“Oh I like
it fine,” he said. “I don’t get out much—gives me a chance to get away from
work and do something useful.”
“Tell you
the truth,” the other man said. “I’d rather be fishing.”
They both
laughed. Clyde eyed the man. He was trim and well-dressed. His suit was cheap
but new and the man was clean-shaven and short-haired. Clyde saw the Service
Pin in the man’s lapel. “You been in the service?” he asked.
“Seventy-ninth
Infantry. Landed at
“First time. Hope it’s the last,”
the other said.
“Oh, I’ve been here before,”
“This your first murder case?”
“Yep, and I understand it’s an open
and shut affair.”
“Open and shut. That’s what I
hear.”
Just then, the bailiff walked
through the door and announced that it was time for the trial and asked if
anyone had any questions.
“Will they feed us dinner?” asked a
thin young man with a large Adam’s apple.
“We may be through before noon even
gets here,” the bailiff laughed and said.
“Shucks,” I’m already hungry,” the
man said to a ripple of laughter from the group.
The jury filed out and
The crowd was small, basically
divided into two groups of five or so each.
As had been predicted, it appeared
to be a simple affair, a case of a tragic set of circumstances and a youthful
and horrible lapse of judgment. There was first a bar, where a young married
man should never have been in the first place. Then there was an argument over
something so silly and meaningless as to almost make the jury laugh. There were
threats and, later, after feelings should have cooled, there was violence on a
man who was walking home alone. Through
the morning, there was enough evidence and testimony to convince any juror that
the defendant had caused the death of an innocent man.
The only balancing weight would be
the sincerity of the youthful defendant when it came time for him to testify.
Though he swore his innocence, he had no way of proving it. The jury watched
without emotion as the prosecutor destroyed, one by one, his protests.
Then it was noon and the Jury was
escorted to a local diner to be fed. They were instructed not to talk about the
case until they returned but there were few who didn’t whisper about the scope
of the tragedy.
Clyde sat next to the man with whom
he had talked earlier.
“There ain’t a thing outside a
man’s family that ought to concern him,”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” the
other man said. “I don’t much care for being on a jury.”
“I reckon. I’ve just had enough of
duty to last me awhile.” The man rose and headed outside to take the air.
After lunch the attorney in the
wrinkled suit questioned two people that had been in the bar when the argument
started. He seemed to be building up a case that the defendant had been goaded
beyond some human breaking point. Then he produced a short parade of witnesses
who swore to the goodness and honesty of the defendant.
After that, each lawyer gave a
speech, both of which the jurors seemed to find boring, and it was over.
Back in the jury room, the heat was
intense and none of the jurors seemed energetic about discussing what they had
just heard. Most of the conversation centered on the tragic waste and the role
of circumstances in a person’s life. On the first vote they, one and all, found
the man guilty of murder. It was second-degree murder, but still murder, and
the jurors were solemn as they waited for their decision to be delivered to the
Judge.
Clyde didn’t look at the defendant
when he was seated again in the jury box. He and the other jurors stared at the
judge without moving. It was now late in the afternoon and time for them to go
home, having done their duty in the only way possible.
Shortly, the ceremony was over. The
jury foreman announced the verdict. The defendant declined to speak, simply
lowering his head and waiting for the announcement. The judge handed it down
and two bailiffs appeared from nowhere to handcuff the prisoner. The judged
thanked the jurors and dismissed them.
It was just a sound but one like he
had never heard. Vicious and unreal, it pushed him back into his chair. He
almost threw his hands to his ears but this wouldn’t have stopped it. Nothing
would have. He turned toward the back of the room, jerking his head like the
first movement of an animal in danger.
From the crowd a woman was
screaming. High and piercing, it was first just a sound of anguish torn from an
unimaginable depth of feeling like someone had punched a hole in a pressurized
tank. Then it formed along “Nooooooooo…” A quick breath and then again, “No,
no, please God no.” The sounds tore past Clyde like winds in a storm.
They were from a woman dressed in a
shabby, floral-patterned dress. She was thin and wore a pair of glasses that
dominated her face. She kept screaming and tried to move toward the prisoner,
but she was being held by the group of people who had sat with her during the trial.
“Oh God… don’t let them take him,”
she screamed again, trying to break loose. They held her, though, and her
screaming turned to wet sobs as arms closed around her.
The arms
didn’t stop a boy of about five years of age.
He tore from the group and, vaulting a low partition, raced to where the
prisoner stood and wrapped his arms around one leg.
“Daddy,
daddy,” he yelled. The sound echoed from ceiling to wall to be strengthened and
spun by the ceiling fans. “Please don’t take my daddy. Please, please!”
He sobbed
into the khakis of the prisoner who stared at him with surprise. The entire
courtroom stopped. Even the judge had turned to see what was happening.
One of the
bailiffs who had been holding the prisoner’s arm let go and said to him, “Don’t
move.” He moved around the man and began pulling the boy loose.
“Oh daddy,
don’t, don’t, daddy don’t,” the boy said. The bailiff wrenched him free from
the man’s legs and dragged him backwards, the little arms flailing in circles
like the blades of a windmill, as if he might generate enough wind to free him.
“Daddy,
daddy,” he sobbed. His entire head had turned red and tears flowed through the
redness and then were slung away as he shook his head from side to side to
emphasis the “No, no” he voiced. His cries joined those of the woman to form a
sound that flooded the room. “Don’t take
our daddy,” the woman yelled, but the strength was going from her. There was a rough
sound as the bailiff and another man, each holding an arm, dragged the young
boy backwards along the hardwood floor with the heels of a ragged pair of
brogans scraping the floor.
Through it
all, the prisoner had not moved, nor had the judge or the jurors. They all
watched the scene as if it were occurring in some strange theatrical performance.
They kept watching as the woman and boy were led from the room, their faces
still turned toward the prisoner and still entreating someone—the judge, the
jury, the bailiffs, maybe God himself. It was a general and non-directed plea
for mercy.
Then the
courtroom was quiet again. No one moved for what seemed like minutes. Then the
bailiffs began leading the prisoner toward the side door. Just when the jurors
thought the spectacle might be over, the young prisoner broke the silence with
a series of hoarse and guttural sobs that sounded as if they were erupting from
Hell itself. It was as if the shaking of his body might cause the entire
building to fall.
“Come on
now,” a bailiff said. “Don’t let these folks see you like this.” The man tried
to nod but the sobs conquered him. They led him from the room in that state.
Now the
jurors stirred, as if they belonged to one great organism, and filed from their
seats. As they moved toward the door,
“Maybe I’ll
see you again some day… at another trial.”
“Never,” he
said. “Not me, never again. No… not ever.”
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