Every Reasonable Doubt

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “Aw, here we go. The world according to Special.”

  “Mock me if you want to,” Special said, pointing her half-eaten apple at me. “But you know I know what I’m talking about. Men are really simple to please, especially black men. But women don’t understand that. All you have to do to keep the average brother happy is make him a pot of spaghetti once a week, blow him three times a month and tell him he’s The Man every now and then and he’s basically good to go.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said, turning my head. “Is that it? This is the Quiet Room, you know. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “Nope, I ain’t done yet.” She tossed the apple core into the trash can, a good ten feet away and actually made it. “Now, you know I’ve dated my share of married men. And it always baffled me that no matter how bad their marriages were, they weren’t trying to file for divorce. Some of them hadn’t had sex with their wives in years and their kids were grown and gone. A couple of them stayed put because they were scared their wives would take them to the cleaners, but for most of ‘em, money wasn’t the issue. Contrary to what we believe, I think most men want to honor their marriage vows and support their families, but it’s hard when good-looking women are putting it in their faces every day and they have to come home to some evil bitch who’s complaining because he left the toilet seat up. On top of that, she’s gained fifty pounds and don’t want to have sex no more.”

  Special was getting on my nerves. “You’d gain fifty pounds and lose interest in sex, too, if you had two or three kids to look after, a full-time job, all the household responsibilities and the weight of your entire family’s problems on your back.”

  “That may very well be the case, but what’s a forty-year-old man supposed to do? Give up sex just because his wife don’t want to give him none? That’s like handing a brother a Go-Get-Your-Pussy-Elsewhere pass.”

  “Special, for one thing, you’ve never been married, so I don’t consider you to be an authority on the subject. And second, I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. Jefferson and I don’t have that problem.”

  “Yeah, you say that now, but you’re going to end up taking him for granted just like every other married woman I know.” She stopped to stretch, bending over to touch her toes. “And I don’t understand what’s so hard about giving your man some nooky on a regular basis. It don’t cost you nothing and it don’t take that long. We’re talking about, what? Twenty, thirty minutes tops out of your day. And despite all that Mandingo bullshit, it’s probably more like five or ten minutes for brothers in our age range. Why is that so hard to do?”

  I hoped the attendant called us for our massages soon because once Special got on her soapbox there was no stopping her. “I get your point,” I said. “From now on, I’m going to skip lunch and run home and freak my husband.”

  “You can be facetious if you want to,” she said, finally sitting back down.

  I took her silence as a good thing.

  “How’s that Montgomery case going?” she asked after a few short seconds.

  I didn’t want to talk about Tina Montgomery either, but in light of the topic we had just finished discussing, this one was definitely the more appealing of the two.

  I leaned forward in my chair and scanned the room to make sure we were still alone. “Fine, for now I guess. But I almost got myself thrown off the case.”

  “What for?”

  “I guess you didn’t see the paper this morning. I made this stupid objection at the preliminary hearing and there’s an article about it in today’s Times. I basically had to beg O’Reilly not to take me off the case.”

  Special flew out of her chair and was hovering over me. “What the hell is wrong with you? I know you like this law stuff, but you actually begged to stay on that case when you know how much Jefferson needs you right now?”

  I hadn’t really thought about it like that. From her vantage point, I guess my actions did seem pretty selfish. “Special, if I’d let them throw me off the case, I never would’ve been able to live down that stupid mistake. All anybody would’ve remembered about me is that article in the Times basically calling me incompetent. I have to stay on this case to prove to everybody that I’m not a bungling idiot just because I didn’t know about some hearsay rule. There’s no way I’m going to let that misstep screw up my partnership chances.”

  “You haven’t heard a word I said,” Special said, more serious now. “It’s all about your job. What about your man?”

  “My man is just fine.”

  “No he isn’t! He needs you right now. You’re taking it for granted that he’s always going to accept playing second fiddle to your career. But that’s a dangerous gamble, girlfriend.”

  I couldn’t take her preaching at me anymore. “Why don’t you just let me handle my marriage and my career?”

  “Okay,” she snorted, sitting down again. “And I’ll try to be a good friend and not say I told you so when Jefferson gets fed up with being neglected.”

  She sulked to herself for a short while, but in no time started up again. “I feel so sorry for black men. They get the worst rap for the way they treat women, but we’re really a big part of the problem.”

  “Whatever, Special. It’s not like you haven’t screwed over half the men in L.A.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “Not quite half. Maybe about a third. Anyway, I understand men and what it takes to make them happy. Most women don’t.”

  “Please spare me another lecture,” I pleaded.

  “No,” she insisted. “You need to hear this.” She got up for the fourth time and started pacing around the room. “People are always dogging brothers out, claiming they don’t take care of their families, that they can’t keep a job, and that they run around. Assuming there’s some truth to that, you have to look at the root cause. First, their mamas baby ‘em to death so when we get ‘em, it’s basically too late because they’re already ruined. But instead of building them up, all we do is tear them down. Black men take more crap from their women than any other group of men on the planet.”

