I walk back around to the podium, not at all satisfied by the cold expression on Emma Par 5
sons’s face. If she is sympathetic to Class, she has a funny way of showing it.
“You see, obviously my theory is that someone in the plant framed Class
Bledsoe because he or she knew that he wouldn’t have an alibi. That person or persons knew he was going to be by himself between the hours of two and four, that person or persons knew every worker’s routine, what they did after getting off work and who they did it with, so Class was the perfect setup, because he isn’t going to be able to produce a single person to say where he was between two and four in the afternoon on September twenty-third. He will tell you that he was at home by himself as he always was.”
I come back around the podium and place my hands in the center of the rail, wondering how many of these jurors already have their minds made up. Four of the whites on the jury and three of the blacks have their arms tightly folded across their chests, not a good sign. They are waiting for me to name a suspect. It is time to oblige them.
“So who could have done it? Well, the undisputed evidence will be that an undocumented alien from Mexico with forged papers by the name of Jorge Arrazola, who had been working at the plant for six months, fled Bear Creek two days after Mr. Ting’s murder and hasn’t been seen since. The sheriff is going to admit to you that nobody in law enforcement, despite all the fancy communication systems and cooperative agreements among law enforcement agencies on a local, national, and international level, has a clue where Jorge Arrazola disappeared to. Mr. Alvaro Ruiz, who works at the plant and whom Jorge Arrazola lived with, will tell you that Jorge Arrazola dropped him off that afternoon at his second job after they left the plant at two and said he was going fishing. Mr. Ruiz will tell you he didn’t see Jorge Arrazola again until six that night, when he picked him up after work.
Then two days later Arrazola fixed up a truck Mr. Ruiz had given him and
took off without a word to him. Folks, I think by the time the trial is over, the evidence will suggest to you that Mr. Ting’s murderer is long gone from Bear Creek.”
I step back a few inches from the railing and put my hands in my pockets, telling myself not to jiggle my change, a bad habit I’ve gotten into lately. To keep the possibility of a deal alive during the trial, I don’t tell the jury that there is nothing but the most marginal circumstantial evidence of a conspiracy between Class and Paul.
Dick will hammer that home better than I can.
Focusing on a black retired farmer in his sixties, I say, “If we’re looking for a motive for Jorge Arrazola, ladies and gentlemen, forty-eight hours is about forty-seven more than he needed to collect payment from whomever may have wanted Mr. Ting dead…”
I wind up by telling the jury that even if there were no other suspects in the case, they can decide the case on the issue of the credibility of Class Bledsoe. I walk over to the witness chair and point at it.
“When the time comes for us to present our defense. Class Bledsoe is going to sit right here and look you in the eye and tell you he left the plant when everyone else did and didn’t leave his house again that afternoon. Regardless of what Mr. Butterfield said or didn’t say about the evidence in this case, Mr. Bledsoe’s testimony is evidence, too. If you believe him, you must acquit him.”
I sit down, having no idea what effect I have had on this jury. At no time did I get a feel that I was getting through to a soul. I fear that
Woodrow Bonner’s reputation for competence and integrity will decide this case. If he thinks Class did it, that might well be good enough.
Dick practically sprints to the jury rail. Practically on top of the jury as he leans into the railing, he lectures them sternly, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get one thing clear: If Mr. Butterfield doesn’t introduce this tape he has talked about, you can be sure I will, because the tape you will hear in this trial no more makes Paul Taylor out to be a potential murderer than the man in the moon. In fact, the tape to be introduced in this courtroom will simply show that Paul Taylor, a farmer and businessman who has lived in this county his entire life, wanted to buy a meat-packing plant that he knew was a profitable business and made what he considered was a fair offer for it. Far from being a threat, the tape will show he merely pointed out that Willie Ting wasn’t going to be around forever, with the implication being he ought to sell now to someone with a realistic offer.” When he has said this, he cups his right fist and taps it against his chin.
“Mr. Taylor is hardly going to deny that years ago he hired Class Bledsoe as a delivery man in one of his stores, he will gladly admit that he talked to Henry Oldham about when he was going to retire, he will happily confess that he may have talked to Class Bledsoe a few times when he went out to Oldham’s to buy some barbecue and to see how his business was going. But Mr. Butterfield has virtually admitted there’s not going to be a shred of direct evidence that Paul Taylor hired anyone, including Class Bledsoe, to murder Willie Ting; there will be no evidence of a conversation, no evidence of money changing hands, no evidence of a promise made.”
like a preacher at a revival, Dick spreads his hands and then slowly
brings them together as he says, “The evidence, ladies and gentlemen, consists of an ambiguous tape and a few coincidental and harmless meetings. I could call this so-called evidence a lot of things,” Dick thunders, “and, believe me, I will at the end of this trial when I am permitted to argue the case, but whatever it is, it isn’t enough to put a man in jail for five minutes…”
As Butterfield jumps to his feet and has his objection sustained that Dick has already begun to argue, I realize that Dick has not told the jury that Paul will take the stand and deny that he paid to have Willie killed. For the first time in a week I consider the possibility that Paul is guilty, and that Class was telling the truth. If Paul has confessed to Dick, he can’t knowingly let Paul commit perjury, and Dick, despite what I think of him, has too much integrity to let him.
And minutes later, when Dick sits down, I have no idea whether Paul, who surely wants to proclaim his innocence, will do so from the witness box.
After lunch, Butterfield begins to put on his case with the FBI expert, who testifies first because she must leave immediately for another trial in Phoenix. As she explains why there is no doubt in her mind that the blood on Doss’s knife is Willie’s, it’s hard not to be impressed. This same agent, a Ph.D. chemist-and a coolly attractive blonde-testified in a murder trial in Little Rock a couple of years ago, and better lawyers than I am couldn’t lay a glove on her. I am content on cross-examination to emphasize the obvious when she is through: no tests she has performed prove that it was Class who used the knife to kill Willie. It is, of course, a dumb question to ask her, but it gets my
point across.
The rest of the day is taken up by testimony from personnel from the state medical examiner’s office and the sheriff’s office, whom Butterfield puts through their paces as if they have been preparing for this trial for a lifetime. They leave little to quibble about: The crime scene was properly secured, preserved until the investigation was completed; no gaps exist in the chain of custody of the blood and knife; the victim may have lived for as little as two minutes after his throat was slashed from left to right two inches in width.
The wound on his neck is consistent with the Koch blade which, as the plant foreman told us, actually cuts like a pair of scissors. The only fingerprints on the handle are my client’s. Butterfield, with Johnson’s permission, passes the knife to the jury and not a single member can resist touching the blade to test its sharpness.