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Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

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THE PEOPLE VS. JACQUELINE BLUE

P
aul's arm around my shoulder and Mama's presence at my side were the only things that kept me from falling apart as we marched behind Keith up the steps of the courthouse, through the hallway, into the elevator, and then out into another hallway with the media and the curious hot on our heels. I saw Tiffany Nixon and she turned her face away.

Pam and Alyssa managed to squeeze through the throng. They squeezed my hand. Alyssa whispered, “Stay strong, Jackie. Remember, we've got your back.” I blinked my tears away and gave her a grateful smile.

Keith and I scrutinized the jam-packed courtroom. The only people I recognized were Tiffany Nixon and Jamal Hunt, who was peering around and scribbling on a pad. I knew that his next book would contain a remarkably realistic courtroom scene.

“Sit here,” Keith said, indicating the space beside him at the defense table.

Judge Madeline Veronsky, a cherubic figure in her stern black robes, called for order in the room.

The anorexic-looking woman whom I'd last seen the morning I was released from jail was the prosecutor. Ruth Champ paced back and forth in front of the jury throughout her opening statement.

The mouths of Veronksy and Champ were set in rigid Thin Pink Lines during the entire trial.

Champ said, “The State of New York will prove that Jacqueline Blue, with the intent to cause the death of Mrs. Annabelle Murray, did in fact cause her death; that as Mrs. Murray turned to retrieve an appointment book that the defendant claimed to have left in her home by accident, Miss Blue punched her in the back of the head, dragged Mrs. Murray into her own bathroom, and strangled her. She then ran from the building, jumped into a cab, and went to work at Welburn Books, a company that Mrs. Murray's family has owned since 1899. Why? Because Jacqueline Blue is an aggressive and hostile woman who has a gigantic chip on her shoulder, and when Annabelle Murray decided not to promote her to a higher position, that huge chip became a murder weapon.”

The journalists assembled in the row in back of me scrawled rapidly, drafting pieces of writing that they would have to turn into polished articles and news reports in time for tomorrow's newspapers and early morning broadcasts.

At ten o'clock, Keith began his opening statement. “Ms. Champ has just told you that she will prove Jacqueline Blue guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you that the evidence will show that Ms. Blue did not murder anyone. She is, in fact, still mourning Mrs. Annabelle Murray, who was not only her employer, but a friend. When you have heard all of the evidence in this case, you will have to conclude that Jacqueline Blue paid her boss a visit on that fateful morning to retrieve her personal property and that when she left the apartment, Annabelle Murray was still alive and unharmed. When you have heard the testimony of those who came into contact with Ms. Blue that morning, you will conclude that Ms. Blue had no knowledge of the terrible tragedy until all the employees at Welburn Books were informed shortly before noon of that awful day. What is more, you will ultimately realize that the position Ms. Blue wanted was not worth killing for. It would have been far easier for Ms. Blue to obtain that same position at another book publishing firm.”

I sat at the defense table with my hands folded in front of me like an obedient third-grader.

In a criminal trial, the prosecution presents its case first. Ruth Champ started off with a parade of forensic people, the coroner, and other scientific types to establish the gory details of Annabelle's death. On cross-examination, Keith got the coroner to admit that the person who strangled Annabelle was either a man or an extraordinarily strong woman because her larynx had been crushed.

When Astrid Norstromm took the stand, her Thin Pink Line was already in place. Champ approached her with an air of sympathy.

“Will you please state your full legal name and occupation?”

“My name is Astrid Norstromm and I'm executive editor at Welburn Books.”

“How long have you worked for Welburn Books?”

“One year.”

Champ gave me a withering glance and then spoke directly to Astrid. “Have you ever had the chance to interact with Miss Blue?”

Astrid glared at me before turning to face the jury. “Yes, on several occasions.”

“Please face forward, Miss Norstromm.”

She complied.

“Based on your interactions with Miss Blue, did you come to form an opinion of her?”

“Absolutely. She has a very bad temper and seemed to have some sort of ax to grind.”

There was a hum in the courtroom.

Champ looked saddened to hear this information. “Please give us an example of the behavior that led you to form this opinion.”

“About a year ago, I received an excellent book proposal from a literary agent and asked Jackie to read it and tell me what she thought of it. Two days later, I went into her office to discuss it and she came unglued. She behaved so irrationally that I was actually afraid that she was going to attack me.”

