by Freya Atwood
There were noises in the kitchen. It drowned out his voice. I decided to risk moving and slowly crawled along the bed and onto the floor. I could hear the sound of his voice but not make out the words. I put my head out of his door. He was moving out of the kitchen now.
“She’s probably out looking for me….No…No, she wouldn’t be working…Well, you don’t know her then…Hey man, enough, OK!”
I jumped at the sudden flare of anger in his voice. It cut at me, reminding me that he hadn’t escaped my own affliction. I’m so sorry Bryan.
“That was a long time ago. She isn’t like that. Look, I’ve gotta go. But thanks for your help today….No, I’m not gonna do that…You don’t have the right to ask!”
He was on the stairs now and I scrambled back into the room and onto the bed, curling up and closing my eyes. Let him think I’ve been asleep the whole time.
“Technically yes, you are, but I’m just not there yet. Give me time, OK?”
It sounded like he was calming down. My mind raced as I tried to piece the conversation together.
“Sure. Remember, don’t call me. I’ll call you. OK, ok…bye.”
I heard him coming down the hall and then. “Mom!”
I lifted my head, opening my eyes blearily. “Bryan? What time is it?” I sat up.
“It’s…well, its late. What are you doing here?”
“I was worried. I…I wanted to feel close to you. This was the best I could do.” I told him, putting my feet on the floor and running a hand through my hair. I was laying on the act thickly but inside I was thinking fast. “Honey, where have you been? What happened? I’ve been worried sick.”
“You heard about that, huh?” Bryan said, sitting next to me.
“EPD called me. The college has my name as next of kin.”
I knelt in front of Bryan, putting my hands on my hips and forcing his eyes to me. I didn’t want him seeing the half-open drawer, he would just clam up. “Why were you carrying a weapon? What was it?”
“A knife.” He admitted. “I wanted it for protection. A few of the guys carry them.”
I swallowed my outrage. The last thing he needed was a lecture on how carrying a weapon made it more likely to be attacked with one. He would just shut me out. Maybe even leave. His answer had been immediate. It had the feel of practice. Like he had rehearsed it. I didn’t say anything.
“When the guard wanted to search my bag, I just panicked.”
Again, too practiced. Too smooth. He’s been rehearsing his story all day, getting it straight in his head. What is he hiding from me?
“OK. You understand that we’ll need to go to the Police Department, don’t you?” I asked tentatively.
Bryan nodded.
“The guard may press charges. You may have to go to court. You understand all of that, right?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes, but he nodded. I grabbed him, hugging him tightly and wishing I could just squeeze him until the truth came rushing out. Wishing there were no barriers between us. He may be telling the simple truth. He did come home. That says something. But who was he talking to? I couldn’t ask. If I did, he would know I was faking being asleep when he walked into the room. The need to know tore at me, seared me.
“Swear to me there is nothing going on, nothing more than a bad decision. Swear it.” I pulled back and took his face in my hands, forcing him to look right into my eyes.
There was calm in his face. His features were still and relaxed. He met my gaze and did not look away. In a level voice he said, “I swear it. On my life.”
We went to the police station in his car. The guard had declined to press charges, stating that he knew a scared kid when he saw one. The Dean of the college had emailed Bryan to let him know how fortunate he was that the college staff were so broad-minded, but that he was suspended for two weeks anyway, as per policy. Sergeant Meyer was a slim man who looked to be in his forties, younger than I had expected.
His hair was dark and side-parted, held in place rigidly with a product that caught the light. His dark eyes were shrewd, weighing Bryan from the moment we went into his office. Bryan had sat and nodded through Meyer’s warnings about how close he had come to jail. He was exaggerating but I understood that he was trying to scare Bryan straight. My son made all the appropriate responses, said the right things and looked the right way.
Something wasn’t right. Something kept telling me he was not contrite, that there was something behind those calm eyes.
Something hiding.
Chapter 21
“All rise! Judge Eamon Greene presiding.”
Court One of the Phillips County courthouse was filled with the sound of shoes against the hardwood floor, coughs and the clearing of throats. Everyone in the room stood as Judge Greene made his way to his bench, mouth hidden behind his white mustache, hair of matching color neatly combed. He was diminutive in statue but with blue eyes that could nail a fly to the wall from the other side of the courtroom.
“Be seated.” He said, his voice gravelly.
The courthouse was an old one, dating to the dawn of the twentieth century. Furniture and decor were wood and varnish with old pictures of previous members of the Third Circuit judiciary around the walls. The windows were leaded and small, now frosted with rain. The ceiling was high and framed with plaster moldings. A single brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, an antique of which the Phillips County clerk’s office was inordinately proud. It didn’t cast any light, that came from recessed strips of frosted glass, from which a muted white light came. The chandelier was maintained for the majesty of the court.
