Time's Witness

by Michael Malone

  Somewhat at a loss, Neil Sadler asked Mrs. Schwerner whether she still worked as a secretary. She said she didn’t. Why, because she’d been fired from her job? She pleasantly replied that no, she’d quit to marry Reverend Schwerner, now minister of the United Lutheran Church in St. Louis.

  The second of the out-of-towners wasn’t really from that far away. Gary Fisk was an inmate at Dollard Prison. He was very happy to be out of there, even for a morning. Apparently Mr. Fisk had damaged his vocal cords while behind bars, because he spoke in a rattling whisper, and Hilliardson had to ask him twice to repeat the message Winston Russell had told him to pass along to George Hall. Fisk added that he’d never had any idea that “I keep my promises” was a death threat, or naturally he would have said something about it to the warden.

  Isaac's final witness was a very old man, frail of limb but very rosy in the cheeks and perky in manner. He said his name was Lem Trelease, and that he lived in St. Petersburg at the Merrymount Retirement Center, which he endorsed, on the record, as quite merry indeed.

  Isaac laughed, promising to send for a brochure immediately. “Now, Mister Trelease—I should say, Sergeant Trelease—you served with the Hillston police for forty-three years, retiring nearly seven years ago. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is. They made me quit.”

  “Um hum. And seven years ago, at 1:00 A.M. on Sunday, July twelfth, were you on duty at the headquarters of the Hillston Police, here in this building?”

  Trelease looked around, just to check to be sure he was in the right place. “Yep. I was night-shift desk sergeant right here at HPD. I was at the desk.”

  “And on that night, the night when George Hall was arrested for the shooting of Robert Pym, did anyone come into the station and speak to you at the desk, and ask you to give something to George Hall?”

  “Yes, sir.” Trelease sat up straighter, smoothing his unfashionably wide tie. “A black teenaged boy came in that A.M., asked me if he could talk to George Hall. Said he was his brother. Well, I said I was sorry, but Hall was in the holding cell, and, well, I couldn’t let him go back there. So then he wanted to know if I’d take Mr. Hall this little thing he had wrapped up in a plain handkerchief, and well, of course, I said I’d have to check it.” Trelease spotted Miss Bee and waved at her.

  “And did you?”

  “Yep, yes, sir, I did.”

  “And what was in the handkerchief?”

  “Just a regular pair of eyeglasses. The boy said he’d gone to this bar where the shooting was, to find out what had happened, and somebody there said they’d found these glasses under a table, and the boy’d recognized them. He said his brother needed these glasses to see by. And so, well, would I please take them back to the suspect.”

  Isaac nodded. “And the boy was George Hall's brother, Cooper?”

  “He said he was. I wrote it down. You could look in the log if they still have it around.”

  Isaac said, “I did look in the log.…What did you do then?”

  “Took the glasses back to the cell, gave them to the suspect.”

  “And what did George Hall do?”

  “Said thank you. Put ’em on.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Trelease. No further questions.”

  When the judge asked Mitch Bazemore if he had any questions, he rubbed his wedding ring for a moment, then shook his head.

  Isaac Rosethorn walked slowly back to his chair. “Now,” he said quietly. “Now the defense rests.”

  The assistant attorney general had obviously decided that Mitchell Bazemore could deliver his summation without any prompting, because during the break, he left the courtroom and didn’t return.

  Mitch stood by the jury box like he always did. He rocked back and forth on the heels of his polished shoes like he always did. But he didn’t begin the way he always began—by calling the defendant a liar, and his lawyer a charlatan. He clamped his hand over his mouth, then suddenly ripped it away, and said, “The great British jurist Blackstone wrote long ago that all the principles of civilized law could be summed up in one simple code. One simple code. That we should live honestly. That we should hurt no one. And that we should render to everyone his due.

  “Remember that, and forget everything else you’ve heard in this courtroom. Remember that, and forget me.” He jabbed his fist in his breastbone, then shook it at the defense table. “Forget Mr. Rosethorn. He's a brilliant man. A brilliant man and a magnificent lawyer. But he is utterly and absolutely irrelevant now. I am utterly and absolutely irrelevant now. Set us aside. Set aside sympathy. And prejudice. And personalities. Set aside politics and politicians. They are, as the Good Book says, ‘dragons in their pleasant palaces.’ They have no power here.” Mitch waved both arms in all directions, as if there were no telling where the dragons might be lurking. Isaac put down his pencil and stared at him.

