by B. K. Dell
When it was finally time for Jackson’s attorney to cross examine Stacy, it did not even go that smoothly. “Can you show us the letters that Caleb allegedly wrote you?” asked Landry.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they no longer exist.”
“No longer? What happened to them?”
“They were destroyed in a fire.”
There was a sound from the audience of a laugh being stifled. Stacy knew that at least one person must have seen his last TV appearance.
“Did you call the fire department when this happened?”
“I put it out myself.”
“Did you file an insurance claim?”
“Nothing else was burned besides my letters.”
“How do you explain a fire that burnt only Caleb’s letters?”
“I was so distraught after he was murdered by that man there...”
Joseph Landry held up his hand preemptively and said, “Please stay seated.”
“I was so distraught over Caleb’s death that I thought I might give drinking a shot. I accidently spilled my drink onto the letters, while I was crying, and accidently lit them on fire with the end of my cigarette.” Stacy had discovered that all the best lies are borrowed from reality.
“And these alleged letters had been sent to you while Caleb was in boot camp?”
“Most of them.”
“What color was Caleb’s stationery?”
“Um, blue.” The word blue almost sounded like a question.
“All of them were blue?”
There was a look of panic in Stacy’s eyes. He felt like he should not answer but could not see the harm in such a small part of a much bigger lie. He said unsurely, “Ye-es.”
“No further questions.”
The next witness that the prosecution called was Michael Ponce.
The bailiff brought over a Bible for Michael Ponce to place his left hand on as he swore the oath. Michael Ponce took one look at the Bible and asked, “Are you kidding me?” His tone was snarky and though the bailiff was simply taken aback by his rudeness, Michael Ponce took the hesitation as an indication that the bailiff didn’t understand. He repeated, “Are you kidding me?”
The bailiff drew the Bible back to the side of his leg and Michael Ponce recited the oath without it.
“I, Michael Ponce, do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” Michael Ponce repeated after the bailiff. The bailiff wisely left off the, “So help me God.”
“Mr. Ponce, can you describe what happened on the day that Mr. Hertz died?” Randolph asked him.
“Yes, I can.”
“How is it that you are able to tell us?”
“Because I was there.”
“You were there.” It was a statement, not a question. Randolph made eye contact with the members of the jury. He was anxious to get straight to the story from someone who saw it firsthand.
“Yes, I was working as an embedded reporter for the Times.”
“And how were you treated?”
“Miserably.”
“Mr. Ponce, please tell us what you saw.”
“I saw Private First Class Jackson Brooks shoot Private First Class Caleb Hertz right in the head.” When Michael Ponce said these words, he used so much conviction and passion that the entire courtroom loudly gasped. Stacy Oliver jealously huffed.
“Was it intentional?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think Private First Class Brooks would do that?”
“Because Jackson Brooks has been taught to hate – first by the Bible, then by our own government.”
When it was Joseph Landry’s turn to ask the questions, he got up to face Michael Ponce and asked, “You said that they treated you miserably, can you give me an example?”
“Um,” Michael Ponce looked at the television cameras in the room and squirmed a bit. He continued softly, “They convinced me that I had to eat a scorpion.”
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“They tricked me into eating a scorpion. Only it wasn’t really a scorpion; it was a chocolate-covered pretzel.”
“What did you do after that?”
“I threw up.”
“Why did they pull this prank on you?”
“Objection, Your Honor, he would have to ask them.”
“Thank you Mr. Randolph, I will.”
Just as the Judge was giving Landry a dirty look for talking out of turn, the witness went ahead and answered the question, “It was because they didn’t like my article.”
Landry looked over to the Judge, almost asking for permission, the Judge nodded. Presenting a copy of the article from his briefcase, Landry asked, “Is this the Pulitzer Prize winning article in question titled, ‘I’d Kill for My Father’s Love’?” He showed it to Michael Ponce.
Michael Ponce examined it. “Yes, it is.”
“If they hated Private First Class Hertz so much, why would they have played such active roles in exacting his revenge?”
“Perhaps they just hated me more.”
“Hmm,” Landry stopped as if he were considering it. “That’s the funny thing about revenge. It never seems to end. Is it possible that you could now be seeking revenge against them?”
“No.”
“How can we be sure?”
“I’m a reporter. I make a living being impartial.”
What happened next was something that neither side in a murder trial would ever want to happen in response to something they said – one of the jurors laughed.
“Just one more question, can you tell us why they nicknamed you Mellow Yellow?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” yelled the prosecution. At the exact same time that the Judge was saying, “Sustained,” and Landry was saying, “No further questions Your Honor,” Michael Ponce was already on his feet behind the witness stand, waving his finger at the defense attorney and looking alternatively at him and the camera, yelling, “That’s a lie. It was never my nickname. That is a bald-faced lie. That illustrates the hate!” He was shouting and turned to the jury. “That right there illustrates the hate.”
