by Stuart Woods
The courtroom burst into excited conversation, and the Judge hammered them into silence.
Elton was on his feet like a panther. “Tell us about that particular incident, Miss McInvale, when Larry Moody was accused of rape.”
“Objection!” Will said. “Irrelevant. My client is not charged with rape.”
“A defense witness has introduced this statement, Your Honor,” Elton Hunter cried. “Surely, I may cross-examine.”
“Overruled,” the Judge said. “Witness will answer.”
Will sat down heavily and stared at the woman. He had made a cardinal mistake: he had asked a witness a question to which he did not know the answer.
“Tell us about that incident in high school, Miss McInvale,” Elton Hunter said eagerly.
“Well, it was this little black girl who made the accusation,” she replied.
The courtroom gasped. What is happening? Will thought. His case had spun totally out of control.
“Yes, go on,” Hunter said, not sure exactly what to ask.
“Well, the girl, her name was Wilson, I think—yes, that was it, Cora Mae Wilson—she said Larry had dragged her into a car after a football game and raped her. Nobody believed her, of course. Nobody could believe a thing like that of Larry.”
“No further questions of this witness,” Hunter said, then turned to the Judge. “Your Honor, I request a recess until two o’clock tomorrow to give the prosecution time to produce this very important witness, Cora Mae Wilson.”
“I object, Your Honor,” Will said, rising to his feet. “The prosecution has concluded its case.”
“Recess until two o’clock tomorrow,” the Judge said. “The court will hear the witness at that time, if she can be found.” The Judge brought down his gavel and left the courtroom, where pandemonium had broken out.
Will grabbed Larry Moody by the arm and hustled him out a side door, followed closely by Charlene Joiner. He herded them into an empty office off the corridor and slammed the door. “All right, what the hell is going on here?” he nearly shouted at Larry. “Why didn’t you tell me about Cora Mae Wilson?”
“Aw, shoot, that wasn’t important,” Larry said. “I had forgotten all about that. There never was anything to it.”
“Not important?” Will asked, incredulous. “Do you realize that if they find this woman, she might send you to the electric chair?”
“Easy, Will,” Charlene said, putting her hand on his arm. “She’s got nobody to back up her story. It’ll be her word against Larry’s.”
Will turned and looked at her. “You mean, you knew about this, too?”
Charlene looked away.
Will turned back to Larry, whose features now contorted into a face Will had never seen before—angry, guilty, desperate.
“That’s it,” Larry said. “It’s her word against mine.”
In that moment, something passed between Will and Larry, and suddenly Will knew, beyond any doubt, that the story was true. What was more, he knew, for the first time, that Larry Moody had killed Sarah Cole.
Larry saw it in his face. “You wouldn’t take a nigger bitch’s word against mine, would you? The white people on that jury sure won’t.”
Will stared at him for a moment, then at Charlene; then he turned and left the room.
19
Will sat in the library of the big house, a bourbon in his hand, and looked at his father.
“So,” Billy Lee said, “you’ve finally lost your virginity.” “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Will replied, swigging from his glass.
“You’ve learned the great truth that clients often lie to their own lawyers.”
“It isn’t just that,” Will said. “I really thought he was innocent.”
“His innocence or guilt shouldn’t be the point, not when you’re defending a man.”
“Oh, I know that; I know that everybody is entitled to a defense. But I think he’s gotten a better defense so far, because I thought he was innocent.”
“Suppose he is guilty? What did you expect him to do, confess everything to you and plead? The fellow’s freedom is at stake; it’s hardly surprising that he considers it worth lying for.”
“You’re right, of course. I just don’t know how I’m going to stand up tomorrow and plead the man’s innocence.”
“You’ll do what we all have to do every day of our lives—the best you can. Often, it’s not good enough, but it’ll have to be.”
Will stood up and set his empty glass on the bar. “You’re right.”
Walking back to the cottage in the dark, Will tried to stop feeling sorry for himself. He’d go in there tomorrow and do the best he could. Only, he didn’t want to see Larry Moody go free. Feeling as he did, how could he possibly do justice to the man’s defense?
As he walked into the cottage, the phone was ringing; he picked it up.
“Hey,” a familiar voice said.
“Hello, Charlene,” he said listlessly.
“Could you use some company tonight?”
Will was shocked at her boldness. “Are you crazy? Don’t you know what we’re in the middle of here?”
“Sure I do. What we’ve been in the middle of all along. What we were in the middle of the last time we slept together.”
Will was suddenly wary, suddenly felt that this conversation might not be entirely private. “Listen, I have to go now. I have to get some sleep.”
“Will, listen,” she said, and her voice was serious. “If Larry gets convicted tomorrow, this is going to be out of my hands.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, I don’t want all this to come out any more than you do,” she said earnestly. “I want it to stay just between you and me.”
He didn’t know what to say to her, and he had probably already said too much. “Good night, Charlene,” he said, and hung up.
Immediately, the telephone rang again.
“Hello?” he said irritably.
“It’s Kate,” she said. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry. What’s happening?”
“I just wanted to give you an update. My boss hasn’t been able to see the Director yet; their weekend was canceled. You and I can’t do anything publicly until he does. I hope you can understand that.”
