“Tyrell knew he hadn’t done nothin’ wrong, so he says. ‘It ain’t none of your damn business what I been doin’.’ He just turned and started walkin’ away. Dat’s when the old cop reached out for him. Tyrell turned to defend himself and that’s when the big cop shot him. I went down to see how bad he was, but when I saw he wasn’t breathin’, I pulled my knife to protect myself. The big cop took my knife and cuffed me. Then the other cops showed up and told them it wasn’t us that robbed the store. Poor Tyrell got hisself shot for nothin’!”
“Thank you, Mr. Fowler. No further questions.”
“Your witness, Ms. Romero.”
I wondered how Suzanne would handle Fowler. He was lying through his teeth, but he had certainly come off as a sympathetic witness.
“Mr. Fowler, let me say up front how sorry I am for the loss of your friend. This was certainly a tragedy.”
“You got that right, Lady.”
“Mr. Fowler, tell me a little bit about your friend Tyrell. You mentioned that he was often questioned by police. Has he ever been arrested?”
Cleavon looked at the prosecutor for help, but there was none coming.
“Yeah, he’s been busted a few times.”
Suzanne looked at a sheet of paper. “Actually four times. Assault. Trespass. How about you, Mr. Fowler? Do you have a record?”
Cleavon glanced at the paper she was holding and figured he’d better not lie.
“Yeah, I got a rap sheet, but it’s all small stuff. So what? That don’t got nothin’ to do with Tyrell gettin’ shot.”
“Actually, Mr. Fowler, it does. Your previous testimony made you and Tyrell look like a couple of Boy Scouts, but that’s the farthest thing from the truth. Actually, the two of you are no strangers to violence and being on the wrong side of the law.”
“Mebbe so, but that’s just the way it is when you live in the hood.”
The prosecutor’s next witness was Darby Finch from the crime lab.
After establishing Finch’s credentials, Marshall held up an evidence bag containing a knife. “Mr. Finch, do you recognize this as the knife from the crime scene?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“And did you examine it for fingerprints?”
“I did.”
“And what did you find?”
“I found one set of legible prints.”
“Whose prints were they?”
“Cleavon Fowlers.”
“No further questions.”
The judge looked at Suzanne. “Your witness.”
Suzanne rose from her chair. “Mr. Finch, you said that you only found one set of ‘legible’ prints. Were there other prints on the knife?”
“Yes, but like I said, they were too smudged to identify.”
“So you can’t rule out the possibility that those prints belonged to Tyrell Jackson and were smudged when Cleavon Fowler grabbed the knife.”
Finch shrugged. “No, I suppose not. My job is not to speculate, but to present the evidence that we found, and what we found were the prints of Cleavon Fowler.”
“The prosecution calls Officer Walter Williams to the stand.”
I had been dreading this moment, but I knew it would be coming
Two conflicting accounts of our confrontation had been presented and I was the only other person at the scene who had witnessed what had occurred.
Our case would have been substantially stronger if I could have testified that I had seen the knife in Tyrell Jackson’s hand as he turned to attack me --- but I didn’t.
Suzanne, Ox and I had discussed the matter at great length the day before. I had already admitted to the captain that I had not seen the knife. There was absolutely nothing to be gained by adding perjury to our list of charges.
“Officer Williams, you have heard the testimony of both your partner, Officer Wilson, and Cleavon Fowler. There is a glaring discrepancy between their stories. Officer Wilson has testified Tyrell Jackson was in possession of a knife when he attacked you. Cleavon Fowler has testified Mr. Jackson was unarmed and the knife was his and he only drew it after his friend had been shot. I’m hoping that you can help us clear this up. Officer Williams, did you or did you not see a knife in the hand of Tyrell Jackson when he attacked you?”
The courtroom was deathly silent, awaiting my response.
I hated it, but I had to tell the truth.
“No, I didn’t see the knife.”
A murmur went through the courtroom and Cleavon Fowler pumped his fist in victory.
The prosecutor smiled. “No further questions.”
“Cross, Ms. Romero?”
As Suzanne approached the witness stand, I could see the concern on her face. I had just shot a big hole in our case.
“Officer Williams, You were just a few feet away from Tyrell Jackson when he turned to attack you. How is it you could be that close and not see a knife in the hand of your attacker?”
“Tyrell Jackson was a big man. He was twice my size and fifty years younger. There was absolutely no way that I was going to come out on top in a hand-to-hand confrontation. When I saw him turn on me, I figured my best option was an evasive response. I turned to avoid his attack, so I was facing away from him when he lunged at me.”
“So it’s not that you saw his hands and there was no knife. He could very well have been attacking you with a knife but you didn’t see it because you were turned away.”
“Yes, that’s correct. I know my partner and I know he wouldn’t have shot Tyrell Jackson unless my life was in danger.”
“Thank you, Officer Williams.”
The judge turned to Clarence Marshall. “Mr. Prosecutor?”
“The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
“Very well. We’ll break for lunch. Ms. Romero, you’re up after the break.”
