Moving toward my table, I scan the faces of the spectators who have managed to get into the packed courtroom. This morning I arranged with the bailiff that my parents be allowed in, with Sam Jacobs escorting them, and also Althea and Georgia Payton, with Del Jr. All are seated in the second row on the right, behind my table. The first row was roped off for city officials, who have turned out in force. Mayor Warren and District Attorney Mackey shoot me glares whenever I look their way. Beyond them are many faces from my youth and, peppered among these, the characters who have populated my life for the past two weeks. Ex-police chief Willie Pinder. Reverend Nightingale. Some of the neighbors who helped search for Annie on the day of the fire. Charles Evers. What sobers me is my awareness of those who aren’t here. Ruby. Ike. Ray Presley. Dwight Stone.
I shake hands with my father over the bar, then take my seat. As I begin reviewing the notes I made last night about questioning potential jurors, someone touches my shoulder. It’s Caitlin Masters. For the first time since the cocktail party, she has abandoned her informal uniform of jeans and button-downs for a dress. A blue sleeveless one that emphasizes her lithe body. The effect is so profound that I simply stare at her.
“I do own dresses,” she says, obviously pleased by my reaction.
“You look very nice. Any word from Stone?”
She bites her lip and shakes her head, then pats her pocket. “He has the number of the paper. They’ll call me the second he or his daughter calls in.”
“If he calls. Is Portman here?”
“They’ve got him in a room upstairs with five FBI agents.” She reaches out and touches my forearm. “Hold on to your hat. They’ve got the governor up there too.”
“The governor of what?”
“Mississippi. He’s here as a character witness for Marston.”
I feel my face flushing. “He’s not on the witness list.”
She gives me a “get real” look. “Do you think Judge Franklin is going to tell the governor to go back to Jackson without letting him take the stand?”
“Damn.” I fight the urge to tear out a handful of my hair.
“Take it easy. African Americans hate the governor. Did you get any sleep?”
Sleep. Last night, after the police and the sheriff’s department took turns grilling me for hours over the shootings at the pecan plant and at Tuscany, I met with Betty Lou Beckham and her husband. Mr. Beckham is totally against his wife testifying, but she promised my father she would, and she means to go through with it. Considering the embarrassment she will suffer when the circumstances that allowed her to witness the crime come to light, she is doing a brave thing indeed. After meeting the Beckhams I went to the Eola Hotel and woodshedded with Huey Moak and Lester Hinson, whom Kelly had delivered safely from Baton Rouge. When we finished, I spent the few hours before dawn trying to build a convincing case against Marston that did not rely on the testimony of Dwight Stone.
I failed.
“Hang on as long as you can,” Caitlin says, squeezing my hand. “If Stone is alive, he’ll be here.”
“Do you think Portman would be here if he thought there was any chance Stone would show? With TV cameras?”
“Don’t second-guess yourself. You’ve got a murder to prove, and that’s what you’re good at. Pick your jury and forget the rest.”
She gives my hand a final squeeze and walks back to the benches.
Judge Franklin enters the court wearing a black robe with a white lace collar, looking very different than she did the night she confiscated Leo’s files from Tuscany. She’s obviously had her hair done, and her makeup looks television-ready. She takes her seat on the bench, and the bailiff calls the court to order.
Blake Sims rises and informs the judge that Livy Marston Sutter has been retained as co-counsel, and with the court’s permission will occupy the second chair at the plaintiff’s table during the trial. Judge Franklin makes a show of asking if I have any objection, but she clearly expects me to go along. I could point out that Livy is not licensed in Mississippi, but with her considerable trial experience and Sims acting as lead counsel, I don’t really have a leg to stand on.
Livy meets my eyes only once during the entire voir dire process, which turns out to be a surprise in itself. I had always assumed I would enjoy the advantage of a largely black jury. White professionals tend to use their jobs and influence to avoid jury duty, but this morning that tradition goes out the window. Not one white in the first group taken from the venire, or pool of potential jurors, tries to evade his civic responsibility. The usual excuses about job and health problems are not voiced, nor are distant blood relations to trial principals invoked. Every juror in the pool wants a front-row seat.
