Alex Cross’s Trial

Ames was not just a skillful actor; when it came to the facts, he was also quite the juggler.

“Now let another fact speak to you, friends. The fact is, the court has appointed one of the capital’s finest young attorneys to represent Grace Johnson. Now mind you, this is as it should be. Let the least among us have the best defense money can buy-your tax money, that is. But don’t let the young gentleman fool you. Don’t let his pretty words bamboozle you. Let me tell you what he’s going to try to do.”

He waved his hand indifferently in my direction, as if I were a fly buzzing around his head.

“Mr. Corbett will try to cast doubt upon these obvious facts. He will tell you that the Davenport house was bursting with employees who might have murdered Lydia Davenport.”

Ames spun on his tiny heel and pointed a crooked finger at my client.

“But the fact is this: Only one person in that house admits out loud, in a clear voice, to having a motive for the murder. And that person is seated right there! Grace Johnson!”

He strode to the prosecution table and lifted a worn brown Bible. He opened it to a page he seemed to know by heart and began to read aloud.

“If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

He snapped the Bible closed with a flourish and held it high in the air.

“Gentlemen, we have arrived. Our journey is done. Welcome to the Kingdom of Truth. The only possible verdict is guilty.”

Son of a bitch! Carter Ames had just destroyed my closing argument.

Chapter 4

THE DIMINUTIVE PROSECUTOR THREW a thin smile my way as he returned to his chair, his eyes dancing with the light of triumph. I felt a twinge in my stomach.

But now it was my turn to speak, and hopefully to save a woman’s life.

I began with a simple declaration of the fact that no one had witnessed the murder, and then I discussed the other suspects: the Irish gardener, Mrs. Davenport’s secretary, and her houseman-all of whom despised their employer and could have easily committed the murder. Of course, they were all white.

Then, since Carter Ames had stolen my thunder, I decided to finish up in another direction, a bold and risky one that brought tremors to my hands.

“Now, before you all go off to your jury room, I’m going to do something that’s not often done. Mr. Ames claimed to have taken you to the Kingdom of Truth, but the fact is, he never even got close to his stated destination. He omitted the most important truth of all. He never mentioned the real reason Gracie Johnson is facing the possibility of losing her life.

“You know the reason. I don’t even have to say it. But I’m going to say it anyway.

“Gracie Johnson is colored. That’s why she’s here. That’s the only reason she’s here. She was the only colored employee in attendance at the Davenport house that day.

“So there it is. She’s a Negro. You gentlemen are white. Everyone expects that a white jury will always convict a black defendant. But I know that not to be true. I think-matter of fact, I truly believe-that you have more honor than that. You have the integrity to see through what the prosecutor is trying to do here, which is to railroad an innocent woman whose only crime was telling you honestly that her boss was a mean old woman.

“Do you see what we’ve found? We’ve turned up the most important fact of all. And that fact, the fact that Gracie’s skin is black, should have no influence whatsoever on what you decide.

“That’s what the law says, in every state in this Union. If there is a reasonable doubt in your mind as to whether or not Gracie Johnson is a murderer, you… must… vote… to… acquit.”

I started to go back to my chair, but then I turned and walked right up to Carter Ames’s table.

“May I, Carter?”

I picked up his Bible, flipping through the pages until I appeared to find the verse I was seeking in the book of Proverbs. No one needed to know I was quoting from memory:

“When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous.”

I closed the Good Book.

Chapter 5

CARTER AMES PUSHED his silver flask of bourbon toward my face. “Have a swig, Ben. You deserve it, son. Well done.”

What a sight for the funny pages we must have made- Ames barely five feet tall, me at six-four-standing side by side in the marble hallway outside the courtroom.

“No, thanks, Carter. I’d rather be sober when the verdict comes in.”

“I wouldn’t, if I was you.” His voice was a curdled mixture of phlegm and whiskey. As he lifted the flask to his mouth, I was surprised to see half-moons of sweat under his arms. In the courtroom he’d looked cool as a block of pond ice.