“Yes.”
“In some cases, what first appears to be the obvious cause of death turns out not to be the cause of death at all. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“Of course. That’s why we have autopsies.”
“Exactly. Thank you, Dr. Ross. I have no further questions.”
CHAPTER 66
The backlash was immediate.
“Utterly outrageous!” Leroy Highsmith told the crowd.
He’d bolted from the courtroom at the conclusion of Jack’s cross-examination. A pack of reporters followed him out the door and surrounded him on the courthouse steps. He was fuming, and his voice boomed even in the open air.
“To suggest that what happened to Jamal Cousin was anything but a racial terror lynching is an insult to the court and an outrage to the community.”
A reporter pushed her way to the front, thrusting her microphone in his face. “Sir, isn’t Mr. Swyteck doing what all criminal defense lawyers do—raise as many questions as possible about the prosecution’s case?”
“I fully understand the concept of reasonable doubt,” said Highsmith. “But this crosses the line.”
“Why?”
“The very implication—” Highsmith started to say, then stopped himself. He needed to control his anger, or at the very least to express his anger in terms that the white media could understand. “Today, in this courtroom, Mr. Swyteck stooped to the level of a Holocaust revisionist who claims that six million Jews were never actually exterminated. Jamal Cousin was lynched. No clever lawyer can make that fact go away.”
“But, sir—”
“That’s all I have at this time,” said Highsmith. He turned and continued down the courthouse steps, with the media in dogged pursuit.
With Judge Teague’s permission, Jack met with his client in the empty jury room. An armed deputy stood right outside the closed door, his torso a blur through the old pane of translucent glass. The hearing was adjourned for one hour, and Jack took the time to strategize.
“Are we winning?” asked Mark.
It was such a simple question, and it reminded Jack to ignore the media, ignore the angry glares from the public, and remain focused on the ultimate objective. “It’s a step in the right direction. This opens things up for us going forward.”
“Like what?”
“For one, you have no alibi after eleven p.m. Friday night. But the medical examiner just admitted that Jamal could have been killed before he was taken to the river.”
“Before eleven o’clock?”
“That’s an open question. One thing we have to sort through is that rigor mortis sets in two to four hours after death. Hanging a dead body from a tree after rigor mortis is no easy feat, even if it was already in a hog-tied position.”
Mark did the calculation. “So if the hanging was sometime before three a.m., the time of death could have been before eleven p.m. I could have an alibi.”
“We’re not there yet. In fact, we have a long way to go.”
“But I might have an alibi after all?”
Jack didn’t want to create false hope. Getting a medical examiner to adjust the time of death on a witness stand was no easy feat.
“You might,” said Jack.
The state attorney tried not to let it show, but no one leaving the courthouse was angrier than Oliver Boalt. The media pestered him on his hurried descent of the granite steps and followed him across the street all the way to the state attorney’s office. He declined to comment, disappeared into the building, and took the elevator upstairs.
The one-hour adjournment gave him time to phone the crime lab and get an update on the testing on the third Croc. He was at his desk, listening by speakerphone.
“We have a match.”
Boalt could hardly believe his ears. “The shoe found on the riverbank is the mate to the one that was found at the lynching site. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes, sir. Same size, same identification markers from the manufacturer. Even the wear pattern matches.”
“Okay,” said Boalt. “Now make my day. Is there any DNA to connect it to Mark Towson?”
“Negative.”
The prosecutor’s heart sank. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Unlike the other Croc, which was submerged in the acidic muck and had no DNA on it, we did find DNA on this shoe. But it’s not Mark Towson’s. And it’s not Baine Robinson’s.”
“This can’t be right. I want you to retest it.”
“There’s nothing to retest.”
Boalt leaned forward on his desk, getting closer to the speakerphone. “Just listen to what I’m saying. Retest the shoe.”
There was silence on the line, but Boalt’s tone prevailed.
“Okay,” was the response. “We’ll retest.”
CHAPTER 67
The defense and prosecution were back in court. Judge Teague climbed to the bench and directed all to take a seat. Spectators on both sides of the center aisle squeezed tightly across ten rows of bench seating to make room for everyone who wanted to observe. An elderly African American man with snow-white hair snagged the last available opening in the back row as a deputy closed the double doors at the rear of the courtroom.
The afternoon session started the same way the morning had begun. “Mr. Boalt,” the judge asked, “do you have any update from the crime lab on the testing of the shoe?”
The state attorney rose, buttoned his jacket, and spoke in his most forthright tone. “The tests are ongoing, Your Honor.”
Judge Teague peered down from the bench, grilling the prosecutor in silence. Jack was the outsider from Miami in this mix, but the relationship between these two fixtures of the Live Oak courthouse dated back decades. Perhaps the judge detected something less than full disclosure, but he didn’t have the temerity to call the state attorney on it. It made Jack wonder.
“The prosecution will surely advise the court as soon as that testing is complete,” said Boalt.
“Please do,” the judge said. “I have to finish early today. There’s time for one witness.”
