Blood on the Leaves Read online

  “I object, Your Honor.” Miller stood and addressed the court. “Dr. Matheson is a scholar, but his expertise isn’t in the field of psychology.”

  Tanner turned toward Matheson. “Did you understand the question?”

  “As well as its implication,” replied Matheson.

  “Then you may answer,” ruled Tanner.

  “Obsession’s a disorder which has, happily, never afflicted me.” Matheson leaned back and relaxed. “As to my behavior in dealing with Earvin Cooper and the others, that would depend in large part on whether or not they were alive. Since Mr. Cooper is deceased and I’m charged with his murder, I’m not as interested in revealing his guilt as I am in proving my innocence.”

  “Did you find it odd that you suffered an assault on the same evening Earvin Cooper fought and struggled with his assailant?”

  Matheson leaned forward and displayed a slight degree of irritation. “I find a great many things odd, Mr. Reynolds, including that J. Edgar Hoover’s name is plastered all over a building which purportedly represents law and order and justice.”

  Reynolds glanced at the jury and noticed that Aubrey Munson wasn’t too pleased with that remark, but he remained in the clear minority.

  “And since you brought up the subject,” continued Matheson with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “I also find it odd you sustained so many injuries from just one fender bender. But I’m not a medical doctor, so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  Reynolds silently counted to five, then ten, then five more. “Since you’ve indicated you’re not a medical doctor, by any chance do you consider yourself God?”

  Miller stood. “Your Honor, I object.”

  “Actually,” remarked Tanner, “I’m kinda interested in the answer. Overruled.”

  “No, Mr. Reynolds, I don’t believe I’m God, although in many cultures each individual might be viewed that way. I imagine one could do worse than treat others with the respect and love reserved for a deity.”

  “Perhaps, but wouldn’t we risk worshiping false idols?”

  Matheson smiled. “That might not be as bad as it sounds. There was a time when gods weren’t nearly so envious. You’d pray to the sun in the morning, a golden calf in the afternoon, and the God Jehovah at night.”

  “And when did all that change?” Reynolds hoped the more Matheson talked, the greater the chance the jury might see his secret basement.

  “With the creation of the Bible,” Matheson answered casually. “After the appearance of that great book, the penalty for worshiping multiple gods resulted in floods, pestilence, and other catastrophes.” He looked at the jury and smiled warmly. “In that regard, religion isn’t terribly different than government—if you challenge their authority you’re likely to face disaster.”

  Reynolds sought to unnerve Matheson, throw him off stride, but it hadn’t happened. He glanced at Blaze Hansberry and hoped, if nothing else, the professor’s view of more than one god might have offended her. Instead, she appeared to be enamored. He faced Matheson and calmly asked, “Could you tell the jury about Bigger Thomas?”

  “Your Honor, we just covered psychology and theology, and now Mr. Reynolds wants to move on to literature. I thought this was a murder trial, not a liberal arts seminar.” Miller looked at the jury in feigned bewilderment.

  “You have an interesting way of raising objections, Mr. Miller. I’ll be sure to record your methods and share them with my law students as glaring examples of what to avoid doing before a judge.” Tanner ignored Miller and turned his attention to Reynolds. “Counselor, I assume you have a sustainable reason for your inquiry of the witness?”

  “I’ll establish it, Your Honor.”

  “You’ll have to. And within the next three questions.” Tanner looked down from the bench at Matheson. “You may answer.”

  The professor addressed Reynolds informally. “Bigger Thomas was a fictional character in a novel written by Richard Wright, called Native Son.”

  “He was a black man who murdered the daughter of his white employer,” stated Reynolds.

  “He also murdered his own girlfriend, who was black,” interjected Matheson. “That seldom gets as much attention.”

  “You wrote that Bigger Thomas was a creation of a society that ignores the hatred and bigotry which produce rage.”

  “That was published about a year ago.”

