Premeditated Murder (36 page)

“Verdict,” Zack replied.

“Is it a good sign that they came back so early?” Cal wanted to know.

“It sucks,” Terry responded.

“Court!” shouted one of the court officers as the door behind the bench opened and the judge walked in. Everyone stood and remained standing as the door near the jury box opened and the jury entered. “Please be seated, court's now in session,” the court officer said, so they all sat there, silent.

The judge started to warn people about reacting to the verdict, but Cal wasn't really listening. He was thinking about Cheryl and Kevin, and the last time he'd seen their faces. He thought about what he had done, the terrible bloodbath he'd perpetrated. He thought about the expressions on the faces of the terrorists as he had shot them. About how they had been planning to kill again. About how he had planned to kill them.

The judge's clerk interrupted his thoughts. “Will the defendant please rise?”

Cal stood. So did Zack and Terry.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” asked the clerk.

The foreman stood. He was very nervous. “Yes, we have.”

“In the matter of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Calvin Thompkins, what say you? Is the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

The jury foreman hastily looked over at Cal and then down at the paper he was holding in his trembling hand. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Guilty. Guilty of first-degree murder. Premeditated murder.”

Calvin just stood there. There was a tremendous swirl of energy in the courtroom, but he was having trouble focusing on any of it. His thoughts kept returning to Kevin and Cheryl. His face felt unusually warm. He thought there was an insect buzzing around his left ear, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The jury had spoken. His execution was now a certainty. No matter what anyone thought of the people in that apartment, this jury was not going to allow Calvin to walk away from his decision to take the law into his own hands.

It was over.

But the insect kept buzzing into his left ear, and then Calvin felt a pushing on his left shoulder. Finally he realized that it wasn't an insect. It was Zack, trying to get his attention. Just like in the dream, Zack was whispering something in his ear. Calvin couldn't imagine what difference it made. Whatever Zack had to say was irrelevant. The one thing that was clear was that after the months of waiting, it was finally over. Nothing Zack could say would change that. It was over.

And then at last Calvin heard what Zack was saying.

“It isn't over.”

TWENTY-SIX

THE COURT:
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for your service in this case. I know that you all had to make personal sacrifices to discharge your responsibilities in this matter, and I also know that you are anxious to get back to your normal lives …

(Trial Volume XII, Page 224)

CALVIN SANK TO HIS SEAT. AS HE STRUGGLED TO make sense of Zack's words, he became more aware of what was happening around him. The court officers moved in close, probably afraid he was going to try to escape.

Did you happen to notice a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-pound black man wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, handcuffed and shackled at the ankles, shuffling toward the front door?

The judge was thanking the jury, the court officers were leading the jury out the door, the D.A. was shaking hands with just about everyone he could reach, the reporters were bustling around, the clerk was scribbling all kinds of things on various pads and file folders, passing things back and forth with the judge.

What could Zack have meant? This isn't over?

Everyone seemed frantically busy except Terry, who just sat there, his head hanging down, and Zack, who was staring up at the front of the courtroom. Then, still staring up at the judge's bench, Zack slowly rose and said something.

It was way too noisy to hear what he had said, but he just stood there stubbornly and said it again.

“… Your Honor.”

It was pretty weird. All this activity, all these people moving around, talking, writing things, and there was Zack, just standing there, staring up at the judge, speaking to him, without being heard. He said it again, and this time Cal heard the words “… the defendant, Your Honor.” But that was it. There was still too much activity going on for anyone to hear anything. And the judge was completely absorbed in a conversation he was having with his clerk.

Finally, the judge looked up, and he saw Zack. And then he looked out into the gallery. And there was Zack, still standing there, determined to wait for his chance to speak.

After another moment the judge spoke, and the courtroom fell silent. “Mr. Wilson?” he said. “You wish to address the court?”

And then Zack was finally heard. “Your Honor, the defendant moves for a required finding of not guilty, notwithstanding the verdict.”

WHEN TERRY HEARD ZACK SPEAK, HIS HEAD snapped up. As if this case weren't bad enough, now Zack had gone completely mad. Cottonwood was going to ream them. A few carefully considered postconviction findings on the record, and whatever minuscule chances Cal had on appeal would be gone. O'Neill must have thought it was Christmas in July.

But then Terry saw the look on Cottonwood's face, and suddenly it all made sense. Zack hadn't been gambling on the jury. He had been gambling on the
judge
. The best criminal defense lawyer Terry had ever seen had decided to place the fate of the most guilty defendant Terry had ever seen in the hands of the most anti-defendant judge Terry had ever seen.

Which just about guaranteed that this was the most fucked-up case Terry had ever seen.

WHILE THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY ARGUED against the motion, sputtering and posturing for the cameras one last time, Judge Cottonwood stared at Wilson. And he knew that Wilson knew.

This wasn't just going to be the last trial that Richard Cottonwood would preside over. Thanks to Zachery Wilson, it would be the most difficult.

