Southern Justice

Southern Justice

"If you can make God bleed, all the world will stop believing in God."

***

If I had known about the evolution of the last three weeks, I would have told them, 'It doesn't have to end like this, ' but I'm not a mind reader. I never dreamt I'd be thrown fifteen years into the past and defend the victim of a cold-blooded, calculated murder.

***

My nightmarish adventure started three weeks ago with the simple task of picking up the mail. The envelope should have been the indicator that something was up, with 'Official notice enclosed, immediate reply needed' stamped across the front. My second clue—the return address was the county courthouse.

***

"Great, what the hell did I do now?" I frantically searched for why the court would send me something. I've only been here two months, and I haven't been in trouble. I haven't even had a ticket for two years now. I peeled the flap back, exposing the single 8x10 folded letter, and removed it. "Mr. Green, you are commanded to report for jury duty on…"

***

"Son of a bitch, this is all I need!" My voice and blood pressure elevate into the red zone. I was new to this area and had just accepted a job, and now I have this crap to deal with!

***

"Good morning, officer. Can you direct me to the jury room, please?" I ask with a warm smile.

***

"Three doors down, left side, just go in." The grandfatherly man told me.

***

The disgust on his face was one of two things: either disapproval of my fake Southern drawl, the holes in my jeans, or the bold writing on my shirt, 'I ate gumbo and hated it,' displaying my true feelings about this remote area.

***

I made myself comfortable on the wooden chair and glanced around the room. "Interesting assortment of people here, I wonder what the trial is about," I mumbled. Counting me, eighteen people were filling the cramped quarters: seventeen white men and women and one black male of about twenty. The black gentleman sat near the door. His nearest neighbor was six feet away. I'm not the most intelligent man, but I quickly noted the ugly gawks and muffled insults directed at the lone man. "What the hell?" I thought as I lifted my heavy chair and moved it closer to his.

***

"Excuse me, mister. I'm not sure if you want to sit so close. I don't think those folks care for it." His young voice was near a whisper, and his eyes remained downcast.

***

"I thought this was a free country, and I can sit where I want," I replied in a voice so everyone could hear me.

***

"Please, mister. I don't want trouble from them, and I don't think you want the trouble they'll give you either. Just move, okay?" His voice was a near whimper, and at the same time, he moved his chair away from mine.

***

"It doesn't have to end like this!" I screamed at the group of eleven fellow jurors around me. These same ludicrous airheads have surrounded me for two weeks now.  Now, into the second week of deliberation of the case, it hasn't gone well. Adding insult to outrage, the smell of one unwashed body has fouled the stagnant air daily like clockwork. Each morning as we take our assigned seats, my nose conducts a survey and reaches the same conclusion—it has to be the damn hillbilly with the swarm of dive bombers gyrating around his armpits. I would complain to the bailiff, but I think they're related. Their intellectual facial expressions are astonishingly similar as they ponder the green substance dangling from their filthy index fingers.

***

"Bill," I say to myself. "Maybe you're compounding the problem with your biased opinion of these folks. Just because they eat grits for breakfast, cottonmouth snake for lunch, and some swamp creature for dinner doesn't make them bad people." I smile at my analysis. "No, it is far more than their dietary habits," I tell myself. "They don't give a damn! They live in some insane world where the color of your skin dictates where you work, what you eat, job opportunities, and even what restroom you can use." The anger fills my inner voice with the sheer thought of how people maintain that animal mentality today.

***

"What in praise hell are you referring to, Mr. Green?" The question asked by a slim, balding man of fifty or so. His exposed forearm sports a large aging confederate flag with the letters' AB' neatly engraved above it.

***

"I rest my case." I laugh to myself, referring to the tattoo. I know the 'AB' is a reference to a social group that would impress no less than Adolf Hitler. I think about a saying my mom once told me: 'If you can make God bleed, all the world will stop believing." I had never completely understood the verse, whether it meant if he got cut or punched in the nose he would bleed. That was the simple solution, but now, I may understand it. I think the bleeding refers to a broken heart or seeing his children killing each other. Maybe it is the pack instinct like we have here. People are so filled with hate that they take it out on others because of their skin color, how they talk, or where they live. Or maybe it references the loss of faith in his children. "Interesting concept," I concede.

