Joe promised to tell the truth. Sebastian began with a few easy questions in an effort to calm the kid, but his twitching was relentless. Hiding behind the sunglasses, he first gave the impression of a witness who could never be trusted. Gradually, though, he settled down somewhat. He told his story, giving short answers to short questions. He and a friend were in Little Angola, where they had bought some crack earlier in the evening. His friend was driving, and drinking, and at one point Joe suggested they stop the car for their own safety. They parked on the street, Crump Street, and were listening to music, smoking crack, having a good time. The friend fell asleep. Joe was high but not as stoned as his friend. He saw the black man in a long brown coat walk by on the sidewalk and heard loud voices. The man fell to his knees, raised his hands as high as possible, and the other guy came into view. He was yelling and holding a pistol with both hands. While the black guy was on his knees, the white guy began firing, loud, booming shots that came quickly. The black guy screamed and the white guy yelled and Joe couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The black guy yelled “Shit!” when he got hit and grabbed his left arm. He began rolling toward another car that was parked in front of them. He grabbed something under his coat, yanked out a pistol, and fired two shots. The second one hit the white guy, who instantly grabbed his face and fell down. Within seconds, another white guy, one wearing jeans and a cap, jumped onto the sidewalk and began yelling at the black guy. He had a gun and for a second it looked as though he wanted to start shooting. When the gunfire stopped, Joe slid down even lower in his seat. He saw blue lights. His friend never woke up and missed it all. Everything happened so fast.
Sebastian paused and walked over to his table to allow the testimony to sink in. The jurors were mesmerized.
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“I’m a college student.”
“Thank you, Joe. Nothing further.”
Mancini bounced to his feet and roared, “Tell us, Joe, how long have you smoked crack?”
A shrug. “Maybe five years.”
“So you have a history of using drugs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any other drugs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which ones in particular?”
“I’ve tried everything. I have a problem, okay? It’s not something I’m proud of.”
Mancini struck gold when he asked about rehab. Slowly, he managed to extract the details about Joe’s rather incredible history of addiction and treatment. Joe withheld nothing and detailed everything he could remember. Again he admitted, “I have a problem, okay? I’m trying to get clean, but that doesn’t mean I’m not telling the truth.”
“How can you know the truth if you’d been smoking crack all night?”
“I wasn’t stoned, like my friend. I had not been drinking. I was high all right, but I know what I saw.”
Mancini harangued the kid on the differences between “stoned” and “high” but gained little. Joe’s honesty about his problems was disarming. He admitted more than once that he was an addict, but addicts can still see and hear. They can function. He was taking classes and making decent grades.
Mancini began repeating himself and gradually realized he was getting nowhere. He tossed his legal pad on his table in frustration and sat down. Judge Schofield allowed Joe to quickly exit through the same door he’d entered by. They adjourned early for lunch.
The courtroom was packed as Thomas Ray Cardell took the stand. Sebastian began with easy questions-family, education, work-and gradually got around to his life in Little Angola. His world revolved around his son, Jameel, and he had been struggling to survive and keep the kid in school and out of trouble. Life on the streets was tough, with so many ways to get into trouble.
His confrontation with Buck Lester lasted only a few seconds, but it took an hour to tell the story. The courtroom was silent as Tee Ray slowly and calmly told what happened. He looked the jurors in the eyes, gave them the truth, and believed they heard him. He had practiced for so long, walking around his cell, anticipating questions, smoothing out the wrinkles in his answers.
Joe, a kid in the wrong place at the wrong time, had spoken the truth. He saw it all, just as it happened.
Max Mancini sparred for another hour but could not shake the witness.
With two hours to go, Judge Schofield decided to finish. It was, after all, Friday afternoon, and the alternative was to come back Saturday morning for the jury to deliberate. He believed they would not take long. As did Sebastian.
In his closing argument, Mancini mocked the defense witnesses. One, a crackhead whose brain was fried and shouldn’t be believed. The other, a man fighting for his life who would say anything to avoid death row. But he had no clear proof of his own.
Sebastian reminded the jury of this. It takes far more than the State offered to convict a man of capital murder.
