is really the victim, regardless of the crime. Who will believe that a black psychologist was the victim in this case when Jill Marymount waves a cattle prod at the jury? Given the identity of the municipal court judge, old Tom Bruton, the outcome of Monday’s probable cause hearing is al ready a foregone conclusion. I have decided against giving Jill even a whiff of our case and will not crossexamine her expert witness. Warren Holditch, who will testify that Andy should never have attempted shock. Had Darwin Bell, who is black, not felt obliged to recuse himself, the probable cause hearing might be Andy’s best shot at an acquittal, and I would be working nonstop on the case now. Since I know this case will get to a jury, I have resisted the temptation to rush the process and will begin to conduct my investigation after I hear their witnesses at the probable cause hearing Monday. I wander over to the refrigerator to see what kind of lunch I can throw together.
One slice of lunch meat, a jar of reduced-calorie mayonnaise. Almost bare bones, like Andy’s defense so far. Four days isn’t enough time to find an expert who will testify how wonderful shock is. I close the refrigerator door, realizing I can’t go to the store until Sarah comes back with the car. Monday will be a long day. So what else is new?
9
When I was a public defender, even I managed to dress better than my clients, but in private practice I am expected to look better-dressed than I do today: a blue pin striped summer suit that fits as though I stopped at Pinehearst Cemetery on the way downtown and robbed the freshest grave I could find. It has shrunk, but I have not. Not without a trace of envy, I glance at my client. White linen suits on black males historically have a way of arousing my suspicions. In eastern Arkansas, where I grew up, a black man who put on a suit that wasn’t the color of midnight was assumed to be up to no good. Hoping to spruce up my ward robe this spring, I tried on a white suit at Dillard’s that made me look like Moby Dick. It was just as well. Five hundred dollars goes a lot further at Sears. In contrast to his lawyer’s ill-fitting attire, Andy’s suit looks tailored. Where in the world is he getting his money? If Jill Marymount asks Olivia this question, I will object like hell. Maybe I am wrong, but I did not believe Andy when I asked him earlier this morning.
Despite the withering look he gave me, I think he cannot admit that Olivia has agreed to subsidize him. I think, too, that there is at least a good chance they are having an affair.
As we walked into the courtroom this morning, I caught an agonized look before she realized I was watching her. It seems odd to me that there are far fewer interracial liaisons today than in the days of slavery, but perhaps it is not so strange now that I think about it. Before the Civil War, black women had no choice in the matter, and today desirable eligible black men are so scarce a white woman would have to risk censure not only from white men but also from black women.
I turn and look over my shoulder at my daughter, who, to my great surprise, asked if she could come down to watch.
Never before has she showed the slightest interest in seeing her old man leave the house except to take her somewhere, but she has heard that during the second half of Governor’s School a mock trial is part of the curriculum. Hardly an original idea, but to a teacher it must sound good. Surely the national fascination with lawyers will fade when TV moves on to something else. The only thing it hasn’t done, and it’s surely only a matter of time, is a program called “Bankruptcy Court.” Sarah gives me an embarrassed nod, but she can’t very well pretend I’m not in the same room with her today. She is sitting by an old woman in the second row, and wearing a yellow sundress that had prisoners riding up in the elevator with us rattling their chains. The media are out in full force for the hearing, and I wouldn’t put it past one of the males to find out that Sarah is my daughter and try to interview her. I suspect she is the best-looking young woman in this courtroom in a long time. Beautiful people don’t make many appearances in municipal court.
Taking a beating in court isn’t my idea of fun, but Andy needed little convincing that we have no chance in front of Bruton. We could have waived the probable cause hearing, but I wanted to see and hear Warren Holditch and Jill’s other witnesses testify and perhaps do a little discovery as well.
Holditch is most of Jill’s case today, though I suspect that for the main event she will have lined up more than one expert to hammer home the point that Andy knew he didn’t have any business trying shock on Pam.