  His arms tensed, the D.A. leaned over the jury rail. “Cast out of your mind everything but that simple code. And ask yourselves, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, ask yourselves, do you believe that George Hall lived honestly? Did he hurt no one? Did he render to Robert Pym his due? Whatever Robert's sins may have been, did he deserve to bleed to death on a sidewalk, shot through the eye?! Ask yourselves, ‘Do I really believe this preposterous tale told by Mr. Newsome, a delirious dying man, under indictment himself, and desperate to shift blame on dead associates unable to protest?’ Yet even if his tale were true, it does not alter the fact of the crime you sit here to judge. If you secretly planned to kill me, but before you did so, I separately determined to kill you, and I did kill you, then I would be guilty of murder. If I killed you because I found out about your plan to kill me, and it so enraged me I decided I had a right to kill you, then I would be guilty of murder. If I said, ‘Well, I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so it was just luck I shot you in the eye instead of someplace else,’ I’d still be guilty of murder!” By now, Mitch's face was so dark with blood, he looked as if he might have murdered someone.

  He began his old military pacing, from one end of the jury box to the other. “Would a man governed by Blackstone's simple code act as George Hall undeniably acted when he ran out to that side-walk, after the fight had ended, and shot and killed Robert Pym? If we all felt free to act as George Hall did, what kind of America would we be living in? The America of gunslingers and gangsters. A howling wilderness. And what would we be? Animals of will and appetite recklessly preying on one another. ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’” Mitch paused, then rubbed his signet ring into his chin as he stalked the length of the bar rail, circling the table where the assistant A.G. had sat.

  “If we do not punish George Hall's act of murder, if we do not see it as our civic duty to punish his act, what are we saying both to this nation's lawbreakers and lawmakers? Are we not saying that nothing holds firm, nothing holds true? What are we saying to our children? Are we not saying there is no right and wrong? And what are we saying to ourselves?

  “We are not a nation of thrones or armies. Our throne is our Constitution. Our armies are our laws. And they can protect us only if we enforce them.” Without a glance, the D.A. strode past his ostensible assistant, Neil Sadler, seated at the prosecutor's table, and paused in front of Isaac.

  “I have heard Mr. Rosethorn on many occasions speak eloquently to juries of ‘mercy.’ He may do so today. Remember this. The State is not the enemy of mercy. Justice is not the enemy of mercy. Without justice, mercy has no meaning. We punish crime not for vengeance, but to preserve that fragile bond of civilized men, a democratic society. It is the moral right of a society to purge itself of all who would destroy it. To deter those who infect it with disease. To reform. To restrain.” Mitch wheeled around, shaking his finger at Isaac. “And, yes—and this is no cause for apology, and let no one persuade you otherwise—it is our right and duty to enact retribution. ‘Righteousness exalteth a nation!’” His arm was trembling; he dropped it quickly, and took a deep breath, slowly calming himself. Then h
e shook his head. “To punish crime is not cruel, is not selfish, is not primitive. The laws of this noble state, the laws of this noble nation, are not ‘cruel and unusual.’ They are the envy of other countries, the hope of the oppressed. They are a burning and a shining light around the world. As jurors, it is your sacred duty to guard the flame of that light, to guard it so that America is never left in darkness. George Hall took a life unlawfully. He is guilty. It is your duty to say so. Your oath binds you to that duty. Justice demands it. And in the name of justice, I ask it of each and every one of you.”

  Some of the spectators applauded. I don’t think Mitch heard them. Shaking, he strode back to his chair, yanked it out and flung himself into it. Slowly, Hilliardson's white long neck twisted to glance at the clock President McKinley had sent via Boss Hanna to Cadmean's father. Swiveling back, he announced that as it was nearly twelve, he thought we should take this opportunity to luncheon; he was therefore calling an hour's recess, after which we would proceed with the defense's closing remarks. Isaac Rosethorn sat slumped in his chair, tapping the pads of his forefingers against the sides of his nose.

  chapter 30

  Isaac was in the lobby, bent over, his back against the wall by the portrait of Cadmean; he was staring at the marble floor. When I asked him to come have some lunch, he said he wasn’t hungry, that he’d told Nora to go on without him.

