Part 34 (1/2)
Reynolds admired her and didn't care if it showed. ”There are a lot of ways to take advantage of someone, Regina. The worst ones don't involve touching.” He put the tips of his fingers together and briefly touched his lips. ”Tell me something if you can: If you learned he murdered any of those people, would you still feel the same way about him?”
She looked away for a moment and conveyed a troubled expression, then answered, ”I'd respect him even more.”
He didn't believe her, but the answer stunned him anyway. ”Then I guess I was wrong about you,” he said disappointedly. ”You really do know how to lie.”
Her eyes s.h.i.+fted to the floor.
”At least I hope that's a lie, Regina.”
She finally looked at him.
”For your sake as well as mine.” Reynolds didn't have the desire or wherewithal to ask her any more questions. Regina left the office.
CHAPTER 63.
THE JURY DELIBERATED for less than four hours, then notified the bailiff they were ready to see the judge. Reynolds a.s.sumed the worst. Jurors don't make decisions quickly in murder cases unless the defendant's a real sc.u.mbag. Long deliberations were impossible to guess; he'd be better off flipping a coin. But when the jury was out for less than half a day, it was a pretty good sign there'd be a vacancy in the state's correctional facilities.
Reynolds glanced around the courtroom, which was more packed than ever. No one wanted to miss the verdict or, for the moment, breathe.
”Madam Forewoman, have you reached a verdict?” Tanner's voice boomed throughout the hushed courtroom.
”We have, Your Honor,” stated Blaze Hansberry.
”Please hand your decision to the bailiff.”
Hansberry gave a slip of paper to the bailiff, who delivered it to the judge. Tanner glanced at it and showed no emotion. He folded the paper and handed it back to the bailiff. ”Before I have the verdict officially announced, I warn the members of this courtroom that I will not tolerate outbursts or demonstrations of any kind.” He s.h.i.+fted his attention to each major area of the room and displayed an expression that conveyed he meant business. ”Bailiff, please return the verdict form to the jury forewoman.”
Blaze Hansberry took the paper, and Reynolds noticed that her hand trembled slightly.
”The defendant will rise and remain standing for the reading of the verdict,” ordered Tanner. He looked at the court reporter. ”Madam reporter, you may read the charges.”
”Case zero, zero, five-three-seven-seven, the State of Mississippi versus Martin Samuel Matheson. With regard to count one, murder in the first degree, how say you?”
”We, the jury in the above ent.i.tled action, find the defendant, Martin Samuel Matheson . . .” Hansberry paused for a moment and gave Matheson a hint of a smile.
Hundreds of black students and community supporters outside the courthouse erupted in cheers and applause. News cameras and photographers captured their celebration as they jumped up and down, joyously hugging each other. Brandon raised his fist high. Delbert wept openly. Some of the media focused attention on the dozens of white protestors who'd gathered across the street. Most remained quiet, stunned. One man tore up his sign and slammed it to the ground. A mother cursed a black newspaper reporter while her adorable five-year-old son waved a tiny Confederate flag.
Inside the courtroom, Judge Tanner reviewed and signed paperwork. Sinclair sat quietly next to Reynolds, who had his elbows on the table and his fingers pressed against his lips. While he didn't want to observe the reaction at the defense table, his eyes moved slowly in that direction and spotted Miller with his hand on Matheson's shoulder. Both men had their heads bowed while the Reverend Matheson led a silent prayer. The professor looked up momentarily and made eye contact with Reynolds, then lowered his head again and continued the prayer.
Reynolds stood behind the prosecutor's table and glanced at the members of the jury filing out of their booth, pleased with their verdict and happy the ordeal had ended. He turned and discovered April Reeves sitting in her seat looking at her son. She displayed the expression of a concerned mother, but Reynolds found it impossible to discern the real cause of that concern. He thought it revealed a combination of relief and regret, but he couldn't be certain which dominated her emotions.
Behind her sat Ruth Cooper, staring at the jury. Reynolds had no trouble determining her true feelings. She clenched the bench in front of her tightly with both hands and cried in between her anguished utterances.
