“No, sir, we do it fair and square by the orders,” Glickman said, nodding.
“Thank you, gunny,” Heyster said, and returned to his seat.
“Any redirect questions, Captain O’Connor?” Judge Swanson asked, looking over his half-glasses at the defense counsel.
“Yes, sir,” O’Connor said, looking at Charlie Heyster.
“No objections from the prosecution?” the judge asked, looking at Heyster.
“None, Your Honor,” the captain answered.
“Gunny Glickman, speaking of promotions and the fact that no black Marines have risen in rank above lance corporal in your section, does that strike you as out of the ordinary?” O’Connor asked, walking to the lectern on top of the table.
“No, sir, the black Marines in my shop just haven’t earned anything higher,” Glickman said, shrugging his shoulders. “Most have little time in grade, and just a short time in the occupational field. We did promote Wendell Carter a few days ago.”
“Yes, I want to talk about Wendell Carter,” O’Connor said, smiling. “Thanks for mentioning him. He is a Marine who has now served beyond his four-year enlistment and has an excellent record, yet he just now got promoted to lance corporal.”
“Sir, that’s not anything to do with what I do in my shop,” Glickman said and frowned.
“You’ve had him in your shop, along with Private Anderson, since you arrived here last August,” O’Connor said, picking up the statistical data and turning to the page with Wendell Carter’s background written on it. “Says here he graduated high school with a three point six grade point average, joined the Marine Corps, got private first class out of basic radio school. Never got a quota for a follow-on school, but he has taken college courses at night when he was stationed at Twenty-nine Palms, just before coming to Vietnam. He has consistently good proficiency and conduct scores, average about four point seven pro and four point nine con. He had more than a high enough cutting score for promotion when he checked in at Group Seventeen a year and a half ago. Yet he only got recommended for promotion last month. How come?”
“Just because a Marine has the cutting score does not get him a promotion, not in my shop. Some places do it, but not in my shop, no, sir,” Gunny Glickman said, shaking his head. “He has to go before the captain and me, and then we recommend him to appear before the squadron promotion board. He’s got to pass those promotion boards, too.”
“So he failed the boards?” O’Connor asked, looking at Lance Corporal Carter’s data sheet. “Nothing in his record indicating he failed any promotion boards.”
“I have to recommend a Marine appear before the board,” Glickman said, clenching his jaws.
“Based on what?” O’Connor asked, leaning on the lectern.
“Based on my judgment of his performance and conduct,” Glickman said, glaring at O’Connor.
“I thought that’s what his proficiency and conduct marks indicated, gunny,” the defense lawyer said.
“My judgment call, too,” the gunny added and shook his head.
“So it’s subjective, based on how you see the man’s fitness?” O’Connor asked, still leaning on the lectern and staring cold-eyed at the gunny.
“I’m not sure what you mean by subjective, but when it comes down to where the boot heel hits the grinder, my word goes,” the gunny growled, jutting out his jaw. “The captain will back me up, too.”
“Thank you, gunny,” O’Connor said, and sat down.
“Does racial prejudice ever play a part in whether or not you recommend a Marine for promotion, gunny?” Charlie Heyster asked, remaining seated.
“Certainly not! Sir!” Gunny Glickman said, and then he looked at the jury and nodded his head once, hard.
“No more questions?” Judge Swanson asked, looking at both the prosecution and the defense.
“None sir,” Heyster said, leaning back in his chair. Terry O’Connor shook his head no.
“Does the defense rest, then?” Judge Swanson asked, taking off his half-glasses.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Terry O’Connor said, nodding his head.
“Hold on just a minute!” Celestine Anderson cried in a loud voice, straightening up in his chair and looking at the judge. “I ain’t got no say? Nobody asking me nothing!”
“Your counsel indicated to me this morning that you would not testify,” Judge Swanson said.
“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Terry O’Connor said, standing while Wayne Ebberhardt held Celestine Anderson by the arm, keeping him seated.
“White man’s law gonna lock me up, and I ain’t got no say?” Anderson then bellowed, pulling away from Lieutenant Ebberhardt’s grip. “Doctor King got killed today ’cause of your white oppression, and I got my rights to say my say!”
