Trial, page 33
Chase heard her calibrating her answer, in part to avoid creating more pressure on him. “Under the circumstances,” she answered, “I’m managing. I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to do. It’s you I worry about.”
“How so?”
“A lot of reasons. I’ve always been Malcolm’s mother, and I’ve loved him since before he was born. But you’ve had everything in your life turned inside out, eating away at your obligations and ambitions in the place you ever call home, all because of a woman and a son who live six hundred miles away.” She paused. “When I’m not thinking about Malcolm, I’m thinking about you. I read things; I hear things. They’re turning on us, just like we both knew they would. Maybe it’s time to pay more attention to the people who can send you back to Washington.”
Her voice was calm, that of a friend giving sensible advice to another friend. But he imagined her, as alone as he was, and all he wanted at that moment was to hold her.
“Would you like me to come back?” he asked.
She was quiet for a time. “I always want you to come back. But that’s way easy for me to say, and not the issue.”
“What makes you think it’s so easy for me to stay away?” He paused, much as she had. “Maybe I can even help Malcolm. There are other weekends I can spend in Massachusetts.”
When he arrived in Cade County around noon on Friday, Chase went directly to Ford’s office.
Ford had sandwiches waiting on the conference table. Sitting across from Chase, he said, “Just wanted to say this in person, Congressman. If I ever begrudged your meddling, I don’t anymore. Anyhow, you’ve turned out to be less of a pain in the ass than you could’ve been.”
Chase laughed. “Believe it or not, that’s one of the kindest things I’ve heard all week.”
“Oh, I believe it. You should listen to my answering machine. Lynching’s too good for me, ’cause it’s too quick.” Ford’s expression and tone became sober. “I’m not so scared for me as I am for my wife and kids. Some of these people know where we live.”
Chase thought of Ford’s family at church. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Ford simply looked at him. “I’m thinking you’re more than sorry. You and Allie are the only people around who know exactly how I feel.”
In the context of their sometimes edgy relationship, Chase realized, he had not given due thought to the mounting stresses on Ford. “They’re lucky to have you,” he answered. “Me, too, if I can throw myself in.”
“Why not?” Ford responded. “You’re his father.”
“How’s he holding up, do you think? Allie’s pretty concerned.”
Ford took a bite of his sandwich, contemplating the question. “Wish I could tell you he was better. But for an eighteen-year-old who’s never left home and family, being locked up alone to obsess over how you got there is high-grade psychological torture. Imagine that as your first formative experience—constantly remembering George Bullock with his forehead blown off instead of scoping out girls at Morehouse.” He gave Chase a curious look. “Making any headway with him?”
“Not much.”
“Hope you can. Aside from Allie and Janie, I’m the biggest figure in Malcolm’s life. Too big. In his mind, I’m all that’s standing between him and a pack of white people trying to inject him with poison.”
The bald truth of this remark made Chase put down his sandwich. “Allie said something about how much losing your co-counsel worries Malcolm. Given that he never met the man, I found that kind of unsettling.”
Ford frowned. “I think it’s more the concept. I’m only one man, and Malcolm knows that there are countless white people out there calling for his death. I think he wants someone to help me carry the load, and thinks maybe a white man can reach jurors I can’t. Can’t fault the logic, or the preoccupation with race. But the obsession’s another bad sign of what’s going on inside him.”
“Any luck finding a replacement?”
“Not so far. Jack Harper was about perfect—a big white Southerner with terrific cross-examination skills and the ability to ingratiate himself with country folk. Too damn bad he had a congenital heart problem.” Ford’s voice became sardonic. “That’s the other thing. Jack never expected to live all that long, so he was less afraid that some white nationalist would blow his brains out on the courthouse steps. None of the other folks I’m talking to have mentioned that, but you sure can hear them thinking.”
Chase could imagine it all too easily. “Will you be able to find someone good?”
Ford sat back in his chair, warming to the sour task of summarizing his difficulties. “There’s no lack of capable progressive white lawyers in Georgia with a functioning conscience. But then you start adding whether they’re available; jury-likable; qualified by experience to handle a case of capital murder; OK with sitting second chair in the most nationally notorious, racially charged case in sight; and don’t mind leaving home to spend a chunk of time in a county crawling with white nationalists carrying military-grade weapons, one or more of whom may be the people who already took shots at the defendant’s Black mother and white father—with Dad gaining ground on Mom as a magnet for hate.”
As if hearing his own summary, Ford spread his hands in a gesture of perplexity. “In this economy, I can underpay some smart and idealistic kids to do the donkey work back here at the office—looking up cases, organizing exhibits, keeping track of our witnesses. Joe Briggs can help research the backgrounds of prosecution witnesses. But replace Jack Harper at the defense table with someone near as right? Not so easy.”
“Yeah,” Chase said, “I can see the problem.”
“Figured you would.”
Finishing his sandwich, Chase stood. “Thanks for your time. And the lunch. The idea of sitting at some diner on Main Street is losing its appeal.”
“And here I thought you were a man of the people,” Ford rejoined. “Going to see Allie?”
“I was. But now I’m thinking I’ll try to sit down with Malcolm.”
