by Grace Mead
“Looking at this picture, isn’t Mr Cutler’s back toward you in the alley?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you have seen a knife in Mr Cutler’s hand from where you were standing?”
“Maybe not, but I didn’t see a knife earlier in the night, or after Durant hit him.”
“Did you ever search Mr Cutler for a knife, either before or after he was hit with the bottle?”
“Well, yeah.” Rand leapt for the attempt to bolster his lie and added: “I patted him down real quick while he was on the ground.”
“Are you testifying that as your friend lay on the ground injured or possibly dead, you searched him?” Farrar locked eyes with Rand.
Rand broke contact and looked out to the gallery, toward a wall clock. “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t search him like the police would’ve, but I did a quick search.”
“Did you discard Mr Cutler’s knife?”
“No.” Rand set his jaw.
“After the police arrived, did you speak to a Detective Jones?”
“Yeah.”
“And do you now know that Mr Durant didn’t have any drugs in his possession when he was arrested?”
“Yeah, but it was a dark alley and they were huddled together. Looked like they were trading something.”
“But you now know, in fact, that you were wrong when you assumed they were exchanging drugs, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Did Detective Jones tell you at the beginning of that conversation the police had found cocaine on Joey Buckner?”
“Yeah.” At this point, Rand had no way of knowing when Farrar could prove his lies and when he couldn’t, but he knew Jones was a cop, had made a report and would likely testify.
“Did Detective Jones interview you alone?”
“No. John Harlan was standing right there next to me.” Rand might be seeking someone to corroborate his story.
“Did you tell Detective Jones you thought you’d seen Mr Buckner and Mr Durant engaged in a drug deal before or after Detective Jones told you that Mr Buckner had been found with four grams of cocaine?”
“After.”
“And Mr Harlan heard you say that you thought you’d seen Mr Durant engaged in a drug deal before he said anything to Detective Jones, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“And did Mr Harlan hear you reciting all of the facts that you described in response to Mr. Thibedaux’s questions today before he said anything to Detective Jones?”
“Maybe not all of ’em,” Rand hedged. “But most of ’em.”
“No further questions, Your Honor,” Farrar concluded.
“We’ll take a fifteen-minute break now,” Judge Masterson said. “I’ll see everyone back here at three-thirty.”
The prosecution then called John Harlan to the stand. His testimony in response to Thibedeaux’s direct examination was consistent with Rand’s and Farrar followed a similar line of cross-examination.
Farrar only had one surprise for Harlan. As he neared the end of his cross-examination, he asked, “Did you graduate from high school?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you expelled from high school?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you expelled from high school?”
“They found some dope in my locker.”
“They found marijuana in your high-school locker and you were expelled, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But on the night of September 7, you thought you saw two strangers engaged in a drug deal and decided to report it to the police?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t do drugs no more.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Chapter 10
The doorbell rang around seven-thirty that night. To Matt’s surprise, Eric stood at the threshold holding a pot containing an orchid: it had a brown stem with slender green branches stretching out and sprouting five elliptical violet petals with white specks and tinted yellow edges. A single, circular petal with jagged edges and without any hint of yellow jutted out.
“That’s a beautiful orchid,” Matt said.
“It’s called a Cambria. I thought I’d bring it by to congratulate you for finishing your first full day of trial.”
“Thanks. Come in.”
Mary had gone to the grocery store to pick up food, so they had at least a few minutes alone. Matt placed the orchid on the kitchen table, while Eric pulled up a chair.
“How did today go?” Eric asked, inclining his head to the side.
“Better than yesterday,” Matt said, looking down at the orchid. “Thomas’s opening statement was phenomenal and he tore through three witnesses. Detective Jones, Harlan and Rand.” He looked back up at Eric. “I hate to say it out loud, but I think we had a good day.”
“Excellent,” Eric smiled. “How are you holding up?”
“Last night was tough. We had a bit of a disaster with jury selection. And the day ended with Thibedeaux’s opening, which was pretty hard to hear.”
“Maybe tonight will be better. You had a good day today.”
“I hope so. I’m going to load up on Tylenol PM tonight. I don’t like how dopey it makes me in the morning, but I need to get some sleep. I had a terrible nightmare last night.”
“What was it about?”
“I dreamt I had leprosy.”
Eric laughed. “And what do you think the meaning of that dream was?”
Matt couldn’t help but smile and shook his head. “I know I don’t need to pay a therapist hundreds of dollars an hour to tell me what the dream was really about. Much of the dream was about knowing I had a terrible secret that was about to be revealed.”
“Do you actually know anything about leprosy?” Eric asked.
“I don’t know anything about it at all, beyond hearing about it in Sunday school. I thought about looking it up on the web, but I was afraid I’d run across pictures that would make the next dream worse.”
“Where’s your computer?” Eric asked. “I’ll look and that way you won’t have to worry about the images.”
