Missing Justice (21 page)

“I stuck Alice Gerstein with some last-minute custodies and told her I’d bring her back some lunch, so I better get a move on,” I said, explaining my abrupt departure.

“Don’t let Frist know you’re being so considerate,” she said. “Makes everyone else in the unit look even worse.”

I was happy to find the Mexican food cart parked outside the courthouse. I got fish tacos on corn tortillas for me and a chicken burrito for Alice, then climbed the stairs to the eighth floor to polish off my workout.

Alice accepted the bag with the burrito in it and thanked me. “Sorry to break this to you, but you’ve got another visitor.”

Still out of breath and in my sticky running gear, I was in no condition to have a meeting. “Who is it?” I asked.

“Melvin Jackson’s mother. She’s been here about twenty minutes.”

“Can you tell her to schedule an appointment? I’m a mess, and I have some work I need to do before the death penalty meeting on that case.”

“I’ll do it if you want me to,” Alice said, “but I can tell you right now it won’t be pretty. She threw a fit when I told her no one was here to talk to her. We finally calmed her down by telling her you were on your way back.”

“We don’t usually meet with a defendant’s family members. Maybe she should call the defense attorney.”

Alice was patient, but the look on her face reminded me of that plumber I’d hired when I told him to try adjusting the flu shy chain doohickey. “I tried that,” Alice said, “but I believe her response was, “I don’t need to talk to some lazy-ass public defender. I need to talk to the lady who’s buying all this bullshit about my son.””

Given Walker’s description from the night of Jackson’s arrest, it sounded like the last two days had actually done wonders for Mrs. Jackson’s forbearance.

“Fine. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

When I’m not distracted by the television, the refrigerator, or singing in the shower, I can get ready in seven minutes flat. It’s one of the advantages of never learning how to put on makeup or do my hair. A shower, a hair clip, and a change of clothes are all I need to transform back into my regular everyday self.

Martha Jackson was in the reception area, shifting in her seat and tsk-ing every time someone walked by for a reason other than to see her. She was short for her weight, a trait that was only accentuated by the hot pink lilies on her dress that appeared to bloom from her generous bosom and broad hips.

I managed to get my name out, but she was off and running before I had a chance to offer her some water and a seat in the conference room. “You got a hundred lawyers in this office. How come I got to wait half an hour to talk to someone about a case that’s been on the news every day of the week?”

I tried to explain that not all the lawyers work on each individual case, but she was looking for a fight.

“You trying to tell me you’d leave someone waiting here if they ready to say they seen Melvin Jackson do it?”

“Is that what you’re here to say?” I asked.

That did the trick. “Hell, no. No way Melvin could kill that woman.” It was exactly what I expected to hear, and I herded her into a conference room while she repeated it every way she could think to say it. I hoped the closed door would at least buffer the outburst that was sure to greet the bad news: I wasn’t going to drop the charges and send Melvin home with her.

When she was done saying her piece, I did my best to say mine sympathetically. For all I knew, she had nothing to do with her son turning out to be the kind of man he was.

“I can’t pretend that I understand how difficult this must be for you, Mrs. Jackson, but the police have compelling evidence suggesting that your son, as hard as it must be for you to accept, was responsible for Clarissa Easterbrook’s death. I would not be doing my job if I ignored that evidence simply because a loving mother told me her son was innocent. If he claims he’s innocent, he has his own attorney to help him defend against the charges. You might want to call his lawyer and see how you can help.”

In a capital case, the bulk of the defense work often goes into the penalty phase. If Slip could calm Martha Jackson down long enough to put her on the stand, a mother’s plea for mercy can sway a jury to spare a son’s life.

“Oh, trust me, I’ll be talking to that man too, but I know there’s only so much he can do. Only you people can shut off this assembly line of a court system once it gets to going. You say you wouldn’t be doing your job to ignore evidence, but let me ask you this, Ms. Kincaid. Isn’t part of your job to pay attention to evidence that’s looking you right in the face?”

Given the circumstances her son was in and my role in that process, I showed her more patience that I normally would. “Of course it is, and I’m doing that.”

“You probably went to some fancy law school, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Mrs. Jackson.”

