The Blood-Dimmed Tide (John Joran Mysteries Book 22) Page 2
As she pauses here, the creaking of wooden seats and the settling of the old building can be heard above the hum of the air-conditioning. The majority of the creaking comes from the predominately empty gallery behind us. Because many of those who would like to be here could potentially be called as witnesses, they aren’t permitted to attend. That leaves a few curious townspeople, a few friends and family for the plaintiff and a few for the defendant, and the few from the school system that can’t be called as witnesses. It also leaves a few reporters—all local and regional accept the two from the Miami Herald and the Tampa Bay Times who happened to be in the area covering the aftermath of Hurricane Michael. Near them is Merrick McKnight, a friend and true crime podcaster who is covering the case for the Panama City News Herald. Merrick recently moved to Panama City and took the beat reporter job after he and my boss, Reggie Summers, broke up.
Since Dad and Merrill will be called to testify, only Verna, my dad’s wife, and Jake, my brother, are here to support me today—and this is the only day they plan to be here until the verdict is delivered.
“I know I’m giving you a lot of information,” Wheata Pearl continues. “And the truth is I’m just getting started—there’s far more to come. But it’s important, vital even to this sacred procedure. Please listen. Please pay attention. I’m sure you’ve seen and heard and read plenty about court cases in books, on TV, and in the movies, but those aren’t always factual and sometimes are downright dangerous, so I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen in this trial and explain it to you.
“In a few moments, the attorneys will each have a chance to make what are called opening statements. In an opening statement, an attorney is allowed to give you his or her views about what the evidence will be in the trial and what you are likely to see and hear in the testimony. After the attorneys’ opening statements, the plaintiffs will bring their witnesses and evidence to you. Evidence is the information that the law allows you to see or hear in deciding this case. Evidence includes the testimony of the witnesses, documents, and anything else that I instruct you to consider. A witness is a person who takes an oath to tell the truth and then answers attorneys’ questions for the jury. The answering of attorneys’ questions by witnesses is called giving testimony. Testimony means statements that are made when someone has sworn an oath to tell the truth. The plaintiff’s lawyer will normally ask a witness the questions first. That is called direct examination. Then the defense lawyer may ask the same witness additional questions about whatever the witness has testified to. That is called cross-examination. Certain documents or other evidence may also be shown to you during direct or cross-examination. After the plaintiff’s witnesses have testified, the defendant will have the opportunity to put witnesses on the stand and go through the same process. Then the plaintiff’s lawyer gets to do cross-examination. The process is designed to be fair to both sides.”
She pauses a moment, and after sweeping back her loose strands of hair with one hand while taking a long sip of coffee from her large ceramic rattlesnake coffee mug with the other, she clears her gargley smoker’s throat and continues.
“It is important that you remember that testimony comes from witnesses. The attorneys do not give testimony and they are not themselves witnesses. Sometimes the attorneys will disagree about the rules for trial procedure when a question is asked of a witness. When that happens, one of the lawyers may make what is called an objection.
“The rules for a trial can be complicated, and there are many reasons for attorneys to object. You should simply wait for me to decide how to proceed. If I say that an objection is sustained, that means the witness may not answer the question. If I say that the objection is overruled, that means the witness may answer the question. When there is an objection and I make a decision, you must not assume from that decision that I have any particular opinion other than that the rules for conducting a trial are being correctly followed. If I say a question may not be asked or answered, you must not try to guess what the answer would have been. That is against the rules too.”
Long before these instructions to the jury, the judge had given the attorneys and, through them, their clients and witnesses, instructions regarding the scope of this trial. Since the school shooting at Potter High is part of an ongoing and very high profile investigation, we are not allowed to identify or discuss who we believe to be responsible for the incident or any other aspects of that crime. The scope of this trial is only about Derek’s death and the role I played in it, and we’ve all been warned not to talk about anything else related to the case—in or out of court during the trial.
“After you hear the final jury instructions, you will go to the jury room and discuss and decide the questions I have put on your verdict form. You will have a copy of the jury instructions to use during your discussions. The discussions you have and the decisions you make are usually called jury deliberations. Your deliberations are absolutely private and neither I nor anyone else will be with you in the jury room. When you have finished answering the questions, you will give the verdict form to the bailiff, and we will all return to the courtroom where your verdict will be read. When that is completed, you will be released from your assignment as a juror.”
She pauses again and takes another pull from her rattlesnake mug. As she does she scans the courtroom, her small, intense eyes searching for anyone not paying attention, challenging anyone to dare to deign the appearance of boredom.
“Are y’all still with me?” she asks in such a way that it seems more like a demand than a question. “We’re almost done with this part, so hang with ol’ Wheata Pearl just a wee bit longer. Before we begin the trial in earnest, I want to give you just a brief explanation of rules you must follow as the case proceeds. Your number one job as a juror is to keep an open mind. You must pay close attention to the testimony and other evidence as it comes into the trial. However, you must avoid forming any final opinion or telling anyone else your views on the case until you begin your deliberations. It is important that you hear all of the facts and that you hear the law and how to apply it before you start deciding anything. And you must, you must, you must consider only the evidence. Only you get to deliberate and answer the verdict questions at the end of the trial. Discussing and deciding the facts is your job alone.”
