Page 26 of The 1 Lawyer

Gordon-James said to me, “Penney, be reasonable. You’ve got to take into account that this is a double murder trial.”

I was about to argue when Judge Walker snapped at him. “Are you the judge? Is this your call?” When the DA backed off, Walker said, “Come on, Stafford Lee. This kind of case, it’s natural for emotions to run high. I can tell you from my years on the bench, it’ll blow over. No need to start from scratch.”

Gordon-James was quick to agree. “The judge is absolutely right. The jury will follow the court’s direction. They’ve all sworn an oath to base their verdict solely on the evidence.”

I wasn’t fooled by the DA’s pitch. From his perspective, the trial was going great. And the scene with Gates would create more sympathy for the prosecution. I couldn’t let it happen. “There’s no point in continuing. It’s a waste of everybody’s time.”

Walker’s brow furrowed. “You’ve got that backward, Stafford Lee. Between jury selection and three days’ worth of evidence, we’ve already invested a big mess of time. And you know how tough it is to squeeze a two-week trial into my busy docket.”

Gordon-James chimed in again: “The judge is right.”

The judge was dead wrong. I was beginning to suspect that he was beyond convincing, but I had to try. “Judge, if this case ends with a conviction, you’ll be overturned on appeal.”

Stubbornly, Walker repeated his offer. “I’ll instruct the jury to disregard. Your man will still get a fair trial.”

It was a bald-faced lie. “How can they possibly disregard that scene?” I asked, my anger rising. “The victim’s father was shouting, crying, making accusations against my client. And he physically attacked me. I got punched and ended up on the floor just feet away from the jury box. You think the jury will forget that?”

The judge looked mulish. “They’ll do what I tell them. That’s how it works.”

The discussion was so absurd, I couldn’t remain seated. I jumped up and said, “Going forward with this trial amounts to a denial of due process. I want my motion for a mistrial on the record, Judge. The court’s insistence that we proceed is blatant trial error. It’s insane.”

I’d gone too far. He was glaring at me. “You can make your motion. Then I’ll bring the jury back and give them my instructions. After that, we’ll adjourn until morning.”

It was crucial that I demonstrate effective assistance of counsel and make a strong showing on the issue. I cut a cool look in the DA’s direction. “I want to brief it. I’ll submit a written motion with suggestions.”

Gordon-James sighed, the sound of a man who bears a heavy burden.

The judge said, “You can spend your night buried in books if you want, Stafford Lee. But I don’t think you’ll write an argument that will make me see this differently.” The judge picked up the phone and hit a button. “Megan, tell Charlene we’re ready to bring the jury back. I need to give them a talk.”

As Judge Walker zipped himself back into his robe, he glowered at Gordon-James. “If you’re smart, you’ll keep that crazy father out of the courtroom until we put this case to bed.”

The DA said, “I can’t keep him from observing the trial. His daughter was raped and murdered.”

“Bullshit. He’s your kin, isn’t he? You tell him that if he does it again, he’ll be in a jail cell while the defendant’s out walking the streets on bond. See if that makes an impact on him.”

While they argued, I carefully ran my fingers along my aching eye socket. Judge Walker caught me at it. He stepped up close and inspected me.

With a rueful grin, he said, “Damn, Stafford Lee. Looks like this trial is gonna give you a black eye.”

The statement was the literal truth. But as I followed him out of chambers, I wondered whether he also intended it as a metaphor.

CHAPTER 21

MY HOTEL room didn’t have a desk, but it did have an ice machine directly across the hall.

When I’d checked into room 221 of the Beachside Inn, I hadn’t given the furnishings much consideration. I’d never anticipated that my overnight lodgings after an ugly blowup with Carrie Ann would stretch into a five-week stay.

Now, propped up against the bed’s headboard, I balanced my laptop on my legs while I consulted legal authorities on my iPad; it was an unwieldy setup. Eventually, the pain in my eye interfered with my concentration, and I took a break from drafting legal suggestions in support of my motion for a mistrial, walked to the bathroom sink, and, from a plastic bucket of melting ice, packed a handful of cubes into a thin hotel washcloth and gingerly pressed it against my eye.

Back on the bed with the ice pack, I gave a careful read to a Mississippi Supreme Court case. While the defendant was on the witness stand, the murder victim’s mother stood up and shouted, “He cold-blooded killed my child!”

What the Mississippi Supreme Court held in that case would be an excellent authority—for the DA. The court said that the harm from the mother’s outburst was removed by the judge’s instruction to the jury to disregard the incident, that it must be presumed that the jurors put the event out of their minds.

A stream of icy water from the sodden washrag ran down my face and dripped onto the keyboard. I returned to the bathroom and tossed the rag into the sink.

I inspected my eye in the bathroom mirror. Benjamin Gates’s punch had left its mark. From my eyelid to my cheekbone, an irregular circle of tissue and skin was swollen and discolored. In the coming days, the bruising would turn from purple to black and then fade to green.

I’d expected that. But the blow had also given me a bright red eyeball. When I noticed that the white of my eye looked bloody, I googled it. According to a medical website, a subconjunctival hemorrhage, which was apparently what I had, would take a couple of weeks to heal.

---