  Special was walking back and forth in a straight line now, acting like she was delivering a sermon to a packed church. “It drives me nuts hearing how bad some of those heffas at my job talk about their men. One of them was complaining the other day because her husband bought her some freeway flowers. You know, them flowers you see them selling on the freeway off ramps that cost about ten bucks. She gave them back and told him she didn’t want that ‘cheap- ass shit.’ Can you believe that? Can you imagine how he felt? He was just trying to do something nice. Now, when do you think that brother’s going to buy her ass some flowers again? That’s the very reason all our men are flocking to white women. A white girl would’ve been smiling like those ten-dollar flowers were a diamond necklace. And when they died, she would’ve pasted ‘em in her damn scrapbook.”

  “Special, I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” I said. “I don’t treat Jefferson like that.”

  “Yes, you do,” Special insisted. “Every time you run out the door to play savior to one of your clients, it’s just like taking some freeway flowers and flinging them in his face.”

  I tried to take in the smell of the eucalyptus and ignore what Special was saying.

  “I guess you don’t have nothing to say to that, huh, counselor,” Special taunted. “And you can get mad at me if you want to, but sometimes people need to hear the truth, even if it hurts.”

  “I’m not mad at you,” I said half-heartedly. While I wasn’t willing to concede that all of her pronouncements applied to me, some of what she was saying definitely hit home.

  CHAPTER 45

  The few months leading up to the Montgomery trial passed in a flash. Neddy, David, and I spent nearly every waking hour together, plotting, planning, and strategizing.

  We agreed that Neddy would do the opening and closing arguments and most of the key witnesses, while David and I would divide up the rest. David wasn’t al
l that happy about the arrangement since it basically made my role equal to his, but there was nothing he could do about it. Whenever there was a dispute over trial strategy, David and I deferred to Neddy’s judgment and experience, letting her resolve any stalemates.

  I arranged to meet Neddy for lunch the Saturday before the start of the trial at Aunt Kizzy’s Back Porch, a soul food restaurant in Marina Del Rey that was usually packed with as many whites as blacks.

  “You ready, girl?” I asked, meeting her outside the restaurant and giving her a hearty hug. Neddy was dressed in a burnt orange blouse and loose-fitting taupe slacks. She looked amazing. Her hair was texturized and her stylish cut—curly on top and faded along the sides and back—made her look much younger. She was even wearing a cute bronze lipstick. We walked inside and were seated right away.

  “As ready as I’m going to be,” she said. “What about you?”

  “Scared, but ready to roll,” I said.

  “You don’t have anything to be scared about.” She reached over and squeezed my forearm.

  “Oh, yes I do. If you make a misstep during trial, it’ll be no big deal. But if I do, you can bet O’Reilly’ll never let me live it down. It might even cost me partnership. Don’t forget that I practically had to get down on my knees and beg the man to let me stay on the case.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You’ve got backup.”

  A waitress interrupted us to take our orders. Every dish on the menu was named after a relative of the owner. I chose Uncle Wade’s baked beef short ribs with collard greens and macaroni and cheese, and Neddy ordered Cousin Willie Mae’s smothered pork chops with black-eyed peas and cabbage.

  “When’s the last time you talked to Tina?” I asked, grabbing a cornbread muffin from a basket on the table.

  “This morning,” Neddy said, shaking her head. “And she’s getting more and more neurotic by the minute. Between dealing with her and Julie, I’m the one who should be ready to have a nervous breakdown. If I see Julie’s face on TV one more time, I’m going to blow.”

  “I’m surprised the reporters haven’t been trying to interview you.”

  “I’ve gotten a few calls, but you know how I hate trying my cases in the press. They love you one minute and slam you the next. There’s not a reporter in this town I trust.”

  A waitress set Mason jars filled with lemonade on the table. “Well, do you have any last-minute advice for me, counselor?”

  “Yep. Just do me one favor,” she said, pausing to measure her next words. “Please try to get along with David.”

  I pouted. “Why aren’t you asking him to try to get along with me?”

  “I already have. If you guys behave like you’ve been acting for the past few weeks, the jury’s definitely going to pick up on it and it could affect how they view our defense.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll try not to slug him in open court. You got your opening statement memorized?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m giving one. Sometimes it’s best for the defense to waive opening statement until after the prosecution has closed its case.”

  I was surprised. The opening and closing argument were often the most dramatic part of the trial. It was a lawyer’s chance to use emotion rather than fact to sway the jury. “Why would you do that?”

  She had a troubled look on her face. “I just have a feeling we’re going to get some surprises from Ms. Julie. If I make an opening statement saying I’m going to prove X, Y, and Z, and Julie throws me for a loop and I can’t back up what I said in my opening, then I’ve lost my credibility with the jury.”

  “What’s the downside to not giving an opening?”

  She took a sip of water. “The main downside is that the jury’ll probably assume we don’t have a strong defense. And it’s not that I’m not going to do an opening, I’m just going to wait until after the prosecution closes its case.”

  “That’s a tough call,” I said, glad that it wasn’t mine to make.

