The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [124]
“Shawanda Jones is a prostitute and a heroin addict. She’s not present this morning because she’s sick; she’s suffering withdrawal. Judge Buford permitted me to make you aware of her illness so you would not hold her absence against her. If you remember, at jury selection, I asked only one thing from each of you, and that was to give Shawanda a fair shake.”
There was a time, not that long ago, when a black defendant could not get a fair shake in a Southern courtroom; when a complete stranger could walk in off the sidewalk and, without knowing anything about a case, instantly pick out the defendant, the only black person in the courtroom; when a jury of a black defendant’s “peers” would be white men. But the times had changed and so had the law. Scott now looked into the eyes of the black and brown and white men and women sitting in the jury box—the teacher, the mechanic, the nurse, the bartender, and the others—and wondered if they could be fair.
“You hold her life in your hands. Listen carefully. Think for yourself. Be fair.”
Dallas Police Officer Eddie Castille swore to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me God” and sat in the witness stand. Castille was in his midtwenties, Hispanic, a young cop eager to please, and still under the impression that he could make a difference on the streets of Dallas. He was the prosecution’s first witness. Ray Burns addressed him from the podium.
“Officer Castille, what is your position with the Dallas Police Department?”
“Patrol officer.”
“Were you patrolling the Harry Hines vicinity of Dallas on the afternoon of Sunday, June sixth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And during that patrol did you come upon an abandoned Mercedes-Benz?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please tell the jury what you did next.”
“I saw the vehicle parked on a side street and pulled up to it. We don’t generally see cars like that in the Harry Hines area, except at the strip joints. The vehicle was unoccupied, so I ran the plates. Dispatch came back, said it hadn’t been reported stolen, said it was registered to a Mack McCall.”
“As in Senator Mack McCall?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what dispatch said, but I didn’t know who that was.”
That brought light laughter from the courtroom and a self-deprecating shrug from the senator.
“And then what did you do?”
“The registration address was in Highland Park, so the duty sergeant said he would call Highland Park PD and have them go over to the residence.”
“And did that end your involvement with this case?”
“Yes, sir, other than waiting for the car to be towed to impound.”
“And what time was this?”
“Approximately one P.M.”
“Thank you, Officer Castille. No further questions.”
Judge Buford turned to Scott, who said, “No questions, Your Honor.”
“Mama, you okay?”
Instead of going out each day for lunch, the defense team had decided to eat lunch with the defendant. So they were now in the small bare conference room, eating the ham and cheese sandwiches the girls had made that morning. Scott pulled his coat off the chair back and wrapped it around Shawanda’s shoulders. His client was having chills again.
“Yeah, baby.”
“Why can’t you have your medicine?”
“Don’t know.”
“Mama, the jury people keep looking over at me.”
“That ’cause you so pretty.” She warmed and she said, “How the trial going, Mr. Fenney?”
“Nothing much this morning, Shawanda.”
“Mama, that Mr. Burns, he’s a little prick. He stood right up there and lied to those jury people. He told them you killed that McCall boy, just like he meant it.”
“He did, baby.”
After the lunch break, Ray Burns, the little prick, called Sergeant Roland James of the Highland Park Police Department as the prosecution’s second witness. Sergeant James was one of those middle-aged cops who had long ago made his peace with the fact that he wasn’t going to make a difference, so he would just ride out his shift until his pension kicked in. He testified that he had been on duty on the afternoon of Sunday, June