“I’ll let you make that argument to the jury, Sam.”
“Besides—and you know this to be true—my client’s not sophisticated enough to come up with a plan. He’s nineteen years old, for Christ’s sake.”
“Every day, people with the IQ of a sheep develop and implement plans to do horrible things to each other,” she said. “And if your guy is so dumb, put him on the stand to show the jury that.” She smiled. “I’d like that.”
“I’m sure you would,” Sam said, returning her smile. “I think I could get my guy to plead to manslaughter in return for something like seven years.”
“Are you kidding me? I’d have the gay mothers and friends of gays and everyone else lynching me.”
“Lynching? Seriously bad turn of phrase for my client.”
“You’re not going to make this a race thing, are you, Sam?” she asked. “I’ve gotten calls from the civil rights leaders already. Told ’em I’ve got the evidence and I’m not backing down.”
“No, Cathy, I’m not,” he said. “I don’t need to. You’ve got a weak circumstantial case. I’m thinking someone pressured Punch into arresting my client.”
“It’s not the best case I’ve had,” she allowed. “I’ll agree with that.”
He nodded and looked around her office. According to a plaque on the wall, she’d been the defensive player of the year in the Mountain West Conference. “You’re hard-nosed.”
“I don’t like to lose,” she said. “You play?”
“Baseball. Small college. That’s where Paul and I met.”
“You look like an outfielder. You any good?”
“I was, and no, not really. I’m fast . . . well, I was at one point,” he said, knocking on his prosthetic leg. “Good field, occasional power. If I could have stolen first, I mighta been something.”
“Rebecca says no deals.” Cathy shook her head sympathetically. Whether it was for the loss of his missing limb, his sorry batting average, or her assessment of his case, he didn’t know.
“You can’t prove first degree. I don’t think the jury is going to be happy with second degree, either. If I put my client on the stand—”
“Oooh, really? I’m getting all warm and tingly just thinking about it.”
“—he’ll testify it was in self-defense. We go through this drill, you spend hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars, and if I get one juror to see it my way, my guy walks and you got no justice for Kaiden. You follow Ann out the door. Let’s do a deal and everyone’s unhappy, but everyone can claim a little bit of victory.”
“I prefer to see it this way: you lose, and Davonte is locked up for life. This time next year, he’s leading the prison league in scoring with fifty points per game. Absolutely dominating night after night, going back to his cell and dreaming of what might have been—if he hadn’t killed Kaiden Miles.”
“Ouch,” Sam ventured. “Worst case?”
“I don’t think that way.” She shrugged. “Maybe you are getting a little nervous?”
“No,” Sam said. “That’s not it. No one’s shooting at me.” He stood with some difficulty. “Having a bad leg day,” he lamented with a smile. “How is Kayla?”
“She’s fine.” Cathy smiled and looked at a picture of her little girl.
“What do you tell her?”
“I tell her there are people who are mad at Mommy.”
“Oof,” Sam said. “Tough stuff. See you soon, Cathy. Good luck, and let me know if you want to do a deal.”
She watched him limp from her office and down the sidewalk, headed toward his own office, no doubt. She fiddled with a very expensive pen her father had given her following her passing the bar examination, then put it down and dialed Rebecca’s number. “Can we talk?” she asked when Rebecca picked up.
Preston and Marci Daniels had lived in the same well-kept colonial revival on Main Street for forty years. It was a beautiful home, the source of great pride for both. The brick façade was accented with a small pediment and white columns on either side of a wide entrance and projecting bay windows trimmed in white. The roof was pitched steeply and side-gabled. A chimney was visible on one end of the home. Ancient cottonwoods—a favorite of the early settlers due to their ability to withstand the area’s harsh winters and periods of drought—were evenly spaced on either side of the walkway leading from the street and sidewalk to the front steps. The attached double-car garage had a loft with two dormer windows, providing a good view of the driveway all the way to the street. Marci had planted and carefully tended the flower beds visible from the front and both sides of the home. Daniels still mowed the grass every Sunday afternoon, just as he had done before going to bed a little earlier than usual.
Just before midnight he was awakened by the motion-activated lights on his garage. Thinking it was probably a deer, he rolled over and closed his eyes, trying to get back to sleep. He was listening to Marci snore softly when he thought he heard voices. He sighed heavily and got out of bed to see what was going on. Walking to the window, he was surprised to see a number of people standing on the sidewalk in front of his home.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“There are people on the sidewalk in front of our house.”
“What do they want?”
“I can’t tell, but I’m going to find out.” He walked to the closet and put on his bathrobe and slippers. “Maybe there was an accident or something.”
“Be careful, dear.”
“I will be. I’m going to give some sonuvabitch a piece of my mind, though,” he said. He made his way down the stairs and into the living room. From the hall closet next to the front door he extracted a large black flashlight. He opened the front door and was immediately taken aback by the bright lights illuminating his home. He put a hand in front of his eyes and walked down his driveway to the edge of his property. He could hear chanting, but he’d forgotten to put in his hearing aids and couldn’t make out what they were saying. “What’s going on out here?” he asked.
