Today's Reading
PROLOGUE
The air-conditioning in the Blanton County Courthouse was fighting a losing battle against the oppressive July heat of the eastern North Carolina summer. Joe Moore pushed aside his light brown hair, wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, and rubbed his hand on his pants. He was wearing a blue suit that his mother had purchased for the final day of the trial. Early that morning, she'd brought the clothes to the jail, including a freshly ironed white shirt and a yellow tie.
"I wish you were putting this on for church," Myra Moore said when she placed the neatly folded clothes on the table in the room where prisoners met with their families.
"For my funeral," Joe replied morosely.
"Hush, don't talk like that!" his mother said, a tissue tightly clutched in her hand. "Mr. Clark says he's going to explain everything to the jury in a way that they can see you're not guilty."
Joe stretched out his lanky legs and lowered his head for a moment before forcing himself to make eye contact with his mother.
"Mama, you've heard the testimony and seen what's been introduced into evidence. I'm going to be convicted. That's how I'd vote if I were on the jury."
"I hate the drugs, but it's not in your heart to kill someone," Myra replied in a determined voice.
Joe knew it was pointless to argue. Guilt was irrefutable. His presence at the scene. The bloody knife. The fingerprint evidence. The crystal meth in his system. His history of fighting when high. The blood of the victims on his clothes, and worst of all, the photographs of the bodies.
"Who's going to be there with you?" he asked.
"Sissy and some of the cousins. Hopefully, Aunt Vi will make it. She was feeling puny after yesterday. I need to be surrounded by my people."
"Please don't scream if it goes bad."
Tears streamed down his mother's cheeks. "Don't ask me not to care!"
"I know you care, maybe too much."
His mother reached across the table and grabbed Joe's right hand tightly with both of hers. "That's not possible."
Joe sighed. "Do whatever you feel in the moment."
"When God answers my prayers for you to be set free, I plan on shouting, 'Hallelujah!'"
* * *
Being on trial for murder someday had seemed unlikely after Joe graduated toward the top of his high school class and enrolled in the local community college. As an elective in college, he'd taken a criminal justice course. Much of what had taken place during the trial matched what he'd studied in the course. But a huge gap separated the words in the textbooks from the reality of Joe's experience. He understood why the overwhelming majority of criminal defendants either pleaded guilty or were convicted. The resources at the government's disposal were immense. Resistance appeared futile. There'd been no plea deal. Joe's appointed lawyer told him a prosecutor's political career was made on high-profile convictions.
Joe again wiped away the sweat that now threatened his soulful brown eyes. A potbellied bailiff entered the courtroom, followed by the twelve-person jury of seven women and five men. Joe's lawyer had been pleased with the jury selection. Joe wasn't clear on exactly why. At the prosecution table sat the district attorney and Norris Broome, the chief investigator in the case. Inside Joe's pocket was a Bible verse his mother had slipped to him when she entered the courtroom. He'd not taken it out to read it.
"All rise!" the bailiff announced.
Joe stood but didn't turn around. He could feel the presence of his mother and sister in the row behind him. A double murder case was a huge event in Cranfield, and the courtroom was filled with spectators. The prominence in the community of the two victims, especially the young woman, had increased the local fascination.
"Be seated," Judge Brinson said in a deep, thick Southern drawl.
Rustling could be heard across the room. Joe forced himself to breathe.
...
