An Absence of Principal (14 page)

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. What you are being asked to do this week will be fairly simple, and frankly, the quicker we can all come to agreement, the quicker we can all resume our day-to-day activities. The prosecution views the evidence against the accused, Tony Nail, as convincing, and the government will show Nail had motive and malice in murdering Junior Walker on or about June 1, 2011. Mr. Nail has even admitted to being in West Odessa on the night of the crime.

“Tony Nail has a criminal history in narcotics, ladies and gentlemen, and is known to frequent the area where this murder occurred — a pretty rough neighborhood. In fact most weeks, he’s in that same West Odessa neighborhood three, perhaps four times per week. The defendant personally knew the victim and the prosecution will prove the murder was the result of non-payment on a drug debt. Money that Tony Nail just didn’t have.”

Trask was dumbfounded as to the flimsiness of the government’s case. It seemed one of the worst thought-out plans he’d heard in a while. Prosecutors were no doubt hoping for a quick resolution to the case. So far Trask could debunk everything the prosecution was trying to offer up.

“The government will also show you that not only did Tony Nail have motive to kill Junior Walker, we’ll prove to you Nail is somewhat of an expert marksman with a pistol. We’ll show you that he has been skilled in shooting since long before his arrest on drug charges several years ago.”

Trask looked at Nail. The attorney’s gaze was filled with daggers. Nail avoided eye contact with Trask. It was not a good time to answer Trask’s stare.

“What the hell, Tony?” he whispered in his ear. “What’s this about?”

Trask had never known Nail to pick up a gun. Ever. A skilled shooter? Never. It was ridiculous. Or at least that had been his notion until just a moment ago.

Nail finally mustered up the courage to look Trask’s way.

“I’ll explain,” he said. “Just let me do it later.”

Trask didn’t like surprises. He shot a rejoinder back in Nail’s direction.

“You better be prepared to tell me everything,” he said. Friendliness and reassurance were not a part of Trask’s directive.

Midkiff’s opening was lengthy, just the way Halfmann preferred that it not be. The judge popped a few sunflower seeds in his mouth and took a swig from a water bottle.

“Mr. Trask, your opening,” Judge Halfmann said.

“Thank you, your honor,” Trask began. He walked to the jury box, legal pad in hand, as always. He took out his ever-present, neatly-folded handkerchief, and slightly dabbed away the perspiration as it formed, which it tended to do in courtroom settings. He was confident, to be sure, but that didn’t stop him from an occasional bout with nerves.

When he wasn’t lawyering, Trask was a deacon, serving the Church in a criminal justice ministry and was firmly opposed to the death penalty. His off time was closely aligned with his professional life, the way a writer would spend his free time reading.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. My name is Garrison Trask, the attorney for the defendant, Tony Nail. Too many people today ignore their jury summonses and choose not to serve society. It’s a growing problem. You all quite obviously have made the responsible choice to be here today to advance the everyday functioning of our society. I thank you for that, Tony and I go back a ways. I know a lot about Tony. And by the end of this trial, you’ll know a lot about him, and you will most certainly come away knowing that he is as good a man as there is. Just as I have known all these years.”

Trask approached the jury box confidently, the way he always appeared during open and close. And for that matter, during the testimony portion, sentencing,
voi dire
and every other phase of the proceeding. Trask did not lack in self-assuredness. His philosophy had always been that any crack in confidence is something everyone can see, most especially a jury.

This was, after all, a run-of-the-mill, drug-deal-gone-bad. On the other hand, this may be the only one of those hundred run-of-the-mill drug cases where the defense attorney was lifelong friends with the accused. That didn’t happen often, Trask knew.

“Tony, or Anthony as you may hear counsel for the government call him. Or Mr. Nail. The accused. The defendant. The government in general, and Mr. Midkiff, specifically, likes to choose words carefully so that they can paint a picture in your mind about the defendant, who, you can be sure, will be cast in a less-than-flattering light.

“But don’t let the clever words coming from the prosecutor stand in the way of your good judgment, ladies and gentlemen.”

