Page 104 of The 1 Lawyer

I SHOULD’VE reserved my opening statement.

Clearly, not one of the fourteen men and women on the jury was ready to hear anything I had to say. All refused to make eye contact with me, and their faces expressed a daunting variety of unfriendly emotions, everything from suspicion to resentment to frank dislike.

As I stood there trying to engage them, it occurred to me that maybe Mason and Jenny had been right about the pro se decision. Could be that by not hiring a lawyer to represent me, I’d proved the truth of that old saying. It sure looked like I was a fool.

I hadn’t forged any positive connection with the judge from Jackson either. When I finished my opening statement, Judge Ostrov-Ronai turned a solemn face to Gordon-James and said, “Are the parties ready to proceed?”

I didn’t respond. She wasn’t talking to me.

Gordon-James said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“The State may call its first witness.”

Gordon-James rose. “The State calls Sergeant Carl Gorski to the witness stand.”

The officer marched into court wearing his full uniform. Gorski hadn’t opted for plainclothes, not for this appearance. He wanted that Jackson jury to see the shiny badge pinned to his chest.

After Gorski was sworn in, Gordon-James jumped right in; he barely asked for the witness’s name and occupation before he directed his attention to the investigation of Iris Caro’s death. The DA picked up his first exhibit.

“Sergeant, I’m handing you what’s been marked for identification as State’s exhibit number one. Can you tell us what it is?”

“It’s a photograph of a footprint found near the body of the deceased, Iris Caro, in the bedroom of her home in Biloxi.”

The question shook me. Not because I didn’t know what was coming—I was aware of the evidence against me. What startled me was the DA’s strategy. I’d expected the case to roll out in the usual manner, with the consecutive order of events—the discovery of the body, the medical determination of the cause of death. He’d forgone a sequential buildup. Gordon-James was aiming directly at me from the first minutes of this trial.

“Describe the footprint, Sergeant.”

My head was reeling. Kicking off the case with that footprint drove home a stark reality: I was in the fight of my life. That evidence had been planted in my home. I was falsely accused. And no one was in my corner. Mason’s primary duty was to his client Rue, and Jenny hadn’t bothered to come to court.

For a moment, I thought I was going to lose it.

Gorski said, “It’s a print we found on a wool carpet. The footprint is a reddish color, consistent with the color of blood.”

Gordon-James walked over to the counsel table and pulled a plastic bag from a cardboard banker’s box. “Sergeant, I hand you State’s exhibit number two. Can you identify it?”

As the witness turned the clear plastic bag over and examined it, I experienced a eureka moment—I knew what I had to do. I ditched my carefully devised trial strategy and seized on a new plan. Screw the rules. Proper courtroom demeanor, process, practices—forget that shit. Playing by the rules wouldn’t save me.

Holding the bag up so the jury could see it, Gorski said, “This bag contains a man’s shoe made of plastic. It’s what’s commonly called a flip-flop.”

“What, if anything, do you observe about the exhibit?” asked the DA.

“The sole of the shoe is covered with a substance that appears to be dried blood.”

“Do you know where the bloody shoe was found?”

I couldn’t wait for the cross; I needed to be heard. I jumped up and shouted, “What he’s about to say is nuts, ladies and gentlemen. It’s absurd!”

Everything stopped. Jurors gaped at me. The judge lost her power of speech for a moment. She quickly found her voice, but her judicial bearing was rattled. “Sit down!”

I sat. In Jackson, they said Ostrov-Ronai was tough as nails. Looked like it was true.

The judge said, “The witness will answer.”

The cop gave the DA an apologetic grimace. “Can you repeat the question?”

I sat there with every muscle tensed, poised to create more chaos. After the court reporter read the question from the record, the cop nodded. “We found the shoe in the search of the defendant’s home in Biloxi. It was at the back of his bedroom closet, inside a trash bag—”

That was my cue. I was on my feet again before he finished his sentence. “That’s what I’m talking about! Why would I keep a shoe covered with the victim’s blood in my bedroom closet? That’s crazy!”

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