Chapter Thirty-five - Kenya
Chapter Thirty-five
Kenya
K enya swayed down the hallway of her office and stepped into the conference room. Mitch was already there, engaging in small talk with Deacon Charles.
“Okay, let’s get started.” Kenya joined them, set her laptop on the table.
“Good morning, Kenya. Don’t you look beautiful this morning, all bright and cheerful? You know, you’re beautiful just like your mother. And I must say that red is definitely your color.”
Kenya beamed at the deacon’s compliments. She was indeed the spitting image of Melba Lewis; people always told her that. Though she looked like her mother, she was completely a daddy’s girl. She’d always been. She had particularly chosen the gray suit with a silk red blouse underneath. Occasionally she stepped out of her conservative box and gave her wardrobe a bit of pizzazz, but today she needed to look professional and exude confidence. Red was her power color, and she needed all the power she could get for the first day of her high-profile murder case.
Kenya turned to Mitch. “Have we narrowed down our character witnesses?”
“My friend, Walter, your father, will make the best character witness of all. Don’t you think?” Deacon Charles offered his unwarranted advice, as if he had joined the legal team.
“I’m not putting my father on the stand. I won’t put him through that. There are other members of the church who can vouch for your character. Larry Davis, for instance, who you’ve served with on the deacon board. Edward Thompson, one of the community leaders who you’ve worked alongside in the community, feeding the hungry, doing your toy drive, and that back-to-school thing that the two of you head up every year. He’s your frat brother, too. Right?”
“Yes, he is.”
“You’ve been a member of the board at Rutgers University for umpteen years. We have to play up your strengths. Make sure the jury sees you as a normal contributing citizen.”
“Put me on the stand, Kenya. Who’s a better character witness than me?” Deacon Charles urged, wearing a brown tailored suit, adorned with gold cuff links and a crisp white designer shirt. He was always sharply dressed, even on Sunday morning. The tall, handsome middle-aged man kept his facial hair precisely trimmed. He often flashed the huge championship ring that rested on his finger, an indication that he was more than just a regular player on the team at Rutgers. No, he ruled the court during his college basketball days. He always made sure everyone knew that he had been this close to making it to the NBA.
“Absolutely not,” Kenya vetoed his idea of taking the stand.
“Why not?” he asked, a frown in the center of his forehead.
“You’re not ready and the prosecution will eat you alive. It would jeopardize the case. Too risky.” Kenya opened her laptop and began typing some key points. “Besides, I hate to say it, but you’re like a loose cannon, Deacon Charles. You talk to people when I tell you not to and, furthermore, I don’t trust what you might say on the stand.”
“Fair enough. I’ve handled things badly.” He backed down, his stance relaxed now.
“I don’t ever think it’s a good idea to put the defendant on the stand unless it’s absolutely necessary. And I think we’re okay with the witnesses we have.”
Mitch jumped in. “We need to go over your alibi. Make sure it’s airtight. Your wife is going to corroborate your testimony that you were home all evening and did not leave the house, correct?”
“It’s the truth, I was. I dropped by that Cuban restaurant on Pacific, ordered takeout, and then headed home.”
“Mr. Charles, we know that at some point you stopped by Julian Miller’s condo. And before you answer, let me remind you that you are under oath, and we have video footage of you.”
“Yes, I dropped by Julian’s place. I needed to drop off some papers that required his signature.”
“Did you get him to sign those papers?’
“Yes, he signed them, and I left. Then I went home and spent the rest of the evening with my wife.”
“Even though the time of death doesn’t coincide with the time that the video placed you there, how do we know you didn’t return later, catch him while he was sleeping, and smother him to death with a pillow?”
“That’s ridiculous!” The deacon slammed his fist against the table.
Mitch remained calm and cool, continued his interrogation. “He died by asphyxiation. Maybe you returned later, came in through a back entrance, away from the cameras.”
The deacon’s posture became more rigid. He lowered his brow and squinted his eyes. “Julian was my friend. I loved him like a brother. I would never hurt him.”
“You lied about being home all evening when you were questioned in the beginning. It was only later that we learned you went out to pick up dinner. You lied about seeing Mr. Miller that day. In your statement, you claimed that you hadn’t seen him at all that day, when in fact there’s video footage that places you at his home. How do you explain the discrepancies in your statements to us and to the police, Mr. Charles?”
“What I’ve told you today is the truth.”
“How do we know you’re not lying today, and yesterday, and the day before that?”
Deacon Charles shook his head profusely.
“If you’ll lie about something as simple as picking up dinner, maybe you’ll lie about anything. One could conclude, Mr. Charles, that you’re just a liar,” Mitch stated.
Deacon Charles disregarded Mitch’s statement and turned to Kenya. “You’ve known me most of your life. I’m godfather to you, Xander, and Tricia, for God’s sake. I’m not lying!”