  Reynolds retrieved an academic journal from his table and read to the jury. “‘The Bigger Thomas of the future would be neither ignorant nor frightened. Instead, he would be deliberate, methodical. Would seek to maintain honor by overcoming the rules of a system designed to deny him power, self-respect, and justice.’” Reynolds stopped reading and addressed Matheson. “The Bigger Thomas of your article would desire retribution. Condemned as a murderer if he fails. Exalted as a hero if he succeeds.” He closed the journal and studied Matheson. “Did I quote you accurately?”

  “You’ve captured the gist of it.”

  “You believe in revenge, Dr. Matheson?”

  “I believe in justice. That you must be willing to pay a price for it.”

  “Your father devoted a lifetime to teaching nonviolence, did he not?”

  “My father is a deeply religious man, as I believe you know. In the tradition of Jesus, he teaches his congregation to love their enemies and forgive them their sins.”

  “You don’t agree with his philosophy?”

  “I turn my love inward, and whenever possible I forgive myself. If you can master the art of forgiving yourself, you can accomplish anything.”

  Several black members of the jury smiled. The rest continued to be riveted to the proceedings.

  “Did you spend much time reviewing the photos in your collection?” asked Reynolds.

  “It was difficult to study them.”

  “Did they affect you? Make you angry?”

  “We all have the capacity to deaden our pain, become numb when confronted with unrelenting brutality. It didn’t take long before the pictures all started to seem the same. Black-and-white photos of death, mutilation.”

  Reynolds walked in front of the jury and considered Matheson’s response with obvious skepticism. “The photos you collected, studied, hung on the walls of your home, and distributed to your students—one day they simply became interchangeable? Is that what you’d like this jury to believe?”

  “I have no control over what this jury believes. I answered your question truthfully. The photos over time began to blur together, one example of brutality after another.”

  Reynolds prepared himself to ask his next question.

  “Except for one particular photo,” Matheson added teasingly.

  Reynolds wondered if he should pursue the matter but knew the jury would be furious if he didn’t, or worse, Miller would follow up in redirect. “What was special about that one photo, Professor?”

  “It was taken in the aftermath of a church bombing.”

  “And that made it unusual?”

  “It was in color, so naturally it stood out from all the rest. A nine-year-old girl was being carried out of the rubble. She wore a pink-and-white dress with a matching ribbon in her hair. She’d worn gloves, except the bomb had blown away several of the fingers on her left hand, but the upper section of the glove remained intact, covering the thumb and index finger and the rest of her wrist. Her body was twisted in ways made possible only in death.” He looked at the jury and spoke so softly that they needed to lean forward to hear him. “Her eyes were open but lifeless. There was a slight hint of makeup on her cheek. She had a gold religious medal around her broken neck. And I saw blood on a mouth that probably had never worn lipstick.” He stared at the floor for the first and only time, then spoke sadly. “She looked too innocent ever to have lived.”

  Matheson’s shoulders slumped slightly. “But she had lived. With dreams of finishing school, driving a car, making love, one day holding her baby in her arms. All the things a child has a right to expect to do one da
y.” His eyes rose slowly to meet the state’s prosecutor. “Yes, Mr. Reynolds”—he sat erect, back straight—“the photos affected me, then and now.”

  Reynolds looked at the jury, who’d shifted their attention from Matheson to him. He’d stood in front of enough juries, studied enough poker faces to know he’d lost them and had very little time to win them back. He walked closer to them. He attempted to empathize with them and hoped they’d return the favor.

  “Did those photos affect you enough to murder the men responsible?”

  Miller stood to object, but Matheson placed his hand up to stop him. He sat back down. The professor answered the question very slowly and deliberately, without emotion. “Murder them, their supporters, the people who brought them into this world, and anyone else who’d protect them.”

  Reynolds had gotten the answer he knew to be true and the one likely to cause the jury to vote not guilty. Just to be sure, Matheson wrapped the verdict in a neat package and set it before the jurors to unseal.

