Authors: Michael Malone
“Yes, Your Honor, if the Court pleases. The defense is ready.”
So that's how it had started. And while Isaac was true to his promise and kept it short (for him, that is—I’d heard one opening statement of his that lasted two hours), he managed to say quite a lot, without my being able to figure out what the hell he was up to.
Right now, he was embracing all twelve of those jurors in the warm hug of his low rich voice. “Now, folks. The defense doesn’t have to offer a bit of evidence, doesn’t have to say a word. The defense doesn’t have to
prove
George innocent. A man walks into this court innocent, and he
stays
innocent until and unless the prosecution
proves
him guilty. So I could tell you, go on back in the jury room right now, and ask yourselves, ‘Do I have an abiding conviction amounting to a moral certainty that George Hall committed intentional murder?’ Ask yourselves, ‘Do I believe beyond any reasonable doubt that the evidence presented in this courtroom
proves
that George Hall committed an intentional murder?’ Think
back on what you’ve heard here, and ask yourselves, ‘Have I been offered any evidence that George
planned
to murder Pym,
except
for the mumbled-scumbled, inconsistent, contradictory, and blatantly fabricated testimony of a bartender, Mr. Fattie McCramer, who is a far better witness for the good eats at his establishment than for the truth about this case? And the testimony of Mr. Moonfoot Butler, who came in here claiming to be George's best friend and didn’t
know the first thing about him!? Is that proof? The self-serving claims of a shameful scoundrel, a convicted felon whose staggering arrest record I wouldn’t ask our clerk Miss Turner to attempt to
lift
for fear it would do damage to her back!”
The tiny Miss Bee gave Isaac a steely look, as if to say she could easily lift Moonfoot's arrest record in one hand and Rosethorn in the other. He smiled at her.
Then he walked to the witness chair, and from it pointed his finger at the prosecution table. “Ask yourselves, ‘Have they proved their case?’ No, they haven’t! Of course they haven’t. You know it, and I know it. And what's more,
they
know it. Seven years ago, they came in here hollering for the death penalty. That conviction was overturned. Thank God, in time! Thrown out. They came in here, a month ago, hollering for the death penalty again. Now, oh yes, now, they’re willing to give up first-degree murder. Why? Because they know they didn’t prove it! Why didn’t they prove it?” Isaac's voice, building with each sentence, roared down the length of the room. “
Because it isn’t true!
”
His hands stroked sadly down his face, and he spoke quietly. “Because it's hard to prove a lie. Not impossible, as the sad book of history tells us. But it's hard. You can hide Truth, gag her, smother her, offer her bribes, lock her in darkness.
But
Truth has a way of slipping through the lock, of whispering through the crack until she's heard.” His hand lifted toward the bright windows, as if to pull Truth through them. “You will hear her now.”
“Amen,” some woman shouted.
Rap, went Hilliardson's gavel.
Isaac didn’t take his eyes from the jury. “The defense will prove that George Hall is not guilty of murder in any degree. Not guilty by reason of self-defense. We will prove it, even though we are not required to do so, because this courtroom, this temple of truth, where I have spent my
life
in the service of the law, has been defiled by the lies set loose here.
And I want it cleansed!
”
“Right on!” yelled, of all people, young G.G. Walker, seated with half the Canaan Twelve. Their loud claps were picked up by other spectators. The long black swoop of Hilliardson's arm slammed down the gavel so hard it flew out of his hand and Miss
Bee Turner had to retrieve it. Standing, he arched over the bench like the grim reaper. “Once more!” he seethed, “and I will clear this court. And Mr. Rosethorn, I will ask you to restrict yourself more rigorously to the perimeters of opening remarks, as opposed to closing statements.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Moving toward the jury again, Isaac's left hand hit the palm of his right in rhythm with his words. “Members of the jury, what is the truth? Was there malice aforethought? Yes, there was. But not by George Hall. By Robert Pym! It wasn’t George who brought a gun to Smoke's. It was Pym! Was there gross and reckless provocation by Robert Pym? Yes, there was! Was there not only an
attempt
to inflict serious bodily harm on George Hall, but the grievous
infliction
of bodily harm? Look at George's face!
