The Sacrifice

by Robert Whitlow

  “No,” Scott interrupted. “Too general. Ask a specific question.”

  “Uh, how much vodka did you put in the punch?”

  “Two quarts.”

  “How big was the punch bowl? How many quarts or gallons could it hold?”

  “It was this big,” Kenny answered, holding his arms out in front of him. “How much would that hold?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” Janie said.

  Scott smiled. “Good. Keep control of the witness. If Joe keeps that up, you could ask the judge to instruct the witness to answer the questions.”

  Janie continued, “How strong was the taste of vodka in the punch?”

  “Not much with all that fruit juice and sherbet floating around in it. I don’t think some of the girls knew what we’d done to it.”

  “Who drank the punch after it had been spiked?”

  “A bunch of people. Me, Ralph, Sarah, and Betty.”

  “Who showed the effects of the alcohol by the way they acted?”

  “I don’t know about anyone else. I had a pretty good buzz. I’d never had anything to drink so early in the day.”

  Scott held up his hand. “Good job, Kenny. You sounded very genuine. Janie, your questions were well phrased. Anyone want to volunteer?”

  The next hour and a half passed quickly. Scott asked most of the questions, but he let a couple of students play the lawyer role. They made it through the case to the sad part at the end when Betty Moonbeam ends up in the hospital after a wreck with a vehicle driven by a congenial redneck named Pete Pigpickin. Also on the scene at the time of the collision was a controversial witness named Billy Bob Beerbelly. The last girl to play the part of Betty Moonbeam squeezed out a fake tear as she described her pain and suffering following the injuries she received in the car wreck following the party.

  “How do girls do that?” Dustin asked when she finished.

  “She thought about something sad,” Yvette answered. “Like going out with you.”

  “That’s it for tonight,” Scott interjected before Dustin could counterattack. “Here’s your homework assignment. Look over the problem and give me your first three preferences. Do you want to be Betty, Joe, Billy, Ralph, Sarah, Pete, one of the lawyers, and so on? I can’t guarantee a specific role and everyone will practice different parts in preparation for the competition. The witness roles can be switched between male and female. For example, we can experiment with Barry Moonbeam, Ruth Risky, and Bonita Beerbelly.”

  “When do we turn in our choices?” Yvette asked.

  “Give them to Mrs. Wilson by the end of the day tomorrow.”

  Most of the students began filing out. Janie came forward to Kay’s desk.

  “Can you still give me a ride home?” she asked Kay. “My mother had to use the car tonight.”

  “Of course,” Kay responded. “Wait outside, and I’ll be there in a minute.”

  After all the students left, Scott asked, “How do you think it went tonight?”

  Kay picked up the brown satchel she used to transport papers to and from school. “They enjoyed it. The boys will be calling each other Ralph Risky and Billy Bob Beerbelly in the hallways tomorrow.”

  “Do you have ideas about the students who should play the different parts?”

  Kay showed Scott a page of notes. “I took notes, but let’s see what the kids want to do and plug our comments into their requests.”

  “Should I call you?” Scott asked.

  Kay hesitated. “No, I’ll call you.”

  Franklin Jesup Jr. had a reason for his tardiness to the mock trial meeting.

  It started after supper with a routine household problem—a leaking hose in the washing machine. Frank’s mother rarely washed clothes, but their housekeeper had been out sick, and Jodie’s favorite pants were dirty and had to be cleaned before school the next day. Vivian Jesup put the pants in the machine and turned it on. She was in the kitchen arguing with Frank Jr. about a nasty scratch she’d discovered on the door of her new car after she’d parked next to his vehicle when Jodie came running upstairs.

  “Water is all over the floor downstairs!”

  Vivian rushed down the steps, and Frank followed at a more casual pace. Jodie was right. Water was everywhere. It had seeped out of the laundry room and soaked the carpet in the downstairs den. Worst of all, water had also flowed into the patio room his mother used as an art studio. A recently finished watercolor of Jodie was facedown on the floor when the water invaded the room. Frank heard his mother give a piercing scream.

