by Patrick Dent
“Clarence's fatal mistake was dropping the bat, wanting to give a fair fight to a man who'd just attacked him with a deadly weapon. Clarence clearly demonstrated that he had no deadly intent when he threw his bat away. Mr. Drake, however, did use deadly force, a force he was well aware he possessed. His initial attack was with a hundred mile an hour fastball. He followed that with a blow to young Clarence's most vital organ, his heart. That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is murder, plain and simple. Thank you.”
His Honor, Judge Philips, spoke, “Mr. Felts, you may proceed with your opening statement.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Felts' heavy-set frame and gleaming pate stood in stark contrast to Parker's trim appearance – by design. His navy sport jacket, a cotton blend, and his khaki pants were both wrinkled. He had a blue-collar charm especially effective with rural juries.
Parker, in his shiny silk suit, didn't realize he might as well be wearing a spacesuit as far as these people were concerned. Before Felts began his statement, he mopped the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. Parker thought it a sloppy gesture, but acknowledged it might appeal to the working class. Despite his ruffled appearance, Felts charged the highest fee of any defense attorney in South Carolina. Felts turned to address the jury.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we all know baseball is an American tradition. We also know that occasionally, pitches accidentally hit batters. This unfortunate occurrence is not limited to high school ball, but is not uncommon in professional baseball. Men who dedicate their lives to the sport, men who are paid handsomely for their unique talents, still sometimes make mistakes. They are only human, are they not?
“That's what young John is – a human being. He has hopes and dreams just like we do. He also has regrets. He regrets the terrible accident that claimed Clarence's life. He regrets being born into a society divided by race, where a boy – either white or black - might be judged by the color of his skin, rather than the facts. My opponent, Mr. Parker, will no doubt play the race card during this trial. He'll tell you John hit Clarence with that pitch because Clarence is a Negro. I know John Drake Jr. and I know he is no racist. I have merely one thing to ask of you. Cast your votes based on the facts, and nothing else. Thank you.” He slowly returned to John's side at the defendant's table and elegantly squeezed his paunch into the wooden chair.
“Mr. Parker,” the judge spoke, “Please call your first witness.”
“The prosecution calls Mr. Thomas Stanch, coach of the Hornets.”
The coach waddled up to the witness stand, carrying a Coke bottle into which he periodically expectorated his Beechnut juice. The bailiff swore him in before he sat.
“Do you mind if I call you Coach?”
“No sir, near everyone does.”
“OK, Coach, how long has Mr. Drake played for the Hornets?” Parker asked.
“Since seventh grade. I guess this was his sixth season.”
“And how would you characterize his performance during those six seasons?”
“Damn talented player. I've never seen such power and control in a boy his age. I just wish he would adjust that attitude of his.”
“Power, control, and attitude.” Parker paused between each word for dramatic effect, looking again at each juror. “In those six seasons during which Mr. Drake nurtured this power and control, how many times have you seen him strike a batter with a pitch?”
Coach scratched his head and looked at the ceiling, as if he were taking a math test, and had secretly written the answers up there. “I don't recall any, come to think of it.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Felts exclaimed, “Hearsay.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Over the next thirty minutes, Parker extracted incriminating information from the coach, focusing his inquiries on John's attitude and propensity for violence. By the time he finished, he had painted John as a fist-ready reprobate. When certain there was no more water in the well, Parker informed His Honor that he had no further questions.
“Mr. Felts, your witness,” the judge said.
Felts approached the stand and stood with his hands in his pants pockets. When he spoke, he faced the jurors rather than the witness. “Coach, do you believe John hit that boy on purpose?”
“Objection! Calls for speculation!”
“Sustained.”
“Your Honor, the coach has trained this boy for six years. I merely want his professional opinion on the likelihood that the pitch was deliberately malicious.”
“Mr. Felts, you may continue this line of questioning, but you will rephrase the question.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Coach, are you aware of any animosity between John and Clarence?”
“You mean did they hate each other?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I don't claim to know the mind of any man, but John and Clarence have duked it out a couple times before.”
“Were any of these alleged fights potentially lethal? Any weapons involved?”
“No, not that I'm aware. You know, boys will be boys.”
Parker had to give him credit. Felts did his best to present John as a pacifist at heart. He pitched an unfortunate accident. Clarence instigated the fight. John threw a solitary punch. Hell, he didn't even eat meat, so how could he be a threat to anyone? His questioning lasted a little over forty-five minutes.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” Felts said.
“Mr. Parker, next witness, please.”
“The prosecution calls Mrs. Josephine Buchanon.”
Mrs. Buchanon, at Parker's suggestion, wore the same black dress and veil she wore to Clarence's funeral. An enormous woman, she lost her wind by the time she reached the stand. Before she sat, she leaned heavily on the railing encircling the stand. When she finally dropped into the chair, Parker winced, hoping it wouldn't collapse. Although the mahogany chair squeaked in protest, it bore the load.
“Mrs. Buchanon, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Some water, perhaps?” Parker asked.
“Mr. Parker,” Judge Philips interjected, “this isn't Howard Johnson's, please get to your point.”
