One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2)

by James Chandler

  For nearly an hour, Sam inquired of the prospective jurors. Some of them were excused for cause and new ones summoned to fill their place, whereupon Cathy and Sam asked questions of them as well. As voir dire wound down, Sam had two final questions. “Can we agree that people are people, and all people can be all things? Is there anything that any of you would prefer to discuss in private?” Sam asked, after seeing no juror react to the earlier question. “Raise your hand if you’d like to meet with us in private.” No hands were raised, so Sam continued, “Is there anything we haven’t asked you that you think we should know?” Seeing no hands, and nothing but blank stares or head shakes, he finished up. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience.” Turning to Daniels, he said, “Defense passes the panel for cause, sir.”

  “Thank you, counsel,” Daniels said. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a sufficient number of jurors from which to select the jury to hear this case. I am going to release you here momentarily so that we might select that jury in your absence. We’ll do this as quickly as possible, but it sometimes takes a while. Bailiff?”

  Following the jury panel’s departure, the parties selected the jury and the alternates. Sam and Paul were successful in getting the front-row female removed on a preemptive challenge.

  “I think this is a good jury,” Paul said. “Davonte, are you comfortable with it?”

  “All look alike to me,” Davonte said, causing Sam to laugh aloud.

  Paul turned red. “I’m gonna get a drink of water before the judge comes back,” he said.

  When the jury had been reconvened and sworn, Daniels looked at the clock. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, you are the jury which will hear this matter. It’s been a long day, so we will go ahead and take our evening recess, and we will hear opening arguments and get started in the morning. The bailiff will tell you where you need to be and when you need to be there. Are there any questions?” Seeing none, he stood, and everyone followed suit. “Thank you for your attention. Bailiff, you may escort the jury.”

  That evening, Sam was scrolling through the channels, looking for something to watch. He stopped on a national news cable channel covering Davonte’s trial. “What I want to know is this,” the young female host asked a man Sam recognized as Arick Jordan, a prominent African-American legal scholar, “why didn’t the attorney for Mr. Blair seek a change of venue?”

  “It’s Wyoming, you bimbo!” Sam barked at the television. “Where the hell are we going to go?”

  “Because he is a part of the same corrupt system of justice that has been keeping black people down for hundreds of years,” Jordan responded. “How is a black man supposed to get a fair trial in front of a jury like that?”

  “Because the jury will look at the facts and apply them to the law as instructed?” Sam said aloud. As the interview continued, Sam responded aloud to the questions posed to Jordan, fully aware he was wasting both time and energy. Turning off the television and the lights, he made his way around the little townhouse, checking doors, turning locks, and pushing windows shut. After brushing his teeth, he sat on his bed, removed his leg, and lay down to sleep.

  What awakened him, he didn’t know. But several hours later, Sam looked at the clock. It was 2:05 a.m. In the red glow from the clock he could see his pistol, still in the shoulder holster. He lay in bed, listening. It wasn’t so much a sound as it was a feeling: someone was outside his townhouse. Reaching to the other side of the bed, he found his prosthetic leg and slowly, deliberately attached it. He stretched and moved to ensure it was properly affixed, then swung his legs down to the floor, donned a pair of slippers, and stood in the dark. He felt for the pistol, dropped the holster on his bed, and began to walk slowly through his bedroom, paying attention to the shadows and shapes he could see through his drawn shades.

  He’d performed this drill a hundred times over the course of the past couple of years. Sometimes it was the wind, sometimes an animal, sometimes a dream, sometimes nothing at all. He would patrol the inner perimeter of his home, listening at the walls, scarcely breathing, anticipating an unseen enemy attacking in the pre-dawn darkness. Then, finding none, he would spend the remaining hours of darkness watching old movies and trying to get back to sleep. This time, having patrolled the entire house, he stepped out onto his ground-level back deck, forgetting that his neighbor had motion sensors in his backyard. Seconds later he heard Bill open the sliding glass door. Bill, too, was armed.

  “Bill, it’s me,” Sam said.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell are you doing this time?”

  “Thought I heard something out here,” Sam said. In the beam of his flashlight he saw enormous prints leading from his dew-covered grass to his back door, and then back across his lawn.

  “See anything?”

  “No,” Sam lied.

  “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!”

  “Sorry, Bill,” Sam said. “I forgot about your lights again. Go back to bed.”

  “Will do. Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Damned glad to have you as my neighbor, but you are one weird dude.”

  “Back atcha.” Sam laughed, then closed and locked his own door. He poured himself a bowl of cereal and ate it, thinking about the visitor.

  The trial began in earnest on Tuesday morning. After everyone was seated, Daniels looked at Cathy. “Ms. Schmidt, does the State wish to make an opening statement?”