Matt led Eric toward his bedroom and felt embarrassed about the cheap knock-off furniture. The laptop sat on a stained pine desk, the finest piece in the room. A black faux-iron bed, a blond particle-board dresser, and piles of books rounded out what could only charitably be called a bedroom set. If any of the jurors had stereotypes about gay men, perhaps he should insist on a jury view of his bedroom.
Eric rolled out a black office chair made of space-age plastic and sat at the computer. Matt distanced himself and sat on the bed, ostensibly so he couldn’t see the screen.
“I’m going to start with WebMD,” Eric said. “Well, it’s also called Hansen’s disease and it causes skin lesions. No surprise there. Apparently it’s caused by bacteria and can now be cured. It also says there’s no longer any need to isolate the infected.” He shot a glance at Matt on the bed, as if to emphasize their physical distance.
“I’ll bet you’re skipping over all sorts of symptoms.” Matt said, rising and approaching the desk, computer, and Eric.
“I am, but it looks like if you catch it early, you don’t have to worry about the severe symptoms. Here’s a link to the Centers for Disease Control. In 2003, there were less than 120 cases in the United States, so your odds seem pretty good. I’m going to try Google now.”
Matt looked away from the computer, unwilling to look at the random sample of search results and potential images, but asked, “What came up?”
“There’s an organization called American Leprosy Missions. Its website says within days antibiotics can kill the bacteria, and in two weeks there’s no risk of spreading it. The first signs are spots. You have any spots?”
Matt shook his head. He was tempted to ask Eric to check, but he was too depleted to flirt. “Nope,” he said, both relieved and disappointed with passing up the temptation.
“I think you’re safe.” Eric rolled the chair back from the desk and swiveled to fa
ce Matt. “All right, now that we’ve diagnosed your non-disease, I need to take off.”
“Sure you can’t stay for dinner?” Matt asked, wanting to spend more time with Eric and thinking the kitchen safer than the bedroom.
“Nope. I’ve got some work to do. I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing. Now that I know you’re disease-free, my job here is done. Anything else I can do for you?” Eric looked up at him quizzically.
“No,” Matt said. Eric rose and walked out of the bedroom and to the front door. Matt followed and stood awkwardly. Should he at least hug Eric? What if his mother came home? Would she care? The moment passed and left him confused, conflicted and disappointed.
Matt slept better that night. Although twenty-four hours closer to a potential prison sentence—or even death—the transformation from a passive object of the legal system to an active participant gave him comfort. Farrar’s opening had finally rolled out his defense.
On Wednesday morning, Thibedeaux called the medical examiner, who testified about Brian Cutler’s cause of death. To Matt’s shame and dismay—both concealed from the jury—an array of photographs of the damage to Cutler’s skull accompanied his testimony. Matt had avoided one set of graphic images, only to run into another that could populate his nightmares. Great. But at least the prosecution had declined Farrar’s offer to use the defense team’s trial presentation software and equipment, so the jury only viewed select poster-boards rather than every picture, choreographed by Thibedeaux in technicolor, on the big screen. Farrar declined to cross-examine the medical examiner.
The prosecution’s final witness was Joey Buckner. Matt wondered whether the prosecution had called him last because they genuinely thought the tape inconsequential or because he was the best they could do. He knew that in his direct examination Thibedeaux would try to take the sting out of the tape and defang Farrar’s cross-examination.
Someone had obviously given Joey instructions about the appropriate attire. He wore a dark blue pinstriped suit, a powder cornflower shirt and a yellow tie. His complexion had cleared and his black eyes had faded further to a mottled olive green.
“Mr Buckner, when did you first meet the defendant?” Thibedeaux asked.
“I met him on a Friday night in September at a bar in the French Quarter called Drink.”
“Why were you at Drink that night, Mr Buckner?”
“I went to the bar to see if I could find anyone who wanted to buy coke.”
“And by coke, do you mean cocaine?”
“Yes.”
“And can you please describe your first interaction with Mr Durant?”
“Sure. I met him at the bar. He looked nervous, like lots of guys who come there alone. I thought he might have been married. I didn’t see a ring, but they don’t always wear rings.”
“Who do you mean by ‘they’?”
“I mean guys who haven’t come out of the closet yet. Drink is a gay bar.”
“And what did you say to Mr Durant when you saw him at the bar?”
“I asked him if I could buy him a drink.”
Matt wondered if the jurors thought Joey had a habit of picking up married men, but as he surveyed them, their expressions, though rapt, were impassive.
“What happened next?” Thibedeaux asked.
“I bought him a drink, and then we talked about basic background stuff. Where are you from, what do you do for a living, those sorts of things. Matt—I mean Mr Durant—said this was the first time he’d ever been in a gay bar alone, but lots of guys say that.” Joey smirked, as if few could resist his charms. “We had some drinks, danced a little and then went back to the bar.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, he suggested going to the back of the room so we could hear each other better over the music. He was pretty loaded. Once we got there, I told him I knew he was nervous and I had something that might help take the edge off.”
“What did he say in response to your statement that you might have something to take the edge off?”