***

"Mr. Casey, all we have is reports from cops who are more likely than not involved here and a prosecutor sleeping with the defense attorney. You all heard them testify; their stories are inconsistent, to say the least. What strikes me as strange is that I expect the defense to attack the evidence, but why is the prosecutor criticizing it? Mr. Melton is the victim here, and he was seventeen years old. Why would he jump into a group of five men to instigate a fight? Does that make sense to anyone here?" I pause momentarily, hoping my statement will sink in.

***

"I think it is important to understand that everyone in the damn courtroom is related to the suspects in one form or another." I continued my raving rant as the group focused on me. "The victim isn't on trial here; he can't defend himself; he's the dead one buried with the worms. Remember! I'm not sure about you, but to me it screams bullshit! All I'm saying is it doesn't have to be like this! We all know who is guilty, and we have the power to stop it here and now. Why not give justice where justice is due? We're talking about a person being murdered." I shout out while watching their faces change from impassionate to hostile.

***

"You better watch your mouth boy! There are women in here if you haven't noticed." A large, tattooed covered, toothless biker type stands up with a serious threat in his voice. I know he can kill me with one of his ham-sized hands. Making matters worse, his buddy is now standing next to him. Truthfully, I am ready to crap my pants. One of them could have made an armed Marine flee in fear.

***

"Excuse me, gentlemen. I just got a little carried away. It won't happen again, scouts' honor." I retreated. I thank God I had the common sense to shut the hell up, and they both eased back into their chairs.

***

"So what you're saying, my northern friend, is you believe we're crooks here? I'll let you know we are God-fearing folks, and we all want the same thing—justice! If these fine young men were involved in illegal activities as you suggest, but something I seriously doubt, by the way, I think this trial…"

***

“This is like déjà vu.” I thought, at the same time cutting the rambling moron off in my mind. "It reminds me of high school history when slavery was acceptable. Or worse, the Klan burning crosses and making complete asses out of themselves. Something else is weighing heavily on my mind, and I believe the threat in the room is real. I'm also frightened at the prospect these immoral acts survived in the United States. I've read about the Klan's continuing existence in the deep south; maybe what I read was correct."

***

I looked towards Jefferson, the young black man. He hadn't said a word the entire two weeks. Most of the time, his head is bowed, and his hands have remained neatly folded on his lap throughout the trial and now through deliberation. Maybe he was here for the show when they convicted the victim and freed the guilty. My thoughts drifted to the future as the news media flooded this backward land of guilt. The cameras panning to a lone black juror proudly posed with his peers as five trailer park trash, cross-burning radicals are declared free men. I could see them shaking the hands of most of the jury members, but not Jefferson. Amazing!

***

A sharp rap on the door jolted me to reality and the repulsive thought of who these people were. Was having the wrong pigment of skin a crime? Is the world still crawling with the concept that 'white is right,' and when an innocent man is murdered, you rely on the 'good old boy system' for swift justice? The thought sickened me.

***

"Judge said you all should break for lunch now and to be back in an hour and a half." The bailiff said. His commanding voice makes the statement more of an order than anything else.

***

"Yeah, I think they're all related." This thought brought a smile to my face for the second time today. God knows I needed that.

***

"Lunch," I think, what a fascinating word. Webster defines lunch as 'A light meal taken in the middle of the day.' I wonder where they come up with this shit. Why do people need to know the definition of a meal? The thought made me consider what I would do for lunch. "Oh yeah, that little deli just a block away, I would go there." My mouth watered at the thought of their roast beef on rye. Add a bag of chips and a Diet Coke, and you have the perfect meal. I would order it to go, eat in the courtyard, and enjoy the sunny day.

***

I looked around the conference room, admiring the mahogany table where we made our camp. There are twelve of us in the spacious room, and the number could double if needed. The table is cluttered with loose paper, coffee cups, snacks, and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts; a couple of them are still smoldering.