  He hurried into the room as she held up the picture. The colors were running down the surface of the canvas.

  “It’s ruined!” she cried.

  Frank stared at the picture for a moment and burst out laughing. The painting wasn’t a good likeness of his sister before the water blurred the image and gave the face a grotesque smile that drooped down at the corners of the mouth. Now, it looked totally ridiculous.

  “It’s better,” he said. “It’s, uh, Post-Impressionist. No, it’s post-diluvian. Get it? After the Flood.”

  Vivian Jesup took a step forward, raised the canvas in the air, and slammed it down over Frank’s head.

  Stunned, Frank didn’t move. He and his mother stared hard at one another for several seconds.

  Frank spoke first. In a low, calm voice, he said, “You shouldn’t have done that. I will make you very, very sorry.”

  “Get out of my sight!” she screamed.

  He went upstairs and took a shower to wash the paint from his hair and forehead. His dark hair was still wet when he arrived at the high school.

  Later that night after he and Jodie were supposed to be asleep, Frank heard his parents arguing downstairs. He quietly opened the door of his bedroom and walked to the top of the stairs.

  “He’s going to a boarding school as soon as we can get him admitted,” his mother said, her voice rising in volume. “I’ve had enough of his smart mouth and rotten attitude! He needs to be someplace where people can deal with him.”

  “No,” his father said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “I’m dead serious. He’s leaving, or I’m taking Jodie and moving to the lake house!”

  “Don’t get emotional.”

  “Emotional! You haven’t had to put up with him every day for seventeen years!”

  His parents moved toward the master suite that occupied the east wing of the main floor, and their voices faded. Frank sat at the top of the stairs for a few seconds, debating what to do.

  He crept quietly down the stairs and moved along the wall toward his parents’ bedroom. He could hear both their voices getting louder but couldn’t make out the conversation. Drawing closer, he hid behind a bookcase in a small alcove outside the bedroom. The door was cracked open, and he heard a loud crash.

  “I suspected this!” his mother screamed. “You and your weekend business trips! I’m going to take you for everything you have!”

  “Do your worst, Vivian,” his father said coldly. “I’m ready for you.” There was another loud crash. “Go ahead. Break everything. It’s already broken.”

  10

  All the causes which conspire to blind man’s erring judgment.

  ALEXANDER POPE

  Scott knocked on the door of Leland Humphrey’s office and stuck his head inside.

  S“Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes. Let’s go,” the older lawyer replied. He lifted himself out of his chair and slipped on a camel’s-hair blazer.

  In the reception area they walked past several clients waiting to see other lawyers in the firm. One of them was an expensively dressed woman. Vivian Jesup twisted a tissue in her hands as she waited for her initial appointment with Ann Gammons, the firm’s most experienced divorce lawyer.

  Lynn Davenport was sitting alone at the prosecution table when Leland Humphrey and Scott entered the empty courtroom. She glanced back at the sound of their footsteps and continued writing on a legal pad until they passed through the
bar and set their briefcases beside the defense table.

  Turning in her chair, she said, “The deputy who is bringing the prisoner from the youth detention center is a few minutes late. The judge is in his chambers waiting for everyone to get here.”

  Mr. Humphrey stepped forward and shook her hand. “I’m Leland Humphrey. Mr. Ellis is attorney of record, but I may help out since he is part of our firm. I think we met when you were sworn in a couple of years ago.”

  The D.A. nodded. “Yes, sir. You hosted a reception for the new lawyers in town at your firm.”

  The door at the front of the courtroom opened, and Deputy Hicks from the youth detention center entered with Lester in tow. The young man’s hair was beginning to grow back and cover his head with a dense, black fuzz.

  “Deputy, please inform the judge we’re ready,” the D.A. said.

  Lester sat at the defense table next to Scott and whispered, “Who’s the old guy?”

  “My boss,” Scott answered.

