All-White Jury

by John Kuhn

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

Several big-hearted actors donated money to the legal defense fund. They spoke out about the case at completely unrelated appearances. Some of them even made the trip to Texas for a media-soaked “March for Justice” from Perrine to the courthouse square in Jackson.

Despite the news reporters’ earnest prayers, no protestors converged on Perrine to denounce the march. Instead, a line of yokels stood on the sidelines as if they were watching a parade, hoping beyond hope that they might score an autograph. The only people unhappy about the appearance of semi-celebrities in Jackson County were the family members of the victim, but they stayed home behind closed curtains and privately cursed the crews filming their house from across the street.

The justices of the 2nd Court of Appeals in Fort Worth sat tall in their pressed robes behind a mahogany bench wider than the best road in Perrine. A marble plaque inscribed with the words “Deo Auxilio Fiat Justitia” hung prominently in the center of the bench, just over a slab of marble the size of a coffin, inscribed with the Texas state seal.

People from around the nation assembled on the first day of testimony. Since space inside the courtroom was limited, a throng of opinionated gawkers gathered on the sidewalk outside, divided into two camps by orange police barricades and an army of Fort Worth’s finest.

Minutemen stood guard on the north side of the barrier, holding aloft signs that read, “Squires Hires Illegals,” and “More Border Security.” They were joined by all sorts of right-wing zealots, including a small handful of men in white robes and hoods. On the other side of the police barricade, to the south, an assembly of well-dressed activists, tie-dyed hippies, and women who could really use some makeup shouted clever slogans with red faces. They carried banners that read “Cruel and Unusual Punishment” and “All-White Jury.”

This time, the jury that sat to hear José’s case represented a mix of races, though still mostly white. Keenly aware of the media spotlight, the jurors sat stoic before the muted gallery. The judge had given them specific orders not to consider the media attention or public opinion in their deliberations. When it was said and done, José’s second trial had lasted four times as long as the first one. The defense team, by anyone’s estimation, performed superbly.

In his second trial, José was presented over and over to the jury as a good boy raised by uneducated but hard-working parents, parents whose only crime was coming from Mexico in search of a better life for their kids in the good ol’ U.S.A. The lawyers had José’s high school diploma displayed prominently before the jurors. They called his priest, his sisters, and several former classmates — all white — as character witnesses.

In a stroke of great lawyering, they had turned up a witness who claimed to have seen a white Ford rumbling down Farm Road 2212 late on the night of the murder.

“It just seemed suspicious,“ the old farmer said from the witness stand. “That road is usually dead at that time of night.“ He didn’t even realize he’d made a macabre joke in his testimony. José’s lawyers seized on that opportunity to produce a photo, three-feet-by-four-feet, of the beat-up orange Dodge José drove.

José’s parents took the stand late in the proceedings and swore their son had been at home with them that night. The lines in their faces bespoke earnestness as the court-appointed interpreter conveyed their brokenness and the absolute certainty they felt regarding their son’s innocence.

The prosecution’s flimsy case didn’t stand a chance. It was an unfair fight. Strong enough perhaps for a Jackson County jury, the case left the floor of the Fort Worth courtroom in tatters. The bumpkins were no match for the West Coast legal offense. When the jury retired to deliberate, little question existed as to what the verdict would be.

As expected, José left the courtroom a free man after the verdict was read the next morning, and the shout of jubilation from the southernmost camp across the street drowned out the jeers of the racists to the north. On the steps of the courthouse, José’s innocent smile was captured by a lucky photographer from the Jackson County Index and was subsequently splashed across the covers of magazines and newspapers across the nation. That night on the local news, the same photo floated over the right shoulders of news anchors from Anchorage to Portland, Maine.

Interviews with the jurors were scheduled, although none of the jurors from the original trial seemed interested in any press. José was scheduled through his lawyers to appear on a number of television shows after a week or so of recuperation. Despite his innocence, he felt certain he would never be able to go back to Jackson County. Meanwhile, he flew to Hollywood to stay in one of the houses owned by his benefactors, the Squires.

