Authors: Leo Sullivan
I spoke to the judge, “Good morning your Honor.”
Ostensibly I nodded my head at the prosecution’s table, a gallant
show of courtroom etiquette. Then I went into action. I strode
right up to the jury box, up close and personal. I had to make a
profound affect on the jur y, a man’s life depended on it. With a
manicured hand I caressed the mahogany wood. Let my hand sail
along its rich smoothness. Just as I rehearsed, I recited each juror’s
name like I had known them all their lives. Some looked up at me
in admiration, others in awe.
“
Today, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will set a prece-
dence like never before, for it is solely for the betterment of
mankind, humanity, to cast out the atrocities, injustice that
besiege all walks of life. Today we’re going to deal with urban life
and this so-called war on drugs and what it is doing to our Black
community.” As I talked my passion grew. I thought about not
just my brother, but also all the brothas in prison that were doing
life sentences for $20 worth of crack. I saw my girl, Nandi, in the
front row, as I heard the shrieks of my ancestors’ cries. As old folks
hummed a mournful dirge it felt like I was in another place,
another time. The judge cocked his head to the side and frowned
at the courtroom. I pushed myself for ward like diving off a cliff,
this was my opening argument. I had to make an impression on
the jury.
“
Today my client is being charged with CCE. The rule of fed-
eral law, Title 21 USC 848. It means in essence to run a
Continuing Criminal Enterprise with five or more persons for a
12 month period or more. My client is being charged with being
a kingpin,” I said and suddenly turned and spun on my heels to
elicit the dramatics. All good lawyers must be good actors first and
possess a theatrical power to get the jury’s attention. I walked over
to the prosecutor’s table, felt a million eyes on my face and heard
a litany of prayers. “This man right here,” I raised my voice with
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a strong cadence, pointed a deft manicured finger in his face.
Scandels tried to smile, but he looked about as comfortable as a
man standing in front of a firing squad. “He would like for you to
believe that my client is the sole reason for the drug epidemic. The
only problem with that is logic. He would like for you to believe
that my client is a drug dealer. The only problem with that is, it’s
merely myth, sprinkled with speculation and false accusations. He
is the one that is guilty and needs to be placed under the jail.” A
wave of clamor rose from the courtroom. Judge Statford banged
his gavel down. I looked over to the elders and senior assistants,
they both gave me a satisfied nod. Part of our strategy was to rat-
tle the prosecutor with an aggressive attack.
The judge arched his eyebrows at me threateningly. “I suggest
you tone it down.” I continued to stare at Scandels. This was my
stage, the jury and the media were my audience. “You’re wasting
the taxpayers’ money, not to mention their patience,” I said as I
pointed to the jury box and made a face like that man should be
ashamed of himself. “Today ladies and gentlemen, you will not be
shown one piece of evidence. Allow me to repeat that,” I said and
walked up closer and looked each juror in the eye. “You will not
be shown one piece of evidence. The government’s case is based on
what is known in the legal academia of law as circumstantial evi-
dence. To a law professional, it means they have nothing, NADA!”
I turned around to face the courtroom. I saw Life with his hand
cupped under his chin watching me intently.
“
Seventy eight witnesses will be paraded before you to testify
against my client. But you, the jur y, don’t be fooled. I want you to
think critical, logical, to be rational, as well as objective. Ask your-
selves, what are these people, so-called friends, associates of the
defendant getting in return for their testimony? Is their testimony
sincere? Are they doing this out of the kindness of their hear ts?
Their need to help justice prevail, or are they getting paid in some
other way?” With that I walked across the courtroom floor and
stood in the middle.
“
When I worked as a prosecutor for the government, there
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were people that we referred to as paid informants. Men and
women that could manufacturer a story as quickly as you could
recite your phone number. These men and women are known to
you and I in the real world as rats –”
“
Objection!” Scandels was on his feet, face beet red, fuming
mad. “Your Honor, Ms. Evans is tr ying to make a caricature of the
government’s witnesses, notwithstanding she is outside the scope
of argument.”
The judge turned and looked at me with an icy glare.
“
Sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard the last state-
ment. Ms. Evans you know better than that,” the judge scolded.
I continued, determined not to let Scandels break my rhythm.
“
As I was saying –” I cut my eyes at Scandels, and turned back to
the jury, heard the soulful murmur of old Black folks, a chant like
a solemn hum with an occasional “Thank you Jesus.” I felt the
hair on the back of my neck rise as the jury looked at me trans-
fixed. “Today you’ll learn that inmates in federal prison routinely
buy, sell and steal narcotics, concoct testimonies, then share their
perjury with federal authorities in exchange for a reduction in
their sentence. Often, these inmates testify against people they’ve
never met. They corroborate on crimes they’ve never witnessed.