Jill and Kerr Bowman walk in together. I almost expect him to be carrying her briefcase, but his hands are empty except for a yellow legal pad, as if she doesn’t even trust him to lug her stuff around for her. Jill, trailed by Kerr, comes by the table, and I feel forced to make introductions. I say snidely, “Dr. Chapman, this is the woman who is prosecuting you, Jill Marymount.”
Graciously, Andy has risen to his feet (I wouldn’t have if I were in his shoes, and rudely I remain seated). Jill has the nerve to extend her hand as if she is out campaigning for votes.
“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Dr.
Chapman,” she purrs. “Believe it or not, I ‘m aware of what I’m putting you through.”
The hypocrisy of such a statement makes me want to puke, but Andy nods deferentially as if she were a dignitary who had thoughtfully stopped on the street to offer condolences on the death of an aged parent. Kerr, behind her, has to clear his throat to be acknowledged, but I let Jill introduce her own flunky. As he and Andy go through the same charade of civility, I notice Jill looks untypically feminine. Usually, female attorneys have their own battle dress-suits and high-buttoned blouses that make them look as formal and forbidding as their male counterparts-but today Jill is wearing a beige silk blouse over a red skirt that might be more appropriate for lunch at the Blackwell County Country Club. She has deliberately dressed this way for Judge Bruton, I realize.
The old bastard hates woman lawyers and once sent home a woman who dared to show up in his courtroom in pants. If Jill has to play a part to get along with him, she will gladly do so.
Jill’s first witness is Leon Robinson, the technician who was trying to restrain Pam when she grabbed the prod. Leon, in his twenties, is hard for me to figure. I have talked to him briefly over the phone, but he seems to have a streak of bitterness in him toward Andy that extends beyond getting him involved in this mess. Had he been able to keep Pam’s arms pinned, as directed, none of us would be here today. Undoubtedly, he feels guilt and is defensive about his role in this tragedy. Leon is pure country. With sideburns and an inky pompadour he reminds me ofConway Twitty, the country singer who, legend has it, took for his first name the town where Sarah is attending Governor’s School. He is wearing a blue work shirt stufled into faded jeans that are, in turn, jammed into cream-colored cowboy boots. Despite a washed-out junk-food look (too many years on the road), he walks with an ex-athlete’s grace. In a low, sullen voice, he relates how Andy asked him to help with Pam the day before.
He hadn’t really known what was going to happen. All he was told was that they were going to try something new to keep Pam from hurting herself. Andy leans over and whispers to me that he had shown Leon the cattle prod and had told him exactly what would happen. So what, I think glumly.
Andy should never have asked him to get involved in the first place.
It comes out that Leon had become quite attached to Pam.
When she was in restraints, which was most of the time, he fed her, talked to her, even brought his jam box to work to entertain her. None of this is relevant, but it occurs to me that he has insisted that he be allowed to say this before he testifies about how she died. Despite Bruton’s look of impatience (what does this boy’s feelings have to do with the case?), Jill lets him run.
“I went to her funeral,” he says, finally winding down.
“If I had known how bad it was gonna hurt, I would of realized how hard she was gonna try to get away.”
I could be objecting to this, but I want Leon to commit himself to the best memory of Pam he can muster. At the trial I want a jury to see that Pam meant a great deal to the people who worked with her. This wasn’t an experiment on a mannequin. Pam was real, somebody to help if you could.
And you didn’t have to be her mother to think that way.
Finally, he gets to the actual event, which, because of the emotion in his voice, brings me and Andy, I notice, to the edge of our seats. Dr. Chapman told him to take Pam into the treatment room with the one-way mirror. He didn’t even see Yettie Lindsey, the social worker, or Mrs. Le Master until all hell broke loose. He talked to Pam until Dr. Chapman got there and then Dr. Chapman told him to remove her restraints, which he did. His face balled into a frown, he says, “She started hittin’ herself on the side of her face just like I knew she