She gives the entire courtroom her full attention. “Again, see me as your crazy old grandma who treats all her grandkids the same,” Judge Whitehurst says, “one who insists on manners and civility, who is fair and does her best to be unbiased, but who is also a hornet’s nest you don’t want to be sticking your hand into. Get my meaning? There will be no grandstanding in my courtroom. There will be no discourteousness. There will be no cheap tricks or whorehouse parlor games. And the only drama will be that which accompanies the suspense of waiting for the verdict. Understand?”
Everyone in the courtroom nods earnestly. Judge Whitehurst has been heard and understood.
She turns back to the jury. “Now, let me just say . . . We all have the good fortune of living in this fine small town. That means we mostly know each other—or at least know of each other. You are going to know or have connections to the plaintiffs, the defendant, the witnesses, and the attorneys in this case. I do. There’s no way around it. Your job is to not base any of your conclusions or ultimately your verdict on any of that. It must be on the facts in evidence alone. Nothing else. It doesn’t matter what you think of the plaintiffs or the defendant or their counsel or me or any witness. Understand?”
Again they all nod their understanding.
“And when it comes to evaluating that evidence,” she says, “remember that, unlike in criminal cases, in a civil case like this one, the plaintiff has the burden of proving their case by a preponderance of the evidence, which is different than in a criminal case where the prosecutor’s case has to be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Not so here. Let me repeat—in a civil case like this one, the plaintiff only has the burden of proving their case by
a preponderance of the evidence—just the slightest tipping of the scales in the plaintiff’s favor.”
I can feel the anxious aching hollow at the center of my core begin to expand.
Her emphasis on this reminds me of just how stacked against me those scales really are.
Next to me at the defendant’s table, Anna, my wife and attorney, reaches over and puts her hand on my leg—under the table, out of view of the jury and most everyone in the courtroom. Having her here with me, representing me, is the only grace I’ve so far found in this entire awkward and painful process.
“Okay, now,” Judge Whitehurst says, “I have only two more things to say to you and they’re both incredibly important. First, this an extremely serious matter. Before you sit two broken, grieving parents who have lost a child. Across from them is a man whose very life in many ways is in your hands. Give these proceedings the gravity they deserve. Be very careful and thoughtful and deliberate. Second . . . I want to remind you of something I said before. You’re about to hear opening arguments. It’s vital that you remember that unlike everything else you hear during this case, these opening arguments are not facts. They are not evidence. They are merely what these lawyers intend, plan, hope to prove during the course of the case, not proof itself. That’s why we’ll be hearing only opening arguments today and will wait until tomorrow to begin the presentation of the plaintiff’s case. I want you to have a clear-cut distinction in your mind between the two. Understand? Okay. That is all. Let’s begin.”
2
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Gary Scott says, “Judge Whitehurst is right. What I’m about to say to you is not evidence. What I or Ms. Rodden say in our opening isn’t proof of anything, but it is what we intend to prove.”
Scott is a smallish, mid-fifties man with olive skin, a full head of fluffy, longish black hair, and a slight but unmistakable wet, nasally whistle quality to his voice. As if having arrived at the courtroom from a different era, he is wearing a dark gray three-piece suit with black ankle boots and a wine-colored tie with an oversized matching pocket handkerchief.
“And what I intend to prove is that the defendant, John Jordan, is guilty of wrongfully depriving Derek Burrell, a minor, of his life.”
Those words, which will haunt me every day for the rest of my life, are the most difficult I’ve ever had to hear.
Derek’s parents, Bryce and Melissa Burrell, the plaintiffs in this case, sit at the table across the aisle from me, where Scott is standing. They have the shrunken appearance of the broken, as if slowly imploding is causing them to incrementally collapse in on themselves. Their sunken faces and hollow eyes—and the distant, unfocused stares that emanate from them—speak to the dry husks of human beings they’ve become since experiencing the loss of losses.
“Now, as Judge Whitehurst said,” Gary Scott continues, “this is a small town. I know Mr. Jordan. I went to school with him. I was a few years ahead of him but I knew him back then, and though he no longer lives here in Pottersville, I still know him today. We were never close, never big buddies or good friends, but I knew him then and know him now to be a good man. And he’s not just good. He’s likable. But likability doesn’t prevent someone from being responsible for their actions. And good people do bad things all the time. Good people can have bad sides or personal issues that cause them to do bad things. Good people—even chaplains and sheriff’s investigators—can be negligent, they can act in such a way as to actually kill an innocent human being, even a child. And that’s what we believe a preponderance of the evidence in this case will prove—that Mr. Jordan acted recklessly, irresponsibly, and negligently, and that negligence caused the death of high school student Derek Burrell, which has inflicted unimaginable damage onto his parents, Bryce and Melissa Burrell.”
