Gideon - 05 - Blind Judgement

by Grif Stockley

  He did tell her, however, that if anything happened to him she should tell her son Tommy about the tape. Well, after Mrs. Ting found her husband’s body in the plant that horrific afternoon, she, as instructed, told Tommy Ting, who lives in Washington, D.C.a about the tape, and he immediately called the sheriff, and as I have said, you will hear it in the course of the trial…”

  Class, who has been provided a cheap black suit by Lattice that doesn’t take into account his recent weight loss, stirs restlessly beside me.

  He knows as well as I do that the jury is eating this stuff up. What I fear is that even if the jury doesn’t think there is enough evidence to link Paul, Butterfield will have established a motive by the time he is finished. When Butterfield tells the jury that Darla Tate will testify she overheard Class talking to someone about money, it is clear he is laying the groundwork for his closing argument that even if the jury doesn’t convict Paul, it doesn’t mean they have to come back empty-handed.

  As expected, Butterfield has a harder time talking about Paul’s involvement once he gets past the tape.

  “You will learn that Paul Taylor employed Class Bledsoe for years as a delivery man at one of his stores …” he says, explaining the arrangement Paul had with Henry Oldham, who will testify that in August of last year, one month before the murder, Paul had told him he thought he should retire in another year.

  Butterfield also tells the jury he will prove that Class has lied about

  how many times he was seen talking to Paul, a discrepancy that I, and surely Dick, will attribute to nothing more than lapses in memory.

  Even a jury made up entirely of former prosecutors would have to conclude that without Doss’s testimony, there is no compelling evidence that Paul hired him to murder Willie. As the evidence comes in against Class, the pressure will mount, and I won’t be entirely surprised if by this time tomorrow. Class will be wanting to sing a song I have heard once before.

  I get up to make my opening argument, uncertain about the best place to begin. Butterfield has been talking close to an hour, and I don’t want to be up here nearly that long, but I want to do more than just wave to the jury and then sit down.

  “The evidence will show, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, when I reach the podium, “that anyone working in Southern Pride Meats that day knew, or could easily have found out, where Class stored his knife on the kill floor every night. And the evidence will show that everyone in the plant knew or could easily have known that it was his habit to go straight home after work, fix himself lunch, drink a beer, and then take a nap.

  Everyone in the plant knew or could easily have known that Lattice, his wife, was at that time working the day shift at the 7-Eleven in Bear Creek, because at the plant everybody knew everybody else’s business.

  You see, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, coming around the lectern to the front of the jury rail, “the testimony will be that Class Bledsoe was the type of employee who never missed a day’s work and gave a hundred percent on the job he had held for the last five years. You’re going to

  hear at least six plant employees say that Class Bledsoe genuinely respected Willie Ting as a boss, and Darla Tate, the plant secretary, will testify that Willie Ting thought Class Bledsoe was a model employee because he came to work every single day and did his job as well as it could be done. What the evidence is going to show is that Class Bledsoe,” I say, and turn and point to him, “was as predictable as a Timex watch. He did the same things, at the same time, in the same way every day for five years. The fact is, there will be no physical evidence at all linking him to Willie Ting.

  Absolutely nothing! No hair or fiber, no trace of skin or fingernails, no bloody clothing. At the end of this trial there will be nothing that links Class Bledsoe to this murder except his knife, and everybody in the plant knew or could have known exactly where he kept it.”

  I turn back to the jury and focus on Emma Parsons, an attractive black schoolteacher in her thirties, whom Class has said might be sympathetic to him.

  “And every person who testifies in this trial will say they know Class either by reputation or personally as a family man who was as stable, reliable, and dependable as any man or woman in Bear Creek.”

  I walk back around to the podium, not at all satisfied by the cold expression on Emma Par 5

  sons’s face. If she is sympathetic to Class, she has a funny way of showing it.

