by Grace Mead
“What about contact with the other prisoners?” Matt asked.
“There ain’t much, which is good for your lily-white ass.”
“Is there anything to read?” Matt asked.
“They got a liberry cart comes around every day. But mos’ folks just watch that,” Dwayne said. He pointed to a fuzzy black-and-white television set blaring out in the hallway. “Guards like it when we watch TV ’cause it makes their job easier. You get used to the noise.”
“What about writing materials?”
“Comes around with the liberry cart. You got credit for paper, pens, envelopes, stamps, and stuff based on how much cash you had in your pockets when you got here,” Dwayne said. “And you can add money if you got someone on the outside to help you do it.”
“Thanks.”
“Got a couple of hours tonight ’til dinner. Then it’s lights out. Not much to do other’n watch TV until dinner.”
Matt clambered into the available, top bunk and lay down on a thin pad that did nothing to soften the metal underneath: he had a feeling sleep would become his principal pastime over the next few weeks. He woke a few hours later to a meal he tried not to think about as he shoved it into his mouth.
The lights went out a couple of hours after dinner. Before that, the television set had been the only way to tell time. Broadcast time and temperature updates appeared less frequently than he remembered on the outside, but four or five sitcoms were shown between dinner and lights out.
In the darkness, Matt could hear the noises of men confined in the nearby cells. Sobs and grunts rose above the sounds of heavy breathing and snores. Despite Dwayne’s suggestion that they not bother each other, his cellmate didn’t have any compunction about masturbating himself to sleep. As Matt lay awake, trying to ignore the shaking of the bunk bed, he no longer felt the urge to cry. Dull, wooden thoughts about what could possibly happen next had replaced tears.
The next morning, breakfast was remarkable only for how disgusting it was. After The Tyra Show, Matt was relieved to see that a trusty came around with a cart of books and writing materials. He borrowed copies of a couple of books he’d already read, along with some pens, paper, envelopes and stamps. He was happy to have something to divert him from the insipid programming, which seemed a form of punishment in and of itself.
Matt returned to his bunk and attempted to compose a letter to his mother, who he worried was more upset and hurt than him by the jury’s verdict. He found it odd to print by hand again, which he did slowly and deliberately, bearing down too hard on his limited supply of paper:
Dear Mom:
I wanted to write and let you know everything is going as well as it could. The verdict yesterday was a terrible blow, but there are small things in here for me to enjoy. The sensation of writing a letter by hand, without rushing in the way that we all type nowadays, is something to relish. And I managed to get copies of a couple of good books: To Kill a Mockingbird and Huck Finn. I’ve read both before, but they’re certainly worth rereading. I’ll now have the time to focus on the placement of every word, as the authors did.
I’m physically safe. I have a cellmate, but he and I have agreed to leave each other alone. I’ll only have about two hours’ worth of exposure to the other inmates each week in the exercise yard and the showers, and I understand both facilities are under video surveillance and closely supervised by the guards.
Other than letting you know I’m safe and as well as can be, I just wanted to thank you. You’ve shown me more love than would have been possible from any other human being. I’ve enjoyed our conversations and the time that we’ve spent together at every age, and you’ve shown me enough love in the last twenty-eight years to last a lifetime.
I also want to let you know your primary obligation now is to enjoy life for me. Minister to a patient who recovers against the odds and describe the recovery to me; go on dates and tell me about them; go to LSU games and describe them to me. I’m depending on you to live a happy and full life so I can enjoy it vicariously.
Love,
Matt
Matt folded the letter, sealed the envelope, wrote his mother’s address on the front and, after consultation with Dwayne, finally added the return address of his new home before affixing a stamp. His letter—even if a bit formal—at least was designed to give his mother some hope, but now he felt drained as he considered living up to the promises he’d made. He wanted to write letters to Eric, Lisa, Farrar and all the others who had lent him so much support over the past few weeks and months, but he lacked the energy.
Matt spent the remainder of the day with his attention listlessly drifting between the drafting letters in his head, the books, the television set, and sleep. He and Dwayne barely spoke.
The next morning was indistinguishable from the first. Matt worked up the courage to write to Eric:
Dear Eric,
I wanted to write to thank you for your support and friendship throughout the trial. I wish we could have had more time together, but that doesn’t lessen my appreciation for the time that we did spend together. The night before they took me to prison was perhaps the best night of my life.
Thank you for continuing to push me to reveal something of myself to you rather than simply hiding behind banter. I couldn’t have made it through the trial without your support and your example. And it makes my time in here easier to bear.
I’m physically safe and as well as can be. I just wanted to drop you a short note to express my appreciation for everything you did for me.
Take Care,
Matt
His hand trembled as he finished the letter. He wasn’t sure whether he was exhausted from depression or because his metabolism had already slowed dramatically in only a few days of imprisonment—he wondered if other simple tasks would soon be overwhelming.
Around one o’clock that afternoon, a guard came to the cell door and said, “Time for exercise and showers.”