In his early years in the district attorney's office, and then on the bench, Dick Cottonwood had watched defense lawyers confuse and manipulate juries into verdicts that were absolute mockeries of any decent person's understanding of justice. In his later years, he exercised his power as a judge ferociously, to ensure that he did whatever he could to make certain that violent and dangerous monsters were kept off the streets, regardless of how slick their lawyers were or how many times the ACLU wailed about constitutional rights. If Judge Cottonwood had had the death penalty available to him, he would have used it dozens of times to rid the world of the many murderous villains who had passed through his courtroom. The ones who selfishly and thoughtlessly killed and maimed the innocent.

And Zachery Wilson knew that. And he also knew that thanks to the evidence that President Ferguson had just provided, Judge Cottonwood no longer saw Calvin Thompkins as a large, frightening-looking black man who systematically and successfully executed a plan to snuff out the lives of six people. Judge Cottonwood saw the defendant as a man who had taken it upon himself to rid the world of six murderous villains. Six monsters who had killed innocent people before, and who were plotting to do it again.

So here he was, at the end of a long, hard career as a judge who stood proudly behind every long prison sentence and harsh judgment he had ever rendered. About to put the finishing touches on a trial that convicted and ultimately sentenced to death a man who, on a sunny afternoon in a small apartment in Northampton, had done exactly what the judge had been doing for his entire legal career.

O'Neill finally finished whatever the hell he was saying. The judge spoke to Wilson. “Do you have any rebuttal?” he asked.

“No, Your Honor,” Wilson answered. “We waive argument, and press the motion.”

The judge made a few notes on a pad. Then he put down his pen and spoke to the hushed courtroom. “As is my practice,” he began, “I will now make some observations regarding the evidence in this case, in order that my decision on this motion is better understood in the event that there is any appeal.” He glanced at his notes and then looked up again. “The President of the United States came to this courtroom and testified that he had publicly stated in his capacity as commander in chief that the country is at war with terrorists and that each citizen is a soldier in the war. He further testified that, as he has stated on repeated occasions in public, he does not speak in metaphor. He means precisely what he says. Nothing more, nothing less. Every citizen of this country, including the defendant, is at war. The testimony of the President was unimpeachable. His reputation for truth and honesty is impeccable. Nor was there any dispute of such by the Commonwealth.”

The judge paused while the court reporter put a new cassette in her tape recorder.

“There is also no dispute that the defendant in this case premeditated his actions. He admitted killing the victims in this case, both in his statements to police and here in his own testimony. He also admitted that his actions were taken with the specific intent of killing these victims. He had the state of mind necessary for committing the crime of murder.

“But, finally, there is no dispute that the defendant killed the victims in this case because and only because they were terrorists. Although the defendant attempted to testify to that fact, I initially excluded that testimony as irrelevant. I now reverse that ruling, and find that the defendant's motives are not only relevant, but critical.”

The courtroom was still silent, but if tension had a voice, its roar would have been deafening.

“That is because the definition of murder specifically
excludes
a justified killing. And the law of this Commonwealth is that a killing done by a soldier in a battle of war is a justified killing.

“The question then is put squarely to this court: Was the killing of the six people in that apartment justified, such that it was not, by the legal definition, murder?”

Judge Cottonwood looked out at the defendant. He met the gaze of a man who, in a very short time, would be sharing the very lonely and frightening fate that he knew he himself would be facing as soon as this trial ended.

“Taking into consideration all of the factors I have just outlined, the court rules that no reasonable person could find beyond a reasonable doubt that the Commonwealth proved all of the elements of the crime of murder, as there was no murder in this case—only justifiable killings. Accordingly, the defendant's motion for a directed verdict of not guilty notwithstanding the verdict is allowed. The defendant is to be released immediately. Court is adjourned.”

East Jordan, Michigan

LENA WAS LEAVING THE GENERAL STORE AND headed over to meet Becca at the post office when her cell phone rang.

She answered it without thinking, which she realized was very stupid as soon as she heard the man's voice say, “Lena Takamura? If you are armed—”

And then, just as Lena started to run, everything around her went into slow motion. She heard a distant voice from the phone say, “Shit! She's running!” and she watched herself throw the cell phone down behind her, as if it were somehow going to harm her. And then she looked to her left and saw a man jump out of a dark blue car and start to chase her. She turned sharply to the right, heading down the only other street in the town, only to find another dark blue car parked across the street, totally blocking her way. Two men stood there.

They started to run toward her.

Lena had run track in high school, and thought she was fast. But these guys were way too quick for her. By the time she'd stopped herself and changed direction to get away from the two new men, the first guy was all over her. She struggled against him, but in a matter of seconds, he had wrestled her to the ground. As she fell she braced herself for the impact, expecting to be crushed. The guy must have weighed twice as much as she did. But somehow, she landed on top of him. She started kicking at his legs, but then he rolled over so he was on top of her. Now she
was
being crushed. She tried to wriggle out of his hold, but she was completely pinned. And she was gasping for breath and so terrified that she couldn't even scream for help.

So this was the way she was going to die. In the middle of Nowhere, Michigan, hunted down like a dog in the streets. Finally trapped by whatever horrible people were breaking into people's homes, and falsifying records, and burning down newspaper offices—

She summoned up the last of her strength and tried to break free again.

“Lena,” the man who was crushing her said. At least he was out of breath, too. “I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but we aren't here to hurt you. President Ferguson sent us to get you and take you home.” He paused to take another breath, then said, “We're the good guys, Lena.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

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