The First Juror

It was an overcast November morning in the port district of Newark. Clouds pressed down on the living world like anvils. A haze filled the Newark streets. The air was the color of cinder dust and gloom. The headlamps of my car could not pierce the brume.

I traveled in silence down Rt. 78 West turning off onto Doremus Avenue. Part of me wanted to start on a new adventure and see how good of a lawyer I really was, but the better part of me wanted a clean resolution, a smoking gun that proved Frank was the guy, so I could get back to the course I had set out for myself without missing a beat.

The Essex County Correctional Facility was off one of these industrial blocks behind the Newark Liberty International Airport. Somewhere in the gray distance, the Statue of Liberty stood tall beyond the shores, too far away to see in the low visibility of the gray morning.

The green verdigris of the statue mirrored the Paris green prison paint, both laced with arsenic. It seemed that all that was gold, all that was immutable, was destined to rust and green with time. And all things green carried a trace of poison.

The enormous green building was set back behind a series of walls covered in barbed wire. In the visitor’s lot was a beat-down bus stop. And the buses here were always on time, like the reaper himself who never misses the day or the hour. Its enclosure had thick plastic plexiglass walls to protect from the beating of the wind. They were kicked out and had not been replaced. A long catwalk connected the parking lot to the jailhouse.

An aging Dominican man stepped out into the gray morning, his eyes briefly lighting with enthusiasm. His dim vision was occluded by milky cataracts.

The man clutched his belongings to his chest. ‘Two fucking years, brother.’ He shook his head, wagging a one-way bus ticket. How many times had he been released, only to find his way back? He looked back at the jail entrance, as if in disbelief. I handed him a few crumpled dollar bills in my pocket. “What are you doing? I don’t know you. I don’t need your charity.” He slapped my hand away and walked toward the bus stop.

On Saturday, the waiting room of the jail was full of women and children waiting to see their loved ones. It was busy and loud inside. I placed my cell phone, wallet, and keys in a green locker and put in two quarters, pulling out the orange key.

I handed my license and bar card to the Sergeant and received a visitor’s badge.

“Who are you here to see,” Sergeant Lorenz asked.

“Frank Murphy,” I said.

“Are you in the system?”

“David Hogan.”

“It says you’re a prosecutor?”

“I’m his defense attorney.”

The man scratched his head, pulling up information from the system.

“Ohh. Wait. I heard about this. You’re with Ernest Cannon?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, son. Ernest is the best. But like I said. Pick a side.”

I walked down a long staircase to a subterranean dungeon.

A disembodied voice crackling through static-filled speakers led me through a series of locked gates.

I was guided into the interview room, with the door locked behind me. I sat down at a gray plastic table and spread out my papers, while I waited for Frank Murphy. After about fifteen minutes a guard appeared with Frank Murphy in a red jumpsuit, handcuffs, and leg shackles, undid the restraints, and let him into the cell. The guard looked over at me, and said, “Knock when you’re done.”

Frank sat across from me shaking his head. He had a flashing grin, a furrowed brow, and a pencil-thin mustache. His hair was black with stripes of gray. He had slate blue eyes, speckled with gray.

“And who the fuck are you,” he said.

“David Hogan.”

“I’ve heard of you.”

“I’ve heard of you too.”

“So, what are they pinning on me now? New charges?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Jesus. What is it now?”

“I’m your new defense attorney.”

“The hell you are. I hired Ernest Cannon. Mortgaged my house. Put down a $200,000 retainer. And you don’t look like Ernest Cannon.”

“Ernest has cancer. He’s got to bow out, or we’ve got to adjourn until after the holidays.”

“Adjourn? There’d be blood in the streets.”

“Otherwise I pick up where Ernest left off and handle the trial. He’ll still be there, every step of the way, but he’s got to start chemo right away.”

“You mean – you are going to fill in for Ernest? You’d go up against Jeb? No way kid. He’d eat your lunch. It’s a joke. That’s what it is.”

“Well, Ernest wants me to do it. He hired me out of the prosecutor’s office. So that I could take over the case—and the trial can go forward as planned—or at least that’s Ernest’s plan.”