  “You worried, Isaac?”

  With a sigh, he straightened up. “I’m always worried.…But Mitchell Bazemore isn’t always that good. He had them listening. I’m afraid he did.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “I haven’t quite decided, Slim.” He brushed at his hair with his fingers. “Can you drive with one hand? Drive me to the cemetery?” I knew which one he meant; I’d been with him there often. And this time, like before, I waited on the path below while he limped across the North Hills grass to the grave of Edith Keene. For ten minutes, he sat leaning against that stone marker whose mysterious message used to puzzle me as a child. GONE TO A BETTER PLACE. Behind him, the marble of the Haver obelisk glittered in the hot autumn sun.

  I watched Isaac's lips moving as his hand soothed the grass with slow constant strokes. Finally he struggled to his feet, patted the crest of Edith Keene's tombstone, and fanning himself with his straw hat, he made his shambling way down the path again. I opened the car door for him. “You okay now?”

  “Better,” he nodded.

  “After this is over,” I said, starting the motor, “you ought to go away someplace nice. You always wanted to go to Rome.”

  A mild snort. “When I want to go to Rome, I read Gibbon.” He straightened a crushed cigarette, blowing tobacco shreds from his speckled fingers. “Besides, I have to get to work. How do you open this window?”

  I smacked the power button. “You retired. You’re old. You’re in miserable shape. You’re—”

  He stared at me, shaking his head. “It's you who's in miserable shape, and I don’t mean your broken bones. And here's Nora—”

  “Don’t start in, Isaac.”

  “She's in love with you.” He said it flatly, simply. “It breaks my heart.”

  I told him I had my own broken heart to worry about. He patted my knee, and stared out at the passing graves. “What do we know?” he said finally. “Who are we to talk about broken hearts?…Nomi Hall's never told me hers was.” Sighing, he closed his eyes. “Ah, dear God…let me do this right.”

  “Mr. Rosethorn? Are you with us? I asked if you cared to make a closing statement?” Judge Hilliardson stared down at the defense table where the old lawyer slumped, his head bowed, his eyes shut. “Counselor? Do you care to—”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Yes.” Opening his eyes, Isaac pushed himself up from the table, and, as he spoke, took off his seersucker jacket and draped it carefully over the back of his chair. “This morning,” he began, tucking in the back of his billowy white shirt, “Mr. Bazemore was kind enough to praise my eloquence. Allow me to praise his. I have many times over the years heard our district attorney address this very jurors’ box on the subject of crime, when he’d”—and Isaac's lungs swelled, his cheeks filled—“huff and puff about the grand old flag, and he’d shake those forty death-penalty convictions he wears on his scalp belt, and he’d tell us that if we didn’t give him one more head on a stake, one more eye for an eye, why vermin would run wild in the streets, and the Founding Fathers would weep in their graves! As if the very first meeting against capital punishment hadn’t been held at Ben Franklin's house!”

  He paused, solemnly shaking his head. “But, today, Mr. Bazemore didn’t do that.… Never, never before, have I heard him speak so well. I was moved by his deep, unquestionable belief in what he said.” Walking across the court to where Mitch sat, frowning, Isaac stood before him in silence, then gave a slight bow. “I am genuinely moved.”

  Mitch glanced up, then lowered his head again.

  Slowly Isaac turned, and both arms rose in the open-handed gesture that court illustrators loved, as his voice lifted and quickened. “I am moved, because the prosecutor has given a powerful speech in favor of the defendant. He asks you to set aside prejudice and politics. Yes! Do it!

  “He asks you to act in the name of justice. Yes, I ask it too. I am not here to plead for mercy for George Hall. If he had wanted mercy only, we wouldn’t even be here now! George would have taken ‘the deal’ offered before his first trial. He would have taken the deal, midway through this trial. He would have bargained away justice in exchange for mercy, as confessed killers have done, who have spent less time in prison than George has already served; who have spent no time on death row, where George has lived alone in a metal cage, far smaller than your jury box, for seven relentless soul-aching years with no companion but Death! Think of it! Try to imagine one day, one twenty-four-hour day, in that cell. Now, try to imagine sixty-two thousand of those hours.”