He pauses here and takes a sip of water.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are a nation governed by laws. Without them there would be anarchy. And no one is above those laws—no matter how much they think they might be. Not the president. Not Congress. Not the rich and powerful. And especially not those charged with upholding those laws. Especially not them. And the truth is, most of our brave men and women who protect and serve in the various law enforcement agencies in our nation are good, honest, hard-working people doing a difficult and too often thankless job. But there is a small percentage of cops—I say small, but it’s far, far higher than it should be—who cross the line, who go rogue, who treat the gun and badge like a free pass to do whatever they want to. These are cops who for whatever reason—ego, testosterone, superiority complex—believe they are the law, believe because they’re the ones doing it that it’s okay, that it’s lawful. They disregard all the policies and procedures and act like gods. Some do it because they’re on a power trip and are abusing that power because they can. They’re getting back at every girl who rejected them in high school, every boy who bullied them, and they don’t ever really even think about or even care that what they’re doing is wrong. But others, and I believe Mr. Jordan fits into this category, are far, far more dangerous, because they do think, they do consider, they do ponder, and they come to believe that they are better than the law, that they are above it and everyone else, that what they’re doing is the work of God. These true believers, if you will, are far more dangerous and do far more damage than other out-of-control cops, because they feel like they have a mission, a sense of purpose, a sense of righteousness about everything they do. These are zealots. These are militants. These are the radicalized and they are walking around with all this power, with a gun and a badge and a sense of self-righteousness, all of which causes them to believe they can operate with impunity. That’s how you get cops killing kids. These officers no longer protect and serve. They abuse and destroy. Not because they’re monsters. Because they believe they are gods.”
The jury is implacable, impossible to read, but Scott speaks as if he’s feeding off the encouraging energy of his audience.
“When it comes to determining whether someone is negligent, if they’re responsible for the actions they’ve taken, I find that it helps to put those actions in context. And the thing to look for, ladies and gentlemen, is a pattern. And there is a pattern of violence in the career of Mr. Jordan. There’s a pattern of recklessness and death. I know career cops—patrol officers, detectives, deputies, investigators, sheriffs—who retired after twenty, thirty years, sometimes even more, and who never once even drew their weapon. And yet the defendant sits here today a still relatively young man, and he has not only pulled but used his weapon numerous times. That’s a pattern, ladies and gentlemen. A history of violence if you will, that sheds light on the actions Mr. Jordan took on the morning of April 20, 2018—actions that resulted in the death of a stellar young man with his whole promising life before him. You’ll hear how other law enforcement professionals with far more experience than Mr. Jordan would have responded to the situation. How, if Mr. Jordan had acted more professionally, more cautiously, Derek Burrell would still be alive today, in his first semester of college, enjoying a loving relationship with his new girlfriend. What I’m saying to you is that the events of April 20, 2018 weren’t inevitable. They were the result of actions taken by a rogue cop cowboying about with no regard for the precious lives at stake, or for the pain and suffering a loss would cause for the poor parents forced to bury a child. One person is responsible for that—the defendant, John Jordan.”
Of the competing critical voices in my head, Gary Scott’s words sound remarkably like one of them.
“Too many people in power—and people who carry a gun and a badge and have the weight of the authority of the laws of our land and the constitution behind them have very real power in this country—too many of these people too often abuse that power.”
Is that what I’ve done? What I do? I try to think over my actions—and not just in this case that I’m on trial for, but my investigative actions in general.
“In fact, do you know how much some people with
power will abuse the power entrusted to them? I’ll tell you how much. Just as much as the people will allow. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are the people, you are We the People, and you have power over this rogue cop who so blatantly misused and abused his power, the power entrusted to him by law-abiding citizens for the purposes of him protecting and serving them. But he did neither. Not for the students of Potter High School. Not for Derek Burrell. Not for Bryce and Melissa Burrell. Their son is dead. And Mr. Jordan killed him. These are the facts. They are undisputed. What we are here to dispute is Mr. Jordan’s responsibility, his culpability for his killing of this innocent child. We believe that after hearing the evidence during this trial, you’ll reach the same conclusion we have—that Mr. Jordan acted irresponsibly and recklessly and with a negligence that I would call criminal, and that he is fully responsible, fully culpable, and must pay for his actions. And that’s the only punishment we are able to mete out in a civil case. We very literally make the guilty pay. And we do this because those behind the blue wall of silence failed to exercise oversight and accountability, because those in the criminal justice system likewise failed to stand up for a slaughtered young man whose blood will forever stain the halls of his high school. The only hope of any justice at all for Derek, for his parents, for our community is within this case and the verdict you reach. I want to thank you in advance for the great job you are going to do. Unlike Mr. Jordan on that fateful Monday morning in April, I know you will be careful and thoughtful, deliberate and just. Thank you.”