As she had done with Malcolm, Naomi searched Tareef’s eyes seeking sincerity that supported his words. Tareef’s eyes were soft, although his gaze still rendered Naomi weakened on the inside. What he said sounded good, but Naomi refused to act hastily or be impressed by his words.
“We’ll see,” is what she offered him in reply.
“We’ll see,” is what Tareef had no choice but to accept.
Chapter seventeen
Two Weeks Later
Although her mother had some ups and downs over the past few weeks, Ruby had been released from the hospital with a stern warning from her doctor. He reiterated what Naomi shared with her parents many times. Ruby needed to take her medication as prescribed, no skipping it, no doubling up. Both Vance and Ruby verbally committed to doing better. Naomi hoped that was true. She needed her mom to be okay. She needed both her parents to be okay. During her mother’s hospitalization, lots of things were put on pause for Naomi. They didn’t have to be, but Naomi found it difficult to focus because her thoughts always drifted back to what was going on with her mother.
Spending so much time at the hospital, Naomi found herself watching television more than she had done in years. Most recently, the upcoming trial of Jennifer Whitman versus the State of Georgia dominated the newsfeed. Naomi knew Malcolm was involved as the prosecutor in the case, but she was surprised when one night, sitting at her mother’s bedside, she learned that Tareef was the attorney representing the defendant. That visual prompted a phone call to her bestie. As the telephone line connected, Naomi excused herself from her mother’s room.
“So, why didn’t anyone tell me that Tareef was on the Whitman case?”
“Hello to you, too, Naomi,” Rocky interjected, reminding Naomi of her manners.
“Hi, how are you, Racquel,” she quickly acquiesced. “So, why didn’t anyone tell me Tareef was on the Whitman case?”
“Well, let’s start with when you say anyone, you really mean me.”
“True, but you know, using the universal is less accusatory,” Naomi admitted.
“Anyway,” Rocky scoffed. “I didn’t mention it because A, you’ve been busy with your mom, and B, I wasn’t sure you would care,” she continued. “Do you care, Naomi?”
“I wouldn’t say I care, but I think it’s interesting.”
“Mmhmm,” Rocky hummed, totally not believing the words her friend said.
“What’s the deal between Tareef and Malcolm? How do they know each other?”
“You never asked Malcolm?”
“Uh, no,” Naomi corrected. “How was that supposed to go,” Naomi laughed. “I’m out on a date with Malcolm, and I’m asking about another man? I don’t think that would have gone over too well.”
“Probably not,” Rocky agreed, laughing along with Naomi.
“So, they have a history, I take it?”
“Extensive history,” Rocky replied.
“Do tell, girlfriend,” Naomi replied, “do tell.”
“Well, I’m not one to gossip,” Racquel started, giggling as she explained, “but from what I understand, they were college rivals. Both men majored in law, so they were competitors academically. One graduated at the top of the class; the other graduated second.”
“Let me guess. Tareef graduated valedictorian?”
“Why would you think that? You think Tareef is smarter than Malcolm?”
Naomi didn’t directly answer; instead, raising a different question.
“Malcolm graduated magna cum laude?”
“No, it was Tareef,” Racquel playfully corrected.
“I knew it,” Naomi replied.
“So, yes, they have history, and then there’s you.”
“Uhm, what does that mean?”
Even though Racquel couldn’t see Naomi’s face, she knew her best friend gave her the stanky neck crank and rolled her eyes.
“Natural competitors interested in the same woman. Do I need to say more?”
“There’s no competition,” Naomi countered.
“Maybe you don’t recognize it, maybe you don’t want to see it, but there is a battle, Naomi.”
She heard what Racquel said, but Naomi wasn’t convinced. Tareef said some things, Malcolm said some other things. They were just things, though.
