Trial, page 47
The twisting path to this moment had begun nineteen years ago, at Harvard, on the night of Black Juliet. Now both Chase and Allie carried the years within them. They were the same, yet very different, their essences rooted in lives that were the accretion of events and choices made with no thought that the two of them would, or could, ever be together. Yet they were, and the comfort they felt in each other’s presence was at once real and ephemeral, subject to events over which they had no control, as well as to the pull of the commitments each had made over time, transforming who they once had been into the separate people they were now, and would be in the future.
However fraught the space that had allowed them to first fall in love, this temporal cocoon was even more fragile. There was another person now, Malcolm, whose fate was inextricably tied to theirs and that reality, depending on the outcome, would affect their relationship with each other, and with him, in differing and perhaps conflicting ways. Every day was precious, yet there was no time to consider that, let alone to savor it. The reckoning all of them faced was too overwhelming, for Malcolm most of all.
Naked, Allie paused to look at him. “What are you thinking?”
So many things, he could have said. I was hoping our son doesn’t testify, knowing you feel otherwise. So, inevitably, I turned to regretting, yet again, the crosscurrents in our lives, and what they might do to all three of us.
“I was thinking you were beautiful,” he answered.
She smiled a little. “So why don’t you hold me for a while? I wouldn’t mind that.”
Sitting up, he held out his arms. Then she curled up against him, skin to skin. “This is nice,” she murmured.
He kissed her hair. “Always was.”
In a moment or two, Chase knew, their talk would turn back to the trial, what she needed to accomplish for them all. But, for an instant, they had this.
Sitting with her mother in the front row of the courtroom, Allie watched Sheriff Al Garrett settle into the witness stand. Even here, the sight of him was somehow reassuring.
His sheer bulk, all mass and muscle, seemed to render his surroundings a little smaller, and an erect military posture combined with an unwavering gaze seemed to make him even more imposing. But however tough and unflinching Al Garrett could be, beneath his laconic manner lived a compassionate and even gentle soul.
As a child, he’d had very little—a missing father, a fitfully loving but feckless and distracted mother, no money to speak of. In many ways, his father figure had been the army, and he had returned to Cade County with an iron self-discipline and a resolve to follow the rules while making them a little kinder, a little better. The authority figure he had become still preserved within the wistful, lonely boy whom the adult Sheriff Garrett remembered with a compassion he extended to others. He was that all-too-rare person, Allie knew—a good man who had willed himself to be so.
On the stand, as elsewhere, he evinced the fatalism of someone who did not expect life’s surprises to be pleasant. The widespread respect he enjoyed in the county for fairness, including from many whites, was mirrored in the attentiveness of the jury. Within the constraints of his office, Allie felt certain, he would do what he could to help Malcolm. But she knew him well enough to sense when he did not like his circumstances. She felt that now, and wondered what the reasons might be.
Questioning him, Jabari Ford began with his tenure as sheriff. “When you took office, Sheriff Garrett, what steps did you take to improve the relations between Blacks and whites in your department?”
Garrett settled in, back still straight, giant hands folded in his lap. “I did several things,” he answered in his baritone voice. “I made sure that my deputies dealt with all races, both inside and outside their duties as law enforcement officers. My white deputies went to civic functions held by Blacks, and vice versa. There’s not much of that around here, and I thought it would be good for the community, and good for my officers.”
He looked toward the jury, as though he saw them as another opportunity for public education. “I acclimated young Black deputies to being trained and supervised by whites, and did the same for new white deputies who were mentored by Blacks. I hired more officers of color, both men and women. The whole idea, as best as I could do it, was to create a department where law enforcement wasn’t defined by race.”
“Did you also take steps to reduce the incidence of racially motivated abuses?”
“I did. More generally, I also wanted to ensure that my deputies interacted with members of the community, Black or white, in a lawful and appropriate manner.”
Ford moved to the side, as though to assure that the jurors remained focused on Garrett. “What specific steps did you take to help accomplish that?”
“There were several,” Garrett answered firmly. “Because of manpower and budgetary constraints, each deputy patrols the county alone. To make sure that they conducted themselves appropriately, I gave them dashboard and body cameras that also have an audio function. Then I made it a rule—no exceptions—that every deputy had to turn on both cameras before making a traffic stop, and turn on their body camera during any encounter with a member of the public.”
“Were you able to monitor whether your deputies followed the policy?”
“Definitely. We have specialists who monitor our technology twenty-four hours a day—dashboard and body cameras, when lights and sirens are employed. Whenever a deputy turns on a siren, a specialist contacts me. After that, I can download video and audio from the cameras to look at traffic stops and other interactions. That way I can review the conduct of our deputies, and make sure they’re accountable.”
“Was one of your concerns to determine whether deputies exhibited racial bias toward members of the public?”
“Absolutely.”
It was only a matter of time, Allie knew, before Ford reintroduced Deputy George Bullock to the jury. “What procedures do you follow if a deputy may have violated your procedures, or otherwise operated outside the law?”