It was strange, Chase thought. Even a few days away from a teenager he didn’t know had underscored the changes in Malcolm.
This slump in his body was a portrait of depression, the eyes above dark circles looked like burn holes, and the high cheekbones he had inherited from Chase and Jean Marc Brevard seemed far too close to the skin. He was still doing push-ups, Allie said, trying to maintain the discipline of fitness. But his powers of concentration were diminishing; though he had started both of the novels Chase had left with him, he had not read much of either.
“Anyhow,” Chase said, “here I am.”
Listlessly, Malcolm nodded. But his gaze stayed focused on Chase. “Have you seen your friends?” Chase asked him.
“Some. But it’s hard for me to find anything to talk about.” His son’s voice fell. “If I told them what was in my head, they’d think I was crazy. They’re still trying to be nice and all, but…”
The sentence dwindled, all the more poignant for what was unsaid—he and his friends were becoming different species, and there was nothing Malcolm could do but feel and see the gulf opening between them.
Wondering what to say, Chase decided that it was better to meet Malcolm where he was than to worry about exacerbating his anxieties. “Your mom says you’re afraid Jabari won’t find another co-counsel.”
At once Malcolm’s eyes grew keener. “Why shouldn’t I be afraid? What white guy wants to help a Black man defend a Black cop killer who posts a video saying Blacks should murder white police?”
The bald remark, Chase thought, was at once self-lacerating, racially stark, and destructive of hope—well beyond the reach of palliative words. All Malcolm had now was too much time to think, twisting his justified fear of the justice system into a psychological straitjacket from which he had no means of escape. Chase wondered if there was a therapist in the world who could help.
Finally, bereft of responses, he said that Jabari Ford had given him a little reason to believe. “We’ll find you another good lawyer to help Jabari defend you.”
Malcolm was staring at him now. “Will you?”
The instant premonition of mutual anguish sparked Chase’s nerve ends. “Help find a lawyer?”
“No,” Malcolm said harshly, “help defend me.”
Chase felt the ground opening up beneath him. Desperately buying time, he asked, “As a lawyer?”
“My mother says you were good.” Leaning forward, Malcolm bored in. “You said you were good. You put away a white cop for killing a Black man.”
Suddenly, all Chase wanted was to escape this moment. I worked hard to become a congressman, he wanted to say, and I don’t want to throw that over because you’re too desperate to comprehend anything but your own suffocating misery. “That was in Boston,” he temporized. “Ten years ago. I’m not even licensed to practice in Georgia.”
Though all these things were true, Chase swiftly understood how hollow they would sound to Malcolm’s ear. “I want to help you,” he continued urgently, “any way that makes sense. But I’m a stranger here. I doubt that many jurors, whites in particular, would take to a lawyer from Massachusetts who happens to be your father. Even if they could, I’ve never defended so much as a case of jaywalking. I’m rusty. I wouldn’t trust my own judgment in the pressures of a trial like this one even if I weren’t your father. No lawyer on earth would defend his son on a charge of capital murder.”
Across the table, Malcolm’s jaw clenched, and his eyes looked wounded. “I’ve been thinking about this, over and over. Seems like I should matter to you more than any lawyer alive. Even Jabari.”
Chase felt pinned by his own words, all his good intentions turning against him. “Jabari won’t want me.”
“Then talk to him.” Abruptly, Malcolm stood. “On television you said you wanted to be my father, right? In reality, not just in blood. So be one.”
There was nothing left to say, Chase realized, nothing to do but buy time, searching for ways that Allie or Ford could help extricate him from this mutation of instant fatherhood. “I’ll talk to Jabari,” he said, realizing as he left how synthetic this had sounded.
55
Sitting in the light of Allie’s front porch, she and Chase felt the heat of the day diminish in a gathering dusk that turned the guard patrolling her grounds from man to shadow.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For both of you.”
He shook his head in dismay. “I felt myself reacting like he was some selfish adolescent asking for something unreasonable, instead of a scared teenager in emotional free fall. But this is such a terrible idea.”
Allie considered him. “For you, as a politician and maybe as a lawyer. But not for a son in jail who’s always wanted a father.” She took both of his hands in hers. “Every step you take toward Malcolm opens up another that is even harder for you. But this one is especially cruel—to him, and to you.”
“And for you?”
“The cruelty for me is that I love you both.”
Chase took her hands in his. “I care about him, too, Allie.”
“I know you do. And the last thing I’ve wanted is for you to give up your political career. That’s what you’ve worked for, the place you belong.” Her voice grew softer. “So tell me this. If I told Malcolm what I just told you, would it really help you face him, or deal with what’s in your own heart?”
Chase looked down. “No. I don’t think it would.”
For a moment, her eyes closed. “Good,” she said gently. “Because I don’t think I can. When I think about Malcolm, and about this, you and I are different.”
He tilted his head. “How so?”
Allie seemed to gather herself. “Because of the decision I made, for all three of us, nineteen years ago. Because I’m his mother. Because for the last eighteen years of my life, Malcolm has always come first.” She looked into his eyes again. “I’m sorry, Chase, but he still does. Whatever blame I bear, I can’t be part of something else that hurts him.”
