Alex Cross's Trial Read online

Just when we thought we had seen the last of the marchers, another phalanx turned the corner onto Willow.

  I was amazed. “Gentlemen. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  L.J. smiled. “Yessir, it’s one hell of a crowd.”

  “Not just the size of the crowd,” I said. “Take a look at who’s leading it.”

  All white?

  Not right.

  L.J. squinted to see. “Those two old folks at the front?”

  Jonah answered for me. “The lady is Ida Wells-Barnett,” he said. “And the gentleman, if I am not mistaken, is Mr. W. E. B. Du Bois. This is history being made, indeed.”

  Chapter 97

  WHEN I WAS A BOY, my mother would sometimes take me to watch my father conducting a trial.

  “It’s a presiding day,” she’d say. “Let’s go see Daddy scaring the pants off of everyone.” And away we’d go to the courthouse.

  To my child’s eyes the old Pike County Courthouse looked exactly like a church. The second-floor gallery where the colored people got to sit was like the choir loft. The benches below were the pews. And my father stood at the high altar in the front of the room, delivering thunderous sermons and running the whole thing like a very strict minister who happened to wield a hammer instead of a Bible.

  More than twenty years later, here I was, back in the church of Judge Everett Corbett.

  But today, as L.J. and Jonah and I arranged our papers and books on the prosecution table, the old courthouse felt like something else entirely.

  Not a church.

  It was more like a theater now.

  The upstairs colored section had been transformed into balcony seats. The benches on the main level were the orchestra seats, jammed to overflowing with an audience that had stood in line for hours to see the hottest entertainment in town. And that altar? Well, that was now center stage.

  That was Everett J. Corbett’s stage. He could be a dynamic, exciting performer, and I felt sure he would not let his audience down today.

  Ringing the front steps of the courthouse were Scooter Willems and several dozen men like him, bristling with tripods and huge black accordion cameras. Accompanying the photographers were at least a hundred reporters flashing pencils and notebooks, trading tidbits with each other, rushing this way and that in pursuit of the latest rumors.

  Inside, the colored spectators had dutifully filed upstairs to the cheap seats. The benches below were filled to maximum capacity by the white citizens of Eudora. Only the first two rows had been left empty, roped off for the pool of potential jurors.

  Dominating the wall above the judge’s bench was an enormous Fattorini & Sons regulator clock nearly as long as a grandfather clock, with a carved dark-wood case, elegant Roman numerals, and a pair of gleaming brass pendulums. Growing up, I always thought of it as the Clock of Justice.

  Now every tick brought us closer to nine a.m.

  Here came a pair of Chief Eversman’s newly recruited deputies, leading in the defendants. Three White Raiders. No shackles, ropes, or handcuffs. The deputies chatted and laughed with the men as they led them to the defense table.

  And then the great Maxwell Hayes Lewis strode from the back of the room to greet the Raiders and shake their hands so that everyone in the courtroom could see how normal, how average and amiable, these men were. After a moment’s discussion the defendants turned to look at our table. They looked back at each other and grinned. The sight of Jonah, L.J., and me seemed to amuse them greatly.

  The bailiff entered with a solemn expression, carrying the heavy cast-iron imprinting seal, which he placed at the right end of my father’s bench. This was the seal he would use to mark evidence as it was admitted.

  “All rise,” the bailiff called. “The court is now in session, the Honorable Everett J. Corbett presiding.”

  Daddy’s big entrance was always a highlight. Here he came through the door at stage left, his hair gleaming with brilliantine, his silky black robe pressed to perfection by Dabney.

  He lifted the heavy mahogany gavel. I was surprised to see him using the gavel I had sent him on his sixtieth birthday, since I had never received a thank-you note.

  He brought the gavel down with a thunderous bang.

  “There will be order!” he commanded. “There will be silence! There will be justice!”

  Chapter 98

  NOW TO PICK A JURY.