  “But fortunately,” Matheson said in a lighter tone, “my father taught me there’d be a final justice. One we’ll all have to face. They received theirs. This jury will determine mine.”

  Reynolds continued the cross-examination for another hour, asking questions about Matheson’s whereabouts on the night of the crime. At one point he grilled the defendant regarding the alleged men who’d attacked him that night.

  “Describe for the jury in detail how that happened.”

  Matheson responded and sounded convincing.

  “Did you fight back?”

  The professor joked that he did the best he could, and the jury laughed with him.

  “How many of them were there?”

  Matheson estimated five or six but wasn’t certain.

  Reynolds quickened the pace. How old? What did they look like? What did they say? Did anyone see or hear the struggle? Where exactly did it take place? How had he managed to fight them off and escape?

  Matheson provided as much detail as he could, starting or ending many answers with “to the best of my recollection.”

  Reynolds shifted to the fountain pen found at the scene and the discovery of Matheson’s blood on the victim. Each of his questions was crisp and logical and established motive and opportunity, and Reynolds knew none of it mattered. When he finished, it didn’t surprise him that Miller had no redirect. His client hadn’t been impeached by anything he said. Even Tanner appeared a bit embarrassed for Reynolds and addressed him sympathetically with a kindness reserved for attorneys who’d been thoroughly outclassed.

  If Reynolds intended to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, it would come from his closing argument. Despite judges’ admonitions, jurors were moved by lawyers’ summations. Any remaining chance to gain a verdict of guilty—to make good on the promise he’d made to the black victims about the sanctity of life—rested solely on Reynolds’s ability to do with words what he couldn’t do with evidence. He’d stand before a jury of twelve men and women and make them see the truth. If he failed, he doubted he’d have the will or desire to address another jury again.

  The defense rested its case, as did the state. Tanner adjourned the session, and the reporters rushed out of the courtroom to meet deadlines. The lawyers had one final match to play, and after that the fate of Martin S. Matheson would be in the hands of the jury.

  CHAPTER 57

  REYNOLDS FLUNG A book across the conference room, striking the wall. Sinclair sat down opposite him at the table. “I hope that wasn’t Baldwin,” she said. “I hadn’t finished reading him.”

  “The bastard did it! He killed all those people and he’s gonna get away with it!” Reynolds placed both hands over his face.

  Sinclair looked at him sympathetically. “If that’s your closing argument, we’re in deep trouble.”

  “I ought to let Matheson give it for me. He’s controlled everything else.” He rose from his seat and paced the floor. “I really thought I could get to him. Show the jury what he is.”

  “You showed them a man capable of murder.”

  “I showed them a man.”

  “If you want, I’ll handle the first closing. Go over what little evidence hasn’t been discredited. Miller can then destroy my argument.” She collected her paperwork. “That’ll pave the way for you to give a brilliant, impassioned speech. Matheson will jump up and confess, throwing himself on the mercy of the court.” She opened the door and turned to him. “It could happen,” she said optimistically, then left the office.

  Reynolds removed a .38-caliber pistol from his coat and placed it on the table. After he’d been attacked he decided to take it wherever he went. He’d gotten a license to carry a concealed weapon almost a decade ago. He’d successfully prosecuted two local gang leaders who, after the verdict, ordered their followers to kill him. He never told Cheryl about the threats, nor did he let her know about the gun until she accidentally knocked over his briefcase and it slipped onto the floor. He had offered a few lame excuses, then promised to get rid of it.

  He poured himself another cup of coffee and retrieved the book he’d thrown against the wall. He read the title and discovered it was Richard Wright’s Native Son. He raised it over his head, about to throw it out the window, when he thought better of it. He sat down at the table and placed the book in front of him, strumming its cover several times with his fingers. He suddenly stopped and opened the book. He flipped through the pages and paused occasionally to read notations he’d made in the margins. He closed the book and held it in both hands. After deliberating for about thirty seconds, he took the book and moved to a more comfortable chair. He sat and opened the novel to the first page and began to read.

