Jill has him well rehearsed, however, and he testifies in an arresting country voice that for the first time has a little twang in it, like George Jones singing, “I stopped lovin’ her today.”
After reviewing his length of employment (three years, not a record, but unusual given the turnover at the Blackwell County HDC) and training, Jill asks him to describe what happened when Pam was electrocuted.
I follow his testimony in the transcript from the probable cause hearing. He repeats it almost verbatim.
“If Dr. Chapman had of jus’ told me how bad it was really gonna hurt, I’d of known to holt her a lot tighter,” he says earnestly.
“I didn’t want to hurt her by squeezin’ too hard. I liked Pam a lot.”
He gets through his testimony this time without tears, though, as last time, his voice becomes hoarse with emotion.
Jill has left me as little as possible. As I stand up to crossexamine him, Leon shoots me a look of pure hatred, which I interpret as fear. We are on my turf now.
“How much do you weigh, Leon?” I ask as if we are old friends comparing diets.
“About one-seventy,” he says, his voice sullen.
“How old are you?”
Not understanding where I’m going, he volunteers, “I’ll be twenty-five in October.”
“Would you say you’re in pretty good shape?”
Too macho to admit he doesn’t lift more than a pool stick and a can of beer when he finishes his shift, he says in his George Jones voice, “I’m all right.”
“Despite being a hundred-and-seventy-pound, twenty-four year old in good condition, you couldn’t hold on to Pam’s hands when she pulled away?”
Leon’s lower lip puffs out as if a bee had stung it.
“I said every way I know how,” he huffs, “I would have kept aholt of her if I had been told she was gonna kick like a mule.”
Leon’s whining cuts through the room like a power saw being revved up. I ask, “How long have you known Dr.
Chapman?”
He is wary now, but he has no choice about answering my questions.
“It hadn’t been a year, I guess.”
“Would you say you and he were friends?” I ask, turning as I finish to look back over my shoulder. In the courtroom I have noticed a couple of men whose knuckles look familiar.
Unable to restrain a dry chuckle, Leon looks into the audience.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“But you don’t have anything against him?”
No genius, Leon has started going on smell. He sniffs, “He don’ give me no trouble, an’ I don’t give him any.”
I am in no hurry.
“So you know of no reason why you wouldn’t try to do exactly what he said when it came to holding on to Pam.”
I can’t resist looking at Jill. She is on the edge of her seat and she knows something is coming.
“Have you ever heard of a group that has the reputation of hating African-Americans and goes by the name of the Trackers?”
Jill shoots out of her chair like a Roman candle. “I object, Your Honor. This isn’t relevant.”
Judge Tamower looks at Jill and then at me. I’d rather not have to telegraph it all to Leon, though right now the question is like a neon sign blinking on and off. “Of course it is. Your Honor,” I say.
“Every one of the jury answered this question This isn’t precisely true, but it’s close.
The judge, bless her liberal heart, helps me out.
“I’ll allow it. Answer the question, Mr. Robinson.”
Thinking he’s about to be trapped, Leon says nonchalantly, “Sure, I heard of it.”
I have been waiting to ask this question for weeks, and I don’t waste any time.
“Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Trackers, Leon?”
On her feet again, Jill says, “I object again. Your Honor!”
her voice anxious for the first time all day.
“I have no idea how Mr. Robinson is going to answer, but all Mr. Page is trying to accomplish is to prejudice this jury.”
“On the contrary. Your Honor,” I say, “if Mr. Robinson let go of Pam when she was shocked because he hates black people and he thought in a moment of anger she would attack Dr. Chapman, the jury, in deciding what my client’s own state of mind was, should be allowed to take this into ac count. ” Shaking her head angrily, Jill says, “That’s guilt by association, Your Honor. Just because Mr. Robinson may have been in some kind of club doesn’t prove he did anything.”
“The Trackers is not just some kind of club, Your Honor. It’s…”
Cutting me off. Judge Tamower says, “Sit down, Mr.
Page. You’re not testifying. Answer the question, Mr. Robinson
I plop down, trying not to look too relieved, thinking this entire case (unless Andy is lying) is about guilt by association.
Leon, righteously indignant, yelps, “I’ve never joined them or nothin’ like them.”
After a few more questions, I sit down, thinking that with a little luck, we’ll know about that tomorrow.
As I return to my seat, Andy, without even a glance at me, rises suddenly and says in a loud voice to the judge, “Your Honor, I want to fire Mr. Page and represent myself!”
Staring at Andy as if he has suddenly gone crazy. Judge Tamower stands up, too, and says, “I want the lawyers and Dr. Chapman back in my chambers immediately. The court will be in recess for fifteen minutes.” With that, she flees the bench through a side door.
I turn to Andy and snarl in a low whisper, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
In front of the jury, Andy grabs my arm and says, “You broke your word! I warned you not to do this!”
“Come on!” I say, furious.
“She’s not going to let you.”
Shaking with rage, I look into the stunned faces of Jill and her young assistant as they hurry past our table.
In chambers, the judge has taken off her robe as if she is through for the day. Underneath it, she is wearing a red dress almost identical to Olivia Le Master’s.
“What is your client’s problem, Mr. Page?” she yelps at me. Whatever sympathy she may have had for our case seems a distant memory.
Judges do not like surprises, nor do they like defendants to represent themselves.
For an instant I consider trying to explain what I believe is in Andy’s mind. The truth that Andy thinks I have wrongly injected the issue of race into this case, when, in fact, that is what it is primarily about as far as I’m concerned is too bizarre, too threatening. Instead, I say, “We are having a disagreement over trial tactics. Your Honor.”
“Your …” Andy begins.
The judge loses her temper.
“I don’t want to hear from you, Dr. Chapman,” she yells, pointing a finger at him.
“If you didn’t want a lawyer, you should have thought about that a long time before today. I’m not allowing you to represent yourself; I’m not allowing Mr. Page to quit as your attorney, and I don’t want you to speak here or in my courtroom again until you’re spoken to! Is that clear?”
Andy shakes his head.
“Then I refuse to participate in this trial any further.”
Judge Tamower looks at me and then back at Andy as if she wants to make pressed meat of both of us. Lawyers are supposed to be able to control their clients, and defendants dressed as nicely as Andy are supposed to behave themselves and go to prison, if not with smiles on their faces, at least with stoic calm. It is not as if I am back at the Public Defender representing some dope-crazed space cadet.
“That’s fine with me,” she says grimly.
“You can spend it in a holding cell.”
Great! I can hear the talk on the street: Page can’t even keep his clients out of jail during their trials. I look at Jill and send her a silent prayer: we’re both lawyers, even if we hate each other’s guts right now. There is a smirk on her face as if she is daring me to keep Andy company. Desperately, I look over at the huge bailiff, who seems more than willing and able to take each of us under one arm, and notice the clock. It is after four.