Seven
years
later, he still carries the scar on his nostril! Did the defendant
believe
his life was in danger? Why, everyone in Smoke's Bar
believed it! Even the long stream of witnesses for the prosecution believed it! Even the arresting officer C.R. Mangum believed it!”
Several jurors nodded and Isaac joined them. “Of course they believed it. Because it was
true.
” His arm waved contemptuously at Bazemore's table. “All this stuff from the district attorney about ‘Don’t let Isaac Rosethorn convince you that George was overcome by irresistible impulse.’ About the ‘policeman at the elbow’ rule, and how if one had been there, George wouldn’t have done what he did.”
Turning around, Isaac's fist slammed the table in front of Miss Bee, who remarkably didn’t jump out of her chair. “Well,
a policeman
was there at George's elbow.
He was there jamming this .38 revolver
into George's nose!” He grabbed up the gun from the exhibits labeled as evidence, and brought it to the jury. “Look at this ugly thing. It's scary, isn’t it? How scared would you be if a belligerent drunk shoved this thing in your nostril, and said, ‘Buddy, your ass is grass.’ Well, I’ll tell you how scared I’d be! I’d be scared I was going to die!”
He returned the revolver to Miss Bee, as he said, “I never had the slightest intention in the world of talking about irresistible impulses.…Not unless we can agree that
self-preservation
is an irresistible impulse.” He paused, shook loose a handkerchief, and
tapped his forehead. “Cicero,” he said, as if the name had just occurred to him. “Some of you remember him from high school Latin? Old Roman lawyer back in Caesar's time?” The jury foreman smiled at him.
“Well, Cicero summed up the law of self-defense as it's been upheld by society from time immemorial. Cicero said, ‘This law we do not learn from books, for it is embodied in each of us: that if our life is in danger,
any
means of escape is honorable.
This is the first law
of nature.
’”
His hand stroked along the jury rail reassuringly. “And that law of nature is also upheld by the laws of this state. All you have to believe is that, to George, at that time, in those circumstances, there was a reasonable appearance of the necessity of deadly force to prevent his own immediate death,
or
serious injury. If so, the shooting of Robert Pym was an act of self-defense, and the defendant is not guilty of murder.…Now!” Isaac patted the rail, and stepped away. “The State brought in its own psychiatrist to tell you—after, by the way, one interview of forty-three minutes—that George is a violent man with dangerous impulses. Well, first of all, in this country we don’t put people in prison for having dangerous impulses, but for committing crimes. Second of all, what did these dangerous impulses turn out to be?” Isaac counted them off on his fingers. “One, George tried to protect himself from a racist thug throwing beer on him at the ballpark. Two, he tried to stop Officer Robert Pym from slamming a handcuffed eighteen-year-old suspect against a concrete wall. A suspect, by the way, later released for lack of evidence. Three, he tried to stop Robert Pym from killing
him.
As we will prove, all George has ever done is try to protect himself. And protect others. Which, by the law of nature, and the law of this state, he had a right to do!”
The assistant D.A. was whispering to the assistant A.G. Isaac stopped and stared at them. “Gentlemen, excuse me. I believe I have the floor. Besides, the State has already rested. It's a little too late to start figuring out a case for the prosecution now.”
Over the loud general laugh, I could hear Bubba Percy's guffaw.
Isaac strolled on. “Oh, we could bring in our own psychiatrist who’d tell you George would no more slap a fly than Albert
Schweitzer would. But I’m not going to mess with it. I don’t need to.” He shook his handkerchief at the State's table, then stuffed it in his seersucker jacket. “Instead, I’m going to let you hear from George's commanding officer in the U.S. Army, who will tell you George was a good and valiant soldier, wounded in battle protecting this country. I’m going to let you hear from the minister of George's church, who, believe me, knows him better than Moonfoot Butler ever did. And you’ll hear from the warden of Dollard Prison, who will tell you that even under the savage stress of an
unjust death
sentence
—even under the inhuman torture of
seven years
on death
row, and
four separate nights
set for his execution, even
hours
before he was to be strapped to a metal chair and gassed to death for the heinous crime of protecting his own life from a barbaric assault— even then, George Hall
never
displayed a single instance of these so-called violent tendencies of his. All the violence has been on the other side…on the other side.”