Naomi was already curious by the Whitman case, but the more she learned about the players, the circumstances surrounding the defendant, and the actions she took, the more she was intrigued by it. When Naomi learned that the galley was open to the public, she knew she wanted to be there. As she pulled into the already crowded parking lot outside the courthouse, Naomi admitted to herself that she was more than intrigued. As she exited the car, making sure to lock the door behind her, Naomi noticed how busy the courthouse steps were. There were camera crews and news reporters filming and numbers of people climbing the courthouse stairs entering the building. As she passed close to one of the reporters, the Whitman case was the focus of the broadcast.
Once inside, the hustle and bustle continued. Naomi navigated through security and then to the courtroom where the Whitman case would be tried. Opening the courtroom door, Naomi scanned the space. There were already a number of people sitting in the galley. She didn’t want to sit too close to the front so as not to be recognized by either of the attorneys, but the back of the galley was jam-packed with people, and there were no available seats. Naomi made her way down the center aisle, looking for an opening. Not finding one, she inched along further and closer to the front. Maybe she could just blend in, Naomi thought to herself as she ended up closer than she would have liked. But her ability to look for a seat ended as a door in the front of the courtroom opened. The jury filed in. It was starting.
“Excuse me,” Naomi whispered as she made her way to her seat.
Things started to move quickly as she settled in. The stenographer and sheriff entered and took their respective positions. The next time the door near the front opened, the men walked in. Naomi attempted to meld into the seat as Malcolm strolled in. She took note. Malcolm was impeccably dressed from head to toe. He knew he looked good as he scanned the room, briefcase in hand, as he made his way to the prosecutors' table. Naomi lowered her head. She didn’t want Malcolm to see her. Naomi waited a few seconds before lifting her head again. When she did, Malcolm’s team was filing in. She was grateful when he sat down. His back was to her, and she could relax for a moment.
That moment didn’t last long as the door opened once again. Even without looking up, Naomi knew instinctively who it was. She felt his presence even in a space as ample as the courtroom. Dapper didn’t even begin to describe how fine Tareef looked. The steel gray pinstripe suit, pristine white shirt, black and gray small polka dot tie, and matching kerchief looked amazing against his mahogany skin. Naomi had to stop herself from staring, or he would surely notice her. And he did. Inadvertently, Naomi found a seat behind the defendant’s table right in Tareef’s line of sight. When he noticed her, when their eyes locked for that brief moment, he dared to smile, briefly interrupting his game face. Naomi smiled too. He still had that kind of effect on her. But she shifted her eyes from him. Tareef was pleasantly surprised to see her. Naomi didn’t want to give Tareef the wrong impression. He kept his eyes on her even after he reached his seat, hoping Naomi would look up one more time. Besides, this was not the time. He needed to be focused so he could help the defendant.
Once everyone was in their positions, another door opened. Naomi heard the clink of chains even before the defendant could be seen, escorted by not one, but two armed officers, Jennifer Whitman, entered the courtroom. Her head hung low, and her face wasn’t visible. The guards held her arms tightly, marching her to her seat. Her hands were shackled, and there was a long chain attached to the shackles at her ankles. Naomi couldn’t take her eyes off Jennifer. She wanted to see her face to look into her eyes. She already empathized with her for more than one reason. Naomi had seen mugshots of her on the news. She knew that Jennifer had been painted in
the worst possible light. Naomi wanted to see Jennifer for herself. But she never looked up, even as the guard bent down and unshackled her. Jennifer never lifted her head. They callously plopped her down in the chair next to Tareef, who stood as the woman approached. Even in the courtroom, he exercised his gentlemanly tendencies. It was only after Jennifer was seated did Tareef return to his seat.
When Tareef leaned over and whispered in Ms. Whitman’s ear, Naomi thought, then the woman would raise her head. She still didn’t.
“All rise.”
The sheriff announced as the judge entered the courtroom. Everyone followed his instruction. Tareef resisted the urge to turn around, to confirm that Naomi was actually there. He wondered what brought her to the trial. Tareef hoped that if everything worked out the way he’d like for it to, he would have a chance to ask Naomi himself.
