As Jennifer moved toward the jury box, she seemed to stumble and lose her balance. The box fell out of her grasp, the top flew off, and the contents spilled out over the courtroom floor. There was a gasp. The jurors began to get to their feet so they could have a better look. They were staring at the hideous collection of weapons that had tumbled from the box. There were almost one hundred of them, of every size, shape and description. Homemade hatchets and butcher knives, stilettos and deadly looking scissors with the ends honed, pellet guns, and a large, vicious-looking cleaver. There were thin wires with wooden handles, used for strangling, a leather sap, a sharpened ice pick, a machete.
Spectators and reporters were on their feet now, craning to get a better look at the arsenal that lay scattered on the floor. Judge Waldman was angrily pounding his gavel for order.
Judge Waldman looked at Jennifer with an expression she could not fathom. A bailiff hurried forward to pick up the spilled contents of the box. Jennifer waved him away. “Thank you,” she said, “I’ll do it.”
As the jurors and spectators watched, Jennifer got down on her knees and began picking up the weapons and putting them back in the box. She worked slowly, handling the weapons gingerly, looking at each one without expression before she replaced it. The jurors had taken their seats again, but they were watching every move she made. It took Jennifer a full five minutes to return the weapons to the box, while District Attorney Di Silva sat there, fuming.
When Jennifer had put the last weapon in the deadly arsenal back in the box, she rose, looked at Patterson, then turned and said to Di Silva, “Your witness.”
It was too late to repair the damage that had been done. “No cross,” the District Attorney said.
“Then I would like to call Abraham Wilson to the stand.”
8
“Your name?”
“Abraham Wilson.”
“Would you speak up, please?”
“Abraham Wilson.”
“Mr. Wilson, did you kill Raymond Thorpe?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Would you tell the court why?”
“He was gonna kill me.”
“Raymond Thorpe was a much smaller man than you. Did you really believe that he would be able to kill you?”
“He was comin’ at me with a knife that made him purty tall.”
Jennifer had kept out two objects from the goodie box. One was a finely honed butcher knife; the other was a large pair of metal tongs. She held up the knife. “Was this the knife that Raymond Thorpe threatened you with?”
“Objection! The defendant has no way of knowing—”
“I’ll rephrase the question. Was this similar to the knife that Raymond Thorpe threatened you with?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And these tongs?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Had you had trouble with Thorpe before?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And when he came at you armed with these two weapons, you were forced to kill him in order to save your own life?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
Jennifer turned to Di Silva. “Your witness.”
Robert Di Silva rose to his feet and moved slowly toward the witness box.
“Mr. Wilson, you’ve killed before, haven’t you? I mean, this wasn’t your first murder?”
“I made a mistake and I’m payin’ for it. I—”
“Spare us your sermon. Just answer yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“So a human life doesn’t have much value to you.”
“That ain’t true. I—”
“Do you call committing two murders valuing human life? How many people would you have killed if you didn’t value human life? Five? Ten? Twenty?”
He was baiting Abraham Wilson and Wilson was falling for it. His jaw was clenched and his face was filling with anger. Be careful!
“I only kilt two people.”
“Only! You only killed two people!” The District Attorney shook his head in mock dismay. He stepped close to the witness box and looked up at the defendant. “I’ll bet it gives you a feeling of power to be so big. It must make you feel a little bit like God. Any time you want to, you can take a life here, take a life there…”
Abraham Wilson was on his feet, rising to his full height. “You somabitch!”
No! Jennifer prayed. Don’t!
“Sit down!” Di Silva thundered. “Is that the way you lost your temper when you killed Raymond Thorpe?”
“Thorpe was tryin’ ta kill me.”
“With these?” Di Silva held up the butcher knife and the pair of tongs. “I’m sure you could have taken that knife away from him.” He waved the tongs around. “And you were afraid of this?” He turned back to the jury and held up the tongs deprecatingly. “This doesn’t look so terribly lethal. If the deceased had been able to hit you over the head with it, it might have caused a small bump. What exactly is this pair of tongs, Mr. Wilson?”
Abraham Wilson said softly, “They’re testicle crushers.”
The jury was out for eight hours.
Robert Di Silva and his assistants left the courtroom to take a break, but Jennifer stayed in her seat, unable to tear herself away.
When the jury filed out of the room, Ken Bailey came up to Jennifer. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“I couldn’t swallow anything.”
She sat in the courtroom, afraid to move, only dimly aware of the people around her. It was over. She had done her best. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but the fear in her was too strong. She felt as though she, along with Abraham Wilson, was about to be sentenced to death.