His head bowed for a moment, and when he looked up, there were actually tears welling in his eyes. If it was a trick, it was one I’d never seen him use so well before. Quietly, he said, “I am going to prove to you that George Hall is no killer. Far, far from it. George Hall is a man noble enough to be willing to lay down his life to protect others from being killed.” Isaac let his glance move across the court to rest on Nomi Hall, down whose face a single tear ran. The whole room rustled as people turned questioning faces to each other.
Leaning toward the jury, moving step by step along the rail, Isaac ended his statement with a softly delivered hand grenade. “Ladies and gentlemen, the defense contends, and the defense will prove, by affirmative evidence, by expert opinion, by deposition, and by
eyewitnesses
, that George Hall had no plan to kill, no intent to kill, did not mean to kill, and had no reason to think he
would
kill Robert Pym when he shot that gun. The defense contends, rather, members of the jury, that
Robert Pym
—accompanied by his companion in crime, one Winston Russell, a killer now at large, wanted on three counts of murder, including the murder of George's only brother, Cooper Hall—that Robert Pym and Winston Russell
did
plan and
did
intend to kill the defendant. That Pym came into
Smoke's Bar expressly for that purpose, that he provoked an altercation expressly for that purpose, and that he failed in that purpose only by mischance. Or by the grace of God. Just as the attempt of the State to kill George Hall has failed only by mischance. Or by the grace of God. George Hall has been a victim, sacrificed—as so many of his race have been sacrificed in the long bloody chronicle of this nation's history—to prejudice, to politics, and to power. That's the truth.” Isaac's chest heaved in a slow, tired sigh. “That's the truth.…And that's why the defense does not rest.”
Nobody moved until Isaac had limped back to his seat. Then together three of the Haver law students stood up and applauded. Here and there throughout the court, others joined in. Among them, Jordan West and Father Paul Madison. Judge Hilliardson banged his gavel, and above the noise announced that he was adjourning the court until Monday morning. Then shouting down that he wanted the defense counsel in his chambers, he stalked off the bench. George waved good-bye to his mother with his raised cuffed hands as the sheriff led him out the side door. Everyone left the prosecutor's table except for Mitchell Bazemore, whose frozen back never altered in the whole long time it took the crowded room to empty.
I watched him for a while before I walked over. He looked up, turned away. “What's going on, Mitch?” No answer. I saw he’d bitten down on his lower lip hard enough to leave his teeth marks. Pulling up a chair, I put my foot on it. “I never figured you’d give up murder one, even for a guilty plea. Much less for what looks like nothing. If Rosethorn wouldn’t deal with you, why—”
He laughed. I suppose it was laughter. “Oh, Rosethorn dealt. He dealt. But not with me. So take your gloating somewhere else, Mangum. Take it to the A.G. I’m not in on the game.”
“I had that feeling.” The next sentence wasn’t easy, but it was fair. “Look, I’m sorry I ever said you were.”
“Go to hell.” He stood up, stuffing papers in his shiny briefcase. “Have you found Winston Russell?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why are you sitting around watching this farce?” His face got angry again, which was a peculiar comfort. “I want you in my office in ten minutes.”
“The FBI's waiting in mine about those Carolina Patriots.”
His neck pulsed against his buttoned-down collar. “The FBI can have them. I want you in my office in ten minutes with a warrant for the arrest of Dyer Fanshaw.”
Leaning on my knee, I stared at him. “My, my, Mitch…my, my, my. You wouldn’t listen to me. But you listened to Purley Newsome. Just tell me this, will you?
Did
Otis leave a suicide note?”
He slammed shut the briefcase, locking it. “Mangum, you and your pals go to hell.”
“Mitch, I’m not the one who shut you out of this case to save
my
butt. I’m not the one suborning witnesses, covering up rackets,
arms-smuggling, and murder. Those are
your
pals.”
The briefcase swung as he shook it so close to my face, I had to tilt away. “Just go get that warrant. Understand? Suppression of evidence in a felony; illegal use of the interstate highway—”
Opening my jacket, I pulled out one of the warrants I’d had there since three this afternoon. A warrant for the arrest of Dyer Fanshaw. I gave it to Bazemore. “Here you go, Counselor. How about adding seditious conspiracy? Accessory after the fact to murder?”