“Corporal Farmer, please escort the jury to the anteroom and close the door,” Colonel Swanson snapped, and then glared at Terry O’Connor. “Captain, I expect you to control your client until we can at least get the jury outside earshot of the defendant’s outburst.”
“That’s right, motherfucker! Get them where they can’t hear me, ’cause I know I’m going down. I ain’t going down quiet! Like that Irish dude said, I won’t go gentle into nobody’s night. Yeah, I read a book or two, motherfucker! I ain’t just somebody’s dumb-ass house nigger you can shuffle off gentle into the night,” Anderson said, glaring at Charlie Heyster and fighting both Terry O’Connor and Wayne Ebberhardt.
“I will not go gentle into the night either, Private Anderson!” Colonel Swanson boomed, rapping his gavel and the palm of his hand on his bench. “Captain O’Connor, you have five minutes to discuss with your client the good, the bad, and the ugly about his choices of testifying or not testifying. Hopefully by that time I will have cooled my temper as well.”
Charlie Heyster laughed, holding a file folder in front of his face to keep the judge from seeing his glee. He could not have asked for a greater gift than his opponent’s client poisoning any sympathy the jurors may have held for him. When the judge left the court, Heyster turned to Philip Edward Bailey-Brown and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Well, I guess we bagged and tagged this one, didn’t we!” the prosecutor said and laughed, turning his back to Terry O’Connor, who now had Celestine Anderson by the shirtfront.
“You have to be totally out of your mind!” O’Connor said, hissing in his client’s face. “How dare you put me to shame in front of this judge. This judge who has gone way beyond the fifty-yard line to give you every break humanly possible, and you spit in his face just now! How dare you! You insolent fool!”
“I gots my rights!” Anderson sobbed, and tears flowed from his eyes.
“Private Anderson, get a grip,” O’Connor said, taking a deep breath. “We agreed yesterday afternoon that we did not need your testimony. That captain sitting over there now laughing at us has prepared for one and only one thing in this trial, and that is to rip you to ribbons in front of that jury. Until two minutes ago, you had them on your side. Doctor King’s assassination put their sympathies directly in your favor. Those closing words of Gunny Glickman reinforced his bias, too. Before you shot off your mouth, you looked at five years, worst case, I am certain. Now I think you just added five years to it. However, the flip side has them finding you guilty of second-degree murder and giving you thirty-five years. Thirty-five years, Private Anderson!”
“They give me that anyway. That Oreo cookie on the end, staff sergeant black-like-me-but-white-in-the-middle, I seen it in his face. He looking at me like I some stinking piece of shit. I see that look. Them officers, they tie me down and whip me if they could.”
“You got it wrong, Private Anderson,” Wayne Ebberhardt added, getting a nod from O’Connor. “Agreed, the black staff sergeant probably would lock you up for life. You’d think it would work the other way around, but in most cases, a black juror is hardest on a black defendant. On the other hand, white officers tend to show great leniency to black defendants. Please take our advice and do not get on that stand. At least four of the six jurors will remain understanding. They know the stress you’ve faced, and with the death of Doctor King, they’re sympathetic. Don’t blow it, man.”
“You don’t know,” Anderson said, looking at the lieutenant. “I’m going down, so I want my say. That’s what I want. My rights.”
Terry O’Connor slumped in his chair and looked at Corporal Jerry Farmer, who stood by the judge’s chamber door. After a deep sigh of resignation, the captain nodded his head at the bailiff to notify the judge that court could resume.
PRIVATE FIRST CLASS Celestine Anderson sat on the edge of the straight-back chair centered on the plywood platform that served as the witness stand, surrounded by a four-inch-wide handrail set on wooden columns three feet high. His khaki shirt showed large streaks of wetness where the accused killer had perspired heavily listening to his gunny try to rationalize his bigotry. Then the news of Martin Luther King’s death left him soaked in angry sweat. The shackles on his hands and feet, tied together by a chain laced through steel rings on a wide leather belt padlocked around his middle, rattled against the small platform’s deck each time he moved, and deepened his resentment of all white authority.
Each day that the court began, Terry O’Connor had beseeched the judge to remove the hardware from his client. Each day the judge denied his request, citing that Celestine Anderson had a history of uncontrolled anger. Seeing the chains and manacles left the jury uneasy when they regarded the defendant.