“You think you can handle something like this, kid? Jesus.”

“Honestly, no.”

“Well, that’s honest, at least. I guess I wouldn’t want you if you thought this was going to be a cakewalk. I’m probably going down no matter who’s sitting next to me. I’ve got to find a way to get out of this place. Get back to my family. Understand me?”

I nodded my head. I said, “I understand.”

“Kid, you don’t understand shit. You want to know why I want this trial to go forward? I want the riots to stop. I don’t want anyone to die. But if I’m honest. It’s a lot more selfish than that. How long do you think I’m going to last in here, anyway? Ever think of that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Kid, I’m a cop in the clink. I’m a marked man.”

“But they wouldn’t kill a cop.”

“Former cop.”

“Sure, sure. But the inmates know better.”

“Kid, wake up. Why do you think I’m in here for? I’ve been marked as a racist. I’m up for executing a black kid in a holding cell. I’ve been in protective custody. Isolated in my own cell. Solitary. I am locked down twenty-three hours a day. They don’t want me in general population. Because when I get shivved or strangled to death, then Ali’s going to have a claim against the State. I rely on guards for the smallest scraps of human courtesy. Giving me some Imodium tablets when I’ve got the runs. An aspirin. Five minutes talking to the bipolar kid in solitary in my section so that I don’t lose my mind. If I’m really lucky, John Gillam will come by with a cell phone and show me the highlights off Sports Center. That’s the highlight of my week.”

“It’s not for the rest of your life.” I reached for a thing to say that might calm Frank down, because truth to be told, I felt like this was all exactly what someone who shot an unarmed kid deserved, and more. Hearing what it was really like affected me differently than I expected.

“It’s not for the rest of your life,” I repeated. “After the Trial, you’ll either be going to State Prison or you’ll be walking out the doors of the courtroom into your wife’s arms—into Ali’s arms.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say. I guess we’ll see about that. The warden calls me a ‘publicity factor.’ That means everyone has heard about what I’ve been accused of—everyone has painted me as a racist kid killer. Do you have any idea what it’s like being a cop in the clink? On the force, it’s us versus the world. In here, it’s the prisoners versus the system—and I am on the wrong side of that equation. I’m the poster boy for the enemy. Got it? Forget persona non-grata, I am the fucking devil’s own child, far as they're concerned.”

“I think we both know the deck is stacked against you. I guess the bigger question is, is that because you are a murderer, or is that because of the one-armed man.”

“Doesn’t make much difference who's sitting next to me at the counsel table, I guess, everyone has already made up their mind. Just like you. Nobody gives a shit about the truth. It’s just whatever is easiest to believe that helps them sleep at night.”

Frank put his palm on his forehead closed his eyes, and said, “My poor wife, Ali can’t pay our mortgage and Maggie needs braces. Things are just going from bad to worse. It’s bad enough that I am staring down a murder charge, but now I’ve got to babysit a rookie on top of it. Do you have any idea how many investigations I’ve been a part of? How many bad guys I’ve put away? How many nights I was out while Ali was home waiting, wondering if I was going to walk through those doors or if she’d be greeted in the morning by two cops in dress blues explaining that ‘It’s about Frank’?”

“I get that this is hell on your family. I get that. I do. I get that you are a target. And I am sorry for that. But on top of all that, we’ve got a problem, you and I.”

“And what’s that kid?”

“I’ve got a problem with the idea of defending a guilty man,” I said.

“You’ve got stones kid. I’ll give you that. One of these days, kid, you are going to realize that we are all guilty men,” Frank said.

“I mean, I’ve got a problem trying to get someone off for something they did—so I need to know.”

“Well, I can put your mind at ease, I didn’t kill Freddie. But why would you believe that? You are going to have to figure that one out for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first juror. Did you ever hear of that one, kid?”

“No. What is that?”

“Ernest Cannon explained it to me. The defense attorney is the first juror. Meaning, that if an innocent man can’t convince his own attorney he’s innocent, he hasn’t got a chance. But that is what makes Ernest Cannon a giant. He leans in and tells you under his breath in a still small voice, ‘You’ve already got my vote.’”