  “You see, obviously my theory is that someone in the plant framed Class

  Bledsoe because he or she knew that he wouldn’t have an alibi. That person or persons knew he was going to be by himself between the hours of two and four, that person or persons knew every worker’s routine, what they did after getting off work and who they did it with, so Class was the perfect setup, because he isn’t going to be able to produce a single person to say where he was between two and four in the afternoon on September twenty-third. He will tell you that he was at home by himself as he always was.”

  I come back around the podium and place my hands in the center of the rail, wondering how many of these jurors already have their minds made up. Four of the whites on the jury and three of the blacks have their arms tightly folded across their chests, not a good sign. They are waiting for me to name a suspect. It is time to oblige them.

  “So who could have done it? Well, the undisputed evidence will be that an undocumented alien from Mexico with forged papers by the name of Jorge Arrazola, who had been working at the plant for six months, fled Bear Creek two days after Mr. Ting’s murder and hasn’t been seen since. The sheriff is going to admit to you that nobody in law enforcement, despite all the fancy communication systems and cooperative agreements among law enforcement agencies on a local, national, and international level, has a clue where Jorge Arrazola disappeared to. Mr. Alvaro Ruiz, who works at the plant and whom Jorge Arrazola lived with, will tell you that Jorge Arrazola dropped him off that afternoon at his second job after they left the plant at two and said he was going fishing. Mr. Ruiz will tell you he didn’t see Jorge Arrazola again until six that night, when he picked him up after work.

  Then two days later Arrazola fixed up a truck Mr. Ruiz had given him and

  took off without a word to him. Folks, I think by the time the trial is over, the evidence will suggest to you that Mr. Ting’s murderer is long gone from Bear Creek.”

  I step back a few inches from the railing and put my hands in my pockets, telling myself not to jiggle my change, a bad habit I’ve gotten into lately. To keep the possibility of a deal alive during the trial, I don’t tell the jury that there is nothing but the most marginal circumstantial evidence of a conspiracy between Class and Paul.

  Dick will hammer that home better than I can.

  Focusing on a black retired farmer in his sixties, I say, “If we’re looking for a motive for Jorge Arrazola, ladies and gentlemen, forty-eight hours is about forty-seven more than he needed to collect payment from whomever may have wanted Mr. Ting dead…”

  I wind up by telling the jury that even if there were no other suspects in the case, they can decide the case on the issue of the credibility of Class Bledsoe. I walk over to the witness chair and point at it.

  “When the time comes for us to present our defense. Class Bledsoe is going to sit right here and look you in the eye and tell you he left the plant when everyone else did and didn’t leave his house again that afternoon. Regardless of what Mr. Butterfield said or didn’t say about the evidence in this case, Mr. Bledsoe’s testimony is evidence, too. If you believe him, you must acquit him.”

  I sit down, having no idea what effect I have had on this jury. At no time did I get a feel that I was getting through to a soul. I fear that

  Woodrow Bonner’s reputation for competence and integrity will decide this case. If he thinks Class did it, that might well be good enough.

  Dick practically sprints to the jury rail. Practically on top of the jury as he leans into the railing, he lectures them sternly, “Ladies and gentle
men, let’s get one thing clear: If Mr. Butterfield doesn’t introduce this tape he has talked about, you can be sure I will, because the tape you will hear in this trial no more makes Paul Taylor out to be a potential murderer than the man in the moon. In fact, the tape to be introduced in this courtroom will simply show that Paul Taylor, a farmer and businessman who has lived in this county his entire life, wanted to buy a meat-packing plant that he knew was a profitable business and made what he considered was a fair offer for it. Far from being a threat, the tape will show he merely pointed out that Willie Ting wasn’t going to be around forever, with the implication being he ought to sell now to someone with a realistic offer.” When he has said this, he cups his right fist and taps it against his chin.