  “We do, Your Honor,” Catherine said. She stood and walked to the podium. “May it please the court, counsel,” she began. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, when Kaiden Miles awoke on the 5th of November, he had no idea it would be the last full day of his life. As a child, he wanted nothing more than to be a basketball player. His mother gave him a ball for his birthday when he was four, and he did not let that ball out of his sight for the next fourteen years. Day and night, summer or winter, fall or spring, young Kaiden was never far from a basketball court. But in the spring of his senior year he was injured in a terrible car accident that was not his fault. Doctors said he would never play basketball again, but that didn't stop Kaiden from being involved with the game. Instead of playing, he became a team manager for Custer College. In so doing, he met young men from all over this country—east and west, north and south, tall and short, black and white, rich and poor. Kaiden, you will hear, got along with them all. All except one of them,” she said, pointing directly at Davonte. “All except Davonte Blair, who on November 6, with his fists and a murder weapon I’ll tell you right now we have been unable to find, ended young Kaiden’s life. Mr. Blair and his attorney might tell you it was an accident. Mr. Blair and his attorney may argue he didn’t mean it, that it was self-defense. They might even try and convince you it wasn’t Davonte who killed Kaiden. But ladies and gentlemen, the evidence will show that it was Davonte Blair who killed Kaiden Miles.

  “The evidence will show they were partying, vaping marijuana, and drinking. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you will hear some things about Kaiden that you might frown on. You may have heard that he was gay. You will hear that he used drugs. But Kaiden did not deserve to die. The evidence will show that on the evening of his disappearance, Kaiden demanded Mr. Blair pay him for marijuana he’d sold him. The evidence will show they had an argument and Kaiden left. The evidence will show Mr. Blair followed Kaiden. The evidence will show Mr. Blair caught up with Kaiden, and then assaulted him, first with his fists, and ultimately with a blunt object, killing him. The evidence will show—”

  Cathy stopped short as the sound of raised voices could be heard outside the courthouse.

  A deep male voice yelled, “What do we want?”

  “Justice!” was the reply.

  “When do we want it?”

  “Today!”

  “What are we?”

  “Proud and gay!”

  The chanting went on for several seconds before Daniels spoke up. “Ladies and gentlemen, whatever is going on out there is no
t evidence. The only thing that matters is what goes on in here.” He turned to the jury. “Bailiff, I’m going to have you conduct the jury to the jury room while we deal with this.” After the jury had been taken from the room, Daniels turned to court security. “Set up a perimeter. They are free to assemble and chant, but not so that it interferes with the defendant’s right to a fair trial. Let’s take a brief recess, shall we?”

  Twenty minutes later the parties had reassembled, and the jury was back. “Ms. Schmidt, please continue,” Daniels instructed.

  Cathy stepped to the podium, cleared her throat, and began anew. “The evidence will show that after Mr. Blair killed Kaiden, he dragged his lifeless body to the bank of Custer Creek and dumped him like so much garbage. The evidence will show that Kaiden lay there, covered by falling snow, for the better part of two weeks, until an unfortunate couple walking their dog discovered the victim. The evidence will show the Custer Police Department conducted a careful and thorough investigation, and that, after ruling out all others, they arrested Mr. Blair, who—the evidence will show—is a homophobic, violent, and troubled young man.

  “When all of the evidence is in, we will ask you to send a message to the people of Custer County, the people of Wyoming, and indeed people from across the country and the world. And that message is this: in Custer County, Wyoming, people should be free to live the life they choose. And when—as here—a person takes it upon himself to punish another because of his differences, he will face a jury of his peers. And when the evidence is in and you have been instructed on the law, the only acceptable message will be ‘guilty.’ Thank you.”

  “Mr. Johnstone,” Daniels said. “Any opening at this time, or will the defendant reserve or waive?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Sam said, stepping to the podium. “Counsel,” he added, nodding to Cathy. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the purpose of an opening statement has been explained somewhat by the judge and by Ms. Schmidt. Whatever I say here is not evidence. It is what I expect the evidence to be.

  “The State’s witnesses are, of course, under the control of the government. Most of them are employed by the government. She might call them; she might not. So as of now, all I can do is give you what we used to call a SWAG—a serious, wild-ass guess—as to what the evidence will show. This is my only opportunity to give you our theory of the case, and to tell you some of what we think took place. It’s also my opportunity to call your attention to certain things so that you will be looking for them, and when you see and hear them, you’ll realize they may have significance and you will be alerted to them.”

  Sam took a drink of water before turning again to the jury. “The one thing that is clear, the one thing that is certain, is that Kaiden’s death was a tragedy by any standard of measure. The Miles family has already lost their son. The Blair family hopes not to lose theirs. Kaiden’s life was important, and we mourn for his family’s loss, just like you do. But Davonte’s life is important as well, and it should not be forfeited or destroyed unless the State can meet its burden of proof—and it can’t.

  “I can state our theory of the defense in two succinct sentences.” Sam held up two fingers. “First sentence,” he began, holding up his index finger. “Davonte is innocent of murder as a matter of fact.” Sam paused for effect and extended a second finger. “Second sentence: the State cannot prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Davonte murdered Kaiden Miles.