A ripple of laughter moved throughout the courtroom. Parker appeared unfazed.
“Sorry, Your Honor, I was merely attempting to offer whatever small comfort I can to this lady who has just lost her baby.” After allowing thirty seconds for his statement sink in, he began his line of questioning. “Mrs. Buchanon, can you describe for the court the relationship between Clarence and Mr. Drake?”
“That boy hated my son! He beat him close to death twice, both times at baseball games.” Mrs. Buchanon slammed her fist on the railing.
“Why do you think Mr. Drake hated your son, Mrs. Buchanon?”
“Objection! Calls for specu…”
“Overruled. Mrs. Buchanon, please answer the question.”
“That boy is just like his daddy, he hates black folk!”
“Objection!”
“Sustained, the jury will disregard that answer.”
“Your Honor, I don't want to further upset this lady who has been through so much grief recently. No further questions.”
“Mr. Felts, your witness,” said Judge Philips.
Felts stood, mopping his forehead again. “Mrs. Buchanon, do you recall the dates of these alleged altercations between Clarence and John?”
“Yes Sir, June 6, 1971, and June 14, 1972.”
“My, you have an excellent memory,” Felts said, giving an accusatory glare to Parker. Parker's great strength was witness coaching. To him, a trial resembled a Broadway production and required just as much rehearsal. “Do you also remember the causes of these fights?”
“Yes Sir, both fights started as arguments over baseball.”
“Then why, Mrs. Buchanon, do you accuse John of having racial motives?”
“Because I know his daddy, and the acorn don't fall far from the tree.”
A murmur spread throughout the courtroom. Felt's face flushed wi
th frustration and embarrassment. Parker noticed it was difficult for him to meet his gaze. He flashed his most arrogant smile at Felts.
“Your Honor, I'd like that answer to be stricken from the record.”
“Agreed, the jury will disregard the answer.”
Felts kept his cross-examination brief. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Very well, court is recessed until 2:00 p.m.” Judge Philips banged his gavel once to signify the beginning of lunchtime.
* * *
The John stormed into Judge Phillips' office, slamming the door open against the wall. Besides Philips' wife, no other human would dare such an irreverent entrance. The John quickly focused on the occasional nervous tics of Phillips' neck.
Placing both his fists on Phillips' desk, knuckles down, The John leaned into the judge's face and shouted, “Don, this is a fiasco. My boy is being railroaded!”
“John, it is highly inappropriate for us to be talking.”
“It is highly inappropriate for my son to be prosecuted for murder!” Veins stood out on Drake's forehead. Philips noticed for the first time that the two central veins formed a giant purple Y. Drake began to pace, pumping his hands into and out of fists. “My boy is in there facing nine black jurors. You know he doesn't have a chance! Christ, I do these people a favor by loaning them money whenever they ask, and they make me out to be a villain!”
“John, calm down.”
“Don't you tell me to calm down! Who the hell do you think you are?”
“John,” Philips said in a soothing tone, “You have to calm down before I can help you.”
“I'm listening,” Drake said, facing the judge with the stance of a prizefighter.
“John, you know I can't determine the verdict, but I do control one thing – the sentence.”
“That's what I'm here to talk about. We have a phone call to make.”
“To whom?”
“An old friend.”
* * *
In the conference room, Parker looked around the table, individually studying Felts, Drake Jr. and especially Drake Sr.
“Well,” said Parker, “I'm waiting.”
“We'll plead guilty to simple assault,” Felts responded.
“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have a case to win.” Parker had reason to display arrogance, knowing demographics were in his favor.
“Don't play games, Parker,” Felts said, “We all know that any jury, no matter how well stacked, is a wild card. The three whites could lock this up and we'd have a mistrial. How lucky do you feel on the next draw?”
“The county is 88 percent black.”
“Less than half of whom are registered to vote. That makes them ineligible for jury duty. So, let's talk.”
“Manslaughter.”
“Now I'm the one who should be laughing. We'll plead out to involuntary.”
Parker studied John Drake. He wondered if Drake had the judge in his pocket. If so, the kid could get off with as little as six years. Still, weighed against a full jury trial, this was not a bad proposition. He had gotten off to a strong start, but the defense could bring in every one of the two hundred eyewitnesses, stringing this out for weeks, and making the jury forget why they showed up in the first place. He slowly took out a Camel, no filter, and lit it. As he exhaled, he stared not at Felts, but at John Drake Sr. He looked closely for Drake to betray his hand, but the man was carved from stone. I guess you don't make it to General by being weak in the eyes, he thought. He decided he would agree to the plea bargain.
“I accept, involuntary manslaughter.”
* * *
John sat in his defendant's seat, already knowing the outcome of the trial. It reassured him, knowing his fate in advance. But even so, the level of corruption he had just witnessed shocked him.
“Hear Ye, Hear Ye. The court is now in session, the Honorable Donald Philips presiding,” the Bailiff proclaimed.
“Mr. Drake,” Phillips began, “I understand you have decided to change your plea to guilty of the lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter. Is this correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Parker, do you agree to this?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very well. The defendant will rise.” John stood.
