Steven James - The Knight

The opening trial procedures seemed to take forever, but finally, I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then I took my seat on the witness stand-an act that Tessa had pointed out to me one time was an oxymoronic thing to do-and surveyed the courtroom.

Emilio Vandez looked anxious.

Judge Craddock, annoyed.

The jury, exhausted.

Richard Basque, confident.

And Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman looked pleased to be on center stage once again.

She spent a few minutes reviewing the previous week’s proceedings, being careful to avoid drawing too much attention to the attempt on her client’s life. I suspected she was concerned that bringing up the attempted murder might cause the jurors to become convinced that Basque really was guilty-after all, why would Grant Sikora have tried to kill him if he were innocent?

But she was taking longer than she needed to, and five minutes after I thought he should have objected, Emilio finally did, saying that if she wasn’t going to ask me any questions, why had she called me back to the stand in the first place?

Judge Craddock told Ms. Eldridge-Gorman to get on with it already.

“Of course, Your Honor.” She plucked up a file folder.

“Just to remind the jurors, immediately prior to the terrible incident on Friday, I had asked Dr. Bowers if he assaulted my client after arresting him thirteen years ago in the slaughterhouse. I would like to resume my questioning there, but, if it pleases Your Honor, may I request that the court reporter read the transcripts of the final moments of Friday’s testimony so that the jury can have an accurate accounting of the line of questioning?”

Judge Craddock nodded toward the court reporter, who took a moment to shuffle through a stack of papers and then read: “Coun-sel: ‘Did you break Richard Basque’s jaw with your fist? Did you attack him after he was handcuffed?’” He paused and asked Priscilla, “Is that where you want me to start?”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

The court reporter went on, “Counsel: ‘Dr. Bowers. Are you having trouble remembering that night at the slaughterhouse? I’ll ask you one last time. Did you or did you not physically assault Richard Devin Basque after he was in your custody in the slaughterhouse? Judge Craddock, please direct the witness to answer the question.’ Judge Craddock: ‘Dr. Bowers, I advise you to answer the counselor’s question. Will you answer the counselor’s question?’ Witness: ‘No.’ Judge Craddock: ‘No?’” The court reporter paused. “And then…”

“Yes,” Priscilla said. “That’ll be fine.” She gazed at me. “Dr. Bowers, you answered no. Was that in response to my question, or to the honorable Judge Craddock’s question?”

I hadn’t realized I’d actually said no aloud. “I was responding to Sikora’s movement toward the gun,” I said, “not to your question or Judge Craddock’s.”

She might have pounced, arguing that I must have been answering either her or the judge, but she didn’t go there. I assumed that once again she was avoiding that line of questioning so she could stay clear of what she’d referred to a few moments ago as “the terrible incident.”

Instead, she opened the manila folder.

“I have here the original case files from thirteen years ago in Milwaukee. Just to refresh your memory, Dr. Bowers, here’s what you wrote concerning the arrest: ‘There was an altercation. Later it was discovered that the suspect’s jaw was broken sometime in the midst of his apprehension.’ Are those your words?”

“Yes, they are, and-”

“I checked the case files.” She cut me off, and though it annoyed me, I decided to let her be the rude one. I would bide my time. “And your description of the events fits the one given by my client during his interrogation-that he broke his jaw when you swung a meat hook at his face. But in preparation for this trial when I asked him about his injury, he told me that he was afraid of you and that’s why he didn’t tell the truth during his interrogation.”

She took a moment to gesture toward Basque.

“My client claims that after you pulled your gun on him and he tried to run, you tackled him, handcuffed him, and then beat him. Of course, he might be lying. He might just be saying that to get set free. You could clarify everything right now, and certainly the jury will believe you, Special Agent Bowers, PhD.”

Oh, she was good. She was really good.

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I waited, but her question didn’t come.

And as I waited, I remembered that night in the slaughterhouse, the desperate, terrified look on Sylvia Padilla’s face as she died.. .

Cheyenne’s pendant pressed against me through my pants pocket, and I recalled her comment that dying alone was the worst way to die.

“So, let me get back to my original question,” Priscilla said, “the one that I asked you on Friday.”

I remembered my conversation with Calvin about justice. And I remembered the midwives protecting those babies.

“Did you or did you not physically assault Richard Devin Basque. ..”

And arresting Basque.

And the satisfying crunch of my fist against his jaw.

“… after he was in your custody in the slaughterhouse?”

Truth and justice always wrestle against each other in our courts.

Always.

On Friday I’d told Calvin that justice isn’t served when truth is censored.

Now, I realized Basque wasn’t the only one on trial.

So was I.

So was my past. My conscience.

I opened my mouth to answer Priscilla’s question.

And hesitated.

“Once again,” Priscilla said petulantly, “we wait for an answer.” I made a decision.

“So here we are-” she began.

“This is what happened.” And then I told the court the truth about what happened that night in the slaughterhouse.

As I related the facts, all of them, I knew I was signing a death warrant to my credibility, and probably to my career. Even worse, I realized I was creating empathy for Basque among the jurors and that those feelings would most likely influence their verdict.

But unlike the midwives or the people in the other biblical stories, at the moment, I wasn’t being asked to hand innocent people over to certain death. I was only being asked to tell the truth. If Basque were set free I would deal with that when the time came.

“I hit the defendant in the jaw,” I said. “I hit him twice after he was handcuffed, after he was in custody. It wasn’t the meat hook that broke his jaw, it was my fist.”

Judge Craddock leaned forward and actually seemed interested in the trial. I thought the jury would be surprised by what I’d said, but most of them just looked disappointed instead.

Priscilla smiled. “That’s all I have.” And for a moment she reminded me of a snake that had just swallowed a mouse. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Does the prosecution wish to redirect?” Judge Craddock asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Emilio stood.

I glanced at the clock on the east wall.

12:04 p.m.

Still plenty of time to get to O’Hare for my 1:59 flight, if Emilio didn’t drag things out.

But he did.

He composed himself, and before asking me any questions, took his time distancing my actions in the warehouse from the crimes Basque was accused of. “Agent Bowers’s reaction only reflects the deep anger any of us would have felt coming face to face with the scene in the slaughterhouse that day,” he told the jury. “The evidence tells the story of Mr. Basque’s guilt, and it is the evidence, and the evidence alone upon which you must base your verdict.”

Finally, he asked me a few questions, and I answered them, but in the end I suspected the damage had already been done. Regardless of how guilty Basque was, the fact that I’d assaulted him and then apparently tried to cover it up by not being more forthcoming in my original police report would be enough to discredit my testimony.