Tony looked into the eyes of the jurors. They seemed sympathetic; like they might be favoring the words of his friend and lawyer. Tony still couldn’t understand why he had been put into this position. Every time he thought about it, it brought tears to his eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I was trained at the Baylor University School of Law. I have defended over 250 cases in my career and I have won 95 percent of those cases. I have been fortunate in my profession, but it hasn’t all happened by accident. My training has taken me far and I’ve been blessed. I pour my heart and soul into defending my clients, and I stand here before you today and assure you that Tony Nail is an innocent man. Wrongly accused. Arrested because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Over the next couple of days, I will introduce you to this man, and you will see overwhelmingly that not only is Tony not guilty, but he is in fact someone you would be honored to have as a friend, a son, even a son-in-law. You will see Tony’s dedication to his work, his devotion to God and his love of serving others and that will make it clear to you that Tony Nail is the victim of profiling by the City of Odessa Police Department, a shameful exercise that happens, whether we want to believe it or not, in every city in America.”

Midkiff never veered from his own look and feeling of confidence during Trask’s opening. If this was the sum of Trask’s opening, he felt even more comfortable with how his prosecution would proceed.

“I grew up with Tony Nail,” Trask continued, to the surprise of Midkiff. “From the earliest days of our youth, I have known him to be a man of impeccable integrity and character. I have never known a word of untruth to come from him. Even when Tony hit a rough spot a few years ago, he was one hundred percent honest with what happened in his life. I ask that you merely pay attention to the facts. I believe what we will show you in defense of this good man will far outweigh any so-called proof the government claims to have. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

Trask caught and held the bottom of his tie, making sure it didn’t lap up over the defense table when he sat down. He proceeded to write a series of brief notes on his legal pad when he was finished with his opening.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a long morning, what with the selection process taking a little longer than we had anticipated, and the somewhat wordy opening statements by our two fine lawyers,” Judge Halfmann said. “Let’s break for the day. I have some other matters to tend to. We’ll resume at nine in the morning. At that time I’d like to go at this thing full speed ahead and be out of here and have you back to your families or your jobs by the end of Thursday. Friday noon at the latest. Good day, ladies and gentlemen.”

“All rise,” Larry said. As the jury filed out of the courtroom, Halfmann motioned for Midkiff and Trask to approach the bench.

“Gentlemen, just a friendly reminder, and not to suggest that I have seen anything of this type to this point, but leave any attempts at grandstanding at home,” Halfmann said to the two lawyers. “Garrison, I don’t want some sort of ‘This is Your Life’ re-creation of your finer days spent with the defendant. That’s not what we’re here for, understand? I’m glad you and Mr. Nail are such good buddies, but if it’s not relevant, park it outside. Mr. Midkiff, I have nothing so far, but since we go back so far, keep it on the up and up, and know that I’m listening to your every word.”

Midkiff had tried many a case in front of Halfmann and knew the judge had never been impressed with the prosecutor’s theatrics. It had been three years since the two were in the same courtroom together, and in fact the judge knew Midkiff had taken a leave of absence for several months. Rumor had it Midkiff had checked himself into Clear Springs, a pricey dry-out facility in the desert of West Texas, north of Odessa. That was the word going around the legal circles in West Texas.

When the lecture was over, Trask turned and headed back to the defense table and looked square on at Nail. Trask hadn’t forgotten the bombshell the prosecution had dropped several minutes before.

“You and me … we have a little talking to do,” he said.

CHAPTER 11
 

I
n a high school classroom in Catoosa, Oklahoma, a small bedroom community northeast of Tulsa and more than 600 miles away from Midland, Ben Doggett began his first day as a substitute teacher in a school district so small everyone knew there was a new man in town.