Again, Garrett faced the jurors. “First, I’ve got a zero-tolerance policy. Most folks in this county can remember a time when deputies would just pull over some motorist outside the city limits, maybe in the dark, so they could act out their own bigotry or abuse their authority. Those days are done with. If the deputy doesn’t turn on his cameras or otherwise follow regulations, he answers to me—I automatically assume that the deputy acted inappropriately, and investigate the circumstances. If it happens once too often, like more than once, their job is on the line.”
Malcolm, Allie saw, was riveted to the sheriff—as was Dalton Harris. In the same even tone, Ford asked, “During your tenure as sheriff, did you meet with Deputy George Bullock to discuss what you considered to be his questionable conduct?”
Harris stood at once. “Objection, Your Honor. What the victim did or didn’t do in unrelated circumstances is completely irrelevant to the issues in this case. Not to mention potentially prejudicial.”
On the witness stand, Garrett turned toward the judge. “Sustained,” Tilly said promptly. “Move on, Mr. Ford.”
Looking back at Garrett, beneath his impassivity Allie read a hint of frustration. “Sheriff Garrett,” Ford asked crisply, “did Deputy Bullock comply with departmental policy when he stopped Malcolm Hill?”
Quickly and incisively, Garrett answered, “He did not.”
Glancing at Dorothy Bullock, Allie caught her stare of anger at Jabari Ford. “In what respect?” Ford asked.
“Several,” Garrett answered. “He never called in the stop. He never turned on his dashboard camera. He never turned on his body camera. He never interacted with the department in any way.”
Ford nodded. “Would you expect that kind of noncompliance from a thirty-year veteran of the sheriff’s department?”
“I wouldn’t expect it from anyone in my department. Even rookies know the rules. But it was especially notable in a deputy as experienced as George Bullock.”
“In terms of evaluating his conduct on June 22, 2022, what were the results?”
“We have no video or audio evidence of Deputy Bullock’s interactions with Malcolm Hill. Effectively, he was operating in the dark.”
“Were you able to investigate the reasons for his behavior?”
“I was not,” Garrett said flatly. “Deputy Bullock was dead at the scene, and the GBI took over the investigation.”
“Did the GBI ask you for information about Deputy Bullock?”
“Yes. They asked what our system showed about the movements of his patrol car in the moments before he stopped Malcolm Hill.”
“And what did they reveal?”
“According to the GPS, he’d been waiting by the side of Old County Road, a couple miles outside of town. Before he turned on the siren, it looked like he’d been following Malcolm for several minutes.”
“In terms of visibility, Sheriff Garrett, how would you characterize the stretch of road where Deputy Bullock stopped the defendant?”
Eyes narrowing slightly, Garrett seemed to consider how to phrase his answer. “About as dark as it gets. No lights, no buildings close to the road. It’s all woods and fields.”
For a moment, Ford paused, letting the jury imagine the scene. In a tone of curiosity, he asked, “In the course of its investigation, did anyone from the GBI ask for your evaluation of George Bullock’s performance as a law enforcement officer?”
“Objection,” Harris said promptly. “Irrelevant. Again, the question has nothing to do with the night in question, or with Malcolm Hill’s motives or intent at the time of the shooting.”
“Sustained,” the judge snapped, and trained an admonishing stare on Ford. “You’re well aware of our prior rulings on this point, Counselor. Ignore them at your peril.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Ford said in tenor that, to Allie, suggested no more gratitude than she felt herself. Turning to Garrett, Ford asked, “Did you make the GBI aware of the departmental policies regarding the use of body and dashboard cameras?”
“I did.”
“Did you also suggest to the GBI, in words or substance, that you were concerned about Deputy Bullock’s reasons for not activating those cameras?”
“Objection,” Harris interjected. “Irrelevant. Further, the question calls for speculation on a matter concerning which Sheriff Garrett has already testified that he lacks knowledge.”
Ford shook his head. “Not so, Your Honor. By virtue of his position, Sheriff Garrett has all sorts of knowledge regarding Deputy Bullock. Moreover, he specifically testified as to his presumptions when a deputy violates department policy.”
Expectantly, Garrett turned to the judge, as if awaiting permission to answer. “Sustained,” Tilly ruled.
Watching Garrett, Allie again detected the fleeting hint of frustration crossing his face. Furious, she felt law concealing the truth of George Bullock.
“No further questions,” Ford said.
Returning to the defense table, he gave Chase a glance that, to Allie, seemed intended to convey a message that only the two lawyers understood.
Standing, Harris approached the witness. “In your experience, Sheriff Garrett, do deputies sometimes forget to turn on their body cameras?”
Garrett’s heavy shoulders moved in a minimal shrug. “They have.”
“And in individual cases, have you determined that it was a case of forgetfulness or excitement, rather than malicious intent?”
“I have,” Garrett answered, his expression stony. “In those cases, I took into account the experience of the particular deputy.”
To Allie, the implications of the answer were as clear as, it seemed, they were to Harris.
“No further questions,” he said.
75
That afternoon, Allie took the stand.