He hadn't noticed Vanzant making his way toward him. Once he did, he prepared himself for the worst. Surprisingly, Vanzant extended his hand. Reynolds hesitated, then shook it.
”You did a great job with a weak case,” Vanzant said admiringly albeit grudgingly. ”Maybe you were right: I brought the charges too soon.” The admission crept out uneasily. ”But we'll get him next time.” Vanzant acknowledged Sinclair with an approving nod. ”You both will.” Vanzant walked down the aisle and left the courtroom, ignoring the hordes of reporters who surrounded him with questions.
Reynolds felt numb and accepted his condition gratefully. He didn't want to feel anything for at least a week. He didn't trust his emotions at the moment, and it was best they remain dormant and unprovoked. He proceeded to Tanner's chambers, where he'd ask the judge for permission to use the private exit.
CHAPTER 64.
REYNOLDS SAT ON his porch and considered everything he could have done differently. He thought about Vanzant's last comment: ”. . . we'll get him next time.” He wondered if that meant Matheson would face charges on the previous murders based on the collection of future evidence, or if the a.s.surance unwittingly predicted more victims. He didn't believe Matheson would continue with the list. The professor had made his point, and those who were named would forever look over their shoulders and live in the terror they'd once enjoyed causing. Many had already left their homes and moved away, and with the announcement of this verdict, Reynolds knew others would leave as well.
Matheson would have the satisfaction that people throughout the country had embraced his cause and developed their own retaliatory strategies. Soon there'd be lists in every state, with their own unique targets. The professor had won. He'd broken the law in order to mend it and in the process configured a patchwork of justice that had a little bit of something for everyone. That something, contemplated Reynolds, was revenge, and the blanket woven from that desire would smother us all.
Cheryl joined her husband on the porch. ”No matter how long you stay out here, the jury's verdict isn't going to change.”
”I'm actually thinking about indicting myself, but I can't decide on an appropriate punishment.”
”I think you've suffered more than enough.”
”I failed them,” he said.
”Failed who?”
”Those black victims in the photos. I promised I wouldn't let it happen again. Wouldn't let color decide justice.” He took a step away and looked into the darkness of his backyard. ”I didn't believe those pictures were real at first. I thought Matheson had altered them. When I showed them to Vanzant, he said maybe some well liquored-up Klansmen committed atrocities, but no way would normal, everyday decent Americans partic.i.p.ate in that kind of butchery.”
He turned and studied his wife. ”Maybe it wasn't race Matheson manipulated, or even our desire for revenge. Maybe it was something as simple as knowing we don't want to believe ordinary people are capable of profound evil. And when it happens, we rally behind a flag or a G.o.d or a set of tribal customs to rationalize continuing the madness. After a while we're too busy burying each other to remember who threw the first stone or why.”
”We're also capable of extraordinary acts of generosity and decency and love,” countered Cheryl. ”And eventually, that'll make all the difference. Not in one day or one trial or even one lifetime. But good wins out, James. You've got to believe that. And you've got to help our children believe it, too.” The phone rang. Cheryl looked at her watch. ”It's after midnight. Who'd be calling us this late?”
”I'll get it,” said Reynolds. ”It's probably one of my many fans wanting to offer their congratulations.” He reached inside the doorway and grabbed the wall phone. ”h.e.l.lo.”
Cheryl watched his face grow increasingly tense.
Reynolds listened to the recognizable voice. ”I'm sorry you couldn't make it to my celebration,” Matheson said. ”I wanted to let you know there are no hard feelings.” Reynolds wanted to respond, but the veins in his neck wouldn't allow him.
Matheson continued. ”I was recently advised of the nature of your distress. There's no need to thank me, but . . .”
Cheryl touched her husband's arm, but he never looked at her.
”You won't be haunted by nightmares anymore.”
Reynolds gripped the phone receiver and stopped breathing until he heard the voice again.
”At least not any from your childhood.”
Reynolds's throat finally opened wide enough for him to speak, but by that time Matheson had hung up. He loosened his grip on the phone and listened to the dial tone.