  She clasped her hands together and rested her elbows on the table. “My biggest concern is still this tightrope we’re walking about Tina’s knowledge of her husband’s affairs. Like I said before, Julie can easily produce a parade of witnesses who can testify that Max was screwing women from coast to coast. But based on the names on her witness list right now, not a single person can verify that Tina actually knew about his infidelities. Without proving Tina’s knowledge, the prosecution has no motive.”

  The three of us had spent hours arguing over this strategy. Both David and I thought it was dangerous, not to mention unethical, to skate around the issue of whether Tina knew about her husband’s affairs. It was the one thing, the only thing, David and I were in complete agreement about.

  “Well, you certainly know my view on tiptoeing around that issue,” I said, knowing that I wasn’t going to be able to convince Neddy to change her mind. “There’s no way we can ethically introduce any testimony that Tina didn’t know about her husband’s affairs. It would be a blatant lie.”

  Neddy glanced over her shoulder, then to the left and right. The tables on both sides of us were empty. “We’re not going to lie or do anything unethical,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Assuming the prosecution fails to call any witnesses who can confirm Tina’s knowledge of Max’s affairs, all I’m going to do in my closing is point that out—that the prosecution failed to produce any evidence that Tina knew about her husband’s extracurricular activities. I won’t be saying Tina didn’t know, only that the prosecution failed to prove that she did.”

  “That’s what you call a lawful lie,” I said smiling. “But there’s still the possibility that Julie could produce some contrary evidence after she closes her case-in-chief. So it’s still risky.”

  “This whole discussion may be a moot point.” Neddy reached for her lemonade. “I’m sure Julie has some shockers for us. So we’ll just have to play it by ear.”

  Our food arrived and we dug in.

  “I can only imagine Julie’s opening statement,” I said, when we were almost done with our meal. “‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I, the great Julie Killabrew, will prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am the most incredible lawyer who has ever lived.’”

  Neddy grinned as I reached for another cornbread muffin. “I hear Julie’s looking at this case as the springboard to her political career,” I said.

  Neddy arched an eyebrow in skepticism. “She has to win the case first.”

  “You still confident she won’t?”

  Neddy lowered her voice again and leaned over the table, bringing her head closer to mine. “There’re a lot of variables, but I really don’t think she’ll be convicted. That assumes, however, that we luck up and get a good jury. All we need is just one person to go our way.”

  “But what about Oscar Lopez’s testimony? Even if we call those other two employees who’ll testify that Oscar was lying about the knife, he’s still pretty sure the woman he saw was Tina.”

  She waved away my concern with a terse swipe of her hand. “That’s the testimony that bothers me the least. Do you know how many cases I’ve had where eyewitnesses were flat-out wrong about what they saw? Lopez will be easy to discredit. I’m going to have a ball cross- examining him.”

  Neddy broke into a sheepish smile. “And don’t you dare ask me again how I can do what I do. My focus is on the facts and the law, remember? She stopped and toyed with her fork. “To be honest, sometimes I feel really confident that Tina’s innocent, but other times, I look into her eyes and I see years of betrayal and enough smoldering anger for her to have actually done it. I know what I went through after only a few years with Lawton. I can’t imagine enduring that kind of treatment for more than a quarter of a century.”

  I couldn’t imagine it either, which was one reason my gut kept pointing toward Tina’s guilt.

  When we were done eating, the waitress retrieved our empty plates and took our dessert orders. I didn’t bother to look at the menu.
I already knew I wanted Miss Flossie’s floating sweet potato pie. Neddy ordered Grandmother Zady’s peach cobbler.

  “So how’re things going with you and Jefferson?” Neddy asked.

  “Better, but he’s still not willing to talk about his situation and I’ve been letting it go. But we really do need to talk.”

  Her eyes were sympathetic. “Girl, you know how brothers are about communication. When he’s ready to talk, he will and not a minute before.”

  “You’ve definitely got that right. It’s amazing that he was the one pushing for a family and now I’m the one who’s hearing the call of motherhood. I’ve been really thinking seriously about adopting—soon.”

  “This is a big switch,” she said, surprised.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Well, girl, take it from me,” she cautioned, “the law and motherhood aren’t exactly the best mix. A baby’s going to be even more demanding than a trial. And when you get overwhelmed, you can’t run to some judge to ask for a continuance. Something has to give. You ready for that?”

  “That’s the strange part,” I said, fidgeting with my napkin. “I think I definitely am.”

  CHAPTER 46

  After having lunch with Neddy, I rushed home to surprise Jefferson with a home-cooked meal of meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes and black-eyed peas, all of his favorites. Once the trial started, we would barely see each other. Cooking this meal was going to help me alleviate some of my guilt pangs about abandoning my husband in his time of need.

  When Jefferson walked in just after dark and saw the table set, he feigned a heart attack, Fred Sanford-style.

  “Oh, Elizabeth, this is the big one! I’m coming to join you, honey.” He stumbled into the kitchen and reached out for a chair to break his fall.

  I playfully socked him on the arm. “That’s not funny. You act like I never cook.”

  “I ain’t answering that question on the grounds that you might be incriminated,” he said.

  I gave him a big, sloppy kiss. “Go get out of them funky clothes and come back so I can pamper you like the king that you are.”