Injustice for all jd-3

by Scott Pratt

  The courtroom itself looks as though it was constructed by a humorless carpenter. The colors are dull and lifeless, the angles harsh and demanding. Portraits of judges, both dead and alive, adorn the walls behind the bench. There’s an awkward sense of formality among the lawyers, bailiffs, clerks, and the judge. Everyone is disgustingly polite. The behavior is required by the institution, but beneath the veneer of civility runs a deep current of hostility borne of petty jealousy, resentment, and familiarity. I’m never comfortable in a courtroom. There are enemies everywhere.

  Sitting next to me is Tanner Jarrett, a twenty-five-year-old rookie prosecutor fresh out of law school. He’s a political hire, the son of a billionaire state senator who will no doubt soon be a United States senator. Tanner looks out of place with his fresh face and boyish demeanor. He’s handsome, with well-defined jaws that angle sharply to a dimpled chin beneath inquisitive brown eyes and a thick mop of black hair. He’s bright, capable, and extremely likable. It seems he’s always smiling. Tanner will handle forty-seven of the forty-eight cases on today’s docket. He’ll resolve a few of them by plea agreement and agree to continue the rest. I’m here only to receive a date for an aggravated rape case that’s going to trial.

  Judge Leonard Green takes his seat at the bench. Green is mid-sixties, tall and lean, with a hawkish face and perfect silver hair. He moves with the effeminate gait of a drag queen onstage. He’s as pure a son of a bitch as I’ve ever known, and he hovers over us from his perch on the bench, scanning the crowd like a vulture searching for carrion. Green could just as easily give my trial date to Tanner and let him pass it along to me, but since I’m handling the case for the district attorney’s office, the judge insists I appear in court. He knows I have no other reason to be here, but he won’t call the case early so I can go on about my business. He’ll make me sit here for hours, just because he can. If I leave the courtroom, he’ll call the case and then hold me in contempt of court because of my absence. Such are the games we play.

  Green leans to his left and whispers in the clerk’s ear. She shakes her head and whispers back. I notice a look of concern on her face, a look I’ve seen hundreds of times. It means that Green has spotted a potential victim and is about to indulge his ever-present, masochistic need to inflict pain or punishment on an unsuspecting victim.

  “Case number 32,455, State of Tennessee versus Alfred Milligan,” the clerk announces.

  I turn to see Alfred Milligan, who appears to be in his late- fifties but is probably at least ten years younger, rise from his seat in the gallery. Milligan looks like so many others inhabiting the seemingly bottomless pit of criminal defendants. He’s decimated by a lack of nutrition, probably caused by a combination of poverty and alcohol or drug abuse. He uses a cane to walk. What’s left of his black hair is greasy and plastered to his forehead. He’s wearing what is most likely his best clothing, a black T-shirt with “Dale Earnhardt” written in red across the front and “The Legend” written in red across the back, and a pair of baggy blue jeans. He saunters to the front of the courtroom and looks around nervously.

  “Mr. Milligan, you’re charged with driving under the influence, seventh offense. Where’s your lawyer?” Judge Green demands.

  “He told me he’d be here later in the morning,” Milligan says.

  “Mr. Miller represents you, correct?” The judge is talking about Ray Miller, my friend, and there’s a gleam in his eye that tells me he’s about to exact a little revenge. Judge Green hates Ray, primarily because Ray isn’t the least bit afraid of him and lets him know it on a regular basis. They’ve been feuding bitterly for years, but lately it has seemed to escalate. Two weeks earlier, my wife and I were dining with Ray and his wife at a restaurant in Johnson City when Ray spotted Judge Green eating by himself at a table in the corner. Ray walked over and started an argument about the judge’s practice of locking the courtroom doors at precisely nine o’clock each morning and jailing anyone who arrives late. The conversation grew heated, and with everyone in the place listening, Ray called Judge Green a “bully in a black robe.” He voiced the opinion that the judge had probably been beaten up by bullies as a boy and now used his robe to seek symbolic vengeance whenever the urge struck him. I told Ray later that his indiscretion could cost him dearly. His response was, “Screw that limp-wristed faggot.”