The next witness that the prosecution called was Terrence Brown. Albert Randolph asked Terrence to describe what Caleb went through in boot camp. Terrence reluctantly described every gruesome detail, knowing full well that the Judge, the jury, and the whole world now had copies of his email that would betray him if he lied. “But, you have lied before about this very issue, have you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you then think of any reason why I should trust you now?”
“It doesn’t matter, sir.”
“What doesn’t matter?” Randolph asked, taken off guard.
“If you trust me or not, sir.”
“Why wouldn’t it matter?”
“Because you have not asked me anything at all related to this trial.” Randolph suddenly became very cautious, as if he had just learned the garden snake he had been manhandling was poisonous after all. Leaving the issue unresolved, he turned to the Judge, “No further questions Your Honor.”
Promptly the defense attorney, with a smirk on his face, picked right up where Terrence left off. He asked him, “Can you think of a reason why Randolph would have taken such an interest in what happened to Caleb at boot camp?”
“Because he’s a hypocrite. He talks on and on about hate, but he has no problem impugning certain groups he doesn’t agree with, in this case the military. How is lumping all servicemen together different from lumping all homosexuals together? We saw it when the media judged Jackson for being a Christian and Officer Baker for being a cop. And, if someone thinks that the worst trait in the world is intolerance, then intolerant is the worst name he or she could call anyone. It sounds to me like the hate is coming from their side.”
“Sir, can you please tell the jury how you know that PFC Hertz never wrote letters on blue stationery as a recruit?”
“B
ecause we weren’t allowed any, sir.”
“There was no blue stationery?”
“The only paper we could ever get was this crazy Marine stationery that you had to buy at the PX, sir.”
“So at no time while you, or the other recruits, were in boot camp could you have gained access to blue stationery?”
“No, sir.”
When it was time for Brit to take the stand, Randolph continued to try to smear all Marines. “Tell us your opinion, what do you think of the repeal of the don’t ask, don’t tell policy?” Randolph asked.
“Well, sir, on the one hand-” Brit began very measured, but was interrupted.
“It’s very simple, either you want our country to give homosexuals the right to serve openly or you don’t. Which is it?”
“Sir, the thing is, I-”
“Are you for homosexual rights, yes or no?” Randolph interrupted again.
Brit hesitated. He did not even attempt to answer.
“Yes or no?”
“Go ahead, Sergeant,” said the Judge.
“Your Honor, I am unable to answer the question as Mr. Randolph requests, due to my oath.”
“Explain yourself,” said the Judge.
“Well, Your Honor, I put my hand on the Bible and swore to tell the whole truth, but Mr. Randolph here keeps wanting to force me into half truths.”
There was laughter from the crowd. Even the Judge smiled slightly. He turned to Brit and dipped his head. It was part nod, part nudge. He said, “Why don’t you give us a full report, Marine?”
Brit smiled broadly back at the Judge. He felt like a child who had impressed his father.
“Go ahead, answer the question,” the Judge prodded when Brit hesitated too long.
Brit said, “Which question, Your Honor? Should I address the way he actually asked it, or the way he really meant for the question to be understood?” Again the room was filled with a mix of murmurs and laughs. Brit smirked proudly. Through the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the defense attorney shaking his head in fast, short passes. When he turned to the Judge, he saw that the proud father face was replaced by that of a stern federal judge. Oops, too far.
“You scored some points earlier son, but now you are trying my patience.”
Brit sat up much taller and squared his shoulders to the front. “Yes, sir, Your Honor,” he said quickly. Randolph’s face showed irritation when Brit began, “I am for whatever is best for the military. Our military spending is not to be used for creating jobs. It is not welfare. Our military spending is meant to protect us. I am for using the military to do that in the best way possible. I happen to love that in the process of building better warriors, as a happy bi-product, the military creates better citizens and better people. I would love for that happy bi-product to be available to everyone, but not at the expense of the original purpose. I am happy to let the experts, the military upper brass, decide what is best and wherever they land, I side with them.”
“I believe the general consensus among the military higher-ups is that homosexuals should not serve openly, so that is your stance as well?”
“Wherever they land, I side with them, sir.”
“So that means that you are against it?”
“I side with what is believed to be best for the military, sir.”
“So then you are against homosexuals in the military?”
The Judge sighed. “Now, Mr. Randolph, you are trying my patience. He answered your question. You’re not going to get him to say he hates homosexuals; stop fishing.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Without missing a beat, Randolph turned back to Brit, “Mr. Sparks, do you think it would be fair to a homosexual if he were forbidden to serve?”
“Life’s not fair, sir,” Brit answered too quickly, but immediately added, “No, it’s not fair, but the United States Marine Corps does not exist to be fair.”
When Teflon took the stand, the prosecution showed him a photograph of a Marine pointing a gun at Caleb. “Is this you in the photo watching on the left, Mr. Castillo?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“To the best of your knowledge, was the gun being pointed at Caleb Hertz loaded?”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
“Can you explain why, if Caleb’s life was at stake, you stood there doing nothing?”
“Um, well, we never thought he was really in danger. You don’t understand what is happening in this photo, sir.”