“He asked me what I had, and I showed him a clear plastic baggie of cocaine. It was pretty obvious what was in there, unless he thought it was sugar.” Joey smiled with his lips, but his cheeks and eyes didn’t move; the smile was artificial sweetener.
“What was Mr Durant’s response?”
“He said he’d never done cocaine before, but he’d always been curious. He said it was a night of firsts, so why not.”
“What happened next?”
“I suggested we go outside, where there wouldn’t be as many people. He followed me out into the back alley. I put my arm around him as we left the bar. He said he needed to take a leak first, so we did. Then those three guys came walking up the alley. They must’ve seen my arm around him when we left the bar and thought he was buying drugs.” Joey paused, then added: “And I was going to sell him drugs in a few minutes.”
“What did the three men do in response?”
“Well, the real big guy, I know now that was Don Rand, he said, ‘What the fuck do you guys think you’re doing?’ And one of the smaller guys, I’m not sure which one, said he bet we were dealing drugs. And the two smaller guys went to grab me. I tried to make a break for it, and the big guy hit me in the face.” Matt knew there was a potential hearsay objection, but agreed with Farrar’s judgment not to draw further attention to the testimony with an objection.
“What happened next?”
“Matt ran up with that beer bottle. He threw a few punches, real quick. Looked like he’d stunned the smaller guy, and then he reached back and pretty much just jammed the beer bottle into the side of the guy’s head.” Joey shook his head, as if disgusted.
“What part of the beer bottle did Mr Durant jam into Mr Cutler’s head?”
“The neck; the pointed part.”
“Did Mr Durant jam the neck of the beer bottle into the side of Mr Cutler’s head more than once?”
Joey nodded. “Yeah. He did it twice in a row, real fast.”
“As you were watching, did you believe Mr Durant needed to attack Mr Cutler with the beer bottle to defend himself?”
“No, sir.” Joey shook his head. “This Cutler guy was dazed from all of Matt’s punching. Anyway, defend himself from what? Those guys hit me ’cause I tried to run. I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think he gets to defend himself just ’cause they were going to call the police.”
“Did Mr Durant kill Mr Cutler as he was attempting to purchase cocaine from you?”
“Yes, he did,” Joey said. The question was leading, but even Joey’s three-word answer and emphasis sounded rehearsed—his future wouldn’t include an Academy Award.
“Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”
“Yes, sir. I was convicted of possession with intent to distribute cocaine a few years ago.”
“Why should the jury believe you, given your criminal record?”
“Well, I’ve sold drugs. But I never hurt anyone, and I never would. Matt knew he was going to hurt this Cutler guy real bad when he swung that beer bottle, maybe even kill him. And I don’t want any part of that. So I sure wasn’t going to lie for this guy.” Joey looked at the jury, as if he expected his concession to boost his credibility, but several jurors looked away.
“Now, did you run into Mr Durant after that night in the alley?”
“I did. I saw him on Jackson Avenue a few weeks ago.”
“Did you speak to Mr Durant?”
“Yeah, I did. I just wanted him to know I was sorry about how all this turned out. I mean, he shouldn’t have been trying to buy drugs, but I was the one selling the coke to him. And I know if I’d killed someone, it would weigh on me something awful.” Even his feigned sympathy was accusatory, and, again, several jurors broke eye contact.
“Did you tell him he didn’t know you had cocaine on him that night in the alley?”
“No, I didn’t. I told him that I guessed he knew the police had found the cocaine and that my lawyer was negotiatin
g with prosecutors.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He asked that I tell the truth, but I think he just said that because he was recording the call.”
“Objection. Move to strike the last part of the answer. Speculation,” Farrar said. His one-word objection, using language familiar to lawyers and laypeople both, unlike a hearsay objection, pointed out the flaw to judge and jury.
“Sustained,” Judge Masterson ruled. “Jurors, you will disregard everything after the word truth.”
“Have you told the truth today?”
“I have.”
“Do you think that’s really what Mr Durant wanted?”
“Objection. Speculation,” Farrar said.
“Sustained. Do not answer the question.”
“Thank you, Mr Buckner. No further questions.”
Thibedeaux had pushed too hard and ended on a low note. And Matt couldn’t believe he hadn’t just played the tape. That was a mistake; the prosecutor had to at least think Joey had a lousy memory, and if he’d introduced the tape into evidence and played it immediately before asking questions about it, Joey’s answers would have been more consistent with its substance. By avoiding it, he also showed his discomfort with Joey’s actual words.
Farrar stood to question Joey, and Matt sat forward in his seat. Farrar need display no sympathy toward this witness, whose life Matt had protected and who was now lying to avoid a few years in prison at the potential cost of Matt’s. He expected the cross-examination to be quick, sharp and brutal.
“Mr Buckner, you testified Mr Rand hit you when you attempted to escape from the alley, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How hard did Mr Rand hit you?”
“Pretty hard.”
“How many surgeries were required in order to fix the damage Mr Rand did?”
“Two surgeries.”
“Were those surgeries for cosmetic purposes?”
“No, sir. The doctor said I needed both of them to breathe right.”
“So you suffered a severe injury?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