Naomi’s eyes were drawn to the front of the courtroom as she watched the judge sitting down in the seat. The judge was a man, a white man like Jennifer’s victim. Naomi’s brow furrowed. She stared at him as he stood looming over the courtroom. He looked smug and self-righteous. Probably the way Jessica’s husband looked every time he beat her, Naomi thought to herself. Naomi didn’t feel good about it.
“Please be seated,” Judge Franks said as he took his chair.
Once again, those in the galley did as the judge authoritatively suggested. Naomi was excited but nervous as instructions were given to the jury. She was nervous about Jennifer. She was nervous about the process. The defendant had already been denied justice once before. Naomi hoped, this time, things would be different. It was the start of what she knew would be an epic legal battle. Then, she thought about what Racquel said and wondered if this would indeed be a battle for her heart.
Chapter eighteen
The courtroom fell quiet as the prosecuting attorney approached the jury. With utmost confidence, Attorney Malcolm Bridges lifted his tall frame from his seat, buttoned the single breast on his custom suit, and stepped out from behind the prosecutors' table. All eyes followed his movement, and Malcolm knew it. His stride was smooth and assured. Naomi knew that stride well.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Malcolm started. Naomi appraised him from her seat. He never stopped being fine. Malcolm would always be that. He was also a good man; from everything, Naomi knew about him. Still, she had reservations. Every time she looked at Malcolm, what he said about the mentally ill flooded back to her primary thoughts. Naomi listened with intent to Malcolm’s opening statement.
“Although this is a precedent setting case, it remains an amazingly simple one. The defendant, Jennifer Whitman, killed her husband while he lay defenseless in his sleep,” Malcolm continued as his measured strides move from one end of the jury box to the other, his eyes traveling from one juror to the other as he moved. Before he meandered in the opposite direction of where Naomi set, his eyes found her. She knew when Malcolm saw her as his brow pitched, and his feet stopped moving. Malcolm didn’t smile like Tareef did when he saw Naomi. He knew why that was, but it wouldn’t stop what would come next. Pivoting on his heels, Malcolm moved in the other direction and continued his soliloquy.
“The defense then, and the defense now, will offer domestic violence as the reason Mrs. Whitman killed her husband. They will argue it was battered wife’s syndrome, a temporary mental illness that magically appears and disappears when an alleged victim wants retribution. Maybe the defendant didn’t like her husband anymore? Maybe the defendant wanted out of a miserable marriage? Maybe. What we know for sure is Mrs. Whitman never called the police behind an alleged beating from her husband. We know for sure Mrs. Whitman never reported injuries at a hospital or to a friend after she was supposedly beaten by her husband. So, where did this mental illness defense come from? What I can tell you is that the first jury didn’t buy the defendant’s story, and you shouldn’t either.”
Naomi watched as Malcolm returned to his seat. He didn’t look in her direction again. She knew that was intentional. More than that, though, Naomi listened as intently to what Malcolm said as the jurors did. She watched their reaction to what he had to say. Her shoulders slumped as the weight of his persuasive opening statement lingered in the air. How was Tareef going to overcome that?
“Mr. Ali,” the judge bellowed, “you may address the court.”
Before standing up, Tareef placed a gentle hand on Ms. Whitman’s wrist. When he rose from his seat, his domineering presence was evoked. Yet, unlike Malcolm, Tareef didn’t walk over to the jury box to deliver his opening; instead, he stood solidly behind the defense table, solidly next to his client as he began.
“Perception of threat,” Tareef announced clearly, allowing those three words to resonate throughout the courtroom before he said more.
“In the words of my capable counterpart, remember those amazingly simple three words, perception of threat.”
Naomi’s heart started beating faster as she listened to Tareef wax eloquent as he continued.
