"Let's recess till tomorrow at nine," Di Pasco said.
13.
A cold, hard drizzle drilled the Tuesday morning streets, washing away most of what was left of the weekend's snow. Outside the courthouse The Preacher and his troops had gathered in support of today's star witness, Sonny Cole himself. The demonstrators were chanting, "Black Double Jeopardy, Black Double Jeopardy," which was not the name of a new game show, but was instead The Preacher's view of what was happening to Cole.
The Preacher's real name was Thomas Raleigh, but he had abandoned this slave-society appellation for the trendier Akbar Zaroum, - which sounded vaguely African and which served him well in a day and age of heightened awareness of one's roots. Under whichever name he chose to use, it was estimated that he'd cost the city some $1,400,000 last year alone, for extended police coverage of his various marches, protests, and demonstrations.
"Black Double Jeopardy," he kept chanting into his bullhorn, "Black Double Jeopardy," and his followers behind him echoed the chant, bellowing it into the ice-edged drizzle, "Black Double Jeopardy, Black Double Jeopardy.”
The chant had nothing whatever to do with reality.
Sonny Cole had been charged with two separate counts of first-degree murder. These murders had occurred in different locations, weeks apart. There were two different victims.
He was now being tried for the murder of Anthony Carella. Next month, he would be tried for the murder of Dolly Simms. There was no possible way anyone could even imagine he was being tried for the same crime twice-which was what the doctrine of double jeopardy aimed to prevent. But The Preacher operated on the theory that if you told a big enough lie often enough, people would accept it as the truth.
Wearing a long black coat and a red fez, rain-spattered dark glasses covering his eyes, long black hair slicked back, thick gold crucifix showing in the open throat of the coat, bullhorn to his mouth, Zaroum paced behind the blue-and-white police sawhorses set up on the street before the courthouse, chanting, "Black Double Jeopardy, Black Double Jeopardy.”
His followers paced solemnly behind him, all of them wearing dark blue trench coats, blue suits, white shirts, and red ties, lockstepped into the cadence of the chant, "Black Double Jeopardy, Black Double Jeopardy.”
The rain fell relentlessly.
Inside the courthouse, Sonny Cole was testifying.
He would have been a handsome man were it not for the scar on his face, running through his eyebrow and coming down his cheekbone to his jaw. Addison had advised against the hi-top fade Cole had groomed in jail, which the attorney said looked like a black flowerpot sitting on top of his head. Cole had styled his hair differently for the trial; he was now wearing it in a modified crew cut that made him look like a college student.
To heighten the effect, he was wearing a gray tweed jacket with darker gray flannel slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a blue tie. He was also wearing eyeglasses, which Addison felt added a serious scholarly touch.
Cole did, in fact, need glasses; without them he squinted, which Addison felt made a man look "mean and squinched," his exact words.
"Mr. Cole," he said now, "you have heard testimony in this courtroom regarding the events that occurred on the street outside the AandL Bakery on the night of July seventeenth last year, have you not?”
"I heard it, yes," Cole said.
His voice low. A pleasant voice.
Deep. Well-modulated. The voice of a thoughtful, reasonable man.
"And you've heard testimony as to whether there was one man, two men, a dozen men ...”
"Objection, Your Honor ...”
"Sustained.”
"Hyperbole, Your Honor, forgive me,”
Addison said, smiling, spreading his arms wide in apology, "I withdraw the question. Mr. Cole, do you remember where you were at around nine-thirty on the night of July seventeenth last year?”
"I do.”
"Were you outside the AandL Bakery?”
"I was not.”
"Were you anywhere near the AandL Bakery?”
"I was not.”
"Can you tell us where you were?”
"I was on a bus coming from Greenville, South Carolina.”
"What were you doing in Greenville?”
"Just passing through, sir. Seeing a little bit of the United States.”
"And you say you were on a bus?”
“Yes, sir.”
"What time did you board this bus?”
"Oh, it m/'ve been six o'clock or thereabouts.”
"Where were you going?”
"I was coming here, sir.”
"You were on a bus coming to this city, is that correct?”
"Yes, sir.”
"Can you tell us approximately where - you were at nine-thirty that night? Which city, for example? Which state?”
"I think we were in Virginia by then. Passing by Roanoke.”
"When did you arrive here, do you remember?”
"At two o'clock on the afternoon of the eighteenth.”
"As I understand it, then, you weren't even in this city on the night Anthony Carella was shot and killed.”
"That's correct, sir. I was somewhere in Virginia around that time.”
"How long is the trip from Greenville, Mr. Cole?”
"Twenty hours.”
"And you boarded the bus when? I know you told us, but perhaps ...”
"At six o'clock on the night of July seventeenth.”
"And you were scheduled to arrive here when?”
"At two o'clock on the afternoon of the eighteenth.”
"Which is when you did arrive.”
"Yes, sir, give or take a few minutes.”
"Where did this bus leave you off?”
"Union Terminal.”
"Do you know a man named Desmond Whittaker?”
"I do.”
"He is now deceased, isn't that so?”
"Yes.”
"Did you know him on the night of July seventeenth?”
"No, I did not.”
"When did you first meet Mr. Whittaker?”
"On the twenty-second of July.”
"Which would have been five days after Mr.
Carella was killed.”
"Yes, sir.”
"Where did you meet him?”
"In a cafeteria on The Stem.”
"By The Stem, do you mean Stemmler Avenue?”
"Yes, sir, Stemmler.”
"What was the occasion of this meeting? How did it come about?”
"We happened to be sitting at the same table, and we struck up a conversation. He was from out of town, and so was I, we just started talking.”
"What happened then?”
"We went out looking for some girls.”
Addison nodded, went to the table where the - evidence was arrayed, picked up the Uzi assault pistol, and carried it to the witness stand.
"Mr. Cole," he said, "I show you this pistol and ask if you've ever seen it before.”
"I have," Cole said.
"Can you tell me the make and caliber of this pistol?”
"It's a nine-millimeter Uzi.”
"When did you first see this pistol?”
"Desmond Whittaker showed it to me.”
"When?”
"The night we met.”
"Which was when?”
"The twenty-second of July.”
"How did he happen to show it to you?”
"We were with this girl, and he showed the gun to both of us.”
Addison went to the defense table, picked up a paper there, and carried it back to the witness chair. "Mr. Cole," he said, "I ask if you have ever seen this document before.”
Cole took the document, studied it carefully.
"I have, yes, sir.”
"When did you first see it?”
"I only saw it once before now.”
"And when was that?”
"On the twenty-second of July.”
"How did you happen to see it?”
"Desmond Whittaker showed it to me and the girl.”
"Can you tell me what it is?”