  “Mr. Taylor is hardly going to deny that years ago he hired Class Bledsoe as a delivery man in one of his stores, he will gladly admit that he talked to Henry Oldham about when he was going to retire, he will happily confess that he may have talked to Class Bledsoe a few times when he went out to Oldham’s to buy some barbecue and to see how his business was going. But Mr. Butterfield has virtually admitted there’s not going to be a shred of direct evidence that Paul Taylor hired anyone, including Class Bledsoe, to murder Willie Ting; there will be no evidence of a conversation, no evidence of money changing hands, no evidence of a promise made.”

  like a preacher at a revival, Dick spreads his hands and then slowly

  brings them together as he says, “The evidence, ladies and gentlemen, consists of an ambiguous tape and a few coincidental and harmless meetings. I could call this so-called evidence a lot of things,” Dick thunders, “and, believe me, I will at the end of this trial when I am permitted to argue the case, but whatever it is, it isn’t enough to put a man in jail for five minutes…”

  As Butterfield jumps to his feet and has his objection sustained that Dick has already begun to argue, I realize that Dick has not told the jury that Paul will take the stand and deny that he paid to have Willie killed. For the first time in a week I consider the possibility that Paul is guilty, and that Class was telling the truth. If Paul has confessed to Dick, he can’t knowingly let Paul commit perjury, and Dick, despite what I think of him, has too much integrity to let him.

  And minutes later, when Dick sits down, I have no idea whether Paul, who surely wants to proclaim his innocence, will do so from the witness box.

  *

  After lunch, Butterfield begins to put on his case with the FBI expert, who testifies first because she must leave immediately for another trial in Phoenix. As she explains why there is no doubt in her mind that the blood on Doss’s knife is Willie’s, it’s hard not to be impressed. This same agent, a Ph.D. chemist—and a coolly attractive blonde—testified in a murder trial in Little Rock a couple of years ago, and better lawyers than I am couldn’t lay a glove on her. I am content on cross-examination to emphasize the obvious when she is through: no tests she has performed prove that it was Class who used the knife to kill Willie. It is, of course, a dumb question to ask her, but it gets my

  point across.

  The rest of the day is taken up by testimony from personnel from the state medical examiner’s office and the sheriff’s office, whom Butterfield puts through their paces as if they have been preparing for this trial for a lifetime. They leave little to quibble about: The crime scene was properly secured, preserved until the investigation was completed; no gaps exist in the chain of custody of the blood and knife; the victim may have lived for as little as two minutes after his throat was slashed from left to right two inches in width.

  The wound on his neck is consistent with the Koch blade which, as the plant foreman told us, actually cuts like a pair of scissors. The only fingerprints on the handle are my client’s. Butterfield, with Johnson’s permission, passes the knife to the jury and not a single member can resist touching the blade to test its sharpness.

  Butterfield produces the tape for Bonner to identify and is allowed to introduce it into evidence.

  Though this moment has been long anticipated, it is something of an anticlimax when Bonner plays it for the jury. Perhaps I have heard it too many times by now, and while the members of the jury all seem interested, some raise their eyebrows when it is finished as if they are wondering what the fuss has been all about.

  Bonner tells the jury that he investigated every employee’s whereabouts between two and four and that the only suspect is Class Bledsoe. By the time he describes what he has done, it is five o’clock, and we are through for the day. The spectators, about equally divided between

  blacks and whites, clear the courtroom rapidly. Outside, it is a perfect spring day and anybody in his right mind wants to get outside.

  The tension has risen each hour, and everyone seems eager to get away from each other. Before he is led off to be taken back to Brickeys, Class whispers, “It looks bad, don’t it?”

  I glance across at Butterfield, who smiles as Woodrow Bonner says something to him.

  “The first part of any criminal trial is always the worst.”

  “They’ll let Taylor go,” Class says, his voice doleful, “but not me.”

  Tonight will be the hardest time for Class to keep from changing his mind and telling me to try to make a deal with Butterfield, who can’t be feeling too good about his chances of getting a conviction against Paul. Anybody who wasn’t impressed by Dick’s opening statement had to have been asleep, and I didn’t see any eyes closed.