  Isaac waited, staring at the jurors, then he pointed back at the defense table. “Imagine the courage to keep silent, but refuse to plead guilty to a lesser charge. Now try to imagine how much George Hall wants justice.”

  He waited again, pulling loose the knot of his tie. “Not because he has earned justice by his suffering. Though that is true. Not because seven years ago he was treated unjustly. Though God knows that is true. But because, as a citizen of this nation, he was born with the right to justice. He was born with it!”

  George's eyes followed Isaac, as the old man limped toward him, on his way to the prosecutor's table.

  “Yes, Mr. Bazemore, it is our moral responsibility in a free society to ensure justice. But for all! To do so, we lift our eyes, yes, not to the power of kings and armies, but to the power of words, to our Constitution, to our Bill of Rights.” The old stout arm was flung like a spear at the gilded seal above Judge Hilliardson's head. “A Bill of Rights first insisted upon by the delegates from North Carolina as an absolute prerequisite to their signing of the Constitution. A Bill of Rights that takes its power from a great Anglo-American principle—the principle of equal protection under the law.”

  Returning to the jury rail, Isaac spoke as if what he was telling them was the most important thing they would ever hear. And the truth is, I think he believed that. “If ever and when ever, a law is used disproportionately, that principle of equal protection under the law is violated. If ever and when ever, punishment is meted out unequally—to the poor, to the foreign-born, to a racial minority, to the friendless or the unlettered—that punishment is cruel and unusual. And ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if ever that great principle was violated, it was violated by the charges twice brought against George Hall. If ever a punishment was cruel…it was George Hall's seven years on death row…waiting to die in silence…to save the lives of those he loved.”

  Isaac's back was stooped, his shirt, wettened, clung to it. His head dropped forward, the white hair almost touching the rail, and he was quiet for so long, my heart began to race. But then slowly his back
straightened, his head lifted, and his hands clasped at his breast.

  “Counsel for the State is right. Law must be a burning and a shining light. But it must be that for all. It must burn past power and wealth and position. It must shine through the color of a man's skin. Laws used against this one for his creed and that one for her sex, laws that are not deaf to accents and blind to origins—those laws make a mockery of our courts and our conscience. Justice grieves.”

  Walking back to his chair, he picked up a thick law book lying open there, and held it out in his hand. “No matter if the letter of the law be fulfilled, if its spirit is violated, then it is null and void. Then, as Mr. Bazemore's Good Book says, it is broken words in a valley of bones.” His hand tilted and the book slid with a frightening crash onto the table. The sound echoed down the room, as he turned to the jury. “The spirit of this nation's greatest law lives in one simple sentence. It starts, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident.’ You know the one I mean?”

  The jurors looked at him. I saw the farm widow unconsciously nod. “That's right,” Isaac told her. “Self-evident that George Hall was created equal to you and to me, and to Judge Hilliardson there on the bench, and to Governor Wollston over in Raleigh, and to the president up in Washington. Self-evident that, as our equal, George Hall has a right not to be intimidated and harassed and threatened because he's black. George stopped believing he had those rights. And two hundred years of history stand as witness to why he should doubt! Doubt he has a right to expect that if he goes to the law about the crimes of the powerful, it will listen. Doubt that if he goes to the law about murderous threats, it will protect him and his loved ones.

  “Like all of you, he had the right not to fear that an arresting officer would as soon shoot him as not. The right not to be a sacrifice in a disgusting cover-up of the tangled greed and misguided personal and political allegiances of powerful people! The right not to be rushed through a shabby trial because he was poor and black, and not to be condemned to death for an act that no white man who’d shot a black in self-defense would ever even have been charged with. The right to be treated equally. That inalienable right is the real shining torch you jurors are guarding! Because if it can be taken away from George, it can be taken away from anyone—even someday from you, from your neighbor, even someday be taken away from your child.”