“Tell the court what you mean by the word âunglued.' ”

Astrid took a deep breath. “She hit the desk with the palm of her hand, yelled at me, and told me that I should stay away from manuscripts about Black people and stick to what I know. I was verbally abused by Jackie because I am a white woman.”

The hum grew louder.

“Thank you, Miss Norstromm. No further questions.”

Keith moved swiftly to cross-examine. “Miss Norstromm, what was the name of this book proposal?”

“I don't remember.”

He smiled pleasantly. “Do you remember what the proposal was about?”

“Sure. It concerned the dramatic rise in the number of African-Americans sent to prison in this country over the past ten years.”

“Did Miss Blue say that she was upset about these jailings?”

“We didn't talk about that.”

“Did she say that the author lacked the appropriate credentials to take on such a serious project?”

“No. The author was a respected journalist. There was no way that Jackie could argue that.”

“But she was definitely upset.”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm . . . a respected journalist proposed a book about an unfortunate state of affairs affecting African-Americans. Miss Blue is an African-American who would presumably feel dismayed by the data collected by this journalist.”

“That's exactly what I thought,” Astrid said triumphantly.

Keith rubbed his chin. “I'm confused. Perhaps Miss Blue was offended by a position that the author took. Did the author feel that this trend is a good thing and that more Black people should be jailed?”

Ruth Champ shot out of her chair. “Objection! Miss Norstromm cannot know how this unnamed journalist feels about anything.”

“Sustained.”

Keith showed no sign of having heard this exchange. “Miss Norstromm, please forgive my ignorance of the publishing process. Let me ask you this: is it true that you asked Miss Blue to read the proposal because you thought that Welburn Books should enter into a contract with the author to publish the book?”

“Yes.”

“What was written in this proposal that convinced you that Welburn Books should offer the author a contract?”

“It was the author's opinion that given the astonishing number of impoverished Black people in privately owned prisons, and given the fact that a large number of Black people are interested in starting their own businesses, it was only fair that wealthy, middle-class Blacks get a chance to own these prisons themselves.”

The hum became a roar and the judge pounded her gavel to bring the court back to order.

“Miss Norstromm, are you an American citizen?”

“Not yet. I've applied for citizenship and am going through the process.”

Keith's body was rigid but his tone was still reasonable. “What country are you from, Miss Norstromm?”

“Sweden,” she replied proudly.

“A lovely country. I've been there several times.”

She said nothing. The courtroom was quiet.

“How long have you lived in America?”

“Three years.”

“So, you're an editor at Welburn Books who is from Sweden and has only lived in this country for three years. A woman from a country which has comparatively few Black citizens. A woman who may not quite grasp certain situations in the United States. Could it be, Miss Norstromm, that Jacqueline Blue did not become angry because you are a white woman? Could it be that Ms. Blue reacted quite strongly to your woeful ignorance of the fact that such a book would be viewed as a gigantic slap in the face by the African-American community?”

The courtroom erupted and Ruth Champ shouted “Objection!” over and over again as Keith demanded an answer.

After Judge Veronsky sustained Champ's objection, Keith said, “I have no further questions for this witness,” and sat down beside me. His face was unreadable, and my taps on his hand to elicit some reassurance that we were off to a good start produced nothing.

Champ's next few witnesses were Annabelle's mother, aunt, and some cousins. She led them through their paces, and they talked about her upbringing in Scarsdale and the Vassar education. How funny, intelligent, well-read, pretty, and kind she was . . . what a loyal friend and wonderful mother she was . . . how she hoped to have another child someday, and the hole her absence had left in their lives.

By the time they were done, tears were coursing down my cheeks, some members of Annabelle's family were sobbing openly, and even my own lawyer appeared grief-stricken. He declined to cross-examine any of them.

Mama had a doctor's appointment and Paul had to go to work, so they skipped the afternoon session. Keith and I had lunch at an out-of-the-way burger joint. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, fries, and a cup of tea for himself. I picked at a salad that had lettuce leaves as limp as I felt.

Keith patted my hand for a moment. “I know this morning was rough, but keep your chin up. It ain't over till it's over.”

“What about this afternoon?”

“Jackie, this whole thing is going to be tough, okay? Let's just hope that the outcome is favorable.”

He ate silently and with gusto until I couldn't stand it anymore. “Keith, why do I have a mostly white jury?”

He poked at the slice of lemon bobbing up and down in his cup. “Because there hasn't been a case this big since O.J. Simpson. The next predominantly Black jury on a huge celebrity case involving a Black defendant will vote to convict, just to avoid criticism.”

“That's crazy.”