“Well, by all means, explain it to us.”
“Well, sir, to be honest, Rider didn’t offer Caleb a very warm welcome.”
“It doesn’t look like it,” Randolph confirmed as he looked at the photo.
“So, Caleb wanted to get back at him.”
“Caleb wanted to get back at him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, how – pray tell – does putting a gun to your own chest help you to get back at someone?”
Teflon shrugged. It was not the type of shrug that would indicate that he didn’t know the answer to the question; it indicated, rather, that he could not understand why the question was asked. He said, “It happens all the time, sir. As unintuitive as it sounds, sometimes the best way to hurt someone is to put the weapon in their hands and purposely turn it onto yourself.” Teflon looked over at the television cameras in the courtroom. He added, “Providing, of course, that people are watching.”
When Rider took the stand everyone recognized his face from the news. Joseph Landry and even Jackson himself felt a little bit nervous about what he might say.
“Mr. Holt, how do you feel about homosexuals?” Randolph asked boldly, right out of the gate.
“They give me the creeps,” said Rider calmly. He added, “If you are trying to paint every one of us Marines as xenophobic, let me save you some time, sir. Some of us are. At least, we often can be. Patterns exist in the world, sir. Stereotypes do not materialize out of nothing. If you are asking if I like homosexuals, I don’t. But I liked PFC Hertz.”
“Let me ask you, Mr. Holt,” The attorney held up the infamous photo, “Do you always threaten people you like with violent death?”
Rider said calmly, “I hadn’t gotten to know him yet, sir.” There were a few stray laughs from the courtroom. Rider added quickly, “Listen, if we accept the new hijacked definition of the word judgmental, I am proud to be judgmental. I was raised to be judgmental, sir. But, what is important to remember about being judgmental is to judge the group by the actions of the group, and the person by the actions of the person.” He turned to the jury, “To some of you that sounds malicious, but listen to what the prosecuting attorney, himself, told you that he is trying to do; he is trying to get you to judge Jackson by the actions of the rest of us.”
“Just try to answer my questions,” reminded Randolph before scurrying to the next question, but when it was time for Jackson’s attorney to get a crack at him, Landry broached the subject again.
“So, you make no bones about your right to judge people by their actions. What is your judgment of my client?” he motioned to Jackson.
“I appreciate the chance to make myself clear, sir. I don’t believe in judging a person’s soul – that’s up to God – and I don’t believe in snap judgments.”
“Did you make a snap judgment about Mr. Hertz?”
“Yes, I did, and I regret it. Before you can judge a person, you must know them. And there is no better way to know a man than to fight with him. I fought with both PFC Brooks and PFC Hertz. I am the man who can now tell you the truth.”
Landry smiled. He said, “Well, please tell us the truth.”
Rider turned to the jury, “Gay activists get so mad about us not liking them, but they don’t like us either. There might just be something unbridgeable between typical homosexuals and typical Marines. For some people, that’s a concept that keeps them awake at night. They are the ones who are afraid of differences. I embrace differences. They want to make everyone the same, or pretend they are the same if they
aren’t.
“That all being said, sir,” Rider continued, “PFC Hertz was not your typical homosexual and PFC Brooks is not your typical Marine. These are two men who would have been friends no matter what. Caleb acted so admirable that he did not need Jackson’s tolerance, and Jackson was so tolerant that he did not require Caleb to be so admirable.
“It was his Christianity, by the way, that guided PFC Brooks’ tolerance. Men behind the pulpit say that homosexual acts are an abomination, but walk into any church and they will tell you to love the sinner, hate the sin. The Bible says that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed by God, but it also says that whatever you do to the least of His brothers, you do to Christ. And, the Apostle Paul orders bluntly, ‘consider others better than yourself,’ a goal that I have never accomplished… but Jackson has. Jackson Brooks has.”
Rider pointed to Jackson. He said, “I know this man, sir. I have fought with this man. This man is something beautiful and rare in this world, and becoming rarer. Don’t let his life be ruined by their hate.”
The first witness called by the defense was Trey Tucker. When Trey stood up, a hush fell over the courtroom. Every head turned to where he had been sitting in the aisle. The skill with which Trey reached to grab the bench in front of him and used the muscles of his remaining leg to raise his body up was testimony to how hard he had been working at his physical rehabilitation – just as hard as he had worked at becoming a Marine. His younger brother was with him. Everyone could see the patience on his younger brother’s face. Jackson could guess that it was a patience learned slowly by attempting to help Trey with everyday activities and getting yelled at every time he tried. His brother handed him his crutch.
Trey’s brother was scheduled to start basic training in San Diego at the end of the month.
The courtroom remained silent, so every motion that Trey made seemed to echo against the smooth tile floors. His crutch clonked loudly against the hardened old wood of the benches as he struggled to free himself from the cramped space. Once he was into the clear aisle, he took longer strides, his shoe and the tip of his crutch squeaking alternatively against the ground. Every mouth in the courtroom was dry.