Doggett had a keen sense of certainty in himself. Not arrogance. But there was no doubt he was in charge. Despite the tumble his life had taken in recent weeks, Doggett maintained his air of superiority at the front of the classroom. He had taught elementary schoolers before and had called them one and all by name in the hallways of his old school, but he had never led a group of high school seniors until today. He had obtained the job in the same way he had obtained most everything else in his life: through an impenetrable line of b.s. mixed with a confident nature and charm, and to a lesser degree in this case, outright ability. The man could talk a good line, but he was also smart and adaptable to almost every situation.

“All right class, listen up,” Doggett said. “My name is Homer Wilson. My friends call me Homer, after my father. You can call me Mr. Wilson. Also after my father. We will get to know each other quite well over the next several weeks, I suspect. I have been called a student’s teacher. You can decide for yourself the more we move through the educational process this term. I am here just long enough for your regular teacher, Mrs. Mathers, to make it through her extended maternity leave which as I understand, she is enjoying quite a lot right about now.”

Doggett thought an identity change was probably for the best, and so when he left his mother’s house that morning, he visited a long lost friend who had an unmistakable knack for altering identities. He ran a tattoo parlor on Lewis Street, near downtown Tulsa, but the only kind of ink Doggett was interested in was the kind that would spell out his new name on an Oklahoma’s driver’s license and social security card.

He was good in front of a classroom. He had the senior English class sitting on the edge of their chairs, as much as you could have summer school students sitting on the edge of their chairs. They seemed to love him already and he hadn’t even dished out the first homework assignment yet. Homer Wilson, who would somehow manage to not slip and refer to himself as Mr. Doggett, planned to spend the entire six weeks of the summer session getting his class of thirteen students to love John Steinbeck as much as he did.

“By this time next week, I want you all to have read
Cannery Row.
I want to know about the people who live there. The struggles they faced and overcame, or didn’t overcome. And I want you to tell me why you feel by reading just this one book that John Steinbeck should be considered our greatest American writer. Now go.”

The bell rang and the class filed out. Except for one, a beautiful 18-year-old on the back row who walked to Mr. Wilson’s desk and introduced herself as Elizabeth Shumate. Elizabeth, Doggett would later learn, was one English credit away from graduating. When she finished, she could move out of Catoosa, Oklahoma, and get on to the brighter lights in America.

Elizabeth sauntered up to Doggett’s desk after the remainder of her classmates had left the room. Through her movements it was apparent to Mr. Homer Wilson that she was trying to flirt.

Doggett had wondered since that day he left Shanna if he left because he had simply grown tired of her, or if his womanizing actions had finally turned his stomach to the point that he recognized the need for a lifestyle change. He was about to find out.

“Yes, ma’am, how may I help you?” Ben Doggett said with his finest Homer Wilson self-assurance.

“I’ve read a lot of Steinbeck,” she said. “I find him compelling and highly readable. His portrayal of the American family in the time of the Great Depression and the impossible situations with which they were faced make up some of the greatest moments in American literature. All too often I find myself identifying more and more with Ethel in ‘Eden.’ You remember Ethel, one of the working girls in Miss Faye’s brothel? She may have been a prostitute, but she was a good-hearted woman. With a kind soul and a big heart.”

He was impressed by Elizabeth’s knowledge and love for literature.

“Have a good day, Mister Wilson,” Elizabeth said, her voice dripping with a thick Arkansas drawl. Before she turned to leave, she scribbled something on a sticky-note, folded it and slipped it into Doggett’s shirt pocket.

Ben went home, or what passed for home during this part of his life. He found himself unable to think clearly. So much had happened in his life in the last three months. Now, he found himself tempted by an 18-year-old who seemed to be flirting with him. She was undeniably a beautiful young woman, but she was also without question off limits to him, especially someone in his position and situation and with his history. He reached into his pocket to find out what she had stuffed into it before sauntering off at the end of the class period.

“Liz. 855-7609. Call me.”

Doggett cracked open his third beer of the young night and reached for his phone, thumbing in her number with surprisingly little hesitation or even guilt.

After what I’ve done
, Ben thought to himself,
what’s giving in to a little more temptation?

“Good evening, Miss Shumate, how can I help you?”