Witch Ball (15 page)

Judging others is an art form in
Columbus. The facts of a crime, and how the offense is viewed by the legal system, are less important than if the laws of God were broken. For instance, abortion is considered an unforgivable sin, while murder is acceptable if you are defending your property from a trespasser.

I was amazed that they could find a jury of people who claimed to have no opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the accused, but twelve adults were chosen as jurors from registered voters in the county. There were eight men and four women.

Dad took some vacation time to give his full attention to the trial. He suggested that I stay away from court because he thought it would be too upsetting for me. Of course, I ignored him. I wasn't going to miss this, and had talked them into allowing me to skip classes if I promised to make up the lessons I missed. I tried to talk Mom into coming with me. She refused.

On the first day of trial, the courtroom was packed. Mother Goose was there, along with about half the county. Some people had to stand along the walls.

Eric sat at a table next to Patrick Adams. Eric was neatly dressed, in a dark suit, with his curly hair cut too short.

Clementine sat next to Hunter Alexan
der, directly behind Eric. Grandpa Hyrum and my dad sat behind her. Although Greg and Butch were not allowed to leave home, their parents were there. They crowded into the row behind Eric and his lawyer. The families were visibly tense, no smiles or chit-chat. Watching them filled me with anxiety. They looked as if a bomb were about to explode.

Fleur and I sat together. She wanted to be close to the back door in case she had to leave suddenly. Fleur tried to assure me that she wasn't frightened or nervous, but she had a death grip on my hand that told me otherwise.

Trillian and Algonquin were summoned as well. They arrived just before the trial began and had to sit across the room because there were no seats next to us.

Missing from the courtroom was Sue Ellen Russell, and her shadow, Roxanne. I would have thought they would be there.

There are signs on the walls saying "No hats, no sunglasses, turn off all cell phones." This struck me as slightly funny. Who knew there was a dress code for court? Columbus does not allow signs in the courtroom either. So there weren't any banners saying "Free the Columbus Vigilantes," or "Justice for The Gang of Three." That no-sign rule is probably a good thing; otherwise the courtroom would be filled with posters printed with Bible quotes and a lot of misspelled words. At least we were spared that.

Most people were excited, full of anticipation. They might have been an audience waiting for a Monster Truck Rally, or the Jerry Springer Show to begin. I suspect that these folks were not directly connected to the defendants, just voyeurs at a live performance.

One exception was Johnny D., Skip's father. I watched him come in with shoulders hunched over. I had not seen a photo of him in three or four months and was amazed by how much he had aged. He held a tattered baseball cap in his hand, and sat at the back of the courtroom.

The bailiff said "Order in the court. Please rise" very loudly. Everyone stood up and Judge Sanders entered the courtroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

J
udge Sanders made some statements about the trial, how serious it was, and how quiet and order must prevail. He went over the charges, explaining them to the jury.

He was all business, no smiles. Both Mr. Adams and the District Attorney gave a short speech stating that they would prove their case beyond a shadow of
a doubt. Spectators whispered to each other but were quickly silenced with the banging of the judge's gavel.

The D. A. called the
coroner to the stand. He described some gory details about the condition of the victim's body and the approximate time of death. His voice was as calm and undramatic as if he were reciting a grocery list. When asked to state the exact time of death, he said, "Sometime between maybe 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m." The D. A. asked him several times if he could be more specific. Clearly, this was quite important. "That's as close as I can estimate," he responded. The D. A. appeared disappointed.

The coroner brought crime scene photos, which were entered into evidence and projected onto a screen for everyone to see. They showed Coach Russell lying sprawled on a patterned carpet. His eyes bugged out, just as Eric had told me.

Now I understood why Dad had not wanted me there. I had seen dead bodies in movies and on TV shows, but this was horribly real. The images were burned into my brain forever.

The coroner was asked to speculate as to what sort of person could commit such a crime. "It would have to be someone very strong, wouldn't it?" the D. A. speculated.

"I object!" said Mr. Adams. The judge agreed.

When it was his turn, Mr. Adams asked almost the same questions as the D. A. had asked. They went over the time of death again and again. Was the coroner likely to change his testimony? I guess Mr. Adams thought he might.

Several police detectives were interviewed. They talked about evidence. Eric's fingerprints were found at the scene. Clues were sketchy. There was no indication of burglary, or of any forceful entry. Detectives deduced that Coach knew his murderer, had let him into the house, and that the motive was something other than theft.

When Mr. Adams questioned the detectives, he made them concede that many sets of fingerprints were found inside the house and conjectured that if Eric's fingerprints were admissible, then all the others that were found should also be included in the evidence. The judge agreed.

Mrs. Miller, the coach's neighbor, was called to the stand. She was questioned about the boys she had seen on the night of the murder, and the cars, and the truck. Everyone knew that she couldn't remember much, and certainly could not identify anyone.

The D. A. tried to make her say that she was sure one of the boys was Eric. "Young man, I already told you, it was dark and I had to go to the bathroom." Muffled laughter rippled through the room.

At 11:30 the judge announced a break for lunch. "When we return," he said, "other witnesses will be called."

After much consideration, Aunt Fleur
and I decided to walk the block-and- a-half to Café on Main. Algonquin and Trillian brought their lunch, planning to eat on the benches in front of the courthouse, so they declined our invitation to join us.

My aunt was moving slowly that day. We must have taken too long to get there, because the restaurant was quite busy
, with almost no empty tables. I recognized many people from the courtroom.

As we looked around for a place to sit, I saw
Grandpa Hyrum at a table with Clementine. I started to approach when Fleur grabbed my arm and directed me to another place.

"Fleur, why
don't you want to sit with Grandpa?"