  Everyone except Lester stood when the judge strode into the courtroom. Scott tapped his client on the shoulder and motioned for him to stand up.

  The judge nodded when he saw Leland Humphrey. “Good morning, Mr. Humphrey. Mr. Ellis.”

  Leland cleared his throat and in his sonorous courtroom voice replied, “Good morning, Judge.”

  “Proceed, Ms. Davenport,” the judge said.

  Ms. Davenport stood with a legal pad in her hand. “Your honor, eleven days ago the accused was arrested following an incident at the Hall’s Chapel Church on the banks of Montgomery Creek.”

  “I know where the church is located,” the judge said.

  “The church members were having a picnic after their service on Sunday. The minister”—Lynn consulted her notes—“a man named Alfred Moore, and five other individuals waded into the creek for a baptismal ceremony. Approximately one hundred other persons, including a number of young children, were standing on the bank. At that point, the state’s evidence will show that the defendant fired four or five shots with a gun. No one was injured, but the people in attendance were placed in fear and apprehension of bodily harm from a dangerous weapon. The windshield of a vehicle parked near the church was shattered and a bullet lodged in the wall of the building above the front door. There is sufficient evidence to support a finding of assault with a deadly weapon with intent to inflict serious injury, assault by pointing a gun, and criminal damage to property.”

  Scott had given Lester a sheet of paper to record any notes or questions. Scott glanced down. His client had written the same word three times: “Lies, lies, lies.”

  Davenport continued, “Sheriff ’s deputies were called to the scene, and a pickup truck owned by Harold Garrison, the defendant’s father, was located a half-mile down the road near a bridge that crosses the creek. The defendant was seen in the vicinity of the truck.”

  “Did the defendant make any incriminating statements?” the judge asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Did he have a weapon?”

  “The arresting officers saw him throw his weapon in the creek and try to run away. He was captured by two deputies coming from the opposite direction. The gun was recovered several hours later. There was only one bullet left in a six-shot chamber.”

  “Any eyewitnesses who identified the defendant at the scene?” the judge asked.

  “Not yet, but we want to schedule some lineups, your honor.”

  Scott was quickly on his feet. “Judge, we would like the opportunity to file objections to any efforts to force our client to incriminate himself.”

  Lynn Davenport immediately responded. “The law clearly provides—”

  “Not now,” the judge said, taking off his glasses in warning. “We’ll argue this later if I keep this case in my court. If it goes back to juvenile court, it will be subject to a different standard.” He turned toward the D.A. “Ms. Davenport, you mentioned a conspiracy to commit murder charge. Is it related to this incident?”

  “No, it has a broader scope.”

  “Explain.”

  Lynn looked at Lester. “We have evidence that the defendant has been in communication with members of a white supremacy group that is planning to kill several prominent African-American leaders in North and South Carolina on Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday.”

  “What type of evidence?”

  “Admissions, your honor. Direct admissions from the defendant.”

  “Words are not enough, Ms. Davenport.”

  “Yes, sir, but there is evidence of preparatory acts sufficient to satisfy the legal requirements for a criminal conspiracy. The need to protect the safety of witnesses prevents disclosure of more specific information.”

  “Have there been other arrests?”

  “Not yet, but the evidence we’ve uncovered has been forwarded to appropriate law enforcement agencies in South Carolina where the other co-conspirators reside.”

  Scott stood. “Your honor, the state has to identify the witnesses who will testify. Mr. Garrison has a constitutional right to face his accusers.”

  The judge turned to the D.A. “Ms. Davenport, can you prove extraordinary circumstances?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  The judge motioned to Deputy Hicks. “Take Mr. Garrison back to the holding cell while I review this issue with the attorneys.”

  “May I have a minute with my client?” Scott asked.

  “All right,” the judge said. “We’ll take a ten-minute break.”

  Scott and Leland followed the deputy and Lester to the holding cell, a small jail cell behind the courtroom. Deputy Hicks closed the door with a clang and walked down the hall out of earshot.

