The public has an enormous interest in trials for, I
believe, the following reason: they are microscopic illustrations of what most
people think are timeless cosmic forces at work. Thus trials hold a certain
morbid fascination for us, especially in the west—the global west, that is, the
cultures strongly influenced by the tenets of Christianity. Most religions,
however well they
function as sources of personal strength in times of
stress, fail miserably as cosmologies. Species, individuals, ideas, rumors,
innovations, societies, planets, stars, and galactic systems all evolve, degenerate,
and change progressively. These changes are irreversible and largely
unexpected. In most cases we construct the future rather than predict it. In
all instances, the evolutionary end point is death. Species become extinct,
stars grow cold, ideas and rumors eventually dissipate, new technological
discoveries get replaced by still newer ones, and human beings die. But
Christianity claims we do not die, and the more fundamentalist sects declare
that sinners and non-believers spend eternity in a place called “Hell.”
I have this picture of a human spirit appearing at
the gates to Heaven, being judged, then either admitted or sent to Hell. Such images
are, I think, the source of our fascination with criminal proceedings. All of
the basic elements of Christianity—origin, sin, judgment, fate—are compressed, metaphorically,
in a trial, especially when the defendant is accused of violating one of the Ten
Commandments. These are not really cynical comments, just Jack Blake's
interpretation of certain aspects of his profession and the public’s view of
it.
A trial, however, is as much an evolutionary event as
the appearance of a new species. So its progress must be built, made from
existing and manifested occurrences, rather than predicted, no less than a work
of art, or literature, must be built. You cannot always know in advance what
raw materials a witness will provide, or how much of
your laboriously constructed edifice will be destroyed by testimony you cannot—let
us say, are not prepared at the moment to—refute. Thus Eleanor Haddock becomes
a problem. She not only saw Stanley walk away from the church a few moments
before the explosions, she also saw him install the dynamite and hook up the
wiring. Or so she claims. None of these claims are, of course, true.
Single witness incrimination
in the absence of corroborative evidence is a problem for juries as well as for
defenses. Technically: single witnesses don’t fulfill the criterion of beyond
all reasonable doubt. What they do accomplish within the artistic medium known
as “courtroom” however, is to legitimatize massive amounts of circumstantial
evidence. Suddenly coincidence is explained so becomes fact, instead of
conjecture, in the mind of a juror. Prosecution and defense alike, all bound by
legal, ethical, and judicial constraints, are nevertheless free to try to
convince a sample of the electorate that the plausible is indeed true. Or,
conversely, that the implausible is true, or, I suppose, that the truth is
implausible. But even a single witness can play havoc with the best made plans
of defense attorneys.
During direct, led by
Shivvers, I struggle to keep a straight face. Periodically I glance over at
Stanley; for the first time since we met that interested day decades ago in the
Fillmore County courthouse, he seems to be paying attention to something other
than himself. His eyebrows are drawn together by his squint; his lips are
tight; his head is cocked, almost as if he’s a little hard of hearing in one
ear. Of all the people in the world who might have been the one who is supposed
to have seen Stanley walk away from the Cathedral that night, Eleanor Haddock
is the most unlikely. Upon cross examination, I learn why she has survived all
these years: she’s a superb actress. She also knows my client well enough, and
me too, that she’s confident I will not call him to the stand to testify in his
own defense. But Eleanor Haddock on the stand, as a prosecution witness,
changes everything. Suddenly, Stanley on the stand is starting to look like a
real possibility. I strain to keep from smiling.
“What is your current
address, Ms. Haddock?” I begin cross examination innocently enough.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A BUNCH OF MY BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.
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