contributions to Mississippi’s economy: letters from John Stennis and Jim Eastland (both deceased), Trent Lott, Mike Espy, and five former governors.
“What we have here,” Sims concludes-giving me a theatrical look of disdain-“is an irresponsible and sensational attack carried out by a man who has had a personal vendetta against my client for more than twenty years. Before this trial is over, you will understand why. And I want you people to know something else. The money involved in this case is of secondary importance to my client. What he wants, and what he deserves, is the vindication of his good name.” Sims fold his hands with the apparent probity of a deacon. “But if you good people should see fit to teach Mr. Cage a moral lesson about the price of such irresponsible action, so be it. We leave that to you. Thank you.”
Sims is unable to conceal his self-satisfaction as he takes his seat, but if he was hoping for congratulations from his client or co-counsel, he is disappointed. Leo stares sullenly ahead like a truck driver in the eleventh hour of a drive, while Livy sits with the cool composure of a pinch hitter waiting to be called to the plate.
In the restless silence of the crowd, I rise from my table and walk slowly toward the jury box. Their faces are expectant, as they always are at the beginning of a trial. Before boredom has set in. Before resentment against vain attorneys who love to hear themselves talk has settled in their veins. I lay my hands on the rail and speak directly to them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Penn Cage. I am a writer. Before I wrote books, I was a prosecuting attorney. I spent every day of my life putting violent criminals behind bars. I put more than a few on death row.
“I was born and raised right here in Natchez, but like a lot of our young people, I had to move away to earn my living.”
Several jurors nod their heads, probably those with adult children.
“I earned that living as a prosecutor in Houston, Texas. Now, if you were to go to Texas and ask about Penn Cage, you might find some people willing to speak ill of him. If you went to the penitentiary at Huntsville, you’d find a lot of them.”
General laughter from the gallery.
“What you would not find is a single person who would describe me with the word Mr. Sims just used. Irresponsible. Because when you are prosecuting murderers and asking for the death penalty, irresponsibility is not a weakness you can afford. It’s not a trait that my former boss, the district attorney of Harris County, would tolerate for one minute. Folks, you are looking at a man who says what he means, and means what he says.”
From the rapt faces of the jury, I can see that I haven’t lost the old touch. It’s a good feeling, like climbing onto a horse after ten years away and feeling him respond without a moment’s hesitation. It’s a pity that I have no case.
“When I called Leo Marston a murderer,” I say evenly, “I meant it. Together with a brutal and crooked cop named Ray Presley, Leo Marston engineered the death of a young father, army veteran, and civil rights worker named Delano Payton. And contrary to what Mr. Sims suggested-and what the citizens of our town have believed for thirty years-that murder had nothing to do with civil rights. No, Leo Marston had Del Payton killed for profit.” I glance back at Livy, but she refuses to look at me. “The same reason he does everything else. And despite what Mr. Sims told you, money is never of secondary importance to Leo Marston.
“Mr. Sims also mentioned the term ‘circumstantial evidence’ in a rather derogatory tone. After all the television lawyers we’ve seen, a misconception has grown up that circumstantial evidence is somehow inherently weak. But that is simply not true. Circumstantial evidence is merely indirect evidence. Let’s say a woman is shot to death at midnight with a thirty-eight caliber pistol. When the police arrive, they learn from one neighbor that the woman and her husband were in the middle of a messy divorce, and from another that the husband sped away from the house at five past midnight. The next day the police discover that the husband has a thirty-eight revolver registered in his name. Everything I just told you is circumstantial evidence. But I think a pretty clear picture of what happened is emerging in your minds. I’m not saying it’s conclusive evidence. I’m saying this is evidence that cannot be ignored.”
More nods from the jury, especially from the women.
“Mr. Sims asked what a man’s name is worth. I’ll tell you.” I turn and point at Leo, the man who acted with such shocking dispatch last night. His blue-gray eyes burn with the subzero cold of liquid nitrogen. “After this trial that man’s name won’t be worth the price of a cup of coffee. He ordered one of the most terrible crimes in the history of this city, and by so doing stained the name of Natchez, Mississippi, for thirty years. And with the help of J. Edgar Hoover, he sabotaged the investigation that followed that crime. The cold-blooded details of this premeditated murder will sicken you, just as they did me. But you must hear them. For the time has come to remove the bloody stain from the name of our fair city. Thank you.”
The jury seems a bit flabbergasted by the passion of my indictment, but it’s been my experience that juries like passion-to a point. And in my present situation, passion is better than nothing.
When Blake Sims rises to present his case, he does just as he promised: he ignores the question of damage to Leo’s reputation. He accomplishes this by a neat reversal, calling three character witnesses whose combined testimony is designed to canonize his client, making the image of Leo Marston as a cold-blooded murderer one that jurors will feel guilty for even entertaining.
The first is Governor Nunn Harkness, a Republican with a two-fisted, shoot-from-the-hip style that has won him two terms despite his methodical gutting of social programs. Playing to the balcony TV cameras, Harkness praises Leo to the skies, lauding his success in bringing industry and gaming to Mississippi, and lamenting that, while Marston is a bit too liberal on issues like affirmative action, he is morally beyond reproach. It’s a pitch-perfect performance by a master, and the jury is visibly impressed. When Sims tenders the governor to me for cross- examination, I don’t ask a single question. Best to get Nunn Harkness offstage as soon as possible.
Sims’s second character witness is Thomas O’Malley, bishop of the Catholic diocese of Jackson. Once the priest of St. Mary Cathedral in Natchez, O’Malley has moved up the hierarchy. For fifteen minutes he waxes poetic about the multitudes of poor children whose Christmases Leo Marston brightened with toys. Then he moves on to the church itself. To hear O’Malley tell it, Leo single-handedly restored the cathedral to its present splendor, donating over half a million dollars to the restoration effort. As the bishop speaks, I am reminded of Michael Corleone being honored by the pope in The Godfather III. I shudder to think what sins O’Malley must have heard Leo confess during his years as a priest in Natchez, but none of that will ever pass the bishop’s lips. When Sims tenders O’Malley to me, I let him go without a word. Unless you’re dealing with questions of sexual molestation or mismanagement of funds, a Catholic bishop is bulletproof.
Sims’s third witness is another matter. As Bishop O’Malley leaves the courtroom, pausing in the aisle to shake the hands of a half dozen former parishioners, Sims calls FBI Director John Portman.
Portman enters the courtroom with two bodyguards, who take up posts at the door as their master walks up the aisle. Lean, tanned, perfectly coiffed, and attired in a dark blue suit, the FBI director is clearly accustomed to television. He ascends to the witness box with the air of a medical expert about to hold forth on matters beyond the understanding of a lay audience.
This time it is not Blake Sims but Livy who rises from the plaintiff’s table and approaches the box. Judge Franklin gives Sims a questioning look, but Sims says nothing.
“You will be handling this witness, Ms. Sutter?” asks Franklin, using Livy’s legal surname.
“With the court’s permission, Your Honor.”
Franklin turns to me. “Any objection, counselor?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Livy walks past the podium and up to the witness box. Though Portman is much older than she, both emanate a sense of confidence and ease to which lesser mortals should not begin to aspire.
“Mr. Portman, what is your current position?” she asks.
“I’m the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI.”
“Do you know the plaintiff in this case?”
“I do. I’ve known Leo Marston for thirty years.”
“How did you meet?”
Portman purses his lips like he’s thinking back. “Leo was the district attorney in Natchez in 1968. I was serving here as an FBI field agent at that time, investigating the death of Delano Payton. Mr. Marston gave the Bureau valuable assistance during that investigation.”