Blake Sims handles voir dire for Marston, pacing before the jury box in a rather annoying fashion while he questions the potential jurors about their backgrounds and what they’ve read in the newspapers. Most admit that they’ve read about the case (how could they have avoided it?) but claim they have formed no opinion as to the guilt or innocence of either party. Most of them are lying, of course. That’s the way these things go. You can’t keep human nature out of a human process.
As the voir dire progresses, I notice that Sims is avoiding direct questions about racial views. At first I thought this was circumspection; with cameras in the courtroom, he would want to avoid any hint of racial bias. But as he exercises his peremptory challenges, his strategy becomes clear. He has seen that he has a shot at a predominantly white jury, and he means to get it, even if it means breaking the law.
After Sims rejects the fourth black juror, I stand and make my first objection of the day, citing Batson v. Kentucky and the line of subsequent cases extending the prohibition against excluding potential jurors on the basis of race to civil cases. Judge Franklin immediately sustains my objection, and Livy finally turns in my direction. Her eyes hold nothing for me. They are merely the eyes of opposing counsel, acknowledging my small victory in a war that will see many more skirmishes before the issue is decided.
After this point the voir dire passes more quickly than any in my career. I judiciously exercise my peremptories, culling on the basis of instinct. When my mental radar picks up echoes of blue-collar or rural backgrounds combined with religious fundamentalism, I pull the trigger. I challenge some whites for cause after tripping them up on questions about prejudice, but most racists quickly figure out how to conceal their true beliefs. Nearly every potential juror admits knowing Leo Marston to some degree, so many that I cannot realistically disqualify them on this basis. By eleven-forty-five a.m., we have empaneled twelve jurors (seven white, five black) and two alternates. Judge Franklin recesses for lunch and instructs the lawyers to be ready for opening statements at one.
I eat a quick lunch with Caitlin in an empty conference room near the chancery court, gobbling deli sandwiches from Clara Nell’s between calls to the newspaper to see whether they’ve heard anything from Stone or his daughter. They haven’t. Then I hurry downstairs through a crowd of courthouse employees and rubbernecking lawyers to give my witnesses one last pep talk, paying particular attention to Betty Lou Beckham, who looks as though she might come apart at any moment. Admitting on the stand that she was fornicating in a car with a married man must be akin to donning a scarlet letter in the village square. If it wasn’t for my father’s influence, Betty Lou wouldn’t be coming near this courthouse today. After holding her hand for a few minutes, I return to the crowded courtroom, sit at my table, and wait for one o’clock to tick around on the clock without hands.
Judge Franklin brings her court to order with a stern look, and Blake Sims rises from the plaintiff’s table and walks to the podium to make his opening statement. Sims is the son of Leo Marston’s former law partner (now deceased) and was raised in Greenville because of a divorce. He speaks with a cultured Delta accent rarely heard in Natchez, and though Greenville—the home of Hodding Carter’s Delta Democrat-Times—was perhaps Mississippi’s most liberal city during the civi
l rights era, Sims’s accent might evoke some negative responses in the black jurors.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he begins. “My client needs no introduction. But allow me to say a few words about him. Leo Marston is one of the most distinguished figures in Mississippi jurisprudence. He is a former attorney general of Mississippi and former justice of the state supreme court. He is a friend and adviser to Mississippi congressmen, and has been for more than thirty years. He’s a powerful business force for the city of Natchez, bringing industry and jobs to Adams County. He is also a pillar of the Catholic church, and a major supporter of charities in our area.”
