He tipped back in his rocker, nodding. “I get that. A defense attorney is obliged to represent a guy if she thinks he’s innocent.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not the extent of it. Even if the accused isn’t innocent, he is entitled to a defense.”
“Now you’re mixing me up. Where do you stand, Ruby?”
The conversation was making me tense; it was time to head home. I stood up, thanking him for his hospitality.
“You’re not leaving already? It’s early.”
Moving to the porch steps, I said, “I’d better call it a night. Big appointment tomorrow.”
“Who you going to see?”
I didn’t answer immediately. I was seeing Darrien’s father, at his house across town, to talk about defense witnesses.
Shorty stood beside me and reached out to hold my arm in a gentle grip. “Ruby Bozarth. Don’t you trust me? After I fed you catfish and told you my life story?”
It made me laugh, and dissolved the tension. When he gave me a quick kiss, it felt right.
Chapter 14
WHEN I DROVE across town the next day to meet with Darrien’s father, I wondered whether it would be tough to locate his home. Oscar Summers lived on the outskirts of Rosedale in a neighborhood where mobile homes were scattered between small frame houses.
I needn’t have worried. A black man sat on the steps of a well-maintained house with an attached carport. He was a dead ringer for his son. I pulled up to the gravel curb and cut the engine.
He nodded at my approach, and I lifted a hand in greeting. “Mr. Summers?” I called, though I knew it was Darrien’s home. “Have I got the right house?” He rose from the steps, extending a hand. Oscar Summers didn’t bother to smile; this was not a social call.
“Miss Bozarth, I appreciate you coming out here today.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Can we go inside the house to talk? We’d probably like some privacy.” He turned and walked up the steps, holding the screen door open for me.
Once inside, I looked around the living room. The fireplace mantel was crowded with trophies. A riot of ribbons hanging from the wall looked like blue and red streamers for a child’s birthday party, but the gold print on each revealed Darrien’s youthful accomplishments: first place, second place, All-District, All-State, soccer, track, MVP, Rosedale football.
As I sat on the couch, I said, “Never saw so many honors, Mr. Summers. I never got a single ribbon at school.”
“He was the best, always was. A hard worker. Darrien had natural talents, but he sure worked his tail off.” It struck me that he was talking about Darrien in the past tense. It sent a chill through me.
“Mr. Summers, I hope to raise a character defense at Darrien’s trial. Can you help me with that?”
He nodded, eager. “He was a good worker. His coach at Rosedale High knows that. Why, he started working at the body shop with me when he was a kid, too young to put on the payroll. Roy would pay him out of pocket.”
It wasn’t what I needed. “Work ethic is a great quality, no question. But in a case like this, where your son is facing a murder charge, we need to talk about other aspects of character. Like, whether he was known to be a peaceful person.” His eyes didn’t leave my face. It was a good sign; he had no struggle with the image of Darrien as a peaceable man.
“So tell me about Darrien. I’ve seen his criminal record; aside from the misdemeanor for marijuana possession, it’s clean, not even a speeding ticket. But we’re talking about reputation, not just arrest record. Did he stay out of fights?”
“Darrien didn’t have to fight. Had nothing to prove.” He waved his arm at the awards on display. “Just look. Just look at them.”
My eyes scanned the room once again. In a corner, his high school diploma hung behind glass. I walked over to inspect it. Under the diploma, a second certificate proclaimed: Darrien Summers, Principal’s Honor List: Top 10%.
Turning back to face Oscar Summers, I tapped the certificate. “Good grades.”
“Mighty good grades. Darrien wasn’t going to end up tinkering with cars in the body shop. He was studying criminology at Arkansas State. Planned to get himself a degree in it.”
Making a notation on my legal pad, I said, “Darrien mentioned that to me.”
“I used to think, maybe he’ll end up a detective or in the FBI, something like that. He could’ve done it, too. But he hurt his knee.” His face creased with pain. “Then he got stupid. Went to some damn party, got busted. Losing that scholarship over a joint. Come back home with his tail between his legs.”
Scanning my notes, I drew a question mark. “So Darrien was a local sports hero. Hard worker. Good student. Why did he end up waiting tables at the country club? When he left from Arkansas State?”
His face shuttered. “I got him back on with me at Roy’s shop. It was that knee. He couldn’t get under the cars to work; couldn’t squat, knee was too messed up. Roy let him go.” He looked away.
“Did you know about his relationship with Jewel Shaw?”
His head jerked back to face me. “He didn’t chase her; I’d swear to that on the Bible. It was the other way around. He was a worker, not a player.”
“Darrien explained that to me. Just wondered whether you knew what was going on.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault?”
His voice shook when he asked the question. I backpedaled; spreading blame was not my intention. Moving back to safer ground, I asked for names and contact information on the character witnesses.
He left the room and returned with a phone directory, its pages beginning to yellow. Together we made a list of people who would testify that Darrien had a peaceable reputation.
As he thumbed the pages of the phone book, Oscar Summers asked a question. “Will my boy get a fair trial?”
I looked up from my legal pad. Summers stared down at the phone book, turning the pages. With all the confidence I could muster, I said, “I’ll do everything I can to assure that he does.”
“Who is gonna be on that jury?”
He was still bent over the phone book, so I couldn’t read his face. “We don’t know yet, Mr. Summers. The jury is selected right before trial.”
Then he looked up, his eyes piercing. “Will it be white?”
I let a long breath escape. “Mr. Summers, we won’t know the makeup of the jury until trial. But the jury panel comes from registered voters of Williams County and forty percent of the population of the county is black. So it can’t be an all-white jury, can it? That’s just not possible.” In his eyes, I read skepticism.
“We’ll see,” he said. “Guess we’ll see about that.”
Our list completed, I packed up to go. He led me to the door but lingered with his hand on the knob.
With his head bowed, he said, “Promise me you won’t let them kill my boy.”
The statement knocked the stuffing out of me, but I tried to keep my voice calm as I repeated my stock answer: “No lawyer can guarantee an outcome in any case, Mr. Summers, but I’ll do my best to see that your son is acquitted.”
Looking up, he fixed his eyes on mine. “Not good enough.”
I took a backward step. Though nothing about his demeanor was threatening, the tension that was building made me distance myself.
“Mr. Summers—”
“I want a promise.”
“I promise I’ll do everything in my power.”
“No.” He let go of the doorknob and leaned back against the door, as if he wanted to block my exit. “A guarantee. You tell me you’ll set my boy free.”
My eyes jerked from his face to the doorknob. I wanted out of that house so bad, I considered making a run for the back door.
“Tell me,” he said. And his eyes filled.
When the tears rolled down his face, my resolve broke. I would have said anything to escape that moment.
“Yes,” I said in a whisper.
“What?”
“Yes, he’ll be acquitted. Because he’s innocent.”
After I spoke the words, I flew down the front steps to the safety of my car, absolutely horrified. How could I have done it? I’d broken the most basic rule of trial practice: Never guarantee victory.
And even worse, I was a liar. Because there was every chance that we would lose.
Oscar Summers’s beloved son might be on death row in less than two weeks.