  Green turns back to the clerk. “Has Mr. Miller notified the clerk’s office that he would be late this morning?”

  The clerk shakes her head sadly.

  “Then he’s in contempt of court. Let the record show that Mr. Miller has failed to appear in court at the appointed time and has failed to notify the clerk’s office that he would either be absent or late. He is guilty of contempt of court in the presence of the court and will be taken to jail immediately upon his arrival.”

  Just as I’m about to say something in Ray’s defense, Tanner Jarrett stands suddenly and clears his throat.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor,” Tanner says. “Mr. Miller called me early this morning. He’s filed a motion on Mr. Milligan’s behalf, and we’re supposed to have a hearing today. But since the court doesn’t typically hear motions until after eleven a.m., Mr. Miller told me he was going to take care of a matter in Chancery Court before he came down here. I’m sure that’s where he is.”

  “He’s supposed to be here, Mr. Jarrett,” the judge snarls. “Right here. Right now.”

  “With all due respect, Your Honor, the state isn’t ready for the hearing now. I told my witness to be here at eleven o’clock.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Jarrett,” Green says coldly. He turns his attention toward Alfred Milligan, who has been standing silently at the lectern. “Mr. Milligan, your case is continued. The clerk will notify you of the new date. You’re free to go.”

  I sit there seething impotently as Milligan walks out of the courtroom. Nothing would please me more than to jerk Green off the bench and give him the ass whipping he so desperately needs and deserves. All it would cost me would be my job, my law license, and a few months in jail. I stare up at Green, hoping to catch his eye and at least give him a silent look of contempt, but he ignores me and begins calling cases as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. I’m afraid for Ray. I wish I could go out into the hallway and at least call him, but I know if I do, Green will call my case and do the same thing to me that he’s just done to Ray.

  Ray walks through the side door a little before ten. As soon as Green sees him, he stops what he’s doing and orders Ray to the front of the courtroom.

  “You’re in contempt of court, Mr. Miller,” the judge says triumphantly. “I called your case at nine o’clock. You weren’t here, and you hadn’t notified the clerk’s office of your absence as required under the local rules. Bailiff, take Mr. Miller into custody. His bond is set at five thousand dollars.”

  Ray is wearing a brown suit. His hair is pulled back tightly into his signature ponytail. He looks up at the judge with hatred and defiance in his eyes. I can see the muscles in his jaw twitching, and his complexion is darkening noticeably. I immediately begin to hope he has enough sense to keep his mouth shut. He’s helpless right now. There’s nothing he can do. But if he stays calm and doesn’t do or say anything stupid, he can take up this fight later. If he does it right, he’ll be exonerated and the judge will be the one who has to answer for his actions. But if he says something he shouldn’t…

  At that moment, Ray speaks. “I’ve been right about you all along, you gutless piece of shit. I hope you enjoy this, because from this day forward, I’m going to take a special interest in you. You’d better grow eyes in the back of your head.”

  “Cuff him!” Green yells at one of the bailiffs, who has sheepishly walked up behind Ray and is reaching for his arm.

  “Keep your fucking hands off me,” Ray growls, and the bailiff takes a step back.

  I stand and walk to my friend. I take him gently by the arm and begin to steer him toward the hallway that leads to the holding cells. “C’mo
n, Ray,” I say calmly. “This only gets worse if you stay.” He comes out of his rage, and his eyes settle on mine. The rage has been replaced by desperation and confusion.

  “I’m going to jail?” he asks in a tone that is almost dreamy.

  “I’ll go to the clerk’s office and post your bond as soon as I can break away from the courtroom,” I say. “You’ll be out in an hour.”

  “I’m signing an order suspending you based on your threat, Mr. Miller,” Judge Green says as we walk out the door. “And I’m reporting you to the Board of Professional Responsibility. You’ll be lucky if you ever practice law again.”

  3

  Six months later, I’m sitting on a metal stool in the death row visitor’s section of Riverbend Correctional Facility in Nashville. Riverbend is what they call a state-of-the-art facility. It’s sprawling and modern, but my experience tells me the place is misnamed. Men who spend time in a maximum security prison do not come out “corrected.” They come out more cunning.