Sims leaves the podium and walks halfway to the jury box, testing Judge Franklin’s formality. She makes no objection to his move. “With that in mind,” he goes on, “I want to ask you a question. What is a man’s name worth? The defendant in this case, Mr. Penn Cage, has signed an agreement stipulating to certain facts. First, that he uttered the vile charges in question. Second, that he uttered them in the full knowledge that they would be published in a newspaper. And third, that my client’s reputation has been severely damaged by his charges. That being the case, I won’t waste your valuable time trying to prove damages. Mr. Cage has publicly called my client a murderer. What more malicious charge could anyone make against another human being? Child molestation perhaps.” Sims slowly bobs his head as though weighing this issue.
“My client does not contest the fact that a tragic murder took place in May of 1968. Mr. Cage may even have evidence against the man who committed that crime. But what he does not have—what he cannot possibly have—is evidence that Leo Marston had anything whatever to do with that crime. Leo Marston was, in fact, the district attorney at that time. The chief law enforcement officer of the county. Mr. Cage may present some sort of circumstantial evidence, which he may try to weave into a web of deception to fool you good people. But my client and I know that you will not be fooled. Del Payton was a civil rights worker murdered to stop him from doing his noble work. And Leo Marston is demonstrably one of the most racially progressive leaders in this town, and has been since he was a young man.”
Sims lists various pro–civil rights statements Leo made during the sixties, his friendships with black leaders, donations to black causes. He cites testimonial letters he will enter into evidence, attesting to Marston’s contributions to Mississippi’s economy: letters from John Stennis and Jim Eastland (both deceased), Trent Lott, Mike Espy, and five former governors.
“What we have here,” Sims concludes—giving me a theatrical look of disdain—“is an irresponsible and sensational attack carried out by a man who has had a personal vendetta against my client for more than twenty years. Before this trial is over, you will understand why. And I want you people to know something else. The money involved in this case is of secondary importance to my client. What he wants, and what he deserves, is the vindication of his good name.” Sims fold his hands with the apparent probity of a deacon. “But if you good people should see fit to teach Mr. Cage a moral lesson about the price of such irresponsible action, so be it. We leave that to you. Thank you.”
Sims is unable to conceal his self-satisfaction as he takes his seat, but if he was hoping for congratulations from his client or co-counsel, he is disappointed. Leo stares sullenly ahead like a truck driver in the eleventh hour of a drive, while Livy sits with the cool composure of a pinch hitter waiting to be called to the plate.
In the restless silence of the crowd, I rise from my table and walk slowly toward the jury box. Their faces are expectant, as they always are at the beginning of a trial. Before boredom has set in. Before resentment against vain attorneys who love to hear themselves talk has settled in their veins. I lay my hands on the rail and speak directly to them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Penn Cage. I am a writer. Before I wrote books, I was a prosecuting attorney. I spent every day of my life putting violent criminals behind bars. I put more than a few on death row.
“I was born and raised right here in Natchez, but like a lot of our young people, I had to move away to earn my living.”
Several jurors nod their heads, probably those with adult children.
“I earned that living as a prosecutor in Houston, Texas. Now, if you were to go to Texas and ask about Penn Cage, you might find some people willing to speak ill of him. If you went to the penitentiary at Huntsville, you’d find a lot of them.”
General laughter from the gallery.
“What you would not find is a single person who would describe me with the word Mr. Sims just used. Irresponsible. Because when you are prosecuting murderers and asking for the death penalty, irresponsibility is not a weakness you can afford. It’s not a trait that my former boss, the district attorney of Harris County, would tolerate for one minute. Folks, you are looking at a man who says what he means, and means what he says.”
From the rapt faces of the jury, I can see that I haven’t lost the old touch. It’s a good feeling, like climbing onto a horse after ten years away and feeling him respond without a moment’s hesitation. It’s a pity that I have no case.
“When I called Leo Marston a murderer,” I say evenly, “I meant it. Together with a brutal and crooked cop named Ray Presley, Leo Marston engineered the death of a young father, army veteran, and civil rights worker named Delano Payton. And contrary to what Mr. Sims suggested—and what the citizens of our town have believed for thirty years—that murder had nothing to do with civil rights. No, Leo Marston had Del Payton killed for profit.” I glance back at Livy, but she refuses to look at me. “The same reason he does everything else. And despite what Mr. Sims told you, money is never of secondary importance to Leo Marston.
