James PATTERSON - Alex Cross’s Trial

He turned around and stared hard at Jonah. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Thank you for saying that, Mr. Curtis. All I have to say to that is, Amen.”

The jurors visibly relaxed. The lawyer had brought them to a point of tension, then eased up.

“But let me tell you fellows where Mr. Curtis and I are absolutely not in agreement,” he said.

Lewis’s face was glistening with perspiration, and he hadn’t been talking a minute yet. He mopped his face with a handkerchief, a gesture that afforded him a dramatic pause.

“We are not in agreement on the story itself . Mr. Curtis tells a tale of night riders galloping in and shooting up a house in a frenzy of violent and lawless behavior. I have another version of that story to tell you. Now, the story I have to tell you is about eight upstanding white citizens of Pike County. Three of them were wrongly accused and arrested, the three gentlemen you see before you today.

“But on the night in question, there were eight. They climbed up on their horses, calmly, and in a neighborly way they rode over to Abraham Cross’s house. Why did they go there? Were they looking for trouble? Well, no – the trouble had already come and found them .”

He paused, turned around, and walked the other way along the jury box, meeting the eyes of each man in turn.

“Those eight men rode over that night to investigate a complaint against Mr. Cross’s nephew, a Mr. Richard Cross, known as Ricky, a Negro who was suspected of molesting and raping a young white girl of the Cedar Bend community.

“Understand, my friends, that the prosecutor’s story and this story fit together perfectly. The entire evening can be seen, from one perspective, as a gigantic misunderstanding. If the people in that house in the Quarters had not shot first and asked questions later – if they’d all been informed that they harbored a rapist in their midst, if they’d known about the assault on the girl, and the legitimate reasons my clients had for going to Mr. Cross’s house that night – why, none of this would have happened.

“But even so, it did happen. And it is a tragedy.

“And yet, gentlemen, it is not murder. I am here to tell you about Abraham Cross – a dying man, according to Mr. Curtis, although just for your information he is still alive and well, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you all get to meet him. I’m going to show you how Mr. Cross and his granddaughter and his hired gunmen, some of whom are in this room trying to intimidate you gentlemen here today…”

As he said this he was looking directly at L. J. Stringer and me.

“… I will show you how this armed band of Negroes and their white friends set about to deny my clients any access at all to the suspected man. How they, in fact, attacked my clients, and sought to visit great bodily harm upon them – even though my clients had a written legal warrant deputizing them and empowering them to question the accused, they were set upon by a pack of armed men.

“My clients fired their own weapons, gentlemen, in self-defense. The case is simple. It’s what is known in our game as ‘open and shut.’ My clients are facing these terrible charges, they have been jailed and denied their most basic rights as Americans, as Mississippians.”

You could see the jurors straightening with pride as he said this. “And all because of a story! A fable! A fiction, my friends. Mr. Jonah Curtis is a very eloquent lawyer, gentlemen, anyone can see that, but what he’s telling you is nothing more than a bedtime story!”

Several jurors laughed out loud.

“That is right, gentlemen of the jury. A bedtime story. We have two versions being told here. Mr. Curtis has told you a fairy story, and I have told you the truth. As God above knows it to be! ”

“GODDAMN THEM, BEN. Goddamn them all to hell!”

L.J. slammed his fist on the dining room table, rattling the crystal goblets. “Goddamn their lying, cheating asses!”

L.J. was doing all the shouting. Jonah and I were standing back, watching him scream in a way only rich men can. We didn’t try to stop him or calm him down.

“The biggest lie of all,” L.J. said, “is when he says these White Raiders had some kind of official warrant to come into that house after Ricky.”

Jonah looked at me. “All right, Ben, how is Lewis going to demonstrate that in a credible fashion?”

“Easy,” I said. “He’ll put Phineas Eversman on the stand.”

“The policeman?”

“Chief of police, and the only full-time officer on the force,” I reminded him. “He’ll put Phineas on and Phineas will lie through his teeth.”

Jonah looked quizzical. “I thought Eversman was on our side. Or at least neutral.”

“He was on our side for exactly one night,” I explained. “He only arrested those men because L.J. pushed him into it. He’s been looking for a way out ever since.”

I speared a slice of Virginia ham before passing the platter to L.J.

“It didn’t look like it would rain tonight, did it?” said Jonah.

“Not to me,” L.J. replied. “Why?”

“That sure does sound like thunder outside,” Jonah said.

I walked over to the window and pulled back the drapes. First I was surprised; then I was frightened.

“What is it, Ben?”

“About thirty, forty fellows with guns,” I said, “and a few with pitchforks. They appear to be just standing there, watching the house.”

“That’s a mighty big crowd for Eudora,” L.J. said.

“No,” I said. “It’s a mighty big mob .”

THE MOB CAUSED US no trouble that night. For about an hour they watched us watching them through the windows, then they turned and went away. Every few minutes I peeked out the window, but the streets of Eudora stayed quiet and dark that night.

The next morning the trial began in earnest. I spent a long minute studying the face of Henry Wadsworth North, trying to match the man with what I remembered of the boy on the day Mama took sick. Too many years had intervened. This sallow, blotchy-faced fat man bore only a vague resemblance to the surly kid I remembered from Jenkins’ Mercantile.

Jonah called his first witness: Abraham Cross.

Abraham was wearing his best church suit, of speckled brown wool, and a matching fedora. He rolled in in a rickety wheelchair Moody had borrowed from a crippled neighbor of L.J.’s, a nice woman who sympathized with us.

“Now, Mr. Cross,” Jonah said, “why don’t you take us back to the night of August twenty-fifth. Tell us what you remember.”

Abraham nodded. “Well, sir, I was in the parlor, a-layin’ in my bed, and Moody was tendin’ after me–”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jonah said. “Who is Moody?”

“Moody Cross. My granddaughter. She looks after me.”

“Thank you, sir. Please go on.”

“Like I say, I was a-layin’ in my bed. Not quite sure if I’d been sleeping or not. But then sure enough I come awake. Sound like the cavalry done showed up outside the house. A bunch of horses, I don’t know how many. And men shootin’ off guns, and yellin.’ Like to scared me half to death – and I don’t need to be any closer to dead than I already am.”

Laughter rolled through the courtroom, from whites and Negroes. My father slammed down the gavel to kill it.

Abraham continued telling his story in precise, unwavering detail. Without any prompting from Jonah, he pointed out and positively identified two of the defendants.

“That one there, I saw him through the front window,” he said, pointing at the defense table.

Jonah asked him to be more specific.

“That one on the right,” he said. “Stephens. He shot Jimmie Cooper dead.”