“We just wanted you to see what will happen if we put you on the stand,” Kenya told him.
The deacon exhaled. His breathing slowed a bit, and he relaxed in his seat after the interrogation.
“Are you willing to accept any plea bargains? The prosecutor will ask before trial,” Kenya explained.
The deacon tapped his finger on the table with every syllable, “I’m not taking any plea bargains,” and then pulled a handkerchief from his inside pocket, wiped his forehead. “I’m innocent, and the jury will see that.”
“Okay, then let’s do this,” Kenya explained.
They spent the remainder of the morning talking about their witnesses and what to expect later that afternoon, when they appeared in court.
* * *
After meeting with the prosecutor in the judge’s chambers, Kenya walked into the courtroom, where members of Cornerstone Baptist Church were sprinkled about, there to observe and support Deacon Charles. The deacon’s wife, Eleanor, sat right next to Kenya’s parents in the front row. Her brother, Xander, gave her a thumbs-up. She had hoped that her sister would’ve shown up, but she hadn’t. She wasn’t surprised, though. Her relationship with Tricia had been strained for so long. It was as if Tricia blamed her for continuing her education, leaving home, becoming successful—all the things she wasn’t. Sometimes, Kenya found it hard to believe that the three of them had grown up in the same household.
Kenya took her seat next to Mitch and Deacon Charles.
“You okay?” she whispered to the deacon.
“As well as can be expected.” Deacon Charles stared straight ahead, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. He wrung his hands together as his leg bounced up and down.
“Relax,” Kenya told him.
“Counsel, are we ready?” the gray-haired female judge asked.
“Ready, Judge,” said the prosecutor, Oliver James.
“Yes, Your Honor, the defense is ready,” Kenya announced.
“Good.” The judge nodded her head for the prosecution to begin.
Kenya watched intently as Oliver questioned the prosecution’s first witness—Sophia Willingham, personal assistant to Julian Miller, who testified that the relationship between Deacon Charles and Julian was volatile at times. Everyone’s relationship was volatile at times, Kenya thought. Wasn’t it? She couldn’t wait to cross-examine.
Kenya stood, smoothed her skirt before approaching the witness. “Mrs. Willingham, or should I say Ms. Willingham, you’re recently widowed, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. But you can keep the missus on there, honey.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, very kindly. I miss Harold more and more each day, God rest his soul.”
“Have you been able to find a replacement for your deceased husband?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Weren’t you looking for a replacement when you came onto my client just a few weeks ago? Suggested that the two of you go out to dinner, have a few cocktails . . .”
“There’s no harm in dinner.”
“What about the after-dinner sex that you suggested to him? Was that harmless as well?” Kenya turned to face the courtroom with her eyes still locked with Eleanor’s.
Eleanor blinked a few times, then dropped her head.
“Your Honor!” Oliver James stood, objecting to Kenya’s line of questioning.
“Get to it, Counselor,” the judge said to Kenya.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Kenya turned back to the witness and approached her, “Isn’t it true, Mrs. Willingham, that you came on to Mr. Charles within two weeks of your husband’s death?”
“I admit, I did. I was just feeling a bit lonely.”
“But when he turned you down, it angered you, didn’t it?”
“No.”
“It made you want to get back at him. Made you feel like a fool. Desperate. Pathetic. And the easiest way to get back at him was for you to join the prosecution’s bandwagon and testify that he and Mr. Miller had a volatile relationship. Isn’t that why you’re here today, to get back at him for giving you the cold shoulder?”
“Their relationship had become very rocky, especially toward the end. That I know for sure.”
“But isn’t it true that every relationship is volatile at some point? I mean, aren’t we all imperfect people?”
“I suppose so.” Mrs. Willingham adjusted in her seat and smoothed the wig on her head.
“Wasn’t your relationship with your husband rocky at times?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“You didn’t murder your husband . . . did you, Mrs. Willingham?”
“Absolutely not! My husband died of a heart attack.”
“Your Honor!” Oscar objected again.
The judge gave Kenya a warning glance.
“How long had you been Mr. Miller’s personal assistant?” Kenya asked before the woman could regain her composure.
“Fifteen years.”
“In fifteen years, have you had any arguments, disagreements with him? Heated discussions?”
“Of course. We hadn’t always seen eye to eye. Julian could be quite stubborn, even cantankerous at times.”
“I bet that just got under your skin.”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Made you want to kill him, huh?”
“Well, no, not . . .”
“Maybe it was you who slipped into his condo well past midnight.”
The judge warned, “Careful, Counselor. The witness is not on trial here.”
“Withdrawn, Your Honor.” Kenya turned to the jury, observed their faces, then walked back to her seat. “I have nothing further.”
Day one.
She was ready for every witness that the prosecution threw her way.