"I guess I'm not feeling very social today." She looked out at the shops on
5
^th
Street South, turning the back of her head to the room.

I tried to get my
Grandpa's attention, but he must not have noticed me in the crowded café. He reached across the table and patted Clementine on her hand. It was a sweet gesture, so unlike him. She must be dreadfully upset about the trial. How kind, I thought, for him to comfort an old lady.

 

 

 

 

 

 

W
e walked back to the courthouse to discover Mom waiting for us next to the statue honoring the Confederate War soldiers. "I couldn't let you do this alone," she said to Fleur.

Fleur looked so grateful; I thought she was going to cry. We all hugged and went inside together.

After everyone settled down, the judge entered. The first thing I heard was, "I call Florenz Thomas to the stand."

Her knees wobbled so much when she stood up that I wondered if she could get to the front of the room without help. She walked with her head down as she maneuvered up the aisle toward the low fence separating the courtroom from the judge. Each step was tiny and precise. One would have thought that the short pile of the gray carpet was going to reach up and grab her pumps. There were a few whispers, or hisses, as she passed the observers. I couldn't understand them.

This must have been the first time that the judge realized who she was. His eyes widened. Just as she reached the judge's bench she raised her head and stared directly into his eyes. His face flushed in a red so bright that anyone paying attention would have thought he was having a stroke.

The District Attorney began asking questions. "Mr. Thomas, can you tell the court about the events on the night of June 26th?" A twitter vibrated through
the room when he said "Mister."

Fleur stared straight ahead, as if she were afraid to look at Judge Sanders. "I went to the Huddle House to get a late supper."

"And was this your first visit to the Huddle House?"

"No, we go once or twice a month."

"When you say 'we,' to whom are you referring?"

"My two friends:
Trillian Bacakus and Algonquin Sabine."

The D. A. kept asking questions. They were relentless and repetitive. Finally, after asking her to describe the attack three times, he said, "Can you identify the men who assaulted you?"

"No. They had bandanas across their faces." Her voice sounded weak. It must be awful to re-live something so horrifying. She had to tell him repeatedly that she could not say who they were.

Mr. Adams was almost as bad as the D. A. By the time he said "No more questions, Your Honor
," Fleur was pale and trembling. The whole process felt like she was on trial, guilty of being the victim of a beating.

The trial adjourned until the next morning. Good thing, too. I felt like I had been punched.

Mom and Fleur and I stopped for hamburgers at Christy's and took them home to eat. None of us was enthusiastic about the idea of running into someone we knew. We left with our food as soon as we could.

We ate with very little conversation. Dad phoned to say that he and Mr. Adams would order a pizza at the office. They were staying downtown to strategize.

"Mom, I'm proud of you," I said. "I know you didn't want to go to court. You might have had to see your old boyfriend."

"I did see him. I almost didn't recognize him," she said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
thought the second day in court might be easier. They would probably not call Fleur again. The ordeal had left us all emotionally drained. Mom insisted on picking up Fleur the next morning.

Trillian and Algonquin were called to testify. Their questions were almost exactly the same as the ones put to Fleur. Their answers were the same as hers as well.

Then Eric was called to the stand.

"Mr. Alexander," said the D. A., "do you remember the night of June 26
^th
of this year?"

"I do."

"Where were you on that night?"

"I went to a movie with my friend, Truly Moore."

The D. A. asked about the movie, and where we went afterward. Then, he got into the stuff that he really wanted to hear. "After you took Miss Moore home, what did you do?"

"I went out with some old friends from the track team."

"Can you name those friends?"

"Yes, sir: Greg Carson and Butch Hollis."

"What did you and Mr. Carson and Mr. Hollis do that night?"

"We drove around for a while. Then we went to Coach's house."

"By 'Coach' do you mean Russell Lewis, faculty advisor for the Columbus High School track team?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what time it was?"

"Around eleven, maybe twelve..."

"Would that be eleven p.m., and twelve midnight?"

"Yes."

"What did you find when you arrived at Mr. Russell's house?"

"The door was open. We just went in."

"So, Mr. Alexander, are you in the habit of entering someone else's home?"

"Not just anyone's, but Coach's house, yes. We had been there many times before. He left the door unlocked when he wanted company. It was a signal." Eric looked at the jury when he said this.

"Why would you three young men make a visit to a teacher at that late hour?"

"We wanted to confront him." Beads of perspiration dotted Eric's forehead. He pulled on the sleeves of his suit coat, like he was trying to make them longer.

"Confront him about what, Mr. Alexander?"

"We were angry. We thought we could make him stop."

"Stop what, Mr. Alexander?" The D. A.'s voice was so stern. I was frightened, even though I was far in the rear of the courtroom.

"Stop having sex with the boys." A gasp went up in the room.

"Strike that! There is no proof of sexual abuse."

"Strike the last statement from the record," the judge said to someone in front of his bench. Judge Sanders glared down at Eric and said, "Young man, I remind you that you are under oath. Choose your words with great care."

Eric looked at Judge Sanders. "Yes, Your Honor."

The D. A. continued, "Mr. Alexander, is it correct that you, and your
friends went to Coach Russell's house on 3
^rd
Street North with the express intention of doing him bodily harm? Did you in fact want him dead so badly that you planned on murdering him?"

"No! We just wanted him to stop. We didn't know what we would do when we got there."

"But you were angry, furious, out of control. Tell the jury why you were so angry." The D. A.'s tone was icy and threatening.

"We were upset about Skip."

"By that you mean Skip Daigle, the boy who hanged himself prior to the murder of Coach Lewis?"

"Yes. He was a favorite of Coach's. Skip was shy. Coach knew how to choose his boys, kids that he could control, the ones who wouldn't tell."