  On the other side of a thick pane of Plexiglas is thirty-eight-year-old Brian Thomas Gant. I was appointed to represent Gant nearly fifteen years ago. He was my first death penalty client, accused of murdering his mother- in-law and raping his five-year-old niece. There was no forensic evidence against him-DNA testing hadn’t yet become the gold standard-and seemingly no motive for the crime. But the niece, a youngster named Natalie Booze, told the police that the man who raped her “looked like Uncle Brian.” The police immediately focused their investigation on Gant, and the girl’s story quickly changed from “looked like Uncle Brian” to “ was Uncle Brian.” He was arrested a week after the crime was committed. I did the best I could at trial, but I couldn’t overcome the young girl’s testimony. He was convicted of first-degree murder and two counts of aggravated rape a year after his arrest. He’s been on death row ever since.

  After her uncle was shipped off to the penitentiary, Natalie Booze had a change of heart. She told Gant’s wife that she wasn’t sure it was Uncle Brian. It happened so fast. She was asleep when the rapist came into her room. It was dark. The account was completely different than what she’d testified to at trial. It didn’t matter, though. Gant’s appellate attorneys asked Natalie to sign an affidavit swearing that she now believed she’d been mistaken when she identified Brian Gant at trial. She signed the affidavit and the attorneys filed it. Both the prosecution and the appellate courts ignored it.

  Several years after Gant was convicted, after DNA testing had been developed, his wife paid a private laboratory nearly forty thousand dollars to test three pieces of evidence from the crime scene: a pair of panties his niece was wearing, a nylon stocking his mother-in-law was wearing, and a pubic hair found on the niece’s sheet. The lab was able to extract DNA samples from all three pieces of evidence, and none of them matched Gant. Armed with this new evidence, his appellate attorneys were able to get a hearing in front of a judge, who summarily denied their request for a new trial. The Tennessee Court of Appeals upheld the judge’s ruling, and Gant remains here in this terrible place. I’m convinced he’s innocent, but once a jury finds a man guilty in a death penalty case, the odds against overturning the verdict are overwhelming.

  “What are you doing down here?” Gant asks pleasantly. He’s put on some weight since I last saw him, and the hair at his temples has turned gray, but he seems in good spirits.

  “I’m here to witness an execution, believe it or not.”

  “Johnson?”

  “Right. The murder he was convicted of happened in our district. My boss dumped this on me at the last minute. How’s your appeal going?”

  “It isn’t. Unless Donna can somehow hand them the guy who did it on a silver platter, I’m the next one on the gurney.”

  Donna is Gant’s wife. I see her at the grocery store once or twice a month, but I avoid talking to her whenever possible. Despite the fact that her mother was murdered, Donna has steadfastly maintained her husband’s innocence and has become obsessed with getting him exonerated. Back when I was representing Brian, she swore to me that Brian was at home in bed with her the night the crime took place, and she testified to that at trial, but the prosecutor successfully argued to the jury that she was just protecting her husband.

  “When are you scheduled?” I ask.

  “Three weeks from today.”

  “Jesus, Brian, I had no idea. Have you run the DNA profile Donna got from the lab through the Department of Correction database? They might get a hit.”

  “We’ve tried, but they refuse to do it.”

  “Your lawyers can’t force them?”

  “How could they force them?”

  “Get an order from a judge.”

  “What judge? Every judge I’ve run across has upheld my conviction. I’m just a convict now. I’m on death row. No one is interested in helping.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “I appreciate the offer.”

  “I’m sorry about everything, Brian. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job.”

  His eyes soften and he smiles, and I immediately feel even more guilt.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways, my friend,” he says. “Don’t blame yourself. You did what you could, and I have no hard feelings toward you. The Lord will take care of this, and if He sees fit not to, then I won’t question His judgment. If He calls me to heaven, then He must have a purpose for me there. I’m at peace.”

  “You have to keep fighting.”