The prosecutor turned and faced the back of the courtroom. “The state calls Brandon Wall.”
The double doors opened, and all eyes were upon him as Brandon entered the courtroom, walked down the center aisle, and stepped up to the witness stand. The bailiff administered the familiar oath, Brandon said “I do,” and the prosecutor approached the witness.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wall,” he said in a cordial tone.
The introductory questions went smoothly. Brandon was a model witness. An honor student. A leader in his fraternity. He worked twenty hours per week to help support his education. He was everything the distinguished Alpha alumni wanted the Divine Nine to be. There was no reason to question his honesty.
A lot like Jamal, Jack thought.
“Mr. Wall, are you aware of certain text messages that Jamal Cousin received approximately one week before his death?”
“I am.”
The “strange fruit” text from Mark’s phone reappeared on the projection screen. It seemed to have lost none of its impact the second time around. Jack didn’t check the crowd’s reaction; he didn’t have to. All momentum that he’d felt during the cross-examination of Dr. Ross suddenly faded.
“Is this the message?” asked the prosecutor.
Brandon glanced at the screen, in the way a survivor might acknowledge her rapist. “Yes.”
“When was the first time you saw this text message?” Boalt asked.
“The night Jamal received it.”
“Tell the court how that came about,” said Boalt.
“It was Saturday night. We had a party at the Alpha house. Jamal pulled me aside and showed me the text message he just got.”
“Was it just the two of you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything to you about the message?”
Jack could have objected on grounds of hearsay. He could also have elevated his client from th
e most hated man in the courtroom to the most hated man in America. He let it go.
“Jamal said that he got two other messages like it. One from Cooper Bartlett. One from Baine Robinson.”
“Did Mr. Cousin show those other messages to you?”
“No. He said he already deleted them.”
“Did he show the message from Mr. Towson to anyone but you?”
This time Jack did rise. “Objection, Your Honor. The message was sent from Mr. Towson’s phone. It was not from Mr. Towson.”
The judge seemed to take Jack’s point. “Sustained.”
“Fine,” said the prosecutor. “To your knowledge, Mr. Wall, did Jamal Cousin show the message to anyone but you?”
“I don’t believe so.”
The prosecutor checked his notes, and Jack couldn’t tell if the pause was for dramatic effect or if Boalt was truly searching for the right words.
“Mr. Wall, do you know why Jamal Cousin showed you that text?”
“I have an idea.”
Jack had to object. “Your Honor, this is starting to sound like speculation on the part of the witness.”
“Agreed. Mr. Boalt, please frame your questions so that they do not invite speculation and conjecture.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Boalt, and he paused to rethink. “Let’s approach it this way. Mr. Wall, as of the time you first saw this text message, had you ever met the defendant, Mark Towson?”
“No.”
“Had you met anyone in the Towson family?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“His sister, Shelly.”
That was news to Jack, and he shot a subtle glance at his client that asked, Did you know about this? But Mark’s gaze was fixed on the witness.
“How many times have you met Shelly Towson?” the prosecutor asked.
“Just once.”
“When did you meet her?”
“Early this past August. About two weeks before the start of the fall semester.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“On the University of Florida campus.”
“Where exactly?”
“At the Alpha House.”
Again Jack glanced at his client, but Mark made no eye contact, his gaze riveted on Brandon.
“Was there anyone else at the Alpha House?” asked Boalt.
“Jamal.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. The summer term was over. It was two weeks before fall semester. Everyone was out of town.”
“Why were you there?”
“I was the outgoing Alpha president. The president gets his own special room. I had to move my things out so the incoming president could move in.”
“Who was the incoming president?”
“Jamal Cousin.”
“What did you do when you arrived at the Alpha house? I’m talking about this day in August.”
“I went to the president’s room.”
“Did you go inside?”
“The door was locked. But I still had my key so I unlocked it and went in.”
“What did you find?”
Brandon hesitated, and then answered, “Jamal had already moved my things out and moved his things in.”
“Did you find anything else?”
The witness paused, and Jack no longer needed to look to his client or anyone else for what was coming. All he could do was brace himself and show no reaction that might be reported by the media.
“Jamal was in the room.”
“Where was he?”
Brandon lowered his eyes, as if not sure where to look. “Jamal was in bed.”
“Was he alone?”
“No.”
“Who was in bed with him?”
“Shelly Towson.”
The prosecutor paused. Even for those who took no issue with interracial relationships, the very existence of an intimate relationship between the victim and the sister of the accused was a completely new development in the case, and the courtroom caught its collective breath. Mark probably wasn’t even aware of it, but his leg was so restless that Jack could feel the table shaking.
“What did you do next?” Boalt asked.
“I left,” said Brandon. “In a hurry.”
Boalt paused briefly and flipped the page in his notepad. “Mr. Wall, was that encounter between Jamal Cousin and Shelly Towson a onetime thing?”
“No.”
“Are you aware of another time they were together?”
“I know that Jamal was planning to have her come over the morning of the tubing trip down the Ichetucknee.”
