Our Case is Called

Our case is called. We waive the formal reading of the complaint. We plead not guilty. It is a capital case. The defendant has a history of defaults. Bail is denied. A pre trial conference date is set. Less than two minutes have passed. The next case is called.

The police have responded to a shooting. Vernald Jackson, aged twenty-two, sometimes pimp and full time punk is dead. three bullet holes in his back. His sneakers are untied. The homicide detectives at the scene think the loss of life is no big deal. It is finding the preps, fitting together the jig saw puzzle pieces, which turn them on. Find the bad guy. Get more scum off the street. Just doing their job.

The police find Yvonne at her girlfriend’s apartment. They take her downtown on “suspicion of murder.” They read her the Miranda warnings. They offered her a lawyer. They told her things would go better for her if she told them the truth. They told her they knew she wasn’t the one who shot Vernald. Then they turned on the tape recorder. They read her the Miranda warnings again. They told her she could have a lawyer again, that they would stop asking her questions any time she wished to. They asked if she knew she was being recorded and if she was giving her permission for them to record her testimony voluntarily, and freely, without threat, coercion, or promise. And she nodded her head yes. They said, “You have to answer audibly, Yvonne, because the tape recorder does not pick up your nods. Is you answer to my last question ‘yes’?” And she answered, “Yes.” The trap doors closed. Perhaps she didn’t remember my telling her not to talk to anyone.

The police ask Yvonne to tell them if she knows what happened to Vernald. And she tells them. Give them what they want. Her tape recorded statement seals her fate. This is what she said:

She had been at the apartment with Vernald and he was beating her. Not viciously enough to draw blood as he had, or to send her to the hospital as he had, just smacking her around, slapping her in the face, punching her in the arms, squeezing her breasts painfully. He kicked her in the ass. He hit her across the mouth with his backhand.

She had been up all night taking tricks downtown. Gave a guy a blowjob in his car. Went down for a guy in another car. Let some funny looking dude from the suburbs unbutton her blouse, unhook her brassiere, rub her breasts, lay his head on her breasts. She jerked him off. He was afraid of disease he said. She had a beer or two. A snort of cocaine. Nothing much. Just trying to pass the time. She worked alone. Came home at about five. Caught a little sleep but then Vernald woke up by eight and wanted company, and was playing the radio loudly, and just started messing with her. Was in one of his unfathomable rages. Told her “get outta bed, bitch,” and when she didn’t pulled her out naked. She wrapped the sheet around her. Held it to her with her arms tucked inside. Vernald hit her. Hit her again. Stormed around the apartment. Threw an empty beer can at her. Called her “cunt.” Called her, “whore.” Said she was a no good black bitch. Said she was holding money back on him. Opened the window and took all her clothing that had been lying on the side of the bed and threw it into the street.

She was pissed. Angry. Pulled on a pair of Vernald’s jeans, his floppy old gray sweatshirt and her high heels and was out the door. “Fuck you, Vernald, you bastard,” she said.

When she’d gotten out onto the to street she’d run into her brother, Allen.

“What the fuck happened to you, Yvonne,” he’d asked her and she told him.

“I’m gonna get my gun and scare the shit out of that fuck,” Allen said.

So Yvonne and Allen go down the street to where Allen’s gun is hidden. They go back to the apartment. They knock on the door. Vernald opens it. They go inside. It is an angry scene. Allen yells at Vernald who tells Allen to get the fuck out of his face. Allen takes out his gun and as Vernald tries to run into the other room Allen shoots him. Once twice I don’t know.

The tears are rolling down Yvonne’s checks as she speaks, you can hear them on the tape with her gasps for breath, her pain and terror.

“We ran away so fast out the back door of the basement, I don’t know that anyone saw us. He’s dead isn’t he?” she says.

“Do you know where Allen is now?” Rigdon asks.

Yvonne shakes her head.

“Then I’m just going to turn this tape off,” you hear Rigdon say and there is a click, like a key turning the cylinder of a lock to the cell they hope will hold her imprisoned forever.