Judge Kaufman apologizes for the delays and says it’s time to get to work. He looks at Huver, who stands and says, “Your Honor, the State rests.”
This is an amateurish ploy designed to make my life even more miserable. I rise and angrily say, “Your Honor, he could’ve told me this yesterday or even this morning.”
“Call your first witness,” Kaufman barks.
“I’m not ready. I have some motions. On the record.”
He has no choice but to excuse the jury. We spend the next two hours haggling over whether or not the State has presented enough proof to keep going. I repeat the same arguments. Kaufman makes the same rulings. It’s all for the record.
My first witness is a scraggly, troubled kid who looks remarkably similar to my client. His first name is Wilson; he’s fifteen years old, a dropout, a druggie, a kid who’s basically homeless, though an aunt allows him to sleep in the garage whenever he’s sick. And he’s our star witness!
The Fentress girls went missing around 4:00 on a Wednesday afternoon. They left school on their bikes but never made it home. A search began around 6:00 and intensified as the hours passed. By midnight, the entire town was in a panic and everyone was outside with a flashlight. Their bodies were found in the polluted pond around noon the following day.
I have six witnesses, Wilson and five others, who will testify that they were with Gardy on that Wednesday afternoon from around 2:00 until dark. They were at a place called the Pit, an abandoned gravel pit in the middle of some dense woods south of town. It’s a secluded hideout for truants, runaways, homeless kids, druggies, petty felons, and drunks. It attracts a few older deadbeats, but for the most part it’s a haven for the kids nobody wants. They sleep under lean-tos, share their stolen food, drink their stolen booze, take drugs I’ve never heard of, engage in random sex, and in general waste away the days while sliding closer to either death or incarceration. Gardy was there when someone else abducted and murdered the Fentress girls.
So we have an alibi—my client’s whereabouts can be vouched for. Or can it?
By the time Wilson takes the stand and is sworn in, the jurors are suspicious. For the occasion he’s wearing what he always wears—grimy jeans with lots of holes, battered combat boots, a green T-shirt proclaiming the greatness of some acid-rock band, and a smart purple bandanna looped around his neck. His scalp is skinned above the ears and yields to a bright orange Mohawk roaring down the center. He’s displaying the obligatory collection of tattoos, earrings, and piercings. Because he’s just a kid without a clue and is now being dragged into such a formal setting, he instantly retreats behind a smirk that makes you want to slap him.
“Just be normal,” I told him. Sadly, he is. I wouldn’t believe a word he says, though he’s telling the truth. As rehearsed, we walk through that Wednesday afternoon.
Huver annihilates him on cross-examination. You’re fifteen years old, son, why were you not in school? Smoking dope, huh, along with your pal here, that’s what you’re telling these jurors? Drinking, and drugging, just a bunch of deadbeats, right? Wilson does a lousy job of denying this. After fifteen minutes of abuse, Wilson is disoriented, afraid he might be charged with some crime. Huver hammers away, a bully on the playground.
But because Huver is not too bright, he goes too far. He’s got Wilson on the ropes and is drawing blood with each question. He’s grilling him about dates—how can he be certain it was that Wednesday back in March? You kids keep a calendar out there at the Pit?
Loudly, “You have no idea what Wednesday you’re talking about, do you?”
“Yes, sir,” Wilson says, politely for the first time.
“How?”
“Because the police came out there, said they were looking for two little girls. That was the day. And Gardy had been there all afternoon.” For a kid without a brain, Wilson delivers this perfectly, just like we practiced.
Evidently, when there is a crime in Milo slightly more serious than littering, the police rush out to the Pit and make accusations. Harass the usual suspects. It’s about three miles from the pond where the Fentress girls were found. It’s blatantly obvious none of the regulars at the Pit have any means of transportation other than their feet, yet the police routinely show up and throw around their considerable weight. Gardy says he remembers the cops asking about the missing girls. The cops, of course, do not remember seeing Gardy at the Pit.
None of this matters. This jury is not about to believe a word Wilson says.