“How do you know that?”
“He asked me to make sure every brother in the house went on the tubing trip so he and Shelly would be alone.”
“And so that their secret relationship would remain a secret, right?”
“Yes.”
Another pause, and another flip of the page. The prosecutor continued. “Mr. Wall, did you ever tell anyone what you saw that day?”
“Never. Well, not until after Jamal was dead, when you and I talked.”
“Did you ever discuss it with Jamal?”
“I did.”
“What was the gist of that conversation?”
“Jamal didn’t want me to tell anyone about him and Shelly.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“Objection,” said Jack, having let this go far enough. “That’s clearly hearsay, Your Honor.”
There were a few groans from the gallery, as if Jack should be disbarred. The judge sighed and said, “Technically you may be right, Mr. Swyteck. But there’s no jury here. I’ll allow the witness to answer and decide later if I should disregard it.”
Jack settled into his seat. It was a damned if he did, damned if he didn’t situation, and there was nothing more to do.
“You can answer the question,” Boalt told the witness.
Brandon leaned closer to the microphone, but his lips didn’t move. The prosecutor clearly had an answer in mind. Jack imagined it was a zinger along the lines of “Jamal feared retaliation by her racist brother, Mark.”
“Mr. Wall,” the prosecutor nudged. “Why did Jamal Cousin not want anyone to know?”
Brandon’s struggle was on display for the entire courtroom. It was like watching a man getting ready to yank out a fractured tooth. Finally, he answered.
“He said—Jamal said it would kill Shelly’s mother if anyone knew.”
The answer was perhaps more shocking than anything that came before, hitting Jack like a mule kick. Then, just as suddenly, Jack recalled the way he and Liz had laughed and then cried over the satirical study that the nurse had told her about in the hospital—that racism was “hereditary.”
The prosecutor was staring at Brandon, and he appeared less than fully satisfied. It was plain to Jack that “it would kill Shelly’s mother” was not the answer that the state attorney had expected—not what they’d rehearsed in witness prep. Finally, Boalt thanked the witness and stepped away, accepting what Brandon was willing to give him.
“Your Honor, I have no further questions,” he said, and he returned to his seat.
The judge looked at Jack. “Um, well.”
His words of judicial wisdom pretty much summed up Jack’s feelings.
Jack rose. “Your Honor—”
“Save your breath,” the judge said. “That went longer than anticipated. Let’s break for the day.”
Jack could not have been more appreciative. “Thank you, Judge.”
“We’ll start with your cross-examination at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Judge Teague said. “Mr. Wall, you are still under oath. Do not discuss your testimony with anyone overnight. We are adjourned.”
The crack of the judge’s gavel cut through the courtroom, and all rose on the bailiff’s command. Judge Teague stepped down from the bench, and Jack wished that the walk to his chambers were not so short. Jack didn’t want to deal with the rush of the media to the rail. He had no ap
petite for a gloating state attorney. And he was dreading the expressions he would see when he turned around and looked at Mark’s family.
The side door closed, Judge Teague was gone, and all that Jack would have rather lived without immediately came to pass. Jack stayed close to his client, ignoring the flurry of questions from reporters.
“Mrs. Towson, are you a racist?”
“Did you teach hate to your son, Mrs. Towson?”
Mark’s parents appeared numb, but Shelly took off like a rocket, running toward the exit. Jack’s gaze followed her all the way to the double doors at the rear, where she paused ever so slightly, but long enough for Jack to notice. She looked at the old—very old—African American man with the snow-white hair who had entered the courtroom just before Brandon’s testimony and taken the last open seat in the last row. It all happened in a flash, but it played in Jack’s mind as if in slow motion. And Jack was sure of one thing.
Mark’s sister and that old man had met before.
CHAPTER 68
Jack left the courthouse without comment for the media and went straight to the Suwannee County Jail. Mark didn’t look him in the eye when he entered the attorney-client conference room. Even after taking a seat at the table, Mark’s gaze was still aimed at the floor.
“When did Shelly tell you about her and Jamal?” asked Jack.
Mark took a deep breath. “Last week. When she came to visit me.”
“Mark, I told you and Shelly that conversations with any visitor but your attorney are recorded.”
“Shelly knew that. That’s why she didn’t say it out loud.”
“Damn it, Mark. They read letters, too.”
“She didn’t write it in a letter,” said Mark. He told Jack about the scripted message on her arm that looked like a tattoo. “It was in French,” said Mark.
It would have been somewhat clever, if similar stunts weren’t pulled every day in prisons all over the world. “What did it say?” asked Jack.
“‘JC was my love. BR knew.’”
JC was clearly Jamal Cousin. “BR—Baine Robinson knew?”
“That’s what Shelly said. In fact, right before she showed me the message, she said it was ‘about Baine.’”
Jack thought for a moment. “That’s why Baine sent the text messages to Jamal. Shit, Mark. Shelly should have told me this. This isn’t the kind of thing you try to sneak past corrections officers.”
A Death in Live Oak Page 27