  “Tomorrow I’ll get to cross-examine Bonner,” I say.

  “It’ll be better,” I promise.

  A hopeless expression on his face. Class shrugs as Amos Broadstreet, Bonner’s elderly black deputy, who weighs at least three hundred pounds, comes over to the table to handcuff him and put him in leg chains. He has gotten to like Class and has waited an extra moment to pick him up.

  I look behind me and see Tommy Ting behind the spectator railing waiting

  to speak to me. Connie had told me he wouldn’t be getting into Bear Creek until late last night, and though I got a glimpse of him in the courtroom, this is the first time I have had a good look at him. He is wearing a tailored olive-colored suit that must have cost him a thousand dollars and is easily the best-dressed man in the room. His face is fleshier but still recognizable, his cheeks pushed up in a smile I remember after thirty years. His hair is much longer, of course. Boys in eastern Arkansas in the early sixties didn’t know what long hair was or if we did, we didn’t care. Now, Tommy’s salt-and-pepper hair comes to his collar in the back, making him look even more Asian than I remembered.

  Once Class leaves, I motion for him to come forward, and we shake hands by the counsel table as if he were a rich corporate client chatting with his high-priced legal counsel during a civil trial.

  “How’s it going?” Tommy asks softly, his slight accent more pronounced now that we are face to face.

  I know he means the trial, and suddenly I have an impulse to tell him how wrong I’ve probably been about everything I’ve thought and remembered about Bear Creek, including our friendship which, now that I force myself to think about it, was as superficial as most male bonding is. Like myself. Tommy has been operating out of denial, but instead of thinking that people were worse than they were, he has mis remembered them as better, more caring. I reply bluntly, “I honestly don’t know who killed your father. I don’t know that anyone will ever know the truth either except the person or persons who did it.”

  Incredibly, he seems surprised, as if by giving the plant employees the

  green light to talk to me, the answer would become obvious.

  “Do you think Paul was involved?” he whispers.

  I look over at the other table, now empty. If Paul wanted to shake hands with Tommy and say how sorry he was, he isn’t going to risk doing it in public since he and Dick are already making their way out of the courtroom.

  “I don’t know, Tommy. I swear to God I really don’t know who killed your father.” As if I have said somethin
g profound, he nods and walks away, presumably to find his sister and mother. A few moments later, depressed, I leave, too, and check into the Bear Creek Inn to prepare for tomorrow. Betty, dressed in red shorts and a T-shirt advertising her business, asks, “Not going too good, huh?”

  I try to smile but fail.

  “It’s going okay,” I lie.

  Betty places the key to number nine in my hand and presses her palm flat against mine.

  “It’s got to be tough representing a nigger. He’s probably scared to death and not much help.”

  Glad Betty isn’t on the jury, I ignore her comment and ask if she knows if Charlie’s Pizza delivers. Right now I don’t have the energy to find out. She replies that people will do anything for money, and says she’ll call up a kid to run get me whatever I want. I tell her fine and carry

  my bag into my room, wondering if the case is, after all, that simple.

  When Class is brought into the courtroom the next morning thirty minutes before the trial starts up again, I watch for signs that he will tell me to try to make a deal with Butterfield. He looks terrible, and I ask him after the deputy moves off, “Did you get any sleep?”

  He rubs his face.

  “Not much,” he says.

  “I’ve been thinking about my chances.” His bloodshot eyes blink rapidly in the glare of the courtroom.

  How does anyone stand to live in a steel cage, whether they are guilty or not?

  “It’s going to come down to a matter of your credibility. Class,” I say, trying to cut him off.

  “If they believe you, you’ll walk out of here a free man.” As I say this, I realize I’m putting on his shoulders the entire responsibility for his acquittal.

  “Are you gonna argue that the old lady could have done it?” he says.

  “She says she found his body.”

  “Depending on how she looks and acts,” I hedge, “but it might piss off the jury. If all they see is a sick old woman who can hardly lift a fly