The Fence - Dick Lehr [117]
In his closing remarks to the Suffolk County jury on November 7, Bob Sheketoff said Lyle Jackson’s shooting was “spontaneous” and not a planned killing, or joint venture, as the prosecutor was claiming. Focusing on the lack of credibility of the lone witness against Smut, he portrayed Marcello Holliday as an intoxicated patron at Walaikum’s who couldn’t tell up from down. “Could he have had three or four beers, maybe a few more than that?” He reminded jurors that while Holliday accurately described the others’ garb, he got Smut’s wrong. “He couldn’t remember one single thing about my client, not one.” Most important, he returned to Holliday’s use of the word “whisper.” “That place was abuzz.” If Smut Brown said anything, how could Holliday have heard? “Did he say, ‘That’s one of them,’ or did he say, ‘I don’t want any?’” Or maybe ‘ “Sure, I’ll get you a hamburger?’” Sheketoff said Holliday could not make out normal conversation, never mind a whisper. “Don’t let some person who tried to tell you what a whisper was, whose testimony is contradicted by every other eyewitness in terms of the sequence of events, don’t let him convince you beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Sheketoff was feeling pretty good about his client’s chances. He didn’t think, however, it looked good for either Tiny or Marquis Evans. Both had taken the unusual step of testifying in their own defense. It was disastrous. Tiny’s demeanor, hard looks, and stutter worked against him. He said his brother and Boogie-Down walked ahead of him into the restaurant. He lost sight of them, and, seconds later, the shooting began. Tiny’s claim of complete ignorance was beyond belief. Marquis then testified his gun went off accidentally and just kept firing bullets on its own. Sheketoff, seated at the defense table, spotted a juror actually swivel in his chair to turn his back on Marquis. “Talk about someone who has stopped listening,” Sheketoff thought. “How more clearly can you express you don’t believe the witness?” In his closing, the prosecutor jumped all over Marquis’s claim of accidental shooting. “Did you believe anything he said?” he asked. “He just happens to have the loaded nine millimeter handgun in his hand. He starts spraying the ground, because he’s afraid. Is there a scintilla, a shred of truth to that? Even a shred? It’s pathetic. That testimony was pathetic. Of course, that’s for you to determine.”
Jurors decided it was indeed pathetic. They convicted Tiny and Marquis of first-degree murder, and the brothers were sentenced to life in prison without parole. The jury then acquitted Smut and Boogie-Down. Smut was hugely relieved—he’d gotten justice, but he also considered it rough justice. He understood the legal theory of joint venture and thought if that fit Tiny and Marquis, it fit Boogie-Down as well. But the government had nothing on Boogie-Down, and Boogie-Down was going home too.
Following the verdict, Smut turned in his seat and looked at his mother, his sisters, and Indira. His mother and Indira had come every day to the trial. Smut wore that signature smile of his—the curl that mixed mischief and deep relief. Ten minutes later he was a free man, embracing his mother in the hallway outside the courtroom. Then he swept up Indira. He thanked Bob Sheketoff. He had been behind bars for twenty-two months. The family rode the subway’s red line to Mattapan and celebrated Smut’s acquittal at Smut’s old haunt. The last time Smut was in Conway’s was the night Lyle was killed. Smut stayed for one drink; all he wanted was to go home and be with Indira and eight-year-old Shanae and five-yearold Robert Brown IV.
Sheketoff had something else on his mind. He’d just completed a murder trial with a bizarre side show—the unsolved Cox beating—featuring Boston cops testifying at cross purposes and contradicting one another. It stunk of a cover-up. Federal prosecutors, taking over the investigation, were looking to talk to Smut. Sheketoff was planning to encourage Smut to cooperate. In all his years, he’d never heard about such grotesque police