***

The room is decorated with ten large framed pictures, most portraying riders on horseback leading a charge in some long-ago battle. To think, that war ended 115 years ago this week. I looked at the group around me and thought President Lincoln would roll over in his grave if he saw this group. The calendar was the only other thing in the room that held my attention. It was a picture of the brand new 1964 Mustang Ford was producing. What a beautiful car. I knew I would never have the 6,800 dollars they were asking for.

***

"Mr. Green, the judge needs a moment of your time. Follow me, " the burly man ordered. Without waiting, he stepped out of the room into a long hallway with Mr. Green on his tail.

***

“Déjà vu strikes again.” I said a little too loud as Mr. Burly Bailiff turned and gave me a sadistic smile.

***

"You never know, do you, Mr. Green?" He laughed but continued to walk, his bulk stretching the fabric on his uniform to limits far beyond what the thread was rated for.

***

The words' Honorable Judge Melvin P. Carter' were engraved on the brass nameplate, the solid door looked like oak, and the door handle was also a pricey-looking brass. "Holy crap, I want to be a judge." I whistled to myself.

***

Bigfoot tapped on the door lightly; I quickly noticed it wasn't the same rap he used to announce himself to us ten minutes ago.

***

"Enter!" The immediate reply came from behind the door.

***

"Somehow, that voice doesn't sound like the friendly old judge who sat behind the bench for the last few weeks." I thought.

***

The bailiff opened the door and motioned for me to enter. Walking through, I felt rough hands and a gentle shove on my back. I was in the room, and the door shut behind me.

***

I walked to a leather chair, ready to sit and see what information the judge had that interrupted my lunch.

***

"I haven't asked you to sit, Mr. Green, " the deep southern voice announced. The man wasn't even looking at me. How the hell…

***

"Yes, sir," I answered. "I just assumed…"

***

"Mr. Green never assumed nothing; you understand me, boy?"

***

The voice sounded oddly familiar; it had to be another relative.

***

"Seems you've been having some problems, Mr. Green. Other jurors don't appreciate your attitude towards them or our way of life. You know, Mr. Green, this trial is about over. We're good folks in the South, God-fearing, hardworking family men for the most part. What I'm driving at, Mr. Green doesn't have to end this way. We need to take another look at the evidence. I know those boys. They're good boys and don't even have a police record. The way I see it, Mr. Green, those boys were defending themselves against that colored kid. He made the mistake. You see where I'm going with this Mr. Green?" The judge spoke with a perfect southern drawl.

***

Judge Carter talked for another twenty minutes about the innocent boys on trial.

***

"Shit!" I thought as I closed the office door behind me. Carter wanted to know how I was going to vote. Now I was scared shitless! I knew I better watch my mouth, or I'd be the next dead man on trial. I shivered like a winter blast had slapped me in the face. I didn't like this and had a bad feeling. I should claim I'm sick, go home, throw my shit in my truck and get the hell out of the devil's little playground.

***

"Good evening. Our headlining news starts in William Parish, where a man was discovered, beaten, and left on the side of the roadway. Police investigators identified the man as William Green, who recently relocated from California after accepting a job at a local plant. According to the authorities, Mr. Green was unable to identify his attackers and has refused to cooperate with their investigation.

***

We've learned Mr. Green was a jury member in a homicide case, but police do not believe this incident is related.

***

We contacted the District Attorney's office, which declined to speculate on a motive for the attack but did announce that a mistrial was declared and that they would not seek further prosecution. The five men suspected in the homicide were released earlier today.

***

In other news…"

They flashed a picture some photographers must have taken as they wheeled me into the emergency room. My swollen, bloody face was the least of my problems. I could see the bone protruding from my left leg and my shattered arms dangling off the gurney. I felt like hell, but I was alive. The hooded men sent a clear message I wasn't wanted here.

I closed my eyes and listened as the pump next to my bed kicked on and pushed the morphine into my broken body.

As I drift off, I think, 'It doesn't have to be like this…'