“Sure, I understand,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“You really sound awful,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He started to tell her about his situation, about the percentage of the voters in the poll who still thought he was homosexual, but he stopped. It would just put more pressure on her, and he had already done enough of that. There was nothing she could do to help at the moment, anyway. “Not really,” he said. “I’ve just had kind of a bad day, that’s all. A real bad day.”
20
Will arrived at the Greenville Courthouse; he pulled into a parking place and stopped, but before he could get out of the car, a man he had never seen before opened the passenger door and slid into the front seat beside him.
“Forgive the intrusion, Counselor,” the man said smoothly, “but I want to talk with you for just a moment about your case.”
The man didn’t look like press, and Will was annoyed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not inclined to discuss my case with someone not directly connected with it.” He started to get out of the car, but a firm restraining hand was placed on his arm.
“Please,” the man said. “I think you could say that I am directly connected with your case, since it was I who paid your fee.”
“Oh? What fee was that?” Will said cautiously.
“The twenty-five thousand dollars in cash that was left at your office last December.”
“I see,” Will said. “And your name?”
“Please understand that it would be better for both your position and mine if I remain anonymous,” the man said.
“Perhaps I could understand if I knew exactly what your position is in all this.”
; “Suffice it to say that I have a deep interest in the welfare of Larry Moody.”
Will was growing impatient with all this. “Well, that makes two of us. Now, is that what you wanted to tell me? I really do have to be in court.”
“What I want to say to you is that, after the events of yesterday, I am concerned about the depth of your commitment to Larry. I am concerned that your enthusiasm for his innocence may be flagging.”
“My level of enthusiasm is my problem, not yours, and—”
“And I want you to know that if Larry Moody is convicted of this crime, the consequences for you could be very serious indeed.”
“Now, you listen to me,” Will said, his anger rising, “Larry Moody is going to get the best defense I can muster under the circumstances. He’s in the position he’s in because he lied to me in the beginning. Having said that, I perceive what you have just said to me as some sort of threat, and if I hear another word from you along those lines, there is a very tough old judge in that courthouse who takes a dim view of people meddling in his cases, and who will be happy to show you the inside of the Meriwether County Jail. Do you read me loud and clear?”
The man seemed to be fighting to maintain control of himself. “I read you, Mr. Lee,” he said. “I just hope you read me.” He got out of the car and firmly shut the door.
*
Cora Mae Wilson looked remarkably like Sarah Cole, Will thought. Not so much her face, but her size, her café-au-lait coloring, and her short Afro haircut. She sat erect, her hands folded in her lap, and answered Elton Hunter’s questions calmly.
“How are you employed, Miss Wilson?”
“I am a licensed practical nurse,” the woman said. “I work at Callaway Hospital, in La Grange.”
“Did you attend La Grange High School at the same time as Larry Moody?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you ever have any sort of encounter with Larry Moody?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell the court about it, please?”
She unfolded her hands and took a deep breath. “It was my freshman year in high school,” she said. “I had been to a football game on a Friday night in November, and I was walking home alone from the stadium. We only lived a few blocks from the school. I had to pass through a picnic area—a few tables in some pine woods—and it was near the parking lot at the gym, where the dressing rooms were. The football players were starting to leave, after they had changed after the game, and I was blinded by the lights of a car.
“The car stopped, and I put up my hand to shield my eyes from the lights, then the car pulled into the picnic area, where I was, and the lights were turned off. I thought it must be somebody I knew, and when I heard the car door slam, I turned toward the car. I was having trouble adjusting my eyes to the dark, so I said, ‘Who’s that?’
“That was when he hit me. He never said a word, he just hit me. I went down, and then he grabbed me by my hair and yanked me up, and he started talking, sort of quiet, saying, ‘Hey, baby, look at you. I’m gonna give you something nice.’ And all the time, he was dragging me toward the car.
“I tried to scream, but he put his hand over my mouth, then he got an arm—a strong arm—around my neck and he hauled me over to the car and opened the back door. He was tearing at my clothes by this time, and I was struggling. He hit me a couple of times more, then, and said if I didn’t shut up, he’d kill me. I stopped trying to scream then, but I was still struggling, while he was tearing at my clothes.
“He tore my blouse, and then he tore my underwear off, right off my body, and then he held me down, and he raped me.”
“Were you able to see his face?”
“Yes, cars kept passing by, the players and their girlfriends, and they would whistle or shout—I guess they thought it was some couple parked there, making out, you know.”
“And did you know the boy?”
“Yes, I had seen him around the school a lot. He was a football player, and everybody knew who he was.”
“Did you know his name?”
“Yes,” she said, “his name was Larry Moody.”
“What happened next?” Hunter asked.
“When he finished, he sort of slumped down beside me, and I tried to run, but he caught me from behind, and he started choking, strangling me. I was about to pass out, I was desperate, and I grabbed him in the crotch—his pants were down—I grabbed his genitals, his testicles, and I squeezed as hard as I could. He screamed, and he let go of me, and I ran, ran through the woods behind the gym, afraid that he was after me. I got away, though, and I managed to get home before I just collapsed.”