“I’m pointing out that you a smart woman, but you only looking at what you want to see.”

I was getting frustrated. She was going to have to come to terms with this eventually, so it may as well be now. “I’m very sorry for your situation, but, ma’am, you know where the police found the murder weapon, and your son’s fingerprints were on the victim’s front door.”

“C’mon now, my boy was just trying to get the woman to talk to him. He wanted to sit down, look her in the eye, and ask how in the world someone can lose his home and children because of something his cousin did.”

“And maybe he finally found a way to do that.” I immediately regretted saying something so mean-spirited, but it seemed to be exactly what Martha Jackson expected.

The fire in her voice was gone. She clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head. “I don’t know why I

bothered. Y’all just ain’t usin’ the heads God gave you. How that poor lady’s death gonna help my grandchildren? You see a colored man and assume he ain’t got sense, just an animal lashing out at the world.”

I was angry at the accusation, but knew that nothing I said would change either her perception of the criminal justice system or the many events in her lifetime that were responsible for it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jackson, but I can’t help you.” I opened the door to show her out.

She had one more thing to say before she left. “Melvin’s living in Section Eight one step above begging on the streets for a reason. Why’s he all the sudden got regular work at some fancy office development? And wouldn’t you know that’s where your poor missing judge turns up. Believe what you will about my son, but y’alls the ones ain’t thinkin.”

She walked past me through the doorway and headed for the elevator. I assumed she didn’t need an escort.

Russ Frist was standing outside the conference room.

“Melvin Jackson’s mother,” I explained.

“Alice told me about her when I got back, but I didn’t want to walk in. Sounded like you had everything under control.”

“Sure, if you consider being an insensitive prick having things under control,” I said. “It’s not her fault her son’s in a jam.”

“More hers than yours, Kincaid. Let it go.”

Letting things go never was my forte.

At two o’clock, the members of the death penalty committee gathered to decide whether Melvin Jackson should live or die if convicted. Even the boss himself showed up, joining Russ Frist, Jessica Walters, Rocco Kessler, and me.

Rocco Kessler spoke first. His real name is Richard, but somehow the macho nickname grew out of his initials. Knowing him, I suspected he engineered the transition himself.

I hadn’t seen him since leaving DVD, where he was most memorable as the supervisor who wanted me fired. He must not have missed me much, since he took his chair in the conference room without so much as a hello.

“Let’s get this show on the road. Duncan wants to keep things moving, and I plan to stick to the format we’ve always used.” The dearly departed Tim O’Donnell had previously chaired these meetings. “The husband’s coming in at three, Kincaid?” he asked.

I nodded. “He’s the only one. The trip downtown’s too hard for the parents, and the sister just called her kids are having a meltdown and she couldn’t pawn them off on her folks. For what it’s worth, my gut tells me they’ll go either way on the sentence. They know nothing’s going to bring Clarissa back.”

“Okay, then. Take as long as you need to tell us about the case and the defendant, this” he looked down at his notes “Melvin Jackson. What we usually do is just go around the room and give our initial impressions, then go from there.”

I finished in twenty minutes, spending only half of that on the evidence itself. What made this meeting a difficult one wasn’t the question of Melvin Jackson’s guilt but the balancing of two seemingly irreconcilable images of the man. I tried to give it to them straight, covering both the aggravated nature of the crime and the sympathetic story of a father with no prior criminal history beating a lifelong addiction to keep his children.

Rocco asked Jessica to speak first.

“I think this is one of the hardest cases we’ve seen. At first blush, it’s got death penalty written all over it. The guy snatches a woman off the street, for Christ’s sake. But when you think about it, the reason those cases give you such a visceral reaction is that you think of a sex offender. You think of the Polly Klaas or Dru Sjodin cases. Melvin Jackson’s not one of those guys. He’s not a predator. And we also don’t have any prior acts of violence; I’d be inclined to seek life.”

Rocco looked to Russ.

“I’d go death penalty but accept a plea to life. We might not know exactly what Jackson did to her, but the ME says the vies shirt was off when she was beaten. We also know he stalked her. I see where you’re coming from, Walters, but to me this isn’t just some guy who snapped. Think of what it must have been like for the victim in those final moments, taking her clothes off for him. That’s more than garden-variety murder.”