“Where did you grow up?” O’Connor asked, walking to the witness stand and leaning on the rail, glancing at the jurors as he spoke.
“Houston,” Anderson replied in a sticky click that let every person in the court know his throat had gone dry from dehydrating nervousness. The shackled prisoner blinked as sweat dripped into his eyes, and when he wiped the stinging stuff away, chains clanking, he swallowed hard and answered again in a more bold voice that carried through the room. “Houston, Texas, sir. I was born and raised in Houston. On the north side, off Jensen Drive.”
“What does your mother do?” O’Connor asked, now easing his way back toward the jury.
“What she can. Work for white folks. Clean. Cook. We mostly got welfare,” the defendant said, keeping his hands in his lap.
“And your father?” O’Connor followed.
“I never knew him. He left afore I’s born,” Anderson answered, licking his cracked lips.
“Is it tough being a Negro and living in Houston?” O’Connor said, and then flushed, suddenly realizing the word he had used, hoping it might slide unnoticed.
“I ain’t no Neeegro, sir. I’m black!” Anderson said, trying to contain his hostile feelings.
O’Connor blushed at his obvious blunder. He knew better, yet the blind habit from his youth had unconsciously slipped past his brain. News of Doctor King’s death and the chaos it set off with his client had left him unnerved, and his mind still reeled from it. Even so, he could not believe how he had made such an embarrassing mistake with his own client. For months he had concentrated on always using the term ‘black.’ He felt angry at himself now.
“Excuse me, Private Anderson,” the defense lawyer said, still flushed. “I apologize for my thoughtless misstatement. Is it tough being a black person and living in Houston?”
Anderson smiled, and then narrowed his eyes as he spoke slowly. “Yes, sir. It is very tough. White folks there treat blacks like dogs. I grew up feeling all poor and ugly ’cause of that. It’s very tough to be a black person and live in just about any city back in the world. I can tell you that!”
O’Connor looked at the jury while Anderson spoke. He turned back toward the stand and asked, “Have you ever been in trouble before now?”
“No, sir,” Anderson said, “not until I done what I did.”
“You’re a good Marine, then,” O’Connor said, looking at the jury.
“Yes, sir!” Anderson snapped and smiled.
“Did you know Private Rein before that day?” O’Connor said, walking toward the witness stand.
“I seen him here and there, but I didn’t know him. I know of him. I don’t hang with the likes of that bunch,” Anderson said, shaking his head.
“What bunch is that, Private Anderson?” O’Connor asked, leaning his hand on the witness stand rail and looking back at the jury.
“The Klan, sir, folks like that,” Anderson said, curling his lips as he spoke.
“Folks like that?” O’Connor asked, looking back at his client.
“Yes, sir. Bigots,” Anderson said, and swallowed hard against his dry throat. “Can I get some water?”
“Sure,” O’Connor said, and took a glass from the defense table and brought it to him.
Celestine Anderson drained the entire tumbler, and nodded his head in a gesture of thanks as he handed the glass back to his lawyer.
“Did you kill Private Rein?” O’Connor said, walking to the defense table, refilling the empty glass with water, and walking back to the witness stand, where he set it on the four-inch-wide handrail for his client.
“Yes, sir. I did. I killed him,” Anderson said, taking the glass and sipping more water.
“Why? What did Private Rein do to provoke such anger?” O’Connor asked, walking toward the jury box.
“Me and my peas—” Anderson began.
“Peas?” O’Connor asked, shrugging at the witness.
“Yes, sir. You know, my brothers. Bloods,” Anderson answered.
“Friends,” O’Connor offered.
“Yes, sir. Peas. You know,” Anderson repeated and blinked sweat from his eyes. “We’s all standing out front of the chow hall, dapping. You know, like we do?”
“We’re clear on dapping, Private Anderson. Go on,” O’Connor said, waving his hand for his client to continue.
“We’s waitin’ to go in the chow hall, and we hear this group of chucks talkin’ tough,” Anderson said, and wiped the sweat from his eyes with his chained wrists.
O’Connor swallowed at the sound of the word “chucks” and started to interrupt Anderson for a definition, but decided to hope that the racial epithet did not cue anyone. Anderson stopped talking, seeing O’Connor’s reaction, and waited for the captain to ask his question. In the silence, Charlie Heyster scrawled a note on his pad.