The officers opened the entire row of cell doors lining the corridor and escorted the prisoners outside to a yard ringed with concertina wire and cameras. The inmates trudged around the yard with blank expressions: no one seemed particularly interested in him for the first ten minutes and the relief lightened his step. The video surveillance and the fact that the other detainees had yet to be sentenced reassured him that the rest of the exercise period would be uneventful. It was.
The prisoners were then led to a communal shower with no walls or partitions. Here too surveillance cameras abounded: it appeared prison administrators had decided to focus it on the common areas where violence or assault would be more likely.
The late afternoon and evening faded into an indistinguishable blur and before Matt realized it, he woke up the next morning to the same bland meal that he’d eaten yesterday.
After he finished, the guard approached the cell door. “Durant, your lawyer wants to see you. Put your hands through the slot so I can cuff you.”
Matt stuck his hands through the bars and received the handcuffs with outstretched palms. Foregoing shackles, the guard led him to an interview room. Matt walked in to find his mother and Farrar waiting for him.
“We can’t supervise this interview because your lawyer’s here,” the guard said, “but don’t abuse the privilege or we’ll turn on the cameras without the sound. And we can restrict access to your lawyers if we have to.”
The door clanged shut and Mary rushed forward to hug him in the awkward way that a diminutive mother embraces her son’s larger frame.
“Matt, I’m so sorry. I love you so much.”
“It’s all right, Mama. It’s just good to see you.”
The pair parted and Farrar reached forward to shake his hand. Matt responded by using both hands to clasp Farrar’s, not in an imitation of some politician’s idea of warmth, but because his were cuffed together.
“I’m sorry, Matt. I’ve failed you. A jury should never have believed those criminals over you.”
“You didn’
t fail me. You tried a great case and I’ll forever be grateful. The system failed, not you.”
“Well, we can consider how the system failed when we reach the point of crafting an appeal. For now, we need to focus on your sentencing,” Farrar said. “You’re a first-time offender without any history of violence, so we should be able to convince the jury not to sentence you to death. Saving your life is our sole focus now.” Depression deadened Matt’s ability to process the news; he wasn’t at all certain he wanted to live longer in prison.
“Our case should be pretty simple. We’ll rely on testimony from your mother and Judge Thompson, of course, but we need to identify the other character witnesses we should call on your behalf.”
The group discussed Matt’s various charitable activities over the years and composed a short list of people to contact. Each one had dedicated his or her life to helping others, and Matt had always felt that his few hours of charitable work a week paled in comparison to their commitment.
“Finally, I’d like to testify in the penalty phase,” Farrar said. “That’s a bit tricky because, as you know, there are ethical restrictions against the lead trial attorney testifying as a witness. We need to decide who will represent you as your lawyer during this phase. I have several ideas…”
Matt interrupted: “I’d be happy to have Lisa handle the sentencing phase.” He thought highly of the skills of few lawyers, and he trusted no one who he hadn’t known closely. “I know she’s less experienced than some other possible lawyers, but she knows the case backwards and forwards and this phase should be straightforward—an opening, the examinations of the character witnesses and a closing.”
Matt continued: “And thank you for volunteering to testify, but if testifying is going to negatively impact the firm or its business—”
“Stop,” Farrar responded. “Any impact on the firm or me is negligible compared to what you’re going through. We’re not giving up on the rest of your life and we’re not going to let you give up either. I don’t have much more to say, but if I remain here for a half-hour or so with you and your mother, it will give you some privacy. Let me work at the end of this table and the two of you can catch up.”
Matt and his mother went to the corner of the conference room.
“Matt, I’m going to have to go back to Lafayette. Mr Farrar and I tried to visit earlier, but the jail had some official policy about giving you a few days to adjust before they’d allow visitors. I’d like to take more time off of work, but the hospital’s pretty conservative and I think they’ve had about enough.”
“I know, Mom,” Matt said. “I figured the hospital probably wouldn’t react well to your taking so much personal time to attend the trial. I wrote you a letter, but I also want to let you know I’m safe.”
“I don’t want you to worry too much about the next phase of the trial or the state penitentiary,” Mary said. “Remember, half the things you worry about never happen.” The words were betrayed by her quavering voice.
“You know, I’ve always considered that expression odd, coming from you. You worry more than anyone else I know, Mom. I sometimes think that was my best feature as a lawyer. My anxiety created a fine eye for detail.” Matt tried to smile.
“I know,” Mary said. “And I’m worried. But there’s nothing we can do about the jury verdict now. I just want you to know that I love you, I believe in you and I’ll never stop fighting for you. You’re in my prayers every night.”
“I know, Mom.” As always, Matt felt conflicted when he heard that: he knew that the God some prayed too didn’t protect those like him.
Farrar looked up and said, “I’m sorry, but I think we’ve exhausted our time. We don’t want to push our luck and jeopardize any further visits.”
His mother gave him a hug, pressing his arms against his clammy pits, and—when she finally released him—he had to force himself to release her in turn so she wouldn’t feel his desperation. Matt felt like it would be the last time he’d see her, even if he knew better.