Rocco jumped in next. I was getting the impression he forgot I was there. “I’m with Frist,” Rocco said. “The guy might not have any priors, but that just means no one caught him before. Even by his own sad story, he’s a doper who thinks he deserves a medal for choosing his kids over heroin.”

Jessica shook her head. “Forget for a second that Melvin Jackson’s a black man who lives in public housing and Clarissa Easterbrook’s an attractive, wealthy judge.”

Rocco accused her of playing the race card, and the room broke out in a cacophony rivaling Crossfire. Duncan made a time-out sign with his hands and told everyone to let Jessica finish speaking, but Jessica held up her hand. “Never mind.”

I, however, minded. She had a valid point, and they should at least take it into consideration. If this was going to be my case, I couldn’t be afraid to speak up.

“Jessica’s right,” I said. “When a defendant looks like Melvin Jackson and the victim looks like Clarissa Easterbrook, that alone pushes buttons we might not even know we have.”

Rocco didn’t want to hear it. “That’s a PC load of crock, Kincaid.” Aah, sweet memories of my former boss. “Jackson’s race has got nothing to do with this, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

“Well, that’s all you’re going to hear about if Jackson’s not comparable to other capital defendants. You tell me: Have we ever asked for a death sentence against a white defendant with no prior violence?”

The immediate silence at the table was answer enough, but it wasn’t the right one for Russ and Rocco, who began walking through individual cases, struggling to compare them to Jackson’s. Duncan chose to stare at the ceiling. I couldn’t tell if he was seeking spiritual guidance or picturing himself under fire by civil rights protesters on future campaign stops.

We were still debating the case when Alice Gerstein rapped on the door and peeked in. “Dr. Easterbrook and his lawyer are here whenever you’re ready.”

From what I’d heard, the usual goal of these meetings was to make the decision before the family arrived, then use the rest of the time to get the family on board. But Duncan wasn’t going to make Townsend wait while we continued to argue.

“For now, we’ll hear what he’s got to say. If I make a final decision, I’ll let everyone know. We may just have to meet again.”

I moved to the empty chair between Rocco and Russ. It might have seemed like a thoughtful gesture so Townsend could sit next to his own attorney. In truth, it was to ensure that Roger didn’t sit next to me. I wasn’t sure I could resist the temptation to kick him in the shins if he irritated me.

With constituents in the room, Duncan ran the floor. He got about as far as any government lawyer short of the solicitor general would have before my ex took over. Roger Kirkpatrick is and always has been a power lawyer.

“We appreciate your having Dr. Easterbrook here so he can communicate his views in person. I’m sure you understand that this is not an easy thing for him to talk about.”

As much as Tara and Susan had emphasized Townsend’s deterioration, they had nevertheless understated it. His eyes were puffy, his skin pale; he looked at the table when he spoke, barely registering our presence. He mumbled something about being against the death penalty, hating Melvin Jackson, and being a doctor, before Roger spared him and us further embarrassment.

Roger placed his hand on Townsend’s shoulder. “It’s OK. Let me see if I can explain what you told me earlier.” He shifted his attention to the rest of us. “Townsend has struggled this week with a new emotion a hatred of Melvin Jackson that is more intense than anything I’m sure any of us has felt before. When he first heard Monday about the evidence found in Jackson’s apartment, his instinct, and I’m being frank here, was to kill Jackson himself.”

Townsend didn’t currently look capable of let alone driven to revenge, but maybe the change was further proof of what this week had been like for him.

“I spent a lot of time calming him that night, talking to him about the court system and convincing him that the case was strong enough that I was confident your office could convict. I left his house Monday night certain that he would be lobbying you to pursue this prosecution as a capital case. But when we talked the next day, Townsend told me he’d been up all night, trying to picture what the rest of his life would be like if Jackson were dead or if Jackson were in prison. And, he’s convinced the right outcome is a life sentence not just to spare Jackson but to spare himself. He’s a doctor in the business of saving lives and was quite frightened, I think, of the emotions that