José ate like a horse the first few days at that house in the hills. The surgeon and the actress paid him several visits at first. He had never lived this well. He would be well-rested and well-fed for his imminent television debut. They scheduled an appointment for him with a local hairstylist and bought him an outfit or two for TV. In the meantime, they instructed him to relax and enjoy his freedom. His parents would be flown in to meet him in a few days.

Max Squires gave José some spending money and encouraged him to take a tour of the city. At first he just wanted to be alone, to rest and try and forget about the ordeal of the trial; but when he got bored after a couple of days he took a taxi to the Walk of Fame and passed by a couple of the movie studios. A handful of people actually recognized him and asked for his autograph. His penmanship embarrassed him as he signed receipts and scraps of paper.

The closer his television appearance grew, the more uneasy he became. His English was not perfect, and he didn’t want to look like a fool. Two days remained. His parents were flying out the next morning, and he would film the first talk show the morning after that.

He needed a drink.

He moped around the house all day that day, dreading the interview. One of the lawyers called to check on him, and he put on a brave front. The lawyer was relieved that he sounded so calm.

As the Pacific sun plunged through the golden horizon, José found a phone book and called a taxi to take him to a taquería. He tipped the driver and walked into the grungy place as an equal, as a nobody, just like he wanted. He ordered his tacos in Spanish “con dos cervezas por favor.” His manner was as mild in Spanish as it was in English.

He ate and drank. As he relaxed, a small smile dawned on his bronzed face, the first smile in months. He finally felt at ease. He was free. He was alone. The taxi driver was gone. The lawyers were gone. The rich man and his tight-faced wife were gone. Even his parents were gone. He was totally alone. Finally.

And the thing he missed least was the strange polished English they addressed him with. He’d grown up around country English, hands-in-the-dirt English. And unlike in the stucco house they’d put him up in, here there was no housekeeper from Zacatecas eyeing him warily and constantly asking if he needed anything.

He rolled his head back onto his neck and let the bones crunch and take away the tension. He sighed. There was nothing but him, a few cervezas, and the spicy tacos.

Spanish floated all around him, a little more sing-songy than what he was used to, but he swam in it nonetheless, swam in it like a fish unhooked and thrown back into the water. He grew dizzy as he drank. His thoughts swung from elation to sadness.

He wanted to go home, he decided. But he couldn’t. There was no home. Jackson County hadn’t really been his home anyway. He was born and raised there on that farm, but he wasn’t white like them. He was Mexican. His home was Mexico, but he had never lived there. The people there hardly knew him.

He was a man without a home. A man without a people. A man who didn’t belong anywhere, with anyone. A native-born foreigner.

He paid for his food and left the taquería. Through blurring eyes, he saw that the people on the street looked like him. He stared at them a little too intensely, too drunk to be discreet. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Two pretty Latinas walked by arm in arm; they smiled at him. One looked like a cousin in Aguas Calientes. He smiled shyly but kept walking.

He walked for miles. It grew later. He walked. Later still. His buzz faded. Still he walked.

He walked until the people turned white. He walked until the gunshots grew quiet. He would be on la tele in two days. His family would come tomorrow. The thought soothed his nervous heart.

He walked until his legs tired. He turned a corner, dragging his feet from exhaustion, and a flash of yellow caught his eye.

It was blonde hair. She was at the mouth of a dark alley.

Debe ser prostituta, he thought.

He approached her and she went with him. They went to a motel two blocks down and checked in.

“Lo siento,” he told her after he had locked the door. She looked at him, not understanding what he was saying or why he was saying it. She smiled to conceal the thoughts she was thinking about immigrants.

“Something is wrong,” he told her. His accent was thick.

He cut her throat with the sharp knife he kept on his belt, the same one he had killed Cindy with. There was something about the color of blood on blonde hair that fascinated him.

“Something is wrong,” he whispered.

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