His face tensed. “The whole race thing is crazy, Jackie, but I didn't create it.”

“This sounds very risky.”

“We have a full-time jury consultant. He says that the next high-profile Black jury will convict just to prove to whites how impartial they can be.”

“And this person thinks a predominantly white jury will vote in my favor?”

He shrugged. “We stand a better chance with them . . . particularly since she was cheating on her husband with a poor, Black man.”

“Victor isn't poor.”

He sighed. “Still coming to his defense, eh?”

“All I meant is that Victor probably makes about $100,000 a year . . . the same amount I was earning at Welburn.”

“Baby, that's poor.”

“Well, excuse me,” I answered huffily.

He ignored my testiness. “This is going to be a relatively short trial. I give it two weeks at the most. Champ will walk the husband through what he knows about the morning of the murder, she'll call the taxi driver who says you were rushed and agitated when he picked you up shortly afterward. She probably doesn't want to put Sarah Jane on the stand since the press has asked what the victim's sister was doing for fifteen minutes, but she has no choice. Sarah Jane is the one who found the body. I'll call character witnesses and a private investigator for you. We'll pray that the jury believes me and wait for their verdict.”

Keith didn't have to say the rest. If they didn't, I would be found guilty and spend the rest of my life in the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women.

A FIFTEEN-MINUTE GAP

S
arah Jane Welburn Rizzelli took the stand that afternoon. She didn't look anything like her sister. Her hair was dirty blond, the face thin, its nose narrow and twitchy. She looked like a dried-up mouse sniffing around for cheese.

Louise Champ smiled warmly at her after the swearing-in. “Mrs. Rizzelli, I'm sorry to add to your troubles by bringing you here today.”

“I understand.” Her voice was thin, a cross between a whisper and a rice paper Japanese fan.

“I will not keep you here a moment longer than necessary.”

“Thank you.”

“Mrs. Rizzelli, have you ever met Jacqueline Blue?”

“No. I only know that my sister, Annabelle, was afraid of her.”

There was a hissing sound from the jury box.

“Did Annabelle tell you that she was afraid of Jacqueline Blue?”

“Yes.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“The night before she died.”

“Please go on.”

“Annabelle said that after she turned down Blue's request for a promotion, the woman made a fist at her and stalked out of her apartment without even saying good-bye. She called me and asked if she should notify the police. I said no.”

I whispered to Keith, “I never made a fist at my boss and I don't believe for a second that Annabelle ever said I did. The woman is lying through her goddamned teeth. I feel like pulling her off the witness stand and pummeling her into the floor.”

Keith motioned that I should be quiet.

Sarah Jane sobbed into a handkerchief.

“When was the last time you spoke with Annabelle?” asked Champ.

“The morning she died. I called while she was getting ready for work. We chatted for a few minutes, and then the doorman called from downstairs to say she had a visitor. I told her I was coming over to pick up some photos and hung up.”

“And when you got there?” prodded Champ.

Sarah Jane began to cry loudly. “When I got there, my sister was dead!”

The judge, looking shaken, agreed to a brief recess and gave Keith a look that warned him not to cross-examine the witness too closely.

Keith didn't even pretend to be sympathetic when the court reconvened.

“What time did you arrive at Mrs. Murray's apartment on January 27, 1997?”

Sarah Jane looked confused. “About 9:15, I think.”

Keith shook his head and picked up some papers from the defense table. “No. Jacqueline Blue left The Dakota apartment building at exactly 8:55
A.M.
You came through the door at precisely 9:00.”

She said nothing.

“At 9:15, you ran into the lobby and told the security guard at the front desk that your sister was injured. He called 911 and the police arrived on the scene at 9:25.”

She waved her tiny hands. “It's all such a blur. I'm sure you can understand that, Mr. Williams.”

“I certainly can,” Keith answered cordially. “What I can't understand is the fifteen-minute lag time. Do you have a key to your sister's apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“In case of an emergency.”

“What kind of an emergency?”

“In case Annabelle lost her key and couldn't get in.”

Keith searched his notes as though he were confused. “But didn't her husband also share that apartment with her?”

“Yes.”

“Did Craig Murray know that you had keys to his home?”

“I don't know.”

“Okay. Did Annabelle unlock the door for you or did you let yourself in?”

She neatly sidestepped the trap. “My sister could not unlock the door because she was lying dead on the bathroom floor.”

Keith was unperturbed. “So, you let yourself in. Then what?”

“I found her lying on her back and . . . and . . . oh, I can't go on!” She began to cry again.