So there it was.
My partner had testified Tyrell Jackson was inches away from stabbing me when he fired. Cleavon Martin had testified that Tyrell was unarmed and the knife was his. I was the only other witness that could corroborate either story, and I couldn’t.
The only physical evidence, the fingerprints on the knife, supported Fowler’s story.
We would have the opportunity the next day to present any evidence which would support our story, but there really wasn’t much more to be said.
Our fate would soon be in the hands of the twelve jurors and I didn’t like our odds.
CHAPTER 4
Officer Vince Spaulding had been watching the trial on the public television station. He shook his head in dismay when the prosecutor rested his case. There was little doubt his two friends were in deep trouble.
Walt Williams was his friend and mentor. When the City Retiree Action Patrol had been created five years earlier, Walt, as its first member, was put in charge of recruitment. Vince had been his first recruit.
Vince could vividly remember how lost he felt when he had been let go from his head coaching job because of his age. The Retiree Action Patrol had given him a new lease on life.
At first, he and Walt were subjected to the ridicule of their fellow officers when it was belatedly discovered that the acronym for their new program was C.R.A.P., but over the years they had proven themselves and had earned the respect of their peers.
Vince had worked many cases with Walt and Ox and he knew, without a doubt, that Ox’s version of the tragic event was the truth, but proving it was another thing altogether.
Vince had been one of the many officers stationed at the scene of the shooting.
The friends, family and supporters of Tyrell Jackson had created a memorial on the blood-stained sidewalk where Jackson had fallen.
The TV evangelist-reverends had used the site as a platform for their fiery rhetoric, keeping the crowd of supporters agitated and engaged.
Every evening, candles were passed around, extending the vigil into the wee hours of the morning.
This was Vince’s first day off in over a week and he was spending it watching the tria
l of his two friends.
The local TV stations had been covering not only the trial, but the drama unfolding at Tyrell’s memorial as well.
Vince had been flipping from channel to channel and most of the broadcasts were filled with the TV station’s reporters being filmed by their own camera operators, but every so often, other shots from a different angle were interspersed. These shots were shaky and not as sharp and had probably come from a bystander’s cellphone.
Vince noticed that much of this amateur footage seemed to have been recorded from one particular vantage point. Someone, possibly a neighbor, had been documenting the events and emailing the clips to the TV stations.
Vince grabbed his own cell phone, watched and waited. When the next amateur clip filled the screen, he captured it, grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
Vince had to park several blocks from the makeshift memorial. The start of the preliminary hearing had fanned the emotional ashes into flames, drawing throngs of people, waiting and watching to see if justice would be served.
He pushed his way through the restless crowd just in time to hear the impassioned plea from one of the TV reverends.
We've got to clean up our community so we can clean up the United States of America! Reverend, you say, you don't understand what they doin' to us. Yes! I do understand. But I understand that nobody gonna help us if we don't help ourselves. Sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves won't solve our problems. Sitting around having ghetto pity parties rather than organizing and strategizing and putting our differences aside. Yes, we got young and old. Yes, we got things that we don't like about each other, but it's bigger than our egos. It's bigger than everybody. We need everybody because I'm gonna tell you, I don't care how much money you got, I don't care what position you hold. I don't care how much education you got. If we can't protect a child walking down the street in Kansas City, and bring justice, all you got don't matter to nobody but you!
Vince pulled his camera from his pocket and replayed the clip he had recorded. He located the houses in the background and turned the opposite way.
There, on the porch of a tidy bungalow, was an elderly lady recording the reverend’s fiery speech on her cell phone.
Vince wormed his way through the crowd, showed his badge to the officer who was keeping the throng in the street away from the private homes and crossed the lawn to the porch.
Seeing an approaching stranger, the woman slipped back into her home and closed the door.
Vince knocked and held his badge to the glass in the door. A moment later, the door opened a crack, but Vince could see the chain lock was still engaged.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Vince Spaulding. I wonder if I could have a few minutes with you?”
“I --- I don’t know,” she replied. “What’s this about?”
Vince could see that she was frightened. Anyone would be, wondering if and when violence might erupt. No doubt the poor woman had seen on TV the riots, burning, and looting in the city across the state.
“Please,” Vince pleaded. “Just a few minutes. It’s very important.”
Reluctantly, she pushed the door closed and he heard the chain lock slide free.
The door opened and she stepped aside. “Okay, just a few minutes, but hurry!”
“I can only imagine how you must feel,” Vince said, “with all this going on in your front yard.”
“I haven’t left my home since this whole thing started,” she replied. “I’m afraid to go out. I --- I’m about out of food.”
“I think we can help you with that,” Vince assured her. “We’ll either get you to the store or bring some things in for you.”
“Oh, thank goodness! I’m about at my wit’s end.”
“Again, my name is Vince and I’m here to help. What’s your name?”
“Florence. Florence Frazier.”
“I noticed that you were recording the reverend’s speech from your front porch.”
