Saltwater in the Bluegrass (38 page)

It was now time to begin.

Judge Hillbrook embraced a slow, methodical drink from his water glass and placed it back on the bench next to his papers and wooden gavel. As far as he was concerned the anxiety in the courtroom was to be seen, it was to be heard, and at times even felt, but nowhere in the courtroom was it to be mimicked or unconsciously scoffed at, especially by the four defendants seated before him, on trial for murder.

Each individual in the room had a reason for attending, an agenda, a schedule of his own, especially today. Today, after all of this time, finally there would be a close to this case which had divided the people in the southern part of the state for over a year. Four prominent local white businessmen were accused of the murderous slayings of three young black men from the neighboring county.

Most everyone in the courtroom had a theory, somehow convinced they knew the outcome of the case, even before the twelve members of the jury had left the courtroom, before they had gone behind closed doors and into deliberation.

Now, as the jury returned, one after another filling the designated box, the assumption and speculations of the spectators had grown even more evident than prior to the jury’s first leaving.

It was time to find answers to the questions, the questions that really counted, by those who had been placed in charge of finding justice. Whispering, hisses, and jeers quickly subsided, becoming a saturated hush, causing silence to fall over the room.

Hands gripped tightly, palms sweaty, eyes watering, souls praying, and the strain of reality growing tighter as each second passed. It was as though the possibility for emotional speculations had somehow become the fear of everyone’s eventual conjectures. Deformation had run its course and resolution, for what it was worth, was the only situation left in the room still needing to be played out.

“In the case of State vs. Pricket, Martin, Mitchell and Bennett, has the jury reached a decision?”

Judge Hillbrook looked perplexed in his questioning. Taking off his wire framed glasses, he wiped away the moist, salty beads of perspiration from his face. Sitting upright, seated in a specially-designed leather chair, he shook the bottom portion of his robe to reposition himself. He turned and looked at the bailiff standing to his left, then at the jury box. As before, he once again stopped, taking a slow drawn out sip from his water glass. In a cursory glance, he looked down at the court reporter and took a deep breath. Slowly he crimped the corner of his white, monogrammed handkerchief, placing it back into a pleated fold, and then purposely, meticulously, set it to his right back on the bench. Without another thought he looked into the jury foreman’s eyes and waited, as if there might be wave of impartiality still to come against the mounds of evidence and the confirmation of testimony which had earlier been brought before the court by both sides.

“Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

Uneasiness quickly spread throughout the courtroom. Apprehension on the faces of the spectators grew as many leaned forward, clearing their throats and looking towards the jury box, waiting for the verdict. The jury had been out for only two days, thirty-two hours and fourteen minutes to be exact.

Conjecture by the defense seemed promising, especially due to the jury’s brief deliberation. In their eyes, it was a no-brainer. All signs looked to be going in their favor. Surely the four men would walk away from this, being found not guilty. The prosecutor’s evidence had been circumstantial at best, almost fabricated in the eyes of the defense team. Each of the four accused men had account for their whereabouts and key witnesses to substantiate their stories at the time of the murders.

Testimony by the defense had proven this over and over, time and again throughout the lengthy trial.

As for the prosecution, they were steadfast to their positioning. The state had forensic and collaborated evidence placing each man at the crime scene and testimonies linking the four men to the act, how the murders had been planned and how they had were eventually carried out.

Standing in front of the cameras during interviews, the three trial lawyers for the defense had used the words “hopeful,” “optimistic,” and

“encouraged.” People who were religious sought the grace of God, collectively praying for the souls of those involved, while some folks merely sat still in their courthouse pews watching and wondering what if anything would come from all of this.

The twelve-member jury consisted of nine men and three women. Eight white men, one black man, and three white women. All members were between the ages of thirty-six and sixty-two.

Speculation throughout the city was that the jury, predominately white, would vote in favor of the four accused and return a verdict of not guilty. Trepidation showed heavily on the faces of the four men. Each person grasped by a case of bewilderment, in an orchestrated state, waiting, as if the anticipated “jack in the box” were ready to spring into action, the excitement of wanting to know and at the same time not wanting to know. The stage was set.

It was now time to hear the verdict.

“How goes it?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor,”
with the sound of authoritative respect for the position held, Hollis Crabtree, the white, forty-eight-year-old jury foreman rose to his feet and faced Judge Hillbrook, his dark-blue shirt soaked in sweat from the lack of ventilation and humidity in the room. Steadfast, raising his notes, clearing his throat, repositioning his tie, he began his delivery. “On the charge of murder in the first degree, we the jury, find Jonathon J. Pricket, Samuel Martin, Eric Scott Mitchell and Leland Mathews Bennett guilty as charged.”

The vote had been unanimous.

“No!” screamed the defendants. “No!”

The courtroom suddenly broke into a sea of disarray and disorder. A spontaneous frenzy suddenly took over the room, a large portion of the gallery in the back of the room screaming with disorientation and puzzlement. Others began jumping and rejoicing from their excitement of the findings. Cameras began rolling, filming the aftermath of the verdict. Photographers began snapping pictures, several local reporters tried to move closer to the front of the room while others headed for the exits to make their appointed deadlines.

“Order! Order! Order in the court!” The gavel came down once again showing its presence.

All accounts of the reading had still not yet been heard. Even so, the outbreak continued with hecklers and racial comments being case about the room.

“No, it is not true. The decision’s wrong. Are you kidding? It can’t be! It can’t be!” many yelled. Cries rang out, some sarcastically, at the tops of their voices.