They lie with virtual impunity, often with the government’s bless-
ings. They act as modern day slave catchers in the inhumane bru-
talization of Black people. These federal agents and prosecutors
have been accused of helping move the scheme along and in most
cases they provide convicts with information in order to help them
fabricate their lies.”
“
Objection! This is ridiculous. The defense is mounting a
vicious attack on the government and not the case.”
“
Your Honor, I intend to show that the government is also at
fault and as much a culprit in this case and that is part of my
defense.”
“
Overruled. The defense is entitled to present its case even if
it intends to make accusations against the government.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. I had the
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jurors’ attention now. So I plotted deeper.
“
How can you have a drug case based on lies and innuendos,
rats testifying–oops, excuse me,” I said just as Scandels was about
to rise from his seat to make another objection. The judge rubbed
his baldhead in frustration. “The defendant is estimated, by the
government, to be worth over two hundred million dollars and
trafficked in the billions of dollars in cocaine, but yet has no real
evidence. I snapped my finger. “Which raises doubt.” I slammed
my hand down on the jury box hard. “The law says you have to
convict him without a shadow of a doubt. If there is an iota of a
doubt in your mind, you have to set him free. All I ask is that you
humbly study the evidence, don’t be fooled by the smoke screen of
lies and deceptions. Make your conclusion based on facts, not fic-
tion.” With a strong feminine baritone I exhorted, “If the evi-
dence doesn’t fit, you must acquit.” I repeated over and over as I
walked up and down in front of the jury box, making sure to
pound it into each one of their heads. I had to get into their psy-
che, use words like a chisel to cut away at the stereotypical views
that all white folks harbor about Blacks and they’re not even con-
scious of it. I learned a lot from the Rodney King trial. You can
brainwash a jury into believing what you want them to believe,
but first you had to get inside their heads. Psychological warfare.
An hour and twenty minutes later I was finished. The court-
room was buzzing. I thanked the jury and repeated one more
time. “If the evidence doesn’t fit ...” I watched as the jury and the
courtroom returned a chant to my surprise.
“
YOU MUST ACQUIT!” I looked over at the prosecutor’s
table. Scandels was pissed.
David Scandels rose from his chair. I could see he was trying
to mask the shock of my opening argument. He adjusted his tie,
a tuff of salt and pepper hair hung over his left eye, and gray hair
ringed his temples. At 55 years old, he still possessed the American
golden boy image. He represented the epitome of patriotism. He
served in Nam, was awarded a Purple Heart for being wounded in
duty, and came home a hero. With his opening statement he went
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straight for the heart with a dagger.
“
What is our country coming to when common criminals,
thugs come in here and try to derail justice? The defendant here
today is on trial for being one of the biggest drug lords the state of
Florida has ever known. He has ties with organized crime. His
deadly crew of henchmen, known as the Miami Boys, are known
to be responsible for more than over two dozen assaults and mur-
ders just within the last two years alone.” Scandels turned to the
jury and spread his arms as if he were making a plea, “This is sim-
ply about law justice, equity and fairness. I intend to prove to you
within the next few months of this trial that the defendant, Life
Thug-Stin …” Scandels intentionally lisped Life’s name, “is a
menace to our society and I intend to put him away for the rest of
his natural life.” In the corner of my eye I saw Life’s body flinch as
the formidable Scandels’ presence seemed to fill the entire court-
room. Disturbing quiet set in. It was then that I realized he was
good, real good and he avoided the main issues, like the govern-
ment not having any real evidence. At the end of his opening
argument, Scandels turned to face the courtroom; this was done
solely for the benefit of the press.
“
There’s a war going on in America, and it’s a war on drugs
and the people that sell them to our children and family members.
The defendant Life Thugstin is one of the reasons I’m fighting this
war, and I intend to win.”
Forty five minutes later Scandels was finished. I tried to check
of the pulse of the jurors’, a few were nodding their head in agree-
ment. That wasn’t a good sign. Taya Baker, my assistant, sat to my
left with Adrienne Greene next to her. Life Thugstin sat perched
in the middle of sisterhood.
“
The prosecution calls its first witness, Steven Davis.” Stevey
D was a diminutive man, barely five feet six, slight in build with
almond skin. He wore a large gauze bandage on his head that
strangely resembled an oversized turban.