “Frank Edwards live here?” he asked.

  They looked at each other and giggled. Reynolds heard the sound of wood being chopped. The older girl threw her rope to the ground and raced her sister to the rear of the house. Reynolds picked up the jump rope and followed them.

  Frank Edwards handled his ax with efficiency. Chips of wood flew with every swing. His deceptively thin body masked a strength forged by hard work and a lifetime of fighting poverty and disappointment. He brought the ax blade down with extra force and cut a chunk of wood in two. He studied Reynolds for a moment, then swung the ax again, driving it into the top piece of a woodpile. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve, and his eyelids closed halfway. “Let’s go inside.”

  Reynolds gave the jump rope to the youngest girl, who used it to tease her sister.

  The two men entered the kitchen through a side door. Several punctures and large rips had rendered the screen useless, inviting mosquitoes and other flying insects to enter and exit at will. The temperature felt ten degrees hotter than outside, and the kitchen smelled of ammonia and roach spray. Edwards took a glass from a rubber dish holder near the sink and turned on the faucet. He ran water over the outside of the glass, wiped it clean with a towel, and filled it with water.

  “I been readin’ ’bout the case.” Edwards handed the glass to Reynolds. “Don’t know how you could try and put that man away. You bein’ black and all.”

  Reynolds drank the water and found it surprisingly col
d and refreshing. “How much do you remember about your father?”

  “I remember the hole he left. That professor, he filled some of it. Not all. Just a tiny piece.”

  Reynolds finished the drink and handed the glass to Edwards, who issued his statement without any anger. “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to help you, if that’s why you came by.”

  Reynolds placed his briefcase on the kitchen counter and opened it. He removed the photo of the lynching and handed it to Edwards, who held it at a distance, then slowly brought it closer to his body. He swallowed hard, and his eyes filled with tears.

  “I thought you should have that,” Reynolds said respectfully.

  Edwards looked through the screen door and saw his two daughters fighting to use the jump rope. He gazed at the photo. “I used to go there,” he said softly. “Stare at the place. The tree. Sometimes, I’d see him. Hangin’. Swayin’. Mouth open. Like he wanted to say somethin’.” He peered at Reynolds. “I never thought he’d look this bad.” He returned the photo to the briefcase and snapped it shut.

  “I think I knew your father,” Reynolds said. “When I was young, I remember seeing him.”

  Edwards took Reynolds’s glass and moved to the sink. “They accused him of hurtin’ children. Doin’ sick things to little girls.” He rinsed the glass and placed it upside down on a brown mat. He turned to face his visitor. “My daddy never did nothin’ but make ’em laugh.”

  He stood by the door and watched his children take turns with the rope. “He’d always have ’em over the house. Tellin’ ’em stories. Holdin’ ’em on his knee. My mama told him not to touch the white ones, to just let ’em play by themselves. He’d get angry and say all God’s children got a right to be hugged.” Edwards approached Reynolds, and they stood face to face. “What you really come here for?”

  After he heard the answer, Edwards loaded his daughters into his pickup truck, and Reynolds followed them for less than ten miles on Highway 61. They exited at Stanton and proceeded to Natchez State Park. The trip took about twenty minutes. Edwards passed the main entrance and drove the length of two and a half football fields before pulling into a small rest area. Reynolds parked his car alongside the truck and exited his vehicle first.