Learning To Walk - A Soldier's Story by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 24

Randall arrived the day before my trial and again, we met privately with my parents as he told me what to expect. He also advised my parents not to become emotional, as it could send the jury the wrong message. I tried hard to focus on what he was saying, but I was at the point where emotional exhaustion had become a daily occurrence. In short, I felt like shit. One of the last things Randall said was, "Just let me do the talking".

Okay, I can do that.

The next day, I went through my usual morning routine. I wasn’t allowed to use an iron for my uniform and I clearly understood why. After all, who in their right mind would give any prisoner an iron? My uniform was brought out of storage, laundered, pressed, and given to me by one of the guards. After changing, I checked myself in the mirror. The only thing I saw that resembled a soldier was the uniform, but not the person in it. Not too long ago, the uniform was a large part of who I was - a soldier. I was proud to be a soldier, to be part of something greater than myself. At least, I thought I was a soldier. I sat back down on the cot and waited, trying not to think too much about what was happening, but it wasn't working very well. I was about to go to trial for murder and in spite of Randall's confidence, I knew that my fate ultimately lay with the jury. I don't really know how long I sat there. It seems that the passing of time changes dramatically when you’re behind bars. I don't know why, but I found myself thinking about Steve. I started to feel almost envious of him. He didn't have to go through this; he wasn't facing twenty years in a military prison. At this point, I would have traded places with him in a moment. You know how bad things are when you become jealous of someone just because they're dead. No, I wasn't thinking about doing anything stupid. I just wanted a calm, predictable life. Unfortunately, life doesn't come with an undo button. We simply practice it as we live it. It really doesn't seem fair that in order to develop good judgment, we must first have poor judgment and the results of that can be irreversibly life altering -- sometimes fatal. But, what happened to Steve was not his doing. Sometimes, shit just happens. My situation, on the other hand, was of my own making and perhaps, the result of a string of bad decisions.

I was suddenly jolted back from my moment of reflection by the sound of the cell door opening. Standing next to the guard was Randall. He was dressed in a three-piece business and carrying his black leather bag. "Ready to go, Clarence?" he asked. I stood up and walked towards him. "No, not really," I answered.

He looked at me with sympathetic concern and put a hand on my shoulder.

"C'mon," he said.

On our way to the courtroom, he reminded me about what I should and shouldn't do.

"Alright Clarence, whatever happens, you don't say a word, got it? I am here to protect your rights, but if you start talking or display any lack of emotional self-control, my job becomes that much more difficult, understand?” I really didn't know what else to say, in court or not as I was still surrounded by a fog of emotional exhaustion. "Clarence," he continued.

His voice was still firm as he reiterated his instructions. "I need you to understand how critical it is for your case that you follow my instructions to the letter. You will not say a word and you will not, under any circumstances, testify on your behalf. The prosecution can cross-examine you and trust me, if they get the chance, they will bury you. Do you understand, Clarence?"

The forcefulness of his words acted as a sharp slap that brought me into complete focus.

"Yes," I answered. "Not one word."

"That's what I wanted to hear," he replied. "And don't fall asleep. That can be just as bad, if not worse and it's the easiest way to piss off a judge."

His approach was organized, strong and confident. I was truly impressed and quickly came to the belief that if anyone could keep me from a life sentence, it was Randall.

We were escorted by armed guard into the lobby of the Norfolk legal building. My handcuffs were removed just before entering the courtroom.

"One more thing," Randall began. "Your parents will be sitting right behind you. Now, I've already spoken to them. During the trial, you will not speak to each other. We don't need a display of emotion, okay? So, face forward and don't go looking around the room, alright?” We walked through the double doors and down the center aisle. The prosecution team sat behind a table on the right next to the juror's box. We sat at the table on the left with two military defense attorneys who had been briefed by Randall. They were only there to assist Randall and would not be arguing my case. It wasn't long before the judge entered the room. Everyone stood as the courtroom was called to order.

The jury was composed of twelve officers from each of the four branches. It was my understanding that, to reach a verdict, the jury had to vote unanimously and by secret, written ballot. In the military, there is no such thing as a hung jury. The judge took his seat behind the bench and my case was presented as The United States v Private Clarence Taylor. I won't pretend to know how the legal system works and to be honest, much of the trial seemed to be nothing more legalese gibberish. However, the prosecution argued in favor of murder, based on the match between the sidearm I was carrying and the rifling marks on the recovered round. They also pointed out that the shot had been fired at close range and appeared to have been carried out as an execution. But, there were certain elements missing from their argument and Randall was quick to expose them. In my defense, he argued that the idea of motive had never been brought up and they were still unable to demonstrate intent.

He also brought up an interesting idea that, in a war zone, everyone possesses the means and opportunity to kill. These are necessary elements of war. We go to war with the means to kill the enemy, as well as the will to create the opportunity to do so. Means and opportunity can take on a different meaning for murder in, say, Los Angeles, but in these