Keith's voice hardened. “Did you go into the kitchen first? Her bedroom? The library? Another bathroom? Did you call her name as you walked through the apartment?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. One question at a time, Mr. Williams.”

“Would you like me to repeat the questions, one by one, Mrs. Rizzelli?”

“No.”

“Then walk us through those minutes, please.”

She rambled on about calling Annabelle's name as she walked through each room. The pink bathroom was the last place she checked and made the shocking discovery.

“Why didn't you call the police?”

Sarah Jane's voice cracked again. “I've asked myself that question a thousand times.”

“And the answer is?” Keith persisted.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don't know.”

Keith bowed from the waist. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes. Do you know the identity of Dora Murray's biological father?”

Sarah Jane looked wildly from Judge Veronsky to Ruth Champ and back again. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Yes, Counselor,” Judge Veronsky spoke sharply from the bench. “What is the point of your question?”

“I have reason to believe,” Keith said smoothly “that Annabelle Murray knew that her husband did not father their little girl, Dora. It is also my understanding that the witness quarreled with her sister about this very issue during a phone call on the morning of the murder.”

“May I approach the bench?” Ruth Champ yelled.

There was a fifteen-minute delay while Keith and Ruth argued in front of the judge. When it was over, Keith had lost.

“The jury will disregard that last question,” instructed Veronsky.

Keith nodded. “Did you quarrel with your sister by phone on the morning of her death?”

“Yes.”

“What was the argument about?”

“Annabelle had some old family photos that were rightfully mine.”

“Did she know that you were stopping by that morning?”

“Yes.”

“To get the pictures?”

“What do you mean?”

Keith sighed. “Let me rephrase the question. Why did you go to your sister's house on the morning of the murder?”

Sarah Jane shifted uncomfortably in the witness chair. “Because Annabelle asked me to.”

“What did she want that could not wait until a less busy time? After all, you were both heading off to work.”

“Annabelle wanted me to take the pictures right away so we wouldn't have that argument again.”

“Isn't it true that there was someone in the apartment with Annabelle when you spoke to her on the phone that morning?”

Sarah Jane hesitated. “Craig wasn't home. He left the night before and didn't come back.”

“I'm not talking about your sister's husband,” Keith said softly. “Who was the man who made Annabelle cry only minutes before she died?”

Champ objected and the judge agreed. Keith let Sarah Jane go. Craig was next. His hair, dress, manner, and posture were confident and fit neatly with his new job as Chief Executive Officer of a major New York publishing house. His testimony was brief, sad, and inconsequential.

Paul had to stay late at the office and didn't get home till nearly eight. I was already in bed, just lying there trying to figure out whether Keith and I were winning or losing.

He crossed the threshold without saying a word and dumped a manuscript on the floor.

He sat down beside me and rubbed his temples.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“I'm exhausted,” he answered.

“Have you had dinner?”

“A slice of pizza on the way in.”

“Are you still hungry?”

He stood up and started to undress. “No. I just need some sleep.”

“Paul?”

“Yes?”

“Are the powers-that-be giving you a hard time at work?”

He unzipped his pants. “Nothing I can't handle.”

Although Paul's tone was flippant, I knew that things had to be pretty seriousâhe hadn't even kissed me. The tabloids had been running his photo, hinting that he was my lover, right along with mine ever since my release from jail. No company wanted one of its key employees to be linked to an accused murderess. This awful mess was going to cost Paul his job.

“I'm sorry,” I told him softly.

He was standing in his drawers now. “Don't worry about it, baby. How was court this afternoon?”

I told him about Sarah Jane's testimony and the change in Craig.

“What does Keith make of all this?”

“I have no idea.”

Paul crawled up on the bed beside me and kissed me three timesâon the forehead, nose, and lips. “The brother definitely doesn't show his hand.”

I sighed. “Not at all.”

His hand snaked under the nightgown and started rubbing my thigh. “We're both all stressed out. Maybe there's a way to work off some of this tension.”

My nose wrinkled. “Man, you didn't even take a shower yet.”

He groaned and hoisted himself back to a standing position. “After that water hits me, I won't be good for anything.”

“That's okay,” I smiled. “We have hundreds of nights ahead of us, right?”

He paused in the doorway and our eyes locked. “You're worried that I'm having second thoughts about all this, aren't you?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Well, I'm not. Nothing is ever going to come between us.”

I blinked back tears of relief. “You're the greatest.”

“I love you, too, Jackie.” He winked and left the room.