“No justice, no peace! No justice, no peace!” several people chanted in unison.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Daniels said. “Get the hell out of here! It’s the middle of the night, for Christ’s sake!” Several of what he now recognized as perhaps two dozen protesters moved toward him from two different directions, chanting. Daniels gave ground. “I’m telling you to get off my property, and I’m not going to ask again!”
“Until there is justice for Davonte, there will be no rest!” screamed a young woman. “This racist community must change!”
“Get off my lawn, now!” Daniels yelled. “Or I will call law enforcement.”
In response, the protesters changed their chant to one of, “All cops are bastards!”
“Who is in charge here?” Daniels asked. He turned out his flashlight and looked around him.
“We reject hierarchical systems,” a young woman responded. “We are all in charge.”
“Fine.” Daniels turned and walked back down his driveway. “Tell your equals I’m going back in the house to call the cops.” As he approached his home, he saw a camera flash. Turning, he watched two skinny young men wearing rainbow-colored wigs taking pictures of his home from behind the cottonwood to the east. “Get the hell off my property!” he yelled.
Back in the house, he discovered Marci awake and out of bed. “I called the cops,” she said. “They should be here soon.” Handing him the phone, she said, “It’s Don.” Donald Turner had been their next-door neighbor for almost forty years.
“Judge, what the hell is going on out there? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Don,” Daniels said. “A bunch of rabble-rousers, is all.”
“Marci okay?”
“She’s fine.” Daniels looked at his wife and smiled. She had started a pot of coffee and was putting some cinnamon rolls in the oven. “We’ve been through worse than this.”
“What do they want?”
“They say they want justic
e,” Daniels said.
“What does that have to do with raising Cain after midnight?”
“Good question.”
“Did you call the cops?” Turner asked.
“Marci did.” Daniels gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from her. Mouthing, “Thanks, dear,” he took a sip. “What these people don’t understand is that I’m almost seventy years old. Need my beauty sleep,” he said to Turner while he winked at Marci, who rolled her eyes. “Keeping me up all night is not going to help see justice done.”
“Judge, you be careful, okay?”
“I will be. Don’t worry about us.”
“I’m gonna go buy me a shotgun first thing tomorrow,” Turner said.
“Now, Don. Don’t do anything in response to this. I’m sure this will all be over soon enough.”
“I know, Judge,” Turner said. “But I’ve been thinking about it for a while. People are nuts.”
“Just be careful,” Daniels said, and hung up. He looked at Marci. “Go to bed, dear.”
“Join me?”
“No, I’m up.” He shook his head. “I’ll wait for the cops and then probably take a shower and go on in. I’ll work on my jury instructions. Been putting it off; might as well use the extra time.”
“You’ll be exhausted tonight.” She smoothed his hair and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Okay, I’m going to bed. One of us will need to be functional this evening.”
“Good night—or good morning, I guess.” He smiled. He was thinking how he would be lost without her when the doorbell rang. Before answering, he first went to the china buffet and withdrew a small, single-stack automatic pistol he kept there. Marci had never approved, but it was the world in which they lived. Threats against judges were frequent and attacks rare but not unheard of. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. “Good morning, Officer Goodrich,” he said, exhaling. “Come in.”
Daniels explained the situation and Goodrich took notes, occasionally asking questions. After taking the judge’s report, Goodrich left to talk with the protesters outside. Daniels showered and ate a couple pieces of toast before packing his lunch and briefcase and walking into his garage. He opened the garage, backed out, and drove down the driveway, where he was surrounded by chanting protesters. A number of Custer Police Department officers then removed members of the surging crowd. “Go ahead, sir,” Goodrich said to Daniels.
“Thank you,” Daniels said, moving his car forward.
“You corrupt tool!” a young man yelled into his window.
Daniels couldn’t help himself. “I’ll follow the law!” he yelled.
“The law is corrupt!” was the response.
“Well, there you go,” Daniels said as he rolled up the window. “A preference for judges to eschew the law to follow the will of the crowd. What could possibly go wrong?” He turned on the radio, took a deep breath, and sang along with Merle Haggard, who asked, “Are the Good Times Really Over?”
18
Several hours later, Daniels entered a packed courtroom. The dull buzz of conversation died immediately as everyone stood until he asked all to take their seats.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began.
“Good morning,” everyone responded at once.
“My name is Judge Preston C. Daniels, and I am the senior district court judge here in the 12th Judicial District of Wyoming,” he said. “Welcome to the major leagues of trial courts here in Wyoming.” Looking each juror in the eye in turn, he continued, “Most of you don’t look happy to be here—and that’s too bad, because we are thrilled to have you. What you are about to do is to fulfill one of the most important civic duties that you are asked to perform as a citizen, and that is to serve on a jury. You may recall from your high school civics courses that very few countries entrust their citizens with this kind of responsibility.
“I want to stress up front that what you are about to do is not for your entertainment. In the real world, trials are not like on television. They are not like the novels you have read or movies that you might have seen. As an initial matter, the judge is much better-looking.” Daniels smiled while everyone in the courtroom laughed nervously. Because Daniels always used the line, Sam had Davonte prepared, and he, Davonte, and Paul laughed along as well. “Instead,” Daniels said, turning sober again, “your job as jurors will be to search for truth. Truth that has consequences. Truth that will directly affect the liberty and perhaps the lives of those who are involved.
