Alex Cross’s Trial

Two of Phineas’s deputies ran to do his bidding. Everyone heard the woman’s noisy protest as he dragged her down the stairs.

Meanwhile, my father’s attention was seemingly riveted by the sight of a fly trapped in the soft varnish of his bench. The insect was hopelessly stuck, its wings buzzing. The judge closed his thumb and forefinger on the fly, plucked it up, and placed it in the center of his desk.

Bang! He brought his gavel down on that fly.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Curtis,” he said. “Let me explain something to you. I would advise you to listen, and listen well. I am in charge of this courtroom. Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, sir,” Jonah replied.

“What did I say?” My father’s voice was deadly calm. “Repeat it for me, please.”

“You are in charge of this courtroom, Your Honor.”

“You’re damn right I am. Now, you may object to Counselor Lewis’s comments. He is your opponent; he represents the defense. But you may not ever-ever-object to something I have said. For any reason.”

The only sound in the courtroom was the ticking of the clock and the hum of the ceiling fans.

“Thank you, Mr. Curtis. And tell those two clowns you brought with you to sit themselves down, or I’ll have them removed from my courtroom.”

The trial of the new century-the proceedings known as the State of Mississippi v. Madden, North, and Stephens-was officially under way.

Chapter 100

THERE THEY SAT, three White Raiders facing a jury of their peers.

It was a true statement in every way. Once Judge Everett Corbett cut off all objections from our side, he quickly empaneled a jury of twelve middle-aged white men who looked just like the men they would be called upon to judge.

“We have a jury,” the judge a

“Yes, Your Honor,” Jonah said.

“And I’m sure the defense is ready.”

“Defense is certainly ready, Your Honor,” said Maxwell Hayes Lewis.

“Then without further ado-” my father began.

Jonah Curtis stood up and dared to interrupt him again.

“Your Honor, begging the court’s pardon, I feel compelled to state for the record that the prosecution has not seen a fair and representative jury selection here today.”

My father’s voice was dangerously soft. “All right. I have warned you, Mr. Curtis, and I will not warn you again. I am in charge of this trial. I am in charge of this courtroom. I have ruled that this jury is fit to serve.”

“But Your Honor-”

Suddenly my father rose up and bellowed, “And I will not warn you again! Try me, my friend! Just try me once more! Challenge my jurisdiction again, and I will declare a mistrial here and summarily dismiss all the charges. Which, I remind you, is within my power.”

My father turned on his heel and swept out of the room. I knew the drill: he would walk straight into his office and pull off his robe. His clothes would be damp with sweat. I pictured him settling into his swivel chair in that office lined with law books, oak filing cabinets, diplomas, and certificates of appreciation. On his desk he permitted himself one personal touch: the sad-beautiful honeymoon photograph of him and Mama, arm in arm on the boardwalk at Biloxi.

While the defendants stood shooting the breeze with their jailers, Lewis took a detour by our table.

“I guess they didn’t teach y’all everything up in those Ivy League law schools,” he said. “Down here, we believe the first responsibility of a good criminal attorney is to make friends with the judge.”

“Oh, they tried to teach us that,” Jonah said. “I guess I just didn’t do a good job of learning it.”

“Me either,” I said. “And I’ve had decades of practice with the man.”

Loophole Lewis chuckled genially and brought out a couple of cigars from an inside pocket. “May I offer you boys a Partagás? Best quality, fresh off the boat from Havana. I’m sure you enjoyed a few of these fellows when you were down in Cuba, Ben.”

“No, sir,” I said mildly. “We didn’t have much time for smoking cigars.” I was about to say more when I saw Conrad Cosgrove pushing into the courtroom through the crowd.

“Mr. Corbett,” he said. “A messenger brought this to the house. I figured you’d want to see it right away.”

Conrad handed over a small envelope.

On the front, in an elegant hand, were the words BENJAMIN CORBETT, PERSONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

The words engraved on the back flap were just as simple: THE WHITE HOUSE.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” I said. I didn’t wait for an answer.

Chapter 101

AS I WALKED down the courthouse steps, a reporter from the New Orleans Item took my elbow to ask how I thought the first day had gone.

“Exactly as expected,” I said. “Justice will be served here.” I took my arm back and kept walking.

I followed the cinder path around the side of the building. The giant oak trees in the square provided the only real shade in the center of town. I felt twenty degrees cooler the moment I stepped under their branches and took a seat on a bench.

I sliced the edge of the envelope with my fingernail. Inside was a single typewritten sheet on gold-embossed White House stationery.

Dear Capt. Corbett,

The eyes of America are upon you, and upon the proceedings in Eudora. I can assure you that with my own (four) eyes I am personally watching you and the trial at every moment.

I know you will continue to do your best, and I know that you will succeed in this endeavor, as we succeeded together during the late War.

Ben, know that your president is with you every inch of the way.

Sincerely yours, I remain

Your obt. servant,

Theodore Roosevelt, Pres’t.

I smiled at the president’s little joke about his “four eyes,” but when I realized the meaning of his subsequent words, my stomach took a nervous dive. As if I didn’t have enough tension to deal with, now the president of the United States was “personally watching” me “at every moment.”

I read the letter again and put it back in the envelope.

A voice called, “Mr. Corbett, sir.”

I looked to both sides and saw no one.

Again the voice: “Mr. Corbett? Over here, sir, behind you.”

Chapter 102

I TURNED AROUND QUICKLY to find a tall, slender colored man standing on the sidewalk. He was perhaps ten years older than me and beautifully dressed, down to the club scarf in his pocket and the jeweled pin in his necktie.

“May I have a word with you for a moment, sir?” he asked.

“Well, of course,” I said. “Come have a seat.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Corbett, I can’t. That park is White Only.”

I had forgotten-or maybe I’d never realized-that the old wooden benches, the little fountain, the shade of the big old eudoras, all were reserved for the exclusive use of white Eudora.

I walked across the grass to the man and extended my hand. “Ben Corbett.”

“I’m a correspondent for the Indianapolis Cross,” he said.

“Ah yes,” I said. “I’ve read your paper. Y’all have published some of the best general reports I’ve seen on the question of lynching.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” he said. “I’m honored that you’ve heard of us.”

“Welcome to Eudora,” I said.

“Oh, it’s not my first time,” he said. “I grew up in Eudora.”

I looked at him harder. I rattled around in my memory, but I couldn’t place where I had seen him before.