“Battered woman syndrome expands the concept of legal self-defense. This defense holds that a battered woman is virtually held hostage in a violent household by a man who isolates and terrorizes her, convincing her that if she leaves, he will track her down and kill her. The American Psychiatric Association conceptualizes BWS as the development of a set of personality attributes brought on by abuse that render the victim more able to survive in the relationship and less able to escape it. Three components of BWS include behavior brought on by victimization, learned helplessness behavior, and self- destructive coping behavior. Because battered and nonbattered women are not significantly different, expert testimony during a trial should focus on the impact of violence and the woman's perception of threat. It is also important to recognize that the criminal justice system does not protect women from abuse. A battered woman may not be able to obtain a restraining order or keep it in effect. Further, she may not be able to obtain even temporary financial support for a 30-day period should she choose to leave the batterer, and courts usually allow abuser visitation with children. This information comes directly from the National Criminal Justice System,” Tareef emphasized. “That last line bears repeating. The criminal justice system does not protect women from abuse.”
“But before I go any further and remind you of those three particularly important words, let me offer you some statistics to consider. Now, it is not my goal to bore you with numbers. That would be counterproductive to my argument. Yet, statistics, numbers, provide a picture that is clear and finite. There’s not a lot of wiggle room or room for interpretation when it comes to statistics, right? They are facts, pure and simple.”
For the first time, Tareef moved from alongside his client and approached the jury. Naomi’s eyes trailed to them. They were his captive audience. Naomi looked to the left and the right of her. Everyone was focused on Tareef. When he wasn’t speaking, you could hear a pin drop.
“2015, the year my client was convicted, there were 140 deaths attributed to domestic violence. One hundred thirty-nine of those killed were women. Georgia was ranked 17th in the country for the number of women killed by their intimate partner. Seventeenth. Now, some may argue that’s not too bad; however, that’s not too good either, especially for the women at the other end of the abuse. Police officers responded to more than sixty-five thousand domestic violence calls the year my client was convicted. Perception of threat. Now, that sounds like a lot of responses, as though the police are effective in responding. For some who refuse to look further, that number represents the legal system doing what they are supposed to do when it comes to battered women, right?
Before you decide, let me offer two more numbers. The year my client was convicted, there were approximately 9.9 million people in the state of Georgia. 51% or 5.1 million of the approximate population were women over 18 years of age. Now, listen to this, and please listen carefully. One out of every four adult women is a victim of domestic violence by someone who claimed to love them—one in
four. Of the 5.1 million women in the state of Georgia, one million two hundred seventy-five thousand women were victims of domestic violence. 1.2 million women were battered. Let that sink in. Now, compare that number to the sixty-five thousand responses the police made. Is law enforcement’s response still considered good?”
Tareef pivoted on his heels and faced the galley. He trailed his eyes and connected with those that occupied the space as he moved towards the defense table.
“The state argues that my client didn’t report the abuse she suffered at the hands of her husband. That state argues that my client didn’t suffer from battered women’s syndrome and that her mental health at the time didn’t matter. I insist that you consider this. My client, a Black woman, was married to a white man in the south. Most women who die at the hands of their abusers do so after they have tried to tell or leave. Perception of threat. My client was like many women abused by their intimate partners, too afraid to report because she didn’t trust those she’d be reporting to. Perception of threat extended past the walls of her home to those allegedly enforcing the law. History proves that. But my client was not alone in not feeling safe to report. More than one million other women didn’t report the year my client was convicted. Because they too perceived the threat that not only their abusers posed but that of the larger society. Lastly, ladies and gentlemen, my client was beaten to within an inch of her life. Her husband didn’t perceive her as a threat because after beating her, he went to sleep. But did that end my client’s perception of threat to her life? Did she stop being a battered woman just because he was sleeping? Jennifer Whitman understood that the threat to her life was as real at that moment as it had ever been.”
Tareef returned to the defense table and again resumed his position, literally standing up for his client.
Tareef (The Brothers Ali Book 4) Page 13
