by Glen Tate
Rich put the neighbors whose property had been stolen on the stand. They talked about the constant problems at the Richardson tweaker house. Once a witness started repeating and speculating, Rich would cut them off with a polite, “thank you,” and then he would move on to the next question.
Since there was no defense attorney, Grant had an obligation to do more than just run the trial. He needed to take on a few of the tasks of the defense attorney to make sure things went fairly; not to get the defendants off, but to make the trial fair.
To prevent hearsay testimony, Grant asked the witnesses if they actually saw any of the defendants stealing their property or having their property at the house. The third man said he saw a young man running from his property, saw the same young man dead at the Richardson house after the raid, and he found his property there at the house.
The other crime victims answered that they did not see the defendants stealing the property, but did find their items at the Richardson house after the raid. They also said they saw all the defendants handcuffed at the Richardson house when they found their property there.
“The people call Brittany Phillips,” Rich said. There was a murmur in the crowd.
Grant said, “Ms. Phillips, you are not required to testify and the jury is instructed not to consider your choice to remain silent as an indication of guilt. It is entirely your choice.”
Brittany started to cry. All of her friends, who had all been to jail many times, had always told her not to talk, but she couldn’t just sit there. She had to tell the people staring at her why all this had gotten out of control. She was terrified of that “felony murder” thing. She didn’t want to die. She had to tell her side of the story.
Brittany went to the witness chair. “My name is Brittany Amber Phillips,” she said. She started crying again. It was so hard to admit all the bad things she’d done. Giving out her full name brought her an intense feeling of shame. Especially her middle name, which reminded her of when she was a little girl before things got so bad with her mom, the drugs, stealing, and the other thing she did for money to get high. For an instant, she saw herself as a little kid in her jammies watching cartoons with her younger brother. And laughing. But that little girl was gone. A monster named Brittany had taken over. Brittany wanted the people there to know this wasn’t her fault. That it wasn’t her fault Denny died. It was the Asian cop who shot him. She had to talk. Even though she knew she was supposed to remain silent.
She told a heart wrenching story about a terrible family life. All the usual things. She started “hanging out with the wrong people” as she put it. One thing led to another, and about six months ago, she started living out at the Richardson house and “partying.” It sounded like a sappy anti-drug afterschool special, but it was her life.
She admitted stealing the items. She said that Ronnie, Josie, Denny, and Frankie came out with her on stealing trips to the surrounding homes.
Ronnie looked pissed that he’d been ratted out, but he quickly went back to not showing any emotion. He had expected Brittany to fold. She had always been the “goody goody” of the group.
Josie started crying again. Frankie didn’t show any emotion.
There is the whole case, Grant thought. Her testimony sunk all of the defendants. Brittany knew that she had doomed herself and all her friends. Well, former friends.
“Do I get some lentils?” she asked Grant.
“Do you mean leniency?” he asked.
“Yes, leniency. You know, a break?” she asked. Her lip was quivering.
“That’s for the jury to decide,” Grant said.
She started crying again. “OK,” she finally said. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m only twenty-four. I don’t want to die. Can’t I get a second chance? I’ll never do this again. I want to get married and have kids. I want to have kids who don’t turn out like me. Have a normal life. Is it too late for that?”
That was a good question: Was it too late? Grant was glad it was up to the jury to decide. He would let her go, but he knew that was wrong.
Rich was thinking the same thing. If the jury decided to execute Brittany, which would surprise him, Rich would ask for the felony murder charge to be dropped. If that somehow didn’t work, he knew that Grant would not let her be executed for this, but he wouldn’t show this mercy until he heard what Ronnie had to say. Maybe Ronnie would try for the same deal.
Rich pointed at Ronnie. Grant asked Ronnie, “Would you like to testify, sir?”
Ronnie shook his head. He knew he was done for, thanks to Brittany. He looked at her and slowly shook his head, which made her cry some more.
“How do you plead?” Grant asked Ronnie. Grant suddenly remembered that he never asked the other defendants for their pleas. Oh well. He was freestyling this first trial. At least he was making this up on defendants who Grant personally knew were 100% guilty, which took the pressure off.
Ronnie stared at Grant and said, “Whatever.”
Grant said, “I will take that as a ‘not guilty.’”
Ronnie shrugged. He thought it was extremely unfair that he was a “murderer” just because he stole some stuff and the cops shot some dude on a raid. But, whatever. No one had ever treated him fairly and he didn’t expect anyone to start doing it now. Besides he was so sick from the meth withdrawals that he didn’t really care anymore.
Grant looked at Brittany and asked, “How do you plead?”
She quit crying, sat up straight, and said confidently, “Guilty.” At least she would die telling the truth, she thought. She actually smiled a little. It was a huge relief to say the word “guilty.” Grant could sense her relief and realized that Brittany was truly repentant. He would not let her be executed, even if that meant overruling the jury.
“Is the prosecution ready to proceed with the charges against Ms. Phillips and Mr. Richardson?” Grant asked Rich.
Rich nodded. “The people call Ronnie Williams.”