“If you are selected for this jury, don’t expect to be entertained; expect to be asked to pay close attention to what’s going on in this courtroom. Now, in just a few seconds, the clerk is going to call the names of twelve of you to be seated in the jury box. If your name is called, please come forward.” Daniels indicated the jury box with a wave of his hand. “The bailiff will direct you to your seat. Madam Clerk, would you seat a jury, please?”
After the jurors were called and seated, Daniels continued. “The case that has been called for trial is entitled State of Wyoming versus Davonte Blair. The defendant in this case is present and seated at the counsel table to the court’s left between his attorneys: Mr. Johnstone, who is closest to you, and Mr. Norquist, who is seated on the other side of Mr. Blair.”
Davonte looked directly at each juror and smiled slightly, just as Sam had encouraged him to do. “Why I gotta do that?” Davonte had asked.
“Because that is what jurors expect. Remember, like I told you before: some percentage of jurors will make up their mind within minutes of seeing you. We don’t want any of them deciding you’re guilty because—”
“I’m black?”
“No, because they decide you’re a petulant child or an asshole. How’s that?”
“Okay, Sam,” Davonte said. “I’ll play your game.”
“Good,” Sam had said. Now, he and Paul flashed winning smiles as Daniels continued. “Seated at the other table is County Attorney Rebecca Nice, and Deputy County and Prosecuting Attorney Catherine Schmidt, who is lead counsel in this matter. They are the lawyers for the State of Wyoming; the burden of proof in this case rests with them.”
To Sam’s surprise, Rebecca actually waved to the crowd. Cathy merely sat up a little straighter. “Mr. Blair has been charged with one count of first-degree murder in the death of one Kaiden Miles, which is alleged to have occurred here in Custer County on or about last November 6,” Daniels said. “Mr. Blair has entered a plea of not guilty, and as you look at him right now you should understand you are looking at an innocent man, and he’ll remain not guilty until and unless you decide otherwise.”
While Daniels spoke, Sam eyed each juror carefully. The clerk of court had provided both sides with questionnaires completed by each potential juror a couple of weeks prior. Sam and Paul had spent a lot of time reviewing and gathering what background they could on each, mostly through social media accounts. Here, too, Paul’s familiarity with the community was invaluable. He’d ruled out some jurors who on paper appeared to be ideal candidates for Davonte; others, whom Sam might have struck, were graded positively after Paul’s review. The initial slate wasn’t bad from Sam’s perspective, and he was pleased to see Davonte making eye contact with each.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now proceed to select a jury through a process called voir dire, which means ‘to tell the truth.’ The purpose is to select a fair jury. Ms. Schmidt will first ask questions of you as a group; she may follow up with questions to you individually. When she has completed her questioning, Mr. Johnstone may ask questions as well. Ms. Schmidt, please proceed.”
Cathy stepped to the podium and for the next hour asked questions of the jurors relating to their knowledge of the case, the players, and the process, and their predisposition toward conviction and/or acquittal. She inquired of the jurors regarding their schedules, their state of mind, and their willingness to participate. Sam, Paul, and Davonte sat quietly, observing and taking notes. Davonte took notes in a surprisingly small and precise handwriting
, Sam noticed. When she had completed her questioning, Daniels looked at Sam and Paul.
“Does the defense care to inquire of the panel?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Sam said, standing and buttoning his jacket. “Ladies and gentlemen, because Ms. Schmidt did a fine job of asking questions, I’m only going to ask you a few more. They will be simple and straightforward, I assure you. Again, all Davonte wants is a jury who will be fair. So, here we go. First, is there anyone here who believes my client is guilty because he is black?” Sam could almost feel the air leave the room; the jurors recoiled but quickly recovered and shook their heads—most did so vigorously. “So, we can all agree to judge my client not by the color of his skin or the fact that he is from Michigan, but by applying the evidence to the law Judge Daniels will instruct you on later?” Again, each juror shook his or her head.
“Okay,” Sam said, looking at each juror in turn. “Let me ask you this: if you were Davonte, would you be comfortable having yourself as a juror?” Sam smiled and allowed his eyes to meet theirs. “In other words, do you see yourself as an open and fair-minded person?” Some of the jurors shifted in their chairs, some smiled slightly, but all met his stare and eventually nodded their assent.
“Well,” Sam continued, moving to the side of the podium and gesturing with one hand. “How about this: is there anything you have seen or heard so far that would make it hard for you to judge my client and his witnesses just as fairly as you would the other side?” All jurors were still shaking their heads when Sam asked the next question. “Knowing what you know about this case, can any of you think of anything in your own life that would keep you from judging this case on its facts?” Seeing nothing but head shakes, he continued, “So no one here has a problem with gays or a problem with blacks that would keep you from judging this case on its merits?” Again, the air was still. “Can we agree that people who are gay are not automatically good? Can we agree that people who are black are not automatically bad?” Again, Sam met each pair of eyes with his own. He had his doubts about a female juror in the front row who was clearly afraid of Davonte.
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 20
