John quickly added, “You seem arrogant and aloof and the jury will pick up on this. Plus, you were disrespectful to Judge Oswalt. This cannot happen again.”
Russell said, “When the trial starts tomorrow, those jurors will spend half their time looking at you.”
“Why?” Pete asked.
“Because they’re curious. Because their job is to judge you. They’ve never done this before and they’re in awe of these surroundings. They will absorb everything, and it’s important that you look somewhat sympathetic.”
“Not sure I can do that,” Pete said.
“Well, try, okay?” John said. “Take some notes and flip through some papers. Look like you’re interested in your own case.”
“Who picked that jury?” Pete asked.
“Us. The lawyers and the judge.”
“I’m not so sure about it. Looks to me like they’ve already made up their minds. I didn’t see too many friendly faces.”
“Well, show them one, okay, Pete?” John looked away in frustration. “Remember, those folks get to decide how you spend the rest of your life.”
“That’s already been decided.”
Ernie’s radiators were humming along at 9:30 Tuesday morning when Miles Truitt rose to address the jury in his opening statement. The courtroom was warm and once again packed, and Ernie and Penrod crouched in a corner of the packed balcony and watched with great anticipation.
Everyone grew still and quiet. Truitt wore a dark brown wool suit with a vest. A gold chain dropped from a vest pocket. It was a new suit, one bought for this moment, the biggest trial of his career. He stood before the jury and offered a warm smile, then thanked them for their service to the State of Mississippi, his client. They had been carefully chosen to hear the evidence, to evaluate the witnesses, to weigh the law, and finally to decide guilt or innocence. It was a heavy responsibility, and he thanked them again.
First-degree murder was the most serious crime on the books in Mississippi. Truitt read its definition straight from the code: “The intentional, deliberate, and premeditated killing of another human being without the authority of law by any means or in any manner.” He read it a second time, slowly and loudly, each word echoing around the courtroom. And the punishment: “Upon conviction of first-degree murder, the jury shall decide to impose death by the electric chair, or life without parole.”
Truitt turned, pointed at the defendant, and said, “Gentlemen of the jury, the Reverend Dexter Bell was murdered in the first degree by Pete Banning, who now deserves to die.” It was a pronouncement that was certainly expected, but dramatic nonetheless.
Truitt talked about Dexter: his childhood in Georgia, his call to the ministry, his marriage to Jackie, his early churches, his children, his powerful sermons, his compassion for all, his leadership in the community, his popularity in Clanton. There were no blemishes on Dexter, no missteps along the way. A fine young minister dedicated to his calling and his faith, gunned down at church by an army sharpshooter. Such a waste. A loving father taken away in an instant and leaving three beautiful children behind.
The State of Mississippi would prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt, and when the witnesses were finished he, Miles Truitt, would return to this very spot and ask for justice. Justice for Dexter Bell and his family. Justice for the town of Clanton. Justice for humanity.
John Wilbanks watched the performance with admiration. True, Miles Truitt had the facts on his side and that was always a major advantage. But Truitt was subtle in his approach, understating some facts instead of taking a sledgehammer to them. The murder was so monstrous on its face that it didn’t need affected drama. As Wilbanks watched the faces of the jurors, he confirmed what he had known for a long time. There would be no sympathy for his client. And with no proof of their own, the defense was dead, as was the defendant.
The courtroom was silent as Miles Truitt sat down. Judge Oswalt looked at John Wilbanks, nodded, and said, “And for the defense.”
Wilbanks stood and fiddled with the knot of his fine silk tie as he approached the jury box. He had nothing to say, and he wasn’t about to blast away with some preposterous claim of mistaken identity or conjure up a bogus alibi. So he smiled and said, “Gentlemen of the jury, the rules of procedure in trials like this allow the defense to waive its opening statement until later when the prosecution is finished. The defense chooses to exercise this option.” He turned and nodded to the bench.
Judge Oswalt shrugged and said, “Fine with me. Mr. Truitt, please call your first witness.”
Truitt stood and bellowed, “The State of Mississippi calls Mrs. Jackie Bell to the stand.”
From the second row behind the prosecution’s table, Jackie stood and moved to the end of the pew. She was sitting with Errol McLeish, who had driven her from Rome, Georgia, on Sunday afternoon. Her parents were keeping her children. Her father had insisted on accompanying her to the trial, but she dissuaded him. Errol had volunteered and was eager to make the trip. She was staying with a friend from church, and Errol had a room at the Bedford Hotel on the Clanton square.
All eyes were on Jackie, and she was prepared for the attention. Her thin figure was wrapped tight in a slim-fitting black belted suit. She wore black suede pumps, a small black velvet half hat, and a simple string of pearls. The emphasis on black worked perfectly and she emanated grief and suffering, sort of. She was very much the widow, but a young and attractive one at that.
All twelve men watched every step as she made her approach, as did the lawyers, the judge, and virtually everyone else. Pete, though, was not impressed and kept his eyes on the floor. The court reporter swore her to tell the truth, and Jackie situated herself in the witness chair and looked at the crowd. She carefully crossed her legs and the crowd watched every move.
From behind a podium, Miles Truitt smiled at her and asked her name and address. He had coached her well and she looked sincerely at the faces of the jurors as she spoke. Other essentials followed: She was thirty-eight years old, had three children, had lived in Clanton for five years but moved to Georgia after the death of her husband. “I became a widow,” she said sadly.
“Now, on the morning of October 9 of last year, at approximately nine o’clock, where were you?”
“At home. We lived in the parsonage beside the Methodist church.”
“Where was your husband?”
“Dexter was in his office at the church, at his desk, working on his sermon.”
“Tell the jury what happened.”
“Well, I was in the kitchen, putting away dishes, and I heard some sounds I’d never heard before. Three of them, in rapid succession, as if someone on the front porch had clapped his hands loudly three times. I thought little of it, at first, but then I became curious. Then something told me to check on Dexter. I went to the phone and called his office. When he didn’t answer, I left the parsonage, walked around the front of the church and into the annex where his office was.” Her voice broke as her eyes watered. She touched her lips with the back of her hand and looked at Miles. She was holding a tissue she had taken to the stand.
He asked, “And did you find your husband?”
She swallowed hard, seemed to grit her teeth, and continued, “Dexter was at his desk, still in his chair. He’d been shot and was bleeding; there was blood everywhere.” Her voice broke again, so she paused, took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and was ready to move on.
The only sound in the courtroom was the quiet hum and rattle of Ernie Dowdle’s radiators. No one moved or whispered. They stared at Jackie and waited patiently as she gamely pulled herself together and told her horrible story. There was no hurry. The town had been waiting for three months to hear the details of what happened that morning.