“You’re worrying about his emotional state,” Chase rejoined. “So am I, a great deal. But you don’t try to relieve that by diminishing his chances at trial.”
Allie’s shoulders slumped, and Chase could feel her misery for them both. “I’m not saying you should help take on Malcolm’s defense. I know this is a very hard case. I know it will be hard on you, in so many ways. I know you’re out of practice as a lawyer. Maybe I can’t judge how that would affect you in the courtroom, from moment to moment, but I know you wouldn’t be what you were a decade ago.”
For an instant, Chase felt her words as a reprieve. “That’s about should you,” she continued. “But could you? I’ve always teased you about believing you can make anything turn out. But you almost always do, at least when you want to, because succeeding is embedded in your nature.”
She met his eyes again. “So do I think you could step up with our son’s life at stake, and be better than good enough whenever you’re called on to be? Yes, I do.”
Chase looked at her intently. “But does what I do really matter? Malcolm’s fate rests on Jabari’s shoulders, not whoever he signs on as his co-counsel. By comparison, the white lawyer sitting next to Malcolm will be window dressing for the jury—as long as he’s got a Southern accent instead of sounding like a Bostonian from Harvard. It’s better for everyone if I’m sitting in the first row next to you.”
“You are out of practice,” Allie interjected. “Don’t you see that you’ve just turned your argument back on itself? You’ve just said your involvement as a lawyer won’t determine Malcolm’s fate. So isn’t what really matters most to you, and to Malcolm, all that really matters?”
“Not if the jury hates me.”
The faintest trace of a smile surfaced in her eyes. “Do you really think they would? You’re not some Northerner anymore. You’re Malcolm’s father.”
Yet again, Chase felt cornered by his lover, their son, and a reckoning he had never asked for. “That cuts both ways, Allie. What do you want me to do?”
For a moment, she looked away. “That can’t matter to you. Once I answer, one way or the other, it could poison whatever’s between us. So could the consequences of whatever you decide.”
This was right, Chase knew. But all he could do was acknowledge this through silence.
“I love you,” Allie said, “with all of me that’s free to love you. But please, you shouldn’t stay with me tonight. Nothing we do or say can help either one of us, and you need to be alone with this.”
“I wish I could say you’re spoiling my day,” Jack Raskin said late that evening. “But it’s too late for that, and this is too big. The only reason you’re calling at this hour is that you’re actually thinking about doing this.”
Chase sat back on his bed, silently acknowledging the justice of this. “I’m sorry, Jack. I know I’ve been redefining the phrase ‘thankless job.’ But it’s not like he’s some spoiled kid asking Dad for a new Mercedes. That was me at eighteen.”
“OK, Chase. I know he’s in a uniquely terrible place, which means you both are. But what he’s asking of his dad is to give up not just the Senate but your House seat. I don’t see how you’d have any choice but to resign.”
“Yeah, that’s how it seems to me.”
“How it seems to me,” Raskin responded, “is that resigning would be spiritual suicide. You’re not some grocery clerk. You’re a gifted politician who ran for office, as they say, not just to be someone but to do things that matter to you and a whole lot of other people.
“Who are you, if not Congressman Chase Brevard? Do you go back to being a lawyer? You left the law as soon as you could. How about becoming a lobbyist? If you can’t stand them, how could you stand yourself? Or you could run a nonprofit, like a lot of defeated incumbents who sit around wishing they still had real power and feeling like a Xerox copy of themselves. Or maybe you could take refuge in that favorite dodge of failed politicians, ‘spending more time with the family.’ Only you don’t have one, except for an old girlfriend and a son facing murder charges in a place you don’t belong…”
“Enough, Jack. I get the point.”
“You called me,” the consultant persisted. “So I might as well make a clean sweep of the obvious. Even if you didn’t have to resign, you’re not the best lawyer to defend this case, or even anywhere near the top quartile. At best, you’d look like your judgment completely abandoned you. At worst, you’d be a narcissist with a white savior complex, risking your son’s life out of unbridled vanity and self-regard.”
Though Chase had considered all of this, hearing it from Raskin deepened his gloom. “That about covers it. But Malcolm is my son, and he’s asked me to help him. I can’t just blow that off in a couple of hours.”
“Believe me,” Raskin rejoined, “I get that. But he’s eighteen years old, and the pressures he’s facing have completely distorted his thinking.” His tone became at once authoritative and sympathetic. “I am a father, Chase. I’ve been one for thirty-one years now. One of the hardest but most necessary parts of the job is telling a kid that what they most want in the moment isn’t the right thing for them, or maybe for you. The fact that Malcolm has no idea of your life, and really can’t care, makes this one all the harder—a parental do-it-yourself. But it doesn’t change your obligations—to him, and to the imperatives of your own life.”
As often, Chase thought, Jack’s advice had a merciless clarity. But, yet again, only Chase would live with the consequences of following it—or not. “I understand,” he said. “But just as an exercise, draft a resignation statement for my eyes alone. Maybe, like hanging, reading my own suicide note will concentrate the mind.”