  “Now, I want to directly address what might be described as a pair of eight-hundred-pound elephants in the room. First, Kaiden Miles was a young, white, apparently gay male. Now, I don’t care, and I suspect you don’t care. But to some people outside of this courtroom”—Sam pointed to one end of the courthouse—“the ones at that end of the building, that appears to be of great importance. Lord knows, for the past several months, we who live here have been bombarded with assertions in both mass and social media—mostly from those who neither live here nor have any knowledge of how life is lived here, I might add—that Mr. Miles was killed because he is gay; that because our legislature has eschewed passing certain laws we must be a people who are homophobic; that because Davonte may have expressed controversial opinions in one or more private communications he must hate gays and must therefore be guilty of murder; and that this trial is a test of us all vis a vis the gay rights movement. These people seek justice for Kaiden. They do not believe it can be attained in a rural Wyoming town.

  “Arrayed in opposition,” Sam continued, pointing in the opposite direction, “is another group—just as large and just as vocal—for whom Davonte’s race is paramount. Here again, we’ve been inundated for months with punditry and commentary by folks who—again, it has to be pointed out—have never been to Custer County, and who will likely never grace us with their presence, yet who purport to know all about us. You. This group argues that because our population is largely Caucasian, there can be no fair trial for Davonte.

  “Now, let me tell you up front that I do not stand with either side. Certainly, I believe one’s race is generally important, just as I believe one’s sexual orientation is generally important. But neither sexual orientation nor race is important in the matter before the court. I don’t believe that your opinions regarding love or sex or skin color or religion will figure into your determination of my client’s guilt or innocence. Because the only thing that is important—the only thing that is important—is whether the State can prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that, on or about the 6th day of November, my client purposely and with premediated malice murdered Kaiden Miles. That’s the question. That’s the only question.

  “Now, you will be happy to know that in this case we will probably stipulate to virtually all the evidence that Ms. Schmidt will seek to have introduced. We will do that because we agree with a lot of what she will say. The witnesses saw what they saw; the evidence is generally what they say it is. So, instead of quibbling about unimportant things, we want you paying attention to the areas where we disagree with the State. And let me tell you what we think is important: we think the timeline is important. Listen to the dates and times when events are said to have occurred. Listen to evidence regarding state of mind. I don’t mean state of mind regarding somebody’s feelings about the color of another’s skin or their sexual orientation—the State will try and put you on that scent. I mean the state of mind of each of the State’s witnesses. I mean the state of mind of Kaiden Miles, of Davonte Blair, and of any witnesses who take that stand there,” Sam said, pointing.

  “The government has indicated that they believe and expect to prove that Davonte beat Mr. Miles to death with his fists and/or a weapon they can’t find. It will be important for you to be able to determine why my client would do such a thing. My client, a soon-to-be professional basketball player about to embark on the journey he has been preparing for his whole life. Why would he do such a thing? The State will likely float two motives. The first, of course, will be Davonte beat Mr. Miles because he was gay. They almost have to, don’t they, given the pressure being exerted by outside groups? Listen to the State’s witnesses and ask yourself, is this witness credible? We’re nearing the one-quarter mark of the twenty-first century. Does anyone really care? Would my nineteen-year-old client really care? Or might he have merely said some things in a thoughtless moment? Teenagers have those. A second motive, you will be told, could be that he beat Mr. Miles to death over a minor drug deal. That Davonte—whose family members posted a one-million-dollar cash bond and who will soon be a millionaire in his own right if what my sources are telling me is true—threw it all away over two thousand dollars. Again, does that pass the smell test? Does it make sense?

  “You’ll hear they have no murder weapon. They don’t even know what it was,” Sam said, indicating Cathy. “They can’t tell you. It might have been a log, a golf club, or a baseball bat—they have no idea. They’ll probably tell you my client got rid of it. Think that through, now. Is it likely that my client—a nineteen-year-old, six-foo
t-nine black man with no car and no knowledge of this town—somehow found a way to hide a murder weapon with no one seeing him do it? Does that make sense?

  “We will challenge the State’s witnesses, of course, but I want to make one thing clear: whatever testimony is given, whatever evidence is introduced, we are not trying the police and we are not trying the prosecution. Instead, we think the evidence will show that the police and prosecutors are mistaken in their belief that my client killed Mr. Miles, and we believe that it will be so clear-cut that you will conclude Davonte Blair is not guilty.

  “You have told the judge that you would try this case on the evidence, and that's all we ask. You have sworn to do what Davonte’s supporters believe the US government has never done: be impartial and unbiased toward a man like him and give him a fair trial. And that is all Davonte Blair asks.” Sam’s last words were a near whisper, causing several jurors to lean forward in an attempt to hear. “Because when the testimony is heard, when the evidence is seen, and when argument has concluded, two things will be clear. First, that this situation is a tragedy. And second, that Davonte Blair didn’t kill Kaiden Miles. And if the second is clear, then your verdict by law must be ‘not guilty.’ Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Sam concluded, and sat down.

  As the trial got underway, Sam struggled to maintain his focus. He was tired; no matter how many times he promised himself that he would get some rest during a trial, he found himself preparing until the last minute and sleeping poorly. Adding to that was the prior evening’s visitor. He’d eaten his bowl of cereal and then—unable to sleep—he’d gone into the office and spent from three to five a.m. refining his opening. Racing home, he’d gotten in a quick shower and a couple cups of coffee before meeting with Paul at seven. He was jittery and his stomach was upset, and he’d been curt with both Paul and Davonte all morning.