Ronnie looked surprised. Rich swore him in.
“Did you ever see Ms. Phillips and her daughter, Crystal, engaged in any sexual activity?” Rich asked. He was uncomfortable saying that out loud, especially in front of so many people. Thank God Crystal wasn’t in the audience; they had her at a nearby house and could get her if her testimony was necessary, which everyone hoped it wouldn’t be.
Ronnie nodded. He knew he was done for. Maybe by testifying against Josie he could get that felony murder thing dropped. He might go from the death penalty down to just some jail time. Suddenly, he felt motivated.
Ronnie proceeded to describe what he saw one time about a month ago. He had a hard time describing it to the decent people in the Grange, and Josie was crying the whole time. Some people in the audience were crying, too.
“Did you ever see Frankie Richardson involved in this?” Rich asked. Ronnie nodded and described what he saw that time, which was even worse than his previous description.
The crying in the crowd turned to murmurs. One man yelled out, “Kill him!” Grant sternly said, “This is a court, not a lynch mob, sir.”
He looked quickly at the Snelling juror, who was in shock at what he’d heard Ronnie describe.
Grant realized they needed to address the in-custody beating of Frankie. Everyone in the room knew what had happened. Stories travelled fast in Pierce Point. But still, Grant, Wes, and Rich had done something wrong and they needed to lay it out for the community. Not that anyone disagreed with what they did; many wanted Frankie to be shot on the spot. But Grant wanted to show them that the Constitution and accountability applied to the judge, prosecutor, and police. That was very important. The Patriot way was better.
Grant said, “I believe I have a disclosure to make to the jury and the community.” Grant described the beatings. Some people actually cheered. That’s when Frankie knew for sure he was dead.
Grant was glad Ronnie had given eye witness testimony against Frankie. All the statements Frankie made after the beatings would be inadmissibl
e into evidence. Frankie had been read his right to remain silent, so normally anything he said after that was fair game. But, beating confessions out of people was not the way Grant wanted things to be done. This only reinforced to Grant that they couldn’t beat prisoners; one of them could end up going free if they did.
Grant said, “In a perfect world, where we have plenty of constables and don’t need my help, the judge would not be arresting people. But, this isn’t a perfect world. I hope this situation doesn’t come up again.”
Rich took a few moments to think about whether he had presented all the evidence. He was doing a great job at prosecuting. He had shown that all of the defendants were at the house with the stolen property. The neighbors had seen them in zip ties and saw the stolen property. There was an eyewitness account of what Josie and Frankie did. That should just about do it.
“The people rest,” Rich said.
Chapter 152
The Verdict
(June 6)
Grant asked each defendant if they had anything to say. They declined, and Frankie didn’t even answer. He wanted this over with.
Grant said to the jury, “It is now up to you to decide guilt. I, as the judge, will not comment on the evidence or tell you what I think. This decision is yours alone. You will be put in a room for deliberations and cannot talk to anyone outside the jury, even if this deliberation takes multiple days. You can take all the time you need. Your decision must be unanimous among the twelve regular jurors. The two alternates cannot participate in the deliberations, unless they become a regular juror because one of the regular jurors gets sick, or something like that.”
One of the jurors asked, “Can we go into the kitchen and deliberate?” That meant that they didn’t think this would take long. Of course it wouldn’t.
“Yes,” Grant said.
The jury went into the kitchen for about five minutes. A member of the jury came out. Everyone was on pins and needles anxiously awaiting the quick and certain verdict.
“Um, we’ll need some more time,” she said. Most in the audience were let down. They wanted a quick deliberation.
“Take as long as you need,” Grant said. “If you need another place to do it, let me know. We can get a house for you in case it takes days.”
“Days!” a man in the audience yelled. “C’mon!”
Grant glared at the man. “The jury decides, sir, not the audience.”
The juror went back in the kitchen. Fifteen minutes passed. She came back out and said they needed a house for the deliberations. Arrangements were made to use the house closest to the Grange.
After settling into the house, an hour passed. Then two hours. People in the audience were leaving and going home. No one could believe that this was possibly such a complicated decision.
Grant knew why this was taking so long: the Snelling juror. Damn it. One asshole was ruining this whole thing. Now Frankie would be released and killed by a vigilante, which was the exact opposite of the fair and orderly system Grant wanted so desperately out there.
Finally, the juror came back over to the Grange. She had been crying. “We have a verdict.”
Grant nodded and told her to bring the jury back to the Grange. Word got out that the jury had made a decision and people started returning. Finally, the jury and audience were assembled.
The jury foreman, the same woman who told them they had reached a verdict, stood up and softly said, “We find all the defendants guilty on all charges.”
A few people cheered; most didn’t. They knew how serious this was and the horrible things that would follow.
Grant said, “Thank you, ma’am, for delivering the verdict. Now is when I poll the jury, which is asking each juror if this is their verdict.” Grant asked each juror and they agreed that it was their verdict.
When Grant got to the Snelling juror, the audience was silent. They all wanted to hear what he had to say.