  “What’s she talking about?” Scott asked.

  “I bet it came from the school,” Lester said. “I met a guy on the Internet.”

  “You use the Internet?” Scott asked.

  “In the computer lab at school during my free period. I told you I’m not stupid. I know how to go on-line and find out stuff.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I did some research on groups that stand up for the white race. I connected in a chat room with a guy in Greenville who knows the names of the politicians who have taken away our rights. We got to talking online for a few weeks. I’ve never met him in person.”

  “Did you send e-mails back and forth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there threats?”

  “He listed some people who needed to be removed.”

  “Removed? What did that mean?”

  Lester looked down at his feet. “It could mean a lot of things.”

  “Including murder?”

  “I never said that.”

  “What did you write?”

  “I can’t remember everything but nothing that should be against the law.”

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Bossman.”

  “What’s his first name?”

  “I don’t know his real name. Bossman is his screen name. For all I know, he could be a kid.”

  “You heard what Davenport said about doing something to carry out a plan. What was she talking about?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve told you everything. I’d swear it on my grandmother’s Bible. But I’m sure that D.A. could get someone to come in and lie.”

  Scott looked at Mr. Humphrey to see his reaction. The older lawyer turned to Lester and said, “Okay. You have to stay here while we meet with the judge.”

  As they walked down the hall toward the courtroom, Scott asked, “What do we do?”

  “Find out as much as we can. I doubt Lester told us everything, so we have to convince the judge to help us pry information from Ms. Davenport.”

  An hour later, Scott and Leland left the courtroom with copies of twelve, hate-filled e-mails that were far more specific about threats of political assassination than Lester had indicated. However, even a quick reading of the communications revealed that their client was the responder, not the
initiator, in the discussions. Lester agreed with Bossman that violence was justified, but there wasn’t obvious evidence of acts that warranted a criminal conspiracy charge. Freedom of speech allows the expression of hate, even if the reasons for bigotry seemed more appropriate for a crude leaflet from the Reconstruction South than a printout from a twenty-first-century computer file. The judge also ruled that Lynn Davenport had to reveal the identities of all witnesses.

  But Scott and Mr. Humphrey weren’t happy. They’d lost the most important issue. The judge ordered Lester Garrison to stand trial as an adult on all charges pending against him. The kinder, gentler juvenile court system would not be the venue for the case. Bond was set at $75,000. Until that was met, their fuzzy-headed young client would remain in custody at the youth detention center.

  When he returned to his office, Scott listened to his voice-mail messages. Number three was from Thelma Garrison.

  “I still ain’t heard nothing from Harold. Is Lester all right? I have a relative who can carry me to town on Sunday to that place where they’re keepin’ him. Call me back.”

  Scott phoned Mrs. Garrison. He didn’t try to explain the complexities of her grandson’s legal situation but promised to notify the youth detention center that she might visit on Sunday afternoon.

  After Scott’s call Thelma put the old-fashioned, black rotary phone in its cradle and rubbed her hand across her wrinkled forehead. The days since Lester’s arrest had been among the loneliest of her life. Not that she and Lester talked very much, but his total absence created a new void in her already empty existence. Thelma’s niece came by every day on her way home from work to check on her, but the young woman had two young children of her own and couldn’t stay very long.

  Thelma’s home was a “shotgun house,” so named because a man with a shotgun could stand at the front door and get a clear shot across the living room, down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door without hitting a wall or doorframe. The old house had two bedrooms and a single bathroom. On the few nights a month when Harold slept there, he camped out with a pillow and a blanket on the sofa.

  Lester’s absence was especially bad on Saturday—shopping day. The trips to the grocery store were the high point of her week. She didn’t go into the store to buy anything, but on shopping day she felt part of the human race. She’d sit in the truck with the window down and listen to the sounds of life passing by—a child crying, a woman laughing, a man calling a greeting to a friend across the parking lot. She imagined the faces behind the sounds.