Chapter 16
The following Monday, Matt was led back to the courthouse through the prisoners’ entrance, took his seat, and then looked up—the sight of the empty jury box caused his emotions to surge. The memory of the recent verdict merged with his fear in a torrent that threatened to sweep him away; the same jury that had concluded he’d lied about the events in the alley would now determine whether he lived or died. He shuddered for a fraction of a second and the shakes settled in his right eye, where the muscles continued to twitch. He thought he’d just managed to rein in his emotions, get the eye under control, assumed an impassive expression, and hoped no one had noticed.
Lisa, rather than Thomas, sat to Matt’s immediate left, studying her outline for the direct examination of her first witness and mouthing the words silently. Her trembling hand as she wrote wasn’t reassuring, but her intelligence had always been obvious, and—despite his hatred of himself and disbelief that anyone could have such feelings toward him—he’d learned to trust her loyalty and passion even if he chalked it up to an unusually kind soul. Besides, the examinations would be straightforward, right?
Judge Masterson entered and took his place on the bench. “Are there any legal issues that we need to address before we bring in the jury?” he asked the lawyers. Both Thibedeaux and Lisa said there were none. Judge Masterson instructed his clerk to bring in the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we now enter the penalty phase of the trial,” Judge Masterson said. “The only question before you will be whether Mr Durant should receive life imprisonment or the death penalty for the murder of Brian Cutler. The prosecutor and defense will not present opening arguments as they did in the guilt phase. We’ll proceed directly to the prosecution’s presentation of evidence, followed by the defense’s presentation of evidence, and then concluding statements. Mr Thibedeaux, your first witness?”
“The state calls Betsey Trudeau,” Thibedeaux said.
Betsey made her way to the stand, dressed in a simple black pencil skirt and a plain white blouse, which set off a weary face and bleached blonde hair.
“What was your relationship to Brian Cutler?”
“I was his fiancée.”
“How long had you been dating Mr Cutler?”
“We started dating my senior year in high school, four years ago. When we met at a party, he’d already graduated and was working on the offshore rigs.”
“Can you describe your relationship with Mr Cutler to the jury?”
“Brian was a good man. We never had much, but he shared everything he had. He spent more money on my Christmas presents than he spent on himself in a month. He liked watching football and drinking beer. Most other folks probably wouldn’t think he was any different from a lot of other men in Houma, but he was my man.”
“Can you describe how you felt when you heard about Brian Cutler’s death?”
“Donnie Rand called me on the phone. I knew Brian, Donnie and John had gone down to New Orleans to celebrate getting off of the rig. Donnie said they’d run into a problem in an alley and a guy had hit Brian with a beer bottle. He said Brian was dead.” Her tired and pink eyes turned such a violent shade of crimson that her clear tears came as a surprise.
“How did you feel when you heard that?”
“I felt like somebody ripped my heart out of my chest. It hurt so bad I thought I’d never be able to catch my breath again.”
“How do you feel now?”
“It still hurts real bad, like a constant ache, but I can breathe better.”
“How did Brian Cutler’s death change your life?”
“I had to stop planning the wedding, that’s for sure. We’d also been talkin’ about having kids and now that’s never gonna happen. His last name is gonna disappear, ’cause his only living family are his momma and sisters.”
“Did Brian Cutler’s death change your future financially?”
“Sure, I mean, I don’t know when I’ll actually be able to afford
a house now. But that don’t matter. I just want him back, ’specially when the nights get cooler. It’s awful quiet at night and that’s when I miss him the most. I wish I could just laugh with him again or share a story from work. What I miss most is just havin’ him near me. Knowin’ he was near me gave me so much comfort.”
“Do you think Matthew Durant deserves the jury’s mercy?”
“No, I don’t,” Betsey said. She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and pressed her lips tightly together before continuing: “Mr Durant prob’ly didn’t think much of Brian, bein’ a fancy lawyer and all, but I loved Brian, and he was all I had in this world. I think this Durant guy should get the same as he gave to Brian. The state should kill him. I wish they could crush his skull with a beer bottle.”
Matt’s shame flared up. He liked to think hitting Cutler with the beer bottle had been necessary, but putting a face on the victim made him somehow doubt it. Maybe the jury had been right.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“No questions, Your Honor,” Lisa said.
“Mr Thibedeaux, your next witness,” Judge Masterson said.
“The state calls Anna Lee Cutler to the stand,” Thibedeaux responded.
Anna Lee Cutler, an older version of Betsey who’d obviously given up on dyeing her hair, took the stand. The extra two decades had carved deep lines into her face—if poverty had an expression, Anna Lee Cutler bore it.
“Ms Cutler, what was your relationship to Brian?”
“I’m his mother.”
“How did you learn that Brian had been killed?”
“Donnie Rand called me and said that a guy down in New Orleans had attacked Brian with a beer bottle and bashed in his head. Donnie said Brian was dead.”
“How did you feel when you learned Brian was dead?”