“John Drake Jr., you have pled guilty to involuntary manslaughter, a crime carrying a maximum penalty of ten years in prison. There are mitigating circumstances surrounding this case, such as your lack of criminal record of any type, as well as the ambiguity of your intentions. The enormously influential Mr. Parker has also inspired me with his statement that you are 'not beyond salvation'. Therefore, it is the sentence of this court that you be inducted into the United States Army, where you will serve your country for a period of no less than six years. If you are disqualified from military service for any reason, you will serve the remainder of your sentence in prison.”
Judge Philips banged his gavel, thinking of the new boat he would be able to buy before the best of fishing season passed, complements of John Drake Sr.
Chapter Six
The Desert South of Safi, Morocco
Lieutenant Amin nervously wiped his palms on his robes. When he had accepted the assignment for Operation Sierra, he had known there would be risks, but he had always known the Army would be there for him. Now, here he stood in a Third World country under a false identity even Uncle Sam would disavow. He had never felt more alone in his life.
The desert showcased all its grandeur just before dawn. The eastern sky's orange hue shone undisturbed by clouds, smog or city lights. Amin stood alone in an infinite sea of iridescent white sand. A lone dust cloud grew on the northern horizon. After a few minutes, Amin made out the shape of a deuce and a quarter truck, approaching rapidly. No other vehicles accompanied the truck. Good. So far, Falon had kept his word.
The truck stopped beside Amin's car at precisely six a.m. He recognized Falon in the passenger's seat. They had agreed that Falon would bring just one man, but Amin couldn't help wondering whether the truck contained a full platoon of armed militia. In reality, it didn't matter. Falon wouldn't need a platoon of men to take Amin out. The rendezvous, by its typical nature, placed Amin in a compromising position. Black marketers tended to be somewhat cautious.
The knowledge that he had a sniper behind a nearby dune calmed Amin. From a hundred yards, the shooter would have little problem dispatching Falon and his driver should the need arise. Of course, killing Falon would destroy his entire mission. Falon was the gateway to Tartus.
The driver remained behind the wheel as Falon walked toward Amin, his robes flapping in the stiff desert wind. Falon stood lean and tall, perhaps six feet. The Moroccan desert had sand blasted pock marks into his face. His irises were large and jet-black, and his perpetual squint concealed the whites of his eyes, giving him a demonic look. He had an insincere smile, like the grin of a cat about to pounce upon its prey. He spread his arms in an open gesture of greeting.
“My friend. How are you?” Falon asked in a friendly tone, as if the two men were old fraternity brothers. He spoke formal Arabic, virtually devoid of the French accent so common in Morocco.
“I'm well, Falon. It's good to see you. You're a punctual man, I must say,” Amin responded in Arabic, consciously regulating his breathing.
“In this trade, the only contract a man has is his word,” Falon said, “I trust you had no problems acquiring the cash?”
Amin opened the trunk of his car and produced a medium sized brown leather suitcase. He opened it, showing Falon the two hundred fifty thousand American dollars. Were the money not strapped down, the desert wind would have scattered it within seconds. Amin grinned to himself for anticipating this detail. To Amin, both the victory and the devil hide in the details, so he kept them under constant watch.
Falon again flashed his synthetic smile. “Follow me,” he said, walking toward the back of the truck. When he pulled back the tarpaulin, Amin braced himself. If this were a
trap, he'd have a second at the most to hit the sand and let the sniper go to work. Even then, his odds of survival would be somewhere between thin and call-a-priest.
But the tarp came back to reveal merely crates – dozens of them in varying sizes. Falon stepped into the back of the truck and emerged in seconds with a four foot by two foot wooden box. The box bore the insignia of the US Army. Falon lifted the lid and Amin saw that he just might survive this transaction. Inside were a dozen LAWs – Light Antitank Weapons.
“Would you prefer a demonstration?” Falon asked.
Amin swallowed before he answered. “No. That won't be necessary.”
“Well then, I believe our task is complete for the day,” Falon said.
“Yes, it is. May I contact you soon to make other arrangements?”
“You know where to find me. Just go to Shaqra and wait.”
Amin stood by the crate until the truck disappeared over the horizon. Then, he packed the crate in his truck. The LAWs had served their purpose of getting him one step closer to Tartus. Selling them would further establish him as a player. Arms trade was not one of Tartus' mainstream businesses. Today's transaction would establish Amin as a high-level business associate, but not enough to gain him direct access to Tartus. Baby steps. Amin would be taking things up a notch on his next transaction. To get the big game, you use the big bait. Amin hoped he had established enough credibility today to take things to the next level.
After a few minutes, Amin's sniper gently lifted the meshing he had been under and scanned three hundred sixty degrees before he stood. Only then did he gasp for fresh air. Even at dawn, the sun had already begun its merciless beating of the sand. The temperature was easily one hundred. He waved to Amin, who returned the gesture. Amin knew the sniper was a happy man because he didn't flex his index finger today. One-shot, one-kill, universally regarded as the most intimate form of combat, sometimes disquieted even seasoned snipers. Amin did not envy the man's job.