Uneasy, Chase watched her. Among the trial’s many ironies was that between Malcolm’s parents, he, not Allie, had heretofore occupied center stage. Now, at last, the jury would hear from the mother who had loved him from the first, fearful moments of his birth.
They had discussed her approach. She would speak to the jury and, as best she could, directly to Robert Franklin, the Black bank officer with a teenage son. Surely, she would try to convey, you understand the dangers our boys face in common.
Efficiently but sympathetically, Ford elicited from her the facts of Malcolm’s life prior to the shooting. The closeness of his family. His love for his grandfather. The community service he performed through his church. His accomplishments—honors student, debater, all-conference athlete, class president, recipient of an academic scholarship to Morehouse. To Chase, her testimony was an affecting combination of quiet pride and love with an undertone of regret, as though her memories were now shadowed by the knowledge of what was to come.
Almost gently, Ford asked, “Before June 22, 2021, had Malcolm encountered any difficulties with the law?”
“None. His only encounter with the law was when an off-duty police officer stopped him from driving through Eastwood, on the way to visit his grandfather’s grave.”
This clear allusion to Woody Palmer, Chase knew, was arguably hearsay. But Harris did not object—clearly he had resolved to treat Allie Hill with due caution. “Did you discuss this incident with Malcolm?” Ford inquired.
Briefly, Allie regarded her son with an expression of tenderness and regret that, in turn, seemed to soften Malcolm’s face. “I did. One of the hardest things for any mother of a Black son is to teach them a fear and caution they don’t deserve to feel. How many white mothers, I wonder, have to teach their boys to say ‘sir,’ to keep their hands visible, to swallow insults—all so they don’t wind up in jail, or dead? It’s no wonder Malcolm followed the shooting of other Black men, or boys. Put him in the wrong place, at the wrong time, facing the wrong person, and he could be the next one. He grew up knowing that.”
Listening, Chase thought of how lonely raising Malcolm must have been for her, how different his own life might have felt had he spent years fearing for his son for reasons that transcended teenage carelessness. Fruitlessly, he wished that they had always been a family, that he could have shared the difficulties faced by Allie and their son.
“Aside from the dangers peculiar to Black men,” Ford asked her, “does your particular family face unique dangers?”
“Yes,” Allie responded simply. “Because of my work.”
“Could you describe that work, Ms. Hill?”
Again, she oriented herself toward the jury “I’m the CEO of the Blue Georgia Movement. It’s dedicated to ensuring that all citizens of Georgia, particularly the poor and people of color, have the right to vote. One of the sad paradoxes of our mission is that defending something so American generates so much hatred.”
Ford nodded. “In the course of that work, do you receive death threats?”
Allie’s expression became somber. “Yes. Especially since the election of 2020.”
“How frequently?”
“It depends on how close we are to an election. In the months prior to November 2022, I was averaging four to five a week, mostly through anonymous emails or calls to my office.”
The resignation in her tone, Chase thought, made the testimony more chilling. Looking toward the jury, he saw that Robert Franklin’s expression was clouded. “Do workers for Blue Georgia also receive threats?” Ford asked Allie.
“Unfortunately, they do. Our offices also receive bomb threats and other forms of intimidation. Right after the 2020 election, armed members of a militia group known as White Lightning gathered in front of our office here in Freedom. As a result of all this, our budget for security alone runs well into seven figures.”
Harris, Chase noted, seemed unusually still, as if bracing for a line of testimony about which he could do little. “Let’s turn to Malcolm,” Ford told Allie. “Was he aware of the threats against your life?”
“He had to be,” she responded. “After 2016, I got advice from our security firm about how to protect my family—Malcolm, my mother, and my late father. We never went anywhere without texting each other to say where we were. We tried not to be alone in places we didn’t know, or with people we didn’t know—especially at night. We asked the neighbors to call us if they saw anything suspicious.” Allie paused, then finished quietly, “Malcolm was thirteen years old, and part of a family security team to help protect each other. No one should have to grow up like that.”
“Over time,” Ford inquired, “did the threats against you intensify?”
“Yes. After the election of 2020, white nationalist groups posted my picture and directions to our home, saying that I was the woman who’d stolen the presidency. I had to show Malcolm, so that he’d know what was going on.”
“How did he react?”
Silent, she looked back at her son. “Mostly, he was scared for me. I remember him asking if I was going to buy a gun for self-protection.”
“What did you say to him?”
“That I hated guns. But he already knew that. They’ve taken too many lives, including Black lives.”
Listening, Chase had a renewed sense of fate encircling Malcolm and his mother. “In earlier testimony,” Ford said, “Dr. Blaine mentioned that Malcolm had accessed articles about a sheriff’s deputy in mid-Georgia who texted a white nationalist about ‘killing or castrating’ voting rights workers. Did you discuss those with him?”
Allie bit her lip. “He discussed it with me. It was like the fifties and sixties, he said, when police and deputies stalked civil rights workers in the South. After that he got more worried about groups like White Lightning infiltrating law enforcement.”
“Did the two of you also talk about the threats to canvassers for Blue Georgia?”