“Mr. Sims also mentioned the term ‘circumstantial evidence’ in a rather derogatory tone. After all the television lawyers we’ve seen, a misconception has grown up that circumstantial evidence is somehow inherently weak. But that is simply not true. Circumstantial evidence is merely indirect evidence. Let’s say a woman is shot to death at midnight with a thirty-eight caliber pistol. When the police arrive, they learn from one neighbor that the woman and her husband were in the middle of a messy divorce, and from another that the husband sped away from the house at five past midnight. The next day the police discover that the husband has a thirty-eight revolver registered in his name. Everything I just told you is circumstantial evidence. But I think a pretty clear picture of what happened is emerging in your minds. I’m not saying it’s conclusive evidence. I’m saying this is evidence that cannot be ignored.”
More nods from the jury, especially from the women.
“Mr. Sims asked what a man’s name is worth. I’ll tell you.” I turn and point at Leo, the man who acted with such shocking dispatch last night. His blue-gray eyes burn with the subzero cold of liquid nitrogen. “After this trial that man’s name won’t be worth the price of a cup of coffee. He ordered one of the most terrible crimes in the history of this city, and by so doing stained the name of Natchez, Mississippi, for thirty years. And with the help of J. Edgar Hoover, he sabotaged the investigation that followed that crime. The cold-blooded details of this premeditated murder will sicken you, just as they did me. But you must hear them. For the time has come to remove the bloody stain from the name of our fair city. Thank you.”
The jury seems a bit flabbergasted by the passion of my indictment, but it’s been my experience that juries like passion—to a point. And in my present situation, passion is better than nothing.
When Blake Sims rises to present his case, he does just as he promised: he ignores the question of damage to Leo’s reputation. He accomplishes this by a neat reversal, calling three character witnesses whose combined testimony is designed to canonize his client, making the image of Leo Marston as a cold-blooded murderer one that jurors will feel guilty for even entertaining.
The first is Governor Nunn Harkness, a Republican with a two-fisted, shoot-from-the-hip style that has won him two terms despite his methodi
cal gutting of social programs. Playing to the balcony TV cameras, Harkness praises Leo to the skies, lauding his success in bringing industry and gaming to Mississippi, and lamenting that, while Marston is a bit too liberal on issues like affirmative action, he is morally beyond reproach. It’s a pitch-perfect performance by a master, and the jury is visibly impressed. When Sims tenders the governor to me for cross-examination, I don’t ask a single question. Best to get Nunn Harkness offstage as soon as possible.
Sims’s second character witness is Thomas O’Malley, bishop of the Catholic diocese of Jackson. Once the priest of St. Mary Cathedral in Natchez, O’Malley has moved up the hierarchy. For fifteen minutes he waxes poetic about the multitudes of poor children whose Christmases Leo Marston brightened with toys. Then he moves on to the church itself. To hear O’Malley tell it, Leo single-handedly restored the cathedral to its present splendor, donating over half a million dollars to the restoration effort. As the bishop speaks, I am reminded of Michael Corleone being honored by the pope in The Godfather III. I shudder to think what sins O’Malley must have heard Leo confess during his years as a priest in Natchez, but none of that will ever pass the bishop’s lips. When Sims tenders O’Malley to me, I let him go without a word. Unless you’re dealing with questions of sexual molestation or mismanagement of funds, a Catholic bishop is bulletproof.
Sims’s third witness is another matter. As Bishop O’Malley leaves the courtroom, pausing in the aisle to shake the hands of a half dozen former parishioners, Sims calls FBI Director John Portman.
Portman enters the courtroom with two bodyguards, who take up posts at the door as their master walks up the aisle. Lean, tanned, perfectly coiffed, and attired in a dark blue suit, the FBI director is clearly accustomed to television. He ascends to the witness box with the air of a medical expert about to hold forth on matters beyond the understanding of a lay audience.