“What did you do next?” Hunter asked.
“There was nobody home—my mother worked nights at a restaurant, and my father had left home—so I cleaned myself up as best I could, and I fell asleep.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The police were … white, and I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me.”
“Did you tell your mother?”
“I told her the next morning, when I woke up, but she said I was right not to call the police, that they wouldn’t believe me. So I got dressed and went to school, and on the way, I started to get mad, and when I got to the school, I went to the principal’s office and told him what had happened the night before. He seemed to take me seriously, and he asked me to wait while he went out of the room for a few minutes.
“When he came back, the football coach was with him, and I saw Larry Moody sitting outside in the waiting room. Then the principal and the coach started on me, asking questions, trying to shake my story, but I was telling the truth, and I wouldn’t change what I was saying.”
Tears were running down Cora Mae Wilson’s face now, and she struggled to get out the words.
“So then they started saying that it had all been just ‘a youthful prank’ at worst, and anyway, nobody would ever believe it—not the police, not the kids I went to school with. Larry Moody was real popular, a big football player, and nobody would ever believe that he would have done anything like that to me.
“Then they began to talk like I was the one who had done something wrong, like it was my fault, and I started to get scared. They said that if I kept insisting my story was true, not only would I end up in jail, but that Larry Moody could sue me, take my mother’s house that she had worked so hard to pay for.
“Finally, I just wanted to get out of there; I would have done anything to get out of there. They were real stern; they said I would have to apologize to Larry Moody. And they brought him in the principal’s office, and I had to say that I was sincerely sorry for any trouble I had caused Larry Moody and for telling lies about him. After I did that, they let me go, but they made me promise I wouldn’t mention it to anybody, ever.”
“And what happened after that?” Hunter asked.
“After that, whenever Larry Moody saw me in the hall at school, he would wink at me and say nasty things—’You want some more, baby?’—that kind of thing. Sometimes he would pinch me—my behind or my breasts. Pretty soon, some of his friends started to do the same thing.”
“Did you go to the school authorities about this?”
She shook her head. “I was afraid to, after what had happened the last time when I went to them for help.”
“So what did you do?”
“I left school. My mother sent me over to her sister’s in Birmingham to live, and I finished high school there. I didn’t come back to La Grange until after I had finished my practical nurse’s training, and then my mother got sick, and I came back to take care of her, and I got a job at Callaway Hospital.”
“Did you ever see Larry Moody again?”
“No. I heard he’d moved away, but I lived in constant fear of running into him.”
“Miss Wilson,” Elton Hunter said quietly, “do you see the man who beat you, who raped you, who tried to strangle you, who drove you out of your scho
ol and your hometown—do you see him in this courtroom?”
Cora Mae Wilson turned her tear-streaked face toward the defense table and pointed at Larry Moody. “That’s him, sitting right there,” she said firmly.
“Your witness,” Hunter said to Will.
Larry Moody leaned over and whispered to Will. “Go on,” he said, “take her apart.”
“I have no questions,” Will said to the Judge.
“What are you doing?” Larry demanded. “You’ve got to make her say she’s lying!”
“Larry,” Will said, “that girl is unassailable. If I attack her testimony, it will only make things worse for you.”
Elton Hunter stood up. “The prosecution rests,” he said.
Larry had Will by the coat sleeve. “Then put me back on the stand, so I can call her a liar,” he said.
“I’m not going to do that,” Will said. “If I do, Elton Hunter will cut you into little pieces and feed you to the jury. Except for the summations, it’s over. You’ve still got a chance, on the evidence. That’s your best hope.”
“You bastard!” Larry whispered. “You’re selling me down the river.”
“I’m trying to keep you out of the electric chair,” Will said to him.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” Larry said.
Will turned and looked at him. “You’ve done it to yourself, Larry. Now, just sit quietly while I try to save your life.”
21
Elton Hunter, in summation, built his case carefully, block by block, delivering just enough emotion at every step to cement the guilt of Larry Moody into the structure of his case. Finally, with some passion, he reviewed the testimony of Cora Mae Wilson, using it to establish a history of sexual violence for Larry Moody. When he had finished, the jurors looked sober; one or two looked angry. The courtroom was absolutely silent.
Will stood and faced the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I want to thank you for your close attention to these proceedings. The prosecution has attempted to build an overwhelming case against Larry Moody, and the prosecution has failed. At each turn of this trial, we have shown how their evidence is faulty.
“First, they have produced a witness whose identification of Larry is suspect, a witness of poor eyesight and questionable mental state. How can even a sharp-eyed, stable person identify another from behind? Then they have produced evidence of carpet fibers on Sarah Cole’s sweater and sweater fibers on the carpet—but we have shown that there are thousands of such vans with identical carpets, more than a dozen of them in this county. We have also shown that the sweater Sarah Cole wore was identical to dozens of others sold by the same department store—and one of those sweaters was owned by the defendant’s girlfriend. We have shown that the defendant and his girlfriend, who was wearing that sweater, made love on that carpet the night before the murder. We have shown that Sarah Cole and the defendant’s girlfriend have the same very common blood type, thus accounting for the blood on the carpet.