  That summer had been one of the hottest on record. It seemed to me that God had saved up all the excess heat and humidity in the world and brought it down upon Eudora today. It was already so hot in the courtroom that the hand fans were flapping like a flock of restless birds.

  Judge Corbett had evidently taken measures to spruce up the courtroom for the national press, who were allowed inside between sessions to gather scraps of news. He had ordered all the spectator benches and tables and chairs sanded and revarnished, and indeed they all gleamed as if brand-new. But the new varnish turned soft and sticky in the heat and gave off fumes that set heads spinning. I breathed the sweetish, medicinal smell; the seat of my trousers stuck to my chair.

  This was going to be a very long day.

  I saw at once that Judge Corbett still ran an efficient courtroom. It took only ten minutes for the first three candidates to be interviewed, approved, and seated in the jury box: three middle-aged white men.

  Jonah made little fuss over any of them. I assumed he was saving his objections for an occasion when they might prove persuasive.

  It didn’t take long.

  The clerk read a name from the list: “Patton William Taylor.”

  Chapter 99

  FROM THE FRONT ROW rose a mousy little man commonly known as Patsy-Boy Taylor. I knew him as a helper of Lyman Tripp, the undertaker in whose wagon I had ridden to the Klan meeting at Scully’s barn.

  I scribbled a note and passed it to Jonah.

  Taylor served time in La. State Prison for assault of Negro girl. Believe he broke her leg.

  Jonah scanned the note, nodding. It was his turn to question the prospective juror first.

  “Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” he said. “Tell me, sir, have you ever been to Louisiana?”

  “Once or twice,” said Patsy-Boy.

  “How about the town of Angola? Ever been there?”

  The man frowned. “I reckon I have.”

  “And how long was your most recent stay in Angola, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Perhaps I can help refresh your memory, sir,” Jonah said. “Mr. Taylor, did you recently finish a five-month term in the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola?”

  “I might’ve,” said Taylor. “I can’t quite remember.”

  “Your Honor, if it please the court, could you direct Mr. Taylor to answer my question?”

  The ice in my father’s water pitcher had melted away, but there was plenty of it in his voice. “He did answer, Mr. Curtis,” he said. “He said that he couldn’t quite remember.”

  “Your Honor, with all due respect, I don’t believe—”

  “Your beliefs are of no interest to me, Mr. Curtis,” my father said. He turned to the defense table. “Mr. Lewis, do you have any objection to this gentleman sitting on this jury?”

  “None whatsoever, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Taylor will be sworn in to serve,” my father said. The gavel came down.

  By reflex L.J. and I came up off our chairs. I can’t say I couldn’t believe what had just happened, probably because I’d watched justice being meted out in Mississippi for too long. But still.

  “I most strenuously object, Your Honor,” Jonah said in a loud voice.

  A young colored woman in the gallery called out, “That ain’t justice!”

  My father pointed his gavel at her. “Contempt of court. Ten days in jail and a dollar fine. Get her out of here!”

  Two of Phineas’s deputies ran to do his bidding. Everyone heard the woman’s noisy protest as he dragged her down the stairs.

  Meanwhile, my fa
ther’s attention was seemingly riveted by the sight of a fly trapped in the soft varnish of his bench. The insect was hopelessly stuck, its wings buzzing. The judge closed his thumb and forefinger on the fly, plucked it up, and placed it in the center of his desk.

  Bang! He brought his gavel down on that fly.

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Curtis,” he said. “Let me explain something to you. I would advise you to listen, and listen well. I am in charge of this courtroom. Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jonah replied.

  “What did I say?” My father’s voice was deadly calm. “Repeat it for me, please.”

  “You are in charge of this courtroom, Your Honor.”

  “You’re damn right I am. Now, you may object to Counselor Lewis’s comments. He is your opponent; he represents the defense. But you may not ever—ever—object to something I have said. For any reason.”