  Monday morning Tanner reviewed numerous procedural matters with the attorneys. Sinclair would conduct the state’s initial closing late in the day, and Miller would do his first thing tomorrow. Reynolds would present his final argument in the afternoon, and the judge would issue his instructions to the jury on Thursday. After that, deliberations would commence.

  The session got under way at two-thirty, and Sinclair launched into her closing. She covered the salient points, reminding the jury of the key evidence and cautioning them that “no matter how much you may have liked the defendant’s students—and I’ll admit they were extremely likable—even they couldn’t explain the discovery of their professor’s pen a few feet away from Earvin Cooper’s murdered body.” She moved closer to Matheson. “Nor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, could they rationalize the presence of the defendant’s blood underneath the fingernails of his victim.”

  She debunked the defense’s “wild and totally unfounded allegations that a visitor to the police station discovered the pen, then, for reasons better left to the imaginations of science fiction writers, felt compelled to murder someone on the professor’s infamous list.” Yes, she conceded, the collection and analysis of DNA “requires great care, but if there were mistakes, they’d incorrectly eliminate the professor as a suspect, not deliver the perfect match the laboratory ultimately came back with.”

  She spent little time with the “inflammatory notion” that any of the evidence existed because police officers “violated their oath to uphold the law and committed a felony act.” The idea they’d frame Matheson was not only preposterous, she claimed, “it’s also a desperate attempt on the part of defense counsel to smear decent public servants so that a murderer might go free.”

  Reynolds observed the jury and knew, irrespective of how entertaining and informative Sinclair might be, they were more interested in the main event. They’d come to see the match between Miller and Reynolds, where the prized trophy was at stake. How they’d eventually score that competition would determine Matheson’s future and perhaps their own.

  Sinclair concluded her argument in the same fashion she’d opened the trial. She displayed the photo of Cooper’s slain body and placed it directly next to an enlargement of Matheson’s bruised face. “You’ve had to tolerate a great ma
ny gruesome and horrible photographs in this trial,” she said regretfully. “I apologize for the discomfort they may have caused. I ask you to look once more at the picture of Martin Matheson’s victim.” She touched the display board that held Cooper’s photo. “And, ladies and gentlemen, how can you be certain that the defendant murdered Earvin Cooper?” She stepped to the second poster and pointed to scratch marks on the side of Matheson’s left cheek. “Because in one of his last dying efforts the victim managed to leave behind his fingerprints on the face of his assailant.”

  She returned to the podium, closed her notebook, and pleaded with the jury: “Earvin Cooper identified his murderer for us. He concealed the clue to his killer in the only safe place he had— underneath the fingernails on his burnt and blistered hands. The blood found there points to one man and only one man. Martin S. Matheson took the life of Earvin Cooper, and because of that, the state implores you to return a verdict of guilty to the charge of first-degree murder.” Sinclair thanked the jury and resumed her seat next to Reynolds. A few jurors continued to take notes—most noticeably Aubrey Munson, who’d filled several pages.

  Tanner issued his standard instructions to the jury before dismissing them. The spectators left the courtroom, subdued, and milled around the rotunda. Reynolds congratulated Sinclair on the job she’d done, while Miller put an encouraging hand on Matheson’s shoulder.

  The professor appeared in good spirits and shared a joke with the guards, who waited for him to finish with his lawyer. Reynolds noticed that both guards laughed, which signaled progress, since one was black and the other white. Maybe Matheson had turned over a new leaf and decided to promote racial harmony and reconciliation. That bit of fantasy quickly dissipated when the professor looked at Reynolds and mouthed the words “good luck.”

  Matheson turned to leave when suddenly, Earvin Cooper’s widow rushed past security and tried to strike him with her purse. She screamed every conceivable profanity until subdued by court deputies. Matheson’s guards quickly led him away from the disturbance. Miller followed behind.