I sat. Hunter Watson sat beside me. He wore a cheap suit that his family had acquired for him. He refused to look at the jury or the judge and kept his hands folded on the table in front of him. His injuries had meant a delay to the trial, giving us an extra month to prepare our defense. Next to me, at a separate table across the aisle, was the District Attorney for Phillips County. Elaine Halden had fair hair, cut short, a prim mouth held in a tight line and a spare figure. She was whispering to the staff sitting next to her.
I looked away before she could catch me looking. So far there had been no reiteration of her threat. That’s all it was. An empty threat. She wouldn’t dare follow through with it. I looked over the jury, a good mix of race and social class. Halden had wanted white and middle class in the majority. I had pushed back and gotten almost fifty-fifty on color. A retired school principal was the forewoman. She was beyond my reach, openly Republican on her social media feed, supporting local and state politicians who advocated tougher policies on crime.
But there was also an unemployed man formerly working in the lumber trade, a woman employed in a garment factory and a man with his own construction business. All were likely to be swayed by the approach I was going to take. I had already noted the way the unemployed man had struck up conversations around him and had seen the same when he was outside getting himself a smoke. He was comfortable with strangers and expressive when he talked. Potential for swaying others there. Like the young guy who looks nervous as hell. And the older lady who works as a receptionist. I had my targets among the jurors, so did Elaine Halden.
Hunter sat to my left, Nic to my right. I wore a gray suit with a skirt and plain white blouse. My hair was tied back. Nic looked somber in her dark trouser suit, hair tamed into an acceptable style for a professional young woman, at least in the eyes of some, instead of the usual punk. She commanded our notes, had arranged the binders and folders in front of us in a neat order, ready to be opened and brought into play in a carefully organized sequence.
I took three cadenced sips of water. With each sip, I dispelled a worry and in my head repeated a mantra. No, Halden won’t get under my skin and make me angry. Sip. No, I won’t be distracted by anything outside this courtroom. Sip. No, I will not lose this case. Sip. I was ready.
“I will now hear the opening statements. Beginning with the prosecution. District Attorney Halden.” Greene put out
a hand, offering Halden the floor.
A screen had been set up facing the jury and connected to a laptop, operated by one of Halden’s assistants. She stood, stork-like with her height and stick thin figure. An image appeared on the screen. Adil Khan, in scrubs and with a surgical mask pulled down to reveal a wide, joyful smile. There were other medics around him, similarly attired.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Dr. Adil Khan.” Halden began. “A doctor of medicine. A respected man in his field. A man who selflessly risked his own life to deliver medical aid to some of this world’s most dangerous. Most dangerous regions.” She repeated for emphasis, spearing individual jurors with her eyes. “He was a man who dedicated his life to saving others.”
The picture changed, another shot of Khan in scrubs, surrounded by children in the midst of what appeared to be a demolished building. He was holding two children, one in each arm. They were smiling. So was he. It was so transparent.
“After volunteering to help others outside this country, he then chose to help his fellow Americans. He set up a clinic in the town of North Denny.”
Another picture. Khan standing proudly with three other people in the room that I had visited with Al Levinson. I recognized the crates. The configuration was different, but the room was still cluttered. Perhaps taken not long after he moved in.
“There he helped those people who could not afford medical insurance. People who suffered pain and illness that they could find no relief from. No relief. Except the relief that he offered them.”
She was prowling along the jury now, drawing their eyes with the intensity of her delivery. That was a mistake. The pictures she was showing them should have been their focus. They were far more emotive than her speech. But she was putting them into the background. Ego? Or plain incompetence?
“We should thank her for neutralizing her own slideshow.” Nic murmured, leaning close.
I didn’t let my irritation show. I didn’t want the jury to see me appearing to confer while the prosecution was speaking. It would look like they had something that we were reacting to. The jury needed to see me in control and confident, unswayed by anything the prosecution had to say because it was all untrue. Nic was still green for all her ability.
“The prosecution maintains that Hunter Watson, on May 5th at approximately ten-fifteen p.m., entered the clinic of Dr. Adil Khan and shot him dead. We will show that Hunter Watson, that man sitting over there, was a drug addict. That blinded by his own needs, he attacked Adil Khan, after the doctor refused to give him drugs. That he returned, believing Adil Khan was in possession of drugs and killed him.”
Halden’s voice rose to a crescendo. It was over the top but there were a couple of shaking heads now. Glares being cast at Hunter. All from jurors I had expected to have an immediate prejudice.
“A security camera installed by Adil Khan recorded the first assault. It happened and it was violent and vile. An eyewitness saw Hunter Watson enter the clinic at the time stated and heard the shots that followed. Police attending the scene found Hunter Watson standing over the body of the man he had slain, holding the weapon he used to do it. The prosecution will show that Hunter Watson’s mind was so clouded by the need for drugs that he did not even attempt to flee. He just stood there. Knowing he was caught. Knowing that there was no escape.”
