Partners

24.

Early Friday morning, the judge said hello to his jury and then explained that the defendant’s lawyer would now be allowed to make some opening remarks. Nothing the jury was about to hear was evidence; that came only from the witnesses.

Sebastian casually walked to the podium, offered a rare smile, and began, “There are two eyewitnesses, and you’re about to hear from both of them. One you might expect, because my client, Thomas Ray, wants to take the stand and tell what happened. He’s not afraid to face the prosecutor, his accuser. He’s not afraid to face anyone, because he acted in self-defense. This tragedy didn’t have to happen, and he will describe to you why and how it did happen. The other witness is a surprise. We didn’t know he existed until last week when he came forward. It takes a lot of courage to do what he’s about to do, and I think you’ll find his testimony compelling, and truthful.

“My client acted in self-defense, and now we’re going to prove it.”

He smiled again and sat down.

Judge Schofield told the jury he was about to do something he’d never done before. Not in his thirty years on the bench had he cleared the courtroom of all spectators. He would explain after they were gone. The bailiffs jumped into action and every member of the audience was shown the door. They were all confused; some were angry. The judge didn’t care. He excused everyone else who was not essential — extra clerks, nosy lawyers, even a janitor.

When the courtroom was secure, he told the jury that they were about to hear the testimony of a witness whose identity needed to be protected. Protected from whom, he didn’t say. He nodded to a bailiff, and from a side door a young man was led into the courtroom. He wore a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, large sunglasses, and a turtleneck sweater that appeared to be choking him. It would not have been humanly possible to appear any more nervous. The bailiff showed him the witness stand.

Judge Schofield said, “This witness will be known as Joe. That’s not his real name but it will do for now. I know his identity and I will enter it into the court record at a later date. Joe, please take your seat and be sworn in.”

Joe promised to tell the truth. Sebastian began with a few easy questions in an effort to calm the kid, but his twitching was relentless. Hiding behind the sunglasses, he first gave the impression of a witness who could never be trusted. Gradually, though, he settled down somewhat. He told his story, giving short answers to short questions. He and a friend were in Little Angola, where they had bought some crack earlier in the evening. His friend was driving, and drinking, and at one point Joe suggested they stop the car for their own safety. They parked on the street, Crump Street, and were listening to music, smoking crack, having a good time. The friend fell asleep. Joe was high but not as stoned as his friend. He saw the black man in a long brown coat walk by on the sidewalk and heard loud voices. The man fell to his knees, raised his hands as high as possible, and the other guy came into view. He was yelling and holding a pistol with both hands. While the black guy was on his knees, the white guy began firing, loud, booming shots that came quickly. The black guy screamed and the white guy yelled and Joe couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The black guy yelled “Shit!” when he got hit and grabbed his left arm. He began rolling toward another car that was parked in front of them. He grabbed something under his coat, yanked out a pistol, and fired two shots. The second one hit the white guy, who instantly grabbed his face and fell down. Within seconds, another white guy, one wearing jeans and a cap, jumped onto the sidewalk and began yelling at the black guy. He had a gun and for a second it looked as though he wanted to start shooting. When the gunfire stopped, Joe slid down even lower in his seat. He saw blue lights. His friend never woke up and missed it all. Everything happened so fast.

Sebastian paused and walked over to his table to allow the testimony to sink in. The jurors were mesmerized.

“Where do you work?” he asked.

“I’m a college student.”

“Thank you, Joe. Nothing further.”

Mancini bounced to his feet and roared, “Tell us, Joe, how long have you smoked crack?”

A shrug. “Maybe five years.”

“So you have a history of using drugs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any other drugs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which ones in particular?”

“I’ve tried everything. I have a problem, okay? It’s not something I’m proud of.”

Mancini struck gold when he asked about rehab. Slowly, he managed to extract the details about Joe’s rather incredible history of addiction and treatment. Joe withheld nothing and detailed everything he could remember. Again he admitted, “I have a problem, okay? I’m trying to get clean, but that doesn’t mean I’m not telling the truth.”

“How can you know the truth if you’d been smoking crack all night?”

“I wasn’t stoned, like my friend. I had not been drinking. I was high all right, but I know what I saw.”

Mancini harangued the kid on the differences between “stoned” and “high” but gained little. Joe’s honesty about his problems was disarming. He admitted more than once that he was an addict, but addicts can still see and hear. They can function. He was taking classes and making decent grades.

Mancini began repeating himself and gradually realized he was getting nowhere. He tossed his legal pad on his table in frustration and sat down. Judge Schofield allowed Joe to quickly exit through the same door he’d entered by. They adjourned early for lunch.