“And you, sir, is this your verdict?” Grant asked him.
“Guilty,” he said.
“Sir,” Grant said, “you expressed reservations about the legal authority for this whole trial. May I ask why you voted to convict?”
“Yes,” he said. He spoke quietly and seriously. “I have been trying to convince myself that none of this is necessary, that everything will go back to normal. But I can’t. When I heard what that man,” he said referring to Frankie, “did, I realized there are bad people doing bad things and we need to do something. Even if that’s something that we don’t want to do, and something we never imagined having to do.” He held his head up high, as if he were relieved that he had finally resolved this difficult problem that had been bothering him. “It has to be done,” he said. “We don’t have to like it, but it has to be done.” He shrugged.
“Thank you for your candor, sir,” Grant said. “We all appreciate that you thought long and hard about this, as any decent person would. Thank you.” The man nodded his thanks to Grant.
“Now it’s time for the judge’s suggested sentence,” Grant said.
This was the really hard part for him. The sentence had to be right for these people, but he also realized that the sentences had to be right for future cases. These sentences would set the tone for life at Pierce Point. If they were too light, people would not be deterred from committing crimes. If the sentences were too harsh, people would rebel and reject all he was trying to do to make Pierce Point a Patriot stronghold. There was a lot on the line.
In the seconds he spent thinking about the sentences, a thought flashed through his mind. He remembered once hearing about the one, two, and ten percent of people. It was that one percent of people in a given population are just plain evil. They were the psychos. The one-percenters would commit crimes even if everything were handed to them. They loved to hurt people. Like the guy who holds up a store, gets the money, and then shoots the clerk, anyway, just for fun.
Another two percent were the career criminals who didn’t know any other way. For them, crime paid. And in the years leading up to the Collapse, crime really paid because the police and courts were stretched so thin. Deterrence rarely worked on the two-percenter career criminals because crime was all they knew. They didn’t want to work, and wouldn’t know how to even if they wanted to. If you could figure out a way to make crime not pay, a few career criminals might try to live a legitimate life, but probably not. Why should the community risk it? The two-percent career criminals needed to stay in jail or, in some cases, be executed. That was the only way to stop them from preying on the community.
Another ten percent of the population were the scumbags. They were the ones who made fake workers’ compensation claims, got welfare benefits they didn’t qualify for, and carried out a multitude of petty scams. They were not violent criminals. Yet. What stopped the scumbags from committing violent crimes was the police or armed neighbors. The scumbags were deterred when superior force meant they’d get caught or killed. The scumbags weren’t a problem when the police were around. But when the police weren’t around, the scumbags started to do whatever they could get away with. And, because they made up roughly ten percent of the population, the scumbags were the main group a community should worry about because they were a sizable chunk of the population.
The sentences at Pierce Point needed to address the one-percenter psycho, two-percenter career criminal, and ten-percenter scumbag population. Obviously, the only way to address the one-percenter psychos was to lock them up or kill them. The same was largely true for the two-percenter career criminals.
The ten-percenter scumbag population, however, could be deterred. Tough sentences and, even more importantly, a high risk of getting caught from the police or armed neighbors, would cut down their crimes to manageable levels. An outbreak of crimes by the scumbags was what Grant feared the most. The one-percenter psychos, like Frankie, and two-percenter career criminals, like Ronnie, could be dealt with. They were just three percent. Manageable.
But, ten percent of Pierce Po
int going on a crime spree would be chaos. It would make normal life impossible. The scumbags needed to be the main audience for the sentences. They needed to be deterred by what happened to Frankie, Josie, Ronnie, and especially Brittany.
With that in mind, Grant said to the jury, “Thank you. Now I will suggest some sentences, but they are only suggestions.”
“First,” Grant said, “Brittany Franks. She asked if it’s too late for her at age twenty-four. I don’t think it should be.” Brittany cried out in relief, and Grant continued. “I think she understands that what she did was wrong. I think she should be put in jail for a month and work to earn her keep and to pay back the people she stole from. She has already served about three weeks in jail, so she should stay in a few more days to make it a month. She should pay her neighbors back, with her labor, three times what she stole. Crime shouldn’t pay.” Grant suspected Brittany fit in the ten-percenter category. Since there were essentially no police out at Pierce Point leading up to the Collapse, she was probably doing whatever was easy back then. She had not yet become a two-percenter career criminal. She was still salvageable.
“Ronnie Williams is a different story,” Grant said. “I don’t think he understands, or even cares, about what happened.” He was a two-percenter career criminal, Grant thought. “He stole some property. He should spend a year in jail, working for his keep and paying back his victims.” Ronnie was emotionless, which only helped make Grant’s point for him.
Grant looked right out at the crowd and said in his most serious voice. “People need to understand that if you steal out here, you’re done for. You will spend a year—a miserable year—or more, in jail. Do not steal. Do not.” Many in the crowd were nodding. Good. The ten-percenters were listening. And the ten-percenters who weren’t in the audience would hear about it quickly from everyone else in the community.