I scanned the jury and caught a smile twitching the mouth of the unemployed man, he was seeing through the bombastic delivery. I caught movement from another, a lean of the head from the bald man in his sixties to whisper to a woman seated next to him. She nodded, making a gesture with her hand as though to wave something away. Converts to my cause perhaps.
“The prosecution will show the history of violence, driven by drug and alcohol abuse, that has been the story of Hunter Watson’s life. We will show that Hunter Watson is a criminal who is a danger to society and must be removed from that society. For the protection of everyone.”
Chapter 22
“Opening statement from the counsel for the defense.” Intoned Judge Greene.
I stood and walked to a point in the center of the floor, facing the jury. Nic was operating the presentation on the screen behind me. I would not look at it or refer to it in any way.
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury. Hunter Watson is a drug addict with a criminal record. He has a history of committing crime in order to fuel his drug habit, an addiction exacerbated by two previous jail sentences.”
In contrast to my words, the images now on the screen were from Hunter’s childhood, a smiling infant, a jangly limbed youth holding a football and family pictures of a large and happy-seeming group.
“He was not born a drug addict. He was not born a criminal. He is a human being. I am not seeking to excuse his breaking of the law. I am not seeking to make excuses for his choices, for his current predicament is due, in part, to choices he has made. But, I cannot stand by and let you think that Hunter Watson is a monster. That he is less than human. That his addiction and the terrible choices he has made while in the grips of that addiction make him less than any of us.”
I allowed emotion into my voice, hoping it was coming across as plaintive, heart-felt emotion. I did not want to harangue them the way the DA had.
“You will be asked to judge the evidence of this case. Not the history of this man. Not his life choices or the state of his health. He has a criminal record. Irrelevant. He has a history of drug and alcohol abuse. Irrelevant. What is relevant are the facts. To be found guilty, the evidence must leave no reasonable doubt that it was Hunter Watson who pulled the trigger. The defense will show that there is far more than a reasonable doubt. We will show you that the evidence presented by the prosecution does not positively prove that he pulled the trigger.”
I picked out each juror by eye, focusing more time on those I most wanted to reach.
“I would ask that you all look at Hunter Watson. You’ve all been doing it from the moment you stepped into the courtroom. But I want you to really see him. See past the cheap suit that was the best his family could afford. Look past the fact that he cannot bring himself to meet your eyes. See him for who he is. A man beaten down his entire adult life. Crushed by poverty, given up on by those who might have been able to help him. Taken advantage of by those who want to exploit him. Ashamed of the decision made at the age of twelve to try alcohol for the first time. To try marijuana at the edge of thirteen and heroine at the age of fourteen.”
I stepped out of the eye-line of the jury, inviting them to look at the screen.
“I am well aware that you expected me to try and gloss over Hunter’s history. To portray him as a victim. Well, he is. But he’s also partly complicit. I won’t try and obscure that. You’re intelligent people. You all know how this happens. But it is your duty to judge the facts, the evidence. Not the man. Does the evidence support his guilt or is there room for doubt? It’s very simple.”
Nic had continued the slide show of family pictures but now had settled for a picture of Hunter in a football uniform in grade school. He looked healthy and proud as he knelt, helmet on the ground before him.
“Thank you for your attention.” I concluded and walked back to my table, sitting smoothly. I patted Hunter’s arm and kept my eyes on the judge. No conferring with my staff, no consulting my notes. Calm and confident.
“Prosecution. You may call your first witness.” Greene nodded towards Halden.
She stood. “Thank you, your honor. The State calls Officer Derek Waters.”
Presently, a uniformed police officer entered the witness box and took the oath. He had a youthful face with a peppering of gray in his dark hair giving a hint of his real age. He was broad shouldered and sat in the witness chair with a thump. Everything about him was solid. I wondered if Halden had gone as far as briefing him on his body language. Put an impression in the jury’s mind of a steadfast, reliable cop.
Halden stood after Waters had sworn on the Bible.
“Officer Waters. You and your partner responde
d to a 911 call of shots fired at the intersection of Vale and Duke in North Denny, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You proceeded into the building, the address of which is 1890 Vale, North Denny.”
“Yes, ma’am. My partner and I.”
“And can you tell the jury what you saw?” Halden said before Waters had even finished speaking.
I sensed Nic tense beside me and knew what had drawn the reaction from her. I had picked up on the same thing. Halden had not wanted Waters’ partner mentioned. She had started speaking almost as soon as he had added his comment about there being two of them. Why? I scrawled a note and turned it to Nic.
“Who was his partner?”
Nic calmly flicked through the evidence folders in front of us and then circled a name. It was Thomas Ditzarella.