“I don’t get it.”

“You wouldn’t, kid. You think the world is black and white. You think you’re one of the good guys."

"You’re saying I’m guilty of something? Pot, kettle.”

“We all are, kid. That’s the big joke. We all need someone to speak for us—to believe in us.”

“I’ll humor you, but why worry if Cannon said, ‘You’ve already got my vote?’”

“Because kid, he’s saying that he’ll meet me halfway. He’ll give me the benefit of the doubt. That I’m not alone.”

“There might be some holes in the evidence. But it all points to – you did it.”

“So, you’ve prejudged me?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just, that I’ve seen the evidence.”

“You haven’t seen shit, kid.”

“Then, explain it to me.”

Frank put his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. He sat like that for a long time.

“Look kid, you’re never going to believe me. How could you? Plainclothes cops stealing drug money from cartels. Stateies and city cops helping each other doctor evidence. A criminal enterprise within the criminal justice system itself. I’m going to walk you through it one step at a time. And the first thing you need to do is you need to speak to Evan Bates.”

“The Public Defender that just went out on his own?”

“He knows what is going on inside the department. He has evidence from a dozen case files. And there’s one big sting that he has some dirt on—that he has a witness for—that could be the lynchpin. Once you see his files, you’ll understand what this is all about.”

“And if he doesn’t back you up?”

“Son, I’m locked in a six-foot by eight-foot cell twenty-three hours a day with no rec time and I’m a cop in lock-up, constantly looking over my shoulder. Forget all that. The real prison is the one that’s in between your ears. You question everything you’ve ever done. You start to realize that you are accountable for more than you would have ever allowed yourself to think. But I’m no murderer. Speak to Evan Bates. Then we’ll talk.”

“Jeb’s got ballistics on your Glock. Two spent shell casings. Freddie had two holes in his chest. They matched your gun. And the video in the holding cell was turned off. That’s what this is about.”

“Why would I execute a kid from the projects who I’ve got locked down—whose neck is broken in three places—who posed no threat to me?”

“Maybe to cover up a beating that got out of hand?”

“Okay. You’re on the right track there. But I’m a cop. Not just any cop. I’m Frank Murphy. Let’s say I’m a bad apple. Fine. If I did want to kill Freddie, if I did want to cover something up, why would I do it at the precinct of all places? Where I’m sure to be caught. If it happened three blocks down, I would have never been arrested. I’d be a free man, right now.”

“They’re painting it that you became enraged. Knew that your police brutality was going to come to light. Your wife had left you. Your life was unraveling.”

“I’ve never lost it in my life. And Ali and I were going through a rough patch. But the narrative they are pushing on you is twisted.”

“There’s no evidence pointing any other way. Why don’t you just tell me what really happened?”

“Not yet. First, go speak to Evan Bates. And get back here as soon as you can. We’ve got very little time. And a lot of work to do.”

And Frank got up and pounded on the window of the visitation room. “Guard,” he said, “We’re done here.”

“I need your vote, kid. I really do.”

And Frank walked out with the guard, without looking back. But the guard stopped and told Frank to wait a minute.

Then the guard came back into the visitation room. He was a big burly man. Looked like a linebacker. I saw the name on his uniform “John Gillam.” He had a close-shaved crop of red hair and a red goatee and mustache bordered by red and gray stubble. He gave me a piercing look.

“You need to figure something out quick, kid. I don’t know how long we can keep Frank alive.”

I looked at him dumbfounded.

“Try to listen to me now. Frank is a walking corpse. It’s a foregone conclusion. But it’s not what you think. It’s not revenge. It’s much bigger than that. Somebody wants him out of the picture. Wants him to stay quiet.”

“I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“No. You wouldn’t. Think about what I said kid. You’re way out of your depth here. If I were you, kid. Find a way to get out of this case.”

I nodded. And Sgt. Gillam walked back out and took Frank back to his cell.

This was not some chance to shine.

This was a takedown.

And I was starting to think someone wanted it that way.