A Matter of Conviction

“You know.”

“Like my mother? Or my father?”

“Well...”

“But that isn’t like real love, is it? That’s more like a habit.”

“Yes.”

They were silent for several moments.

Then the boy said, “Jennie?”

“Yes?”

“Jennie, could I kiss you?”

The girl did not answer.

“Jennie?”

She still gave no answer.

“Well, okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I mean, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I...”

“I wouldn’t mind, Lonnie,” she answered, and there was such a tender innocence in her voice that Hank, lying on the rock, felt like weeping. “But...”

“What, Jennie?”

“Could you... could you...”

“What, Jennie? What?”

“Could you please tell me you love me first?” she said.

Hank’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. He lay on the rock in the darkness while his daughter was being kissed, his hand over his face to muffle his sobs. He kept shaking his head over and over again, biting his lip, overwhelmed with his sudden knowledge, feeling small and insignificant and yet strangely powerful with knowledge that raced through his mind.

“I love you, Jennie,” the boy said.

“I love you, Lonnie.”

He listened to the words and suddenly he wanted it to be Monday, suddenly he wanted the trial to begin.

“What time is it, Lonnie?”

“It’s almost twelve.”

“Would you take me home, please? I don’t want them to worry.”

“Could I kiss you once more?”

“Please.”

They were silent, and then Hank heard them getting to their feet, heard them thrashing awkwardly through the bushes and onto the path. In a little while, their footsteps died out.

I don’t owe them anything, he thought.

I don’t owe them anything but the future.

Twelve

It was common knowledge among New York City’s lawyers that Judge Abraham Samalson permitted no nonsense in his courtroom. In General Sessions, Part III, on the Monday that marked the beginning of the Morrez trial, an air of solemnity pervaded the sunswept, wood-paneled room despite the throngs of prospective jurors, spectators, and reporters who packed the court. Seated at the rear of the room, Karin and Jennifer Bell listened to the Honorable Abraham Samalson, impressive in his robes of justice, as he reminded the spectators that this court was concerned with serious business and that any attempts to turn it into a circus would result in his barring all spectators from the trial. With the patience of a kindergarten instructor he explained what his function as a judge would be, and then he asked that the first of the prospective jurors be called.

From all outward appearances, the selection of jurors proceeded in an orderly and totally unsurprising manner. Hank, for the prosecution, asked the questions he was expected to ask. The lawyers for the three defendants — there were twelve appointed by the court — similarly asked the questions expected of them. The process was long and, for the most part, unexciting. Mike Barton, listening to the proceedings with the rest of the reporters, stifled many a yawn as the jurors were either empaneled or excused.

“Mr. Nelson, if the prosecuting attorney proved to you, beyond any reasonable doubt, that these three young boys were guilty of premeditated murder, would you have any qualms about voting for a verdict of guilty?”

“Why should I have any qualms?”

“Because there is a mandatory death penalty attached to the crime of first-degree murder.”

“No, I would not have any qualms.”

“You would send them to the electric chair?”

“Yes. If they were guilty, I would.”

“If, on the other hand, the facts as presented seemed to warrant a plea for leniency, could you find it in keeping with your morals and your ethics to ask the court for leniency in sentencing these boys?”

“I could.”

“Yes, and if we can show that a lesser crime than first-degree murder was committed, would you accept the facts as shown and consider bringing in a verdict on, for example, second-degree murder or manslaughter?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“He means,” Samalson interrupted, “that whereas the district attorney will try to prove that these boys committed murder in the first degree, the facts as presented before this court may indicate that a lesser crime, such as second degree murder or manslaughter, was actually committed. In which case, would you allow the grand-jury indictment or the high office of the district attorney to prejudice you against bringing in a verdict for a lesser crime?”

“No, I would not.”

“Does that answer your question, Mr. Randolph?”

“It does. Thank you, Your Honor. And if it were shown before this court that these boys did not commit any crime, would you vote for an acquittal, would you set them free?”

“I would.”

“Thank you,” Randolph said. “Excuse this juror.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Riley, where do you live?”

“On a Hundred Thirty-eighth Street and Bruckner Boulevard.”

“Are there many Puerto Ricans in that neighborhood?”

“Yes, there are quite a few.”

“Do you like the neighborhood?”

“It’s all right.”

“There are things about it you don’t like?”

“Yes, there are some things.”

“Like what, for example?”

“Well, the neighborhood’s getting run down.”

“What do you mean by ‘run down’?”