The larger segment of the room had been made up by family members of the four accused, all white, screaming their disapproval.

“It’s a travesty. It can’t be true.”

“Order,” Judge Hillbrook shouted.

“No, it can’t be,” the family members of the accused continued screaming at the top of their lungs, pointing and raising their fist at the jury members.

“Order, order in the court. Order, people, or I will have this room cleared immediately,” Judge Hillbrook recanted over and over. His voice quickly permeating above the bellowing cries trying to stop the onslaught of anger and fury. Yells, incensed rage, and angered voices of those in attendance, now rising from their seats, now standing, saturating the uncontrollable courtroom in a pointing and jestering manner of disarray and dismay, refusing to believe what they had just seen and what they had heard.

“Order, order in the courtroom.” In a barbaric and pretentious manner, demanding respect for the sacred halls of justice, Judge Hillbrook rose from his seat. He faced the crowd as his large, black, sweat stained robe whipped back and forth in a snapping motion.

Bailiff Gilbert quickly moved towards the center of the room showing his authoritative presence. Three security guards from the back moved forward, up the center isle, hoping to help return a sense of order to the room. With the strength of the judge’s forearm he controlled each and every movement with meticulous precision, the gripped, wooden, ten-inch gavel coming down striking the bench, as he shouted over the crowd. Again and again, slamming it down, with the sound of an echoing blast of power, convinced he was prepared for any outbreak that might ensue, or escalate. The mallet, made of seasoned hickory, connecting with the top of bench, bouncing back and forth, up and down, from the force of repetitiveness, the judge determined to restore the order and sanctity to his courtroom.

“Order, order in the court. I will have this room cleared.”

Finally the sounds of madness sank in the courtroom and loud taunts, scoffs, and disbelief slowly quieted down and became edged with the presence of murmured silence. The only noises left were the mocking sounds of contemptuous hisses and cries between onlookers and family members. Slowly those sounds also died.

Two of the four defendants slumped over in disbelief, not understanding or believing what they had just heard, their shoulders sagging, their eyes welling up with tears, their bodies becoming nauseous. Life had just been sucked out of each of the two men, and the other two men, they just sat there, trying to absorb the findings of the jury without emotionally collapsing.

Most people from the community, those who had filled the courtroom day after day to show their strength, loyalty, and devotional support for the four well-known, well-liked businessmen, were engulfed in shock and utter disbelief. They could not understand how the twelve jury members had come back so quickly with a guilty verdict, persisting as a collective unit that they had all just seen the impossible, a miscarriage of justice and a blatant mistake by the power of the prosecution and the state. These four men could not be guilty. They could not be. The foreman of the jury, still standing, again raised the sheet of paper. He looked up at Judge Hillbrook with a vigilant stare. In control he continued reading the written decree of the jury’s findings.

“On the charges of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and reckless endangerment with the attempt to commit murder, we the jury, find Jonathon J. Pricket, Samuel Martin, Eric Scott Mitchell and Leland Mathews Bennett guilty as charged.”

“Order.” With the tapping of the gavel, it was apparent Judge Hillbrook was not going to let the courtroom once again get out of hand.

“On the charge of willfully committing murder based on the 1991 Ruling of Hate and Race Related Crimes in the state of Florida, we find the accused guilty as charged.”

Again the judge took hold of his gavel, slamming it down onto the bench, recanting to the crowded courtroom in his authoritative posturing. Looking at the jury, Judge Hillbrook asked the foreman still standing before him, “Is this everything?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“The jury may now be excused.”

The twelve jury members stood, turned to their immediate right, and collectively walked from the jury box, out of the courtroom, and down the hall towards the private courthouse chambers.

Bailiff Wesley shut the door.

Judge Hillbrook continued, first looking at the prosecutor and then turning and looking at the three lawyers who had represented the four men on trial. He cleared his throat and again wiped his forehead. Turning away from the lawyers he began looking at each of the four convicted men seated before him, first at Pricket, then at Martin, then at Mitchell, and then finally at Bennett.

“Order,” Judge Hillbrook said, as the silence of disagreement once again fell over the courtroom. “Sentencing will be held one month from today. Bailiff, remove the guilty from my courtroom. This court is now adjourned.”

“All rise.”

Enjoy the rest of the Adventure in: Island of the Prosecution AVAILABLE End of 2010 For more information visit: www.beachbumbooks.com Or Email: [email protected]

Open your mine to the tropical sounds of the islands and the Florida
Keys, set your sails for the sun, fill your blender with rum, set yourself a
course and make sure that it’s fun, give yourself a couple of hours,
sometimes it take you all day, first to open your eyes and then to realize
you’ve made it to another day.

Sailors set sail for the islands, as the breezes catch the mast to the main.
The roll of the ocean gets in your head like the booze in the blinder that
goes through your brain, I’ve recovered in my hammock for hours from
the salt and the sand and the sea, a journey back from the dead like
some novel that read of reflections of just being me.
Well I woke up from the sound of confusion, it must have been the night
before, all the cobwebs in my head started spinning to the sound of
peacocks down by the shore, when a friend of mine came in with a
message to break up any plans that I’d made, that a crew was in need
for his passage to help him sail his boat for the day. Groovy said it
wasn’t forever and Joe said it was just for the day, so we boarded the
Zambido and hoisted up our anchors and we headed out to Tortola Bay
and from there I’m not sure what happen, was it the ocean or the bottle
of rum, but when I woke up in the arms of my hammock I found I’d
been a sleep in the sun.