  The only sound in the courtroom was the ticking of the clock and the hum of the ceiling fans.

  “Thank you, Mr. Curtis. And tell those two clowns you brought with you to sit themselves down, or I’ll have them removed from my courtroom.”

  The trial of the new century—the proceedings known as the State of Mississippi v. Madden, North, and Stephens—was officially under way.

  Chapter 100

  THERE THEY SAT, three White Raiders facing a jury of their peers.

  It was a true statement in every way. Once Judge Everett Corbett cut off all objections from our side, he quickly empaneled a jury of twelve middle-aged white men who looked just like the men they would be called upon to judge.

  “We have a jury,” the judge announced, “and so we will proceed to trial. Is the prosecution prepared to begin in the morning?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Jonah said.

  “And I’m sure the defense is ready.”

  “Defense is certainly ready, Your Honor,” said Maxwell Hayes Lewis.

  “Then without further ado—” my father began.

  Jonah Curtis stood up and dared to interrupt him again.

  “Your Honor, begging the court’s pardon, I feel compelled to state for the record that the prosecution has not seen a fair and representative jury selection here today.”

  My father’s voice was dangerously soft. “All right. I have warned you, Mr. Curtis, and I will not warn you again. I am in charge of this trial. I am in charge of this courtroom. I have ruled that this jury is fit to serve.”

  “But Your Honor—”

  Suddenly my father rose up and bellowed, “And I will not warn you again! Try me, my friend! Just try me once more! Challenge my jurisdiction again, and I will declare a mistrial here and summarily dismiss all the charges. Which, I remind you, is within my power.”

  My father turned on his heel and swept out of the room. I knew the drill: he would walk straight into his office and pull off his robe. His clothes would be damp with sweat. I pictured him settling into his swivel chair in that office lined with law books, oak filing cabinets, diplomas, and certificates of appreciation. On his desk he permitted himself one personal touch: the sad-beautiful honeymoon photograph of him and Mama, arm in arm on the boardwalk at Biloxi.

  While the defendants stood shooting the breeze with their jailers, Lewis took a detour by our table.

  “I guess they didn’t teach y’all everything up in those Ivy League law schools,” he said. “Down here, we believe the first responsibility of a good criminal attorney is to make friends with the judge.”

  “Oh, they tried to teach us that,” Jonah said. “I guess I just didn’t do a good job of learning it.”

  “Me either,” I said. “And I’ve had decades of practice with the man.”

  Loophole Lewis chuckled genially and brought out a couple of cigars from an inside pocket. “May I offer you boys a Partagás? Best quality, fresh off the boat from Havana. I’m sure you enjoyed a few of these fellows when you were down in Cuba, Ben.”

  “No, sir,” I said mildly. “We didn’t have much time for smoking cigars.” I was about to say more when I saw Conrad Cosgrove pushing into the courtroom through the crowd.

  “Mr. Corbett,” he said. “A messenger brought this to the house. I figured you’d want to see it right away.”

  Conrad handed over a small envelope.

  On the front, in an elegant hand, were the words BENJAMIN CORBETT, PERSONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

  The words engraved on the back flap were just as simple: THE WHITE HOUSE.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” I said. I didn’t wait for an answer.

  Chapter 101

  AS I WALKED down the courthouse steps, a reporter from the New Orleans Item took my elbow to ask how I thought the first day had gone.

  “Exactly as expected,” I said. “Justice will be served here.” I took my arm back and kept walking.

  I followed the cinder path around the side of the building. The giant oak trees in the square provided the only real shade in the center of town. I felt twenty degrees cooler the moment I stepped under their branches and took a seat on a bench.

  I sliced the edge of the envelope with my fingernail. Inside was a single typewritten sheet on gold-embossed White House stationery.

  Dear Capt. Corbett,

  The eyes of America are upon you, and upon the proceedings in Eudora. I can assure you that with my own (four) eyes I am personally watching you and the trial at every moment.

  I know you will continue to do your best, and I know that you will succeed in this endeavor, as we succeeded together during the late War.

  Ben, know that your president is with you every inch of the way.

  Sincerely yours, I remain

  Your obt. servant,

  Theodore Roosevelt, Pres’t.

  I smiled at the president’s little joke about his “four eyes,” but when I realized the meaning of his subsequent words, my stomach took a nervous dive. As if I didn’t have enough tension to deal with, now the president of the United States was “personally watching” me “at every moment.”

  I read the letter again and put it back in the envelope.

  A voice called, “Mr. Corbett, sir.”

  I looked to both sides and saw no one.

  Again the voice: “Mr. Corbett? Over here, sir, behind you.”

  Chapter 102

  I TURNED AROUND QUICKLY to find a tall, slender colored man standing on the sidewalk. He was perhaps ten years older than me and beautifully dressed, down to the club scarf in his pocket and the jeweled pin in his necktie.

  “May I have a word with you for a moment, sir?” he asked.

  “Well, of course,” I said. “Come have a seat.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Corbett, I can’t. That park is White Only.”

  I had forgotten—or maybe I’d never realized—that the old wooden benches, the little fountain, the shade of the big old eudoras, all were reserved for the exclusive use of white Eudora.

  I walked across the grass to the man and extended my hand. “Ben Corbett.”

  “I’m a correspondent for the Indianapolis Cross,” he said.

  “Ah yes,” I said. “I’ve read your paper. Y’all have published some of the best general reports I’ve seen on the question of lynching.”

  “Why, thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m honored that you’ve heard of us.”

  “Welcome to Eudora,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s not my first time,” he said. “I grew up in Eudora.”

  I looked at him harder. I rattled around in my memory, but I couldn’t place where I had seen him before.

  “I used to work for Mr. Jenkins at the mercantile store,” he said.

  All at once I knew him.

  I said. “Is that—Marcus? Is that you?”

  His eyes lit up. “You remember me?”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll ever forget you, Marcus,” I said.

  I reached out my arms and embraced him. He was surprised, but he let me do it, and even patted me on the back.

&nb
sp; “You were the only one who helped my mother,” I said. “You helped me get her to Dr. Frederick. If you hadn’t, she might have died.”

  Marcus told me that his family had left Eudora for the Midwest not long after the time of Mama’s stroke. They wound up in central Indiana, where his father worked for a cattle farmer. Marcus went on to study English at the Negro teachers college in Gary and had landed a job with the largest colored newspaper in the state.

  And now, he said, he had convinced his editors to send him to Mississippi to cover the White Raiders Trial because he had a personal interest in one of the defendants. “Henry North,” he said. “I knew him. You did, too.”

  “I did?”

  Marcus said, “Do you remember that redheaded boy that worked with me at Jenkins’ Mercantile? He helped us carry your mama out that day. That boy is Henry North.”

  Sure, I remembered the loutish boy. He was thin and raw-boned in those days. He had said Mama was drunk, to leave her where she lay.

  “I remember the day your mama took sick,” Marcus said, “like it was yesterday. You weren’t more than about seven years old, but you acted like a grown man. You answered old Sanders back like he deserved. And you helped me carry her to the doc. I always knew you were going to turn into a fine man.”

  I was speechless. Marcus’s words made me feel humble. The truth was that after years of remembering Marcus’s example every day, as my mother had told me to do, I hadn’t thought about him in quite a while.

  “I’ve paid close attention to your law career, Mr. Corbett—helping people up in Washington, helping wherever you can. When I saw how you were turning out, I tell you, it gave me a little hope along the way.”

  Seeing Marcus again, hearing him speak like this, gave me a transfusion of energy. As if I’d just received new blood, a whole body’s worth of it.

  Without knowing it, I had given Marcus “a little hope along the way.”

  And now Marcus had given me hope for the difficult murder trial that lay ahead.