Partners

17.

Against this backdrop, two hundred prospective jurors appeared as summoned to the Old Courthouse on a rainy Monday morning. Disregarding the weather, a boisterous crowd of protesters, almost all black, marched and made noise on the sidewalks around the building. Their banners demanded justice, freedom for Tee Ray, an end to the police state, and so on.

Because of his seniority, the Honorable Owen Schofield held court on the second floor of the Old Courthouse, in the grandest room of all. It had rows of cushioned seating for the spectators and soaring portraits of dead judges, all serious white men. It had thick marble columns behind His Honor’s bench and an elegant balcony with a hundred padded chairs. And on this day it also had an entire squad of uniformed bailiffs directing traffic. There was some jostling over seating. The reporters, typically, got in the way and demanded access. Two were shown the door. Schofield did not allow cameras in his courtroom, and he would have banned all manner of press if he’d been able. It took the bailiffs two hours to seat the pool of jurors, inspect their paperwork, and keep the reporters in their corner.

While this was going on, Judge Schofield met with the lawyers in chambers to iron out their current difficulties. Max Mancini was demanding another continuance. More time was needed to find Keith Knoxel. The search was only a month old, and until there was a body, dead or alive, it simply wasn’t fair to proceed without the State’s star witness. The FBI was involved. There may have been a sighting in Canada. His wife was clinging to hope.

Nonsense, argued Sebastian Rudd. He’s dead and they’ll never find his body. There’s not one speck of evidence indicating Knoxel ran away; therefore, he got snatched by some nasty types while poking around Little Angola, no doubt looking for his dear Jane Doe, and they probably slit his throat and tossed him in the river. With concrete boots.

The ace was up Sebastian’s sleeve, not Mancini’s. The defendant was entitled to a speedy trial, so speedy that if he so chose he could force the State to pick a jury 120 days after indictment. That was twelve months ago, and Sebastian had agreed to a few continuances because he needed the extra time. Now, though, he was ready and he wanted a trial.

For a while Sebastian had toyed with the idea of agreeing with Mancini. There was a strategic reason for wanting Knoxel on the stand. If Sebastian could humiliate him, expose his lies and infidelities, he could crush the State’s case. Ripping Knoxel in front of the jury, and for the benefit of the front page, would be an intense, dramatic moment, and Sebastian hated to miss it. In the end, though, he convinced himself that his client’s defense was far better off with Knoxel out of the picture.

Sebastian suspected there was yet another factor in play, though it was not mentioned. When he read the affidavits of John and Jane Doe, Judge Schofield was skeptical of Knoxel’s version of events. It seemed unlikely that the two witnesses, one a hooker and one a crackhead, could tell the same basic story. In his thirty years on the bench, Schofield had heard plenty of false testimony by the police and was wary of them on the witness stand. He found Knoxel’s narrative a bit too convenient, too pat. Buck Lester fired four shots, then somehow dropped his gun, giving a wounded Thomas Cardell a split second to shoot him in the head.

Schofield’s doubts led to his ruling that Jane and John could testify.

The lawyers argued and the judge listened but did not change his plans. No more continuances.