“I was indeed. I’ve been recording everything from the very beginning of this horrible mess. I figured that if things got bad and they found my body in the rubble of my looted home, there would be some account of what I’ve been through and what did me in.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that. Actually, it’s your videos that I wanted to talk about. You said that you’d recorded everything from the very beginning. I’ve seen some of your videos on TV. Have you sent in everything that you’ve recorded?”
She hesitated. “No, not everything.”
Vince felt a surge of hope. “By any chance, were you on your porch when the police questioned Tyrell Jackson and his friend?”
When she didn’t reply, Vince knew he had hit pay dirt.
“You recorded the shooting, didn’t you, Mrs. Frazier?”
Florence wrung her hands. “Look, Officer, I just can’t get involved. Look outside. Me and Mrs. Bingham, two houses down, are the only white families left in this neighborhood. My daddy bought this house on the GI Bill after the war. I was born and raised here. The neighborhood changed, but I just couldn’t bear to part with this house. I mind my own business and no one bothers an old lady, but if someone finds out I got that video, my life won’t be worth a plugged nickel.”
“Mrs. Frazier --- Florence, that video could bring an end to this ungodly mess once and for all. I’m sure you’ve heard the news --- maybe even watched the preliminary hearing this morning. You know that the officer and Cleavon Fowler are telling conflicting stories. If you have evidence that will support either story, it has to come out. Either way, the truth is what’s important.”
“I --- I just don’t know.”
“Florence, no one has to know where the video came from. The life and career of a twenty-five year police veteran are on the line. Please! Help us!”
Finally, she waivered. “If you promise no one will know the video came from me.”
Vince crossed his heart. “I promise.”
Florence pressed buttons on her phone and handed it to Vince.
When the clip ended, Vince grabbed Florence and gave her a big bear hug. “Thank you! Thank you! When I leave, close and lock your door. Don’t let anyone in but me. I’ll be back later with your camera and some food. Watch the afternoon trial on public TV. Your little cell phone might have changed the course of history.”
The lunch break was nearly over when Vince Spaulding rushed into the courthouse. He caught up with Suzanne, Ox and me just as we were entering the courtroom.
“Hold on!” he wheezed, obviously out of breath. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
We peered over his shoulder as the video played across the five inch screen.
When it had finished, Ox grabbed Vince and squeezed out what little breath he had left.
“Vince, I don’t how or where you got this, but you’ve just saved our butts. I don’t know how we can ever thank you enough.”
“No thanks necessary. Just doing my job. I never doubted you for a minute.”
“Okay, boys,” Suzanne interrupted, “hugs and kisses later. We’ve got a job to do in there.”
When the jury was seated, Judge Benson turned to Suzanne. “Is the defense ready to proceed Ms. Romero?”
Suzanne rose from her chair. “Yes, Your Honor, but we would ask the court’s indulgence to set up some video equipment to present some evidence that came into our possession during the lunch break.”
The judge looked at his watch. “Very well, but make it quick.”
After a brief conference with Suzanne, the bailiff left and returned ten minutes later with a screen and overhead projector. When everything was hooked up and plugged in, Suzanne turned to the judge. “We’re ready to proceed, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded.
Suzanne signaled the bailiff and the courtroom lights dimmed.
“You Honor, what we are about to present to the jury will need no introduction. The video will speak for itself.”
She pressed ‘play’ and the grainy image of Ox and
me exiting the squad car and approaching Tyrell Jackson and Cleavon Fowler filled the screen.
She let the video roll until the moment when Jackson turned to attack. She pressed ‘pause’ and the image of a knife in Jackson’s hand, inches from my chest, was frozen on the screen.
A collective gasp filled the courtroom.
Suzanne pressed ‘play’ again, and the tragic death of Tyrell Jackson played out for the world to see, just as Ox had described it.
When the video was over, I heard Cleavon Fowler mutter, “Shit!”
Suzanne addressed the judge. “The defense rests.”
Before he could speak, the courtroom erupted as reporters and cameramen scrambled out to be the first to report the breaking news.
“Order! Order!” the judge shouted, banging his gavel, but no one was listening.
When the courtroom was nearly empty, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between those that remained.
Maggie, Judy and the rest of our gang were all smiles, giving us a ‘thumbs up,’ while Tyrell Jackson’s mother sobbed uncontrollably as her family gathered around her for support.
Although I felt a sense of relief, there was certainly no joy in our victory. Through some quirk of fate and Vince’s good police work, the truth had come out and Lady Justice had prevailed, but a young man had lost his life, a tragedy that would haunt us all for the rest of our lives.
It took the jury less than a half hour to rule the shooting was justified. The judge dismissed the case and we were off the legal hook.
When the TV reverends heard of the video, they wasted no time packing their bags and caught the first plane out of town, off to find the next crisis.
The eye of the storm had passed, but the ill winds of resentment were still blowing in Kansas City.
While there was no doubt that Tyrell Jackson was shot in self-defense, there was still a feeling of unrest because his death should not and would not have happened if things were different in America.
Lady Justice in the Eye of the Storm Page 3