  “Like I said, I’m at peace. I’ve placed myself in God’s hands and washed myself in the blood of the Lamb. I’ll accept my fate with a song on my lips and love in my heart.”

  We sit there for a few minutes in awkward silence. I can’t think of anything else to say. Finally, Brian stands up.

  “I think I’ll head on back to my cell now, Mr. Dillard, but I appreciate your coming. I really do. It makes me feel good to know you care. God bless.”

  Eight hours later, just before midnight, I’m back at the prison, only now I’m sitting on a folding chair on a polished concrete floor just outside the execution chamber. Dull gray paint covers the concrete block walls, and pale light emanates from fluorescent bulbs hidden behind sheets of opaque plastic in the drop ceiling. The room is colorless, the air so still it’s stifling. I’m feeling queasy and claustrophobic, and I want nothing more than to get the hell out of here.

  The condemned is a white man named Phillip Johnson. Twelve years ago, Johnson brutally raped and murdered eight-year-old Tanya Reid no more than ten miles from my house. He did unspeakable things to the child, then dumped her body in a culvert near the South Central community and covered it with brush. A couple of boys looking for frogs in the creek bed discovered Tanya two days later.

  I’d been practicing law for only a few years when the crime occurred. I hung out my own shingle in northeast Tennessee as soon as I graduated from the University of Tennessee College of Law, and I wound up practicing criminal defense for many years. I was an outsider looking in during Johnson’s trial, but from everything I heard and read, there was no doubt about his guilt. He was a sex offender who’d already served seven years for fondling a young girl and was on parole, living in nearby Unicoi County, the day he snatched Tanya Reid from her driveway. His semen was found on the little girl’s body, and her blood and hair were all over the backseat of his car.

  I’ve been sent here to witness the execution on behalf of the people of the First Judicial District and my boss, the man they elected as their attorney general. His name is Lee Mooney, and he was supposed to do this himself, but he called me into his office yesterday and said he’d decided to attend a conference in Charleston and would be gone until Friday evening. He then assigned this unpleasant task to me. I wasn’t offered the option of refusing.

  Tanya Reid’s family is here-her mother, father, and three grandparents-and they smile at me tentatively. I’d introduced myself to them earlier, just as my boss had instructed. They’re simply dressed, quiet, grossly out of pla
ce so near this chamber of death. I remember the parents’ pleas on television the day after their child was abducted. They appear to have aged more than double the twelve years it’s taken to bring their daughter’s killer to what they believe is his rightful end. Their hair is gray, their shoulders slumped. They’re languid nearly to the point of being lifeless.

  I must admit I’m conflicted about the death penalty. Philosophically, or intellectually, I just can’t cuddle up to the notion that a modern, civilized government that forbids its people from killing should be allowed to kill its people. But when I imagine putting the proverbial shoe on my own foot… well, let’s just say I know in my heart that if someone had kidnapped, raped, tortured, and murdered either of my children, I’d want them dead. I’d want them to suffer. I also know that I’d be perfectly capable of doing the killing myself. Maybe the state legislature should consider passing a law that allows the victim’s family the option of killing the condemned. They could also give them the option of killing the condemned in the same manner in which the victim was killed. Perhaps that particular form of revenge would provide the closure they seem to crave so deeply.

  Sitting in the front row are two representatives from the media back home, both young female newspaper reporters, dressed in their dark business suits. So much time has passed since the crime occurred that the state and national media have moved on to more pressing matters. Tanya Reid is old news, perversely obsolete in our fast-moving society. As I look at them, I can’t help but wonder what kind of effect this is going to have. These young journalists, at once inexperienced and arrogant, have a condescending air about them as they prepare their “concerned” look for the live shot outside the prison later on. I wonder how they’ll feel about their love affair with professional voyeurism after they’ve watched a man die fifteen feet from their notepads.

  At precisely the appointed time, they bring Johnson out into the death chamber in a white hospital gown, cuffs, and shackles. A steel wall separates the witnesses from the condemned. There’s a window, much like the one through which newborn babies are viewed in a maternity ward. I muse over the irony for a moment, then put it out of my mind…