As if he were a child learning to pray, Andy brings his hands together and touches them to his lips.
“My brother’s living proof,” he tells me, “of my theory that the most rabid racists and chauvinists are black men.”
Peeling somehow that Morris, Leon Robinson, and I are not all that different, I shake my head.
“I doubt that.”
Brother Morris, clean-shaven and almost burr-headed, so closely clipped is his bristled head, clearly couldn’t care less about our sociological speculations and now gives me a hard stare.
“I should of figured Andy’d get a white lawyer but I hear you don’t mind leaning on people. Can’t he agree to spill some shit on this Olivia Le Master and still cut a deal?”
Perhaps I should feel insulted, but I can live with the word “lean.” Morris understands the game, but surely he doesn’t know how prescient his remark is, and I doubt he knows how deeply involved Andy and Olivia are. Quickly, before Andy can interrupt, I reply, “Sure he could, but he says she hasn’t done anything wrong except trust his judgment.”
“Bullshit!” Morris explodes, slapping the arms of the chair.
“According to you,” he says, turning to his brother, “she was gonna pocket a couple million off her own kid’s death.”
Implicit in Morris’s question to me is the suggestion that Andy conspired with Olivia. More probably, Morris, cynical beyond words, thinks as I do that Andy may have been duped.
Andy returns his brother’s stare. He is younger, but he isn’t about to be bullied by him.
“Olivia’s only mistake in this nightmare,” he says stubbornly, “was to let me shock her daughter.”
I watch Andy’s lips curl into a rare but now familiar pout, signaling he won’t even begin to be budged. If this were still a charge of manslaughter, I’d have another guilty plea on my hands. It is as if it has taken his brother’s presence for him to admit he has some responsibility for Pam’s death, something that can’t be easy to accept when all his energy has been directed toward fighting for his freedom. How ironic that his streetwise, misanthropic brother has had the effect of stimulating his conscience.
“And your mistake,” Morris replies to Andy but nicking a glance at me, “was to pull your pants down when she started wagging her white ass at you.”
Maybe Morris knows more than I think. Andy, who rarely uses profanity in my presence and never refers to women in sexist terms, merely winces as he says to me, “Morris is a real liberal, isn’t he?”
Never having had a brother, and not being particularly close to my only sister (we blow hot and cold), I don’t get it.
What binds these two except blood?
“I think that species,” I reply, “has gone out of business.” “I hope to hell you’re right,” Morris says benignly.”
“They were about to kill us black folks.”
Despite my vow to keep out of this, I laugh out loud.
Morris probably thinks Franklin Roosevelt was part of a Communist plot to overthrow this country, while his brother may well pray to him every night. Still, they must touch something in each other. Maybe it’s just as simple as sleeping in a room together for a number of years and calling the same man and woman your parents. “The composition of the jury could be crucial for us,” I say, having called attention to myself and feeling forced to speak. I would like to be able to discuss my plan to force Leon Robinson to admit his membership in the Trackers, but I am afraid of the reaction I’ll get from Andy. Despite a concerted effort in the last few days on my part to get some information on Leon, I still have no evidence that he deliberately let go of Pam. Yet, surely it was as obvious to Leon as it was to Yettie that Andy and Olivia were romantically involved; and, given his feeling about blacks, Leon wouldn’t miss an opportunity to act upon his pent-up hatred. Too bad I can’t prove it.
“Damn straight,” Morris says emphatically, giving the chair a rest and slapping his knee with the palm of his hand. With his height and aggressiveness, Morris could have been a point guard in basketball had he gone to col lege. Owner of several businesses and some real estate in downtown Atlanta, according to his brother, Morris had better things to do than dribble a basketball and waste his time fantasizing about the pros.
“It only takes one to hang up a jury,” Morris says, looking at me for confirmation.
When I nod, he says, “On the other hand, no nigger I know, man or bitch, is gonna like it when it comes out Andy was messin’ with white pussy.”
I’ve almost gotten used to Morris, but when he says the “N” word, I flinch. For the last two days I’ve worried that there will be no blacks on the jury. Since Blackwell County is about twenty percent black (though its percentage of registered voters from whom the jury panel is selected could be lower), there should be at least a couple. But this is the kind of no-win case that makes prospective jurors, especially blacks, suddenly remember they are about to miss their mother’s funeral in Cleveland.
As if we have touched on something sacred, Andy pointedly changes the subject.
“Tell Morris about our expert,” he says to me.
Morris, like a dog with his favorite bone, shakes his head.
“You’re not gonna pull this shit about race not being an issue,” he says to his brother.
Again, I feel relief that Morris is here.
“It’s the most important thing in this case,” I tell Morris, convinced that only he can bring Andy around on this subject.
“As a psychologist Andy has got to appreciate more than either of us that the jury is going to be influenced by their own racial biases.
We just can’t sit there while the prosecutor takes advantage of that and we don’t,” I plead, hoping Morris will work on him.
For the first time today, Andy’s magnificent eyes begin to smolder behind the gold frames of his glasses.
“You know exactly how I feel about this,” he warns me, his voice a low rumble, “and you gave me your word. You are not going to pander to the racist instincts in the courtroom, and that is final.”
“Using peremptory strikes to keep whites who won’t admit their racism off” the jury,” I say, somewhat disingenuously, “is hardly pandering.” Andy and I have previously discussed that in a capital case the defense gets to eliminate up to twelve potential jurors without having to disclose a reason, and the prosecution gets to eliminate ten. This tradition, not required by the United States Constitution and purely a creature of state law around the country, has as its purpose the selection of an impartial jury.
Like a law professor lecturing the statistically inevitable bad apple in his ethics class, Andy adjusts his glasses as if he would prefer not to see me and thunders, “You just want to use the system to get a black racist on the jury.”
Instinctively, I shake my head. Hell, I want both. I want to win his damn case for him. His long arm striking like a snake, Morris bridges the space between their chairs and clutches his brother’s arm.
“Jesus Christ!” he yells.
“Every person on this earth is racist. I don’t give a damn who you are. You think you aren’t one the way you run after whites? You hate us niggers so bad it makes you sick to look at us!”
Andy recoils as if Morris were trying to spit on him.
“I
don’t live where I do,” Andy says icily, “because I hate African-Americans.”
Morris laughs, sending an ugly barking sound through my small office as he holds the arm of Andy’s chair so he can’t pull back further.
“You’re scared shitless by us. You always have been. Even when you were a kid, you wouldn’t go play basketball if it was just a bunch of niggers.”
“I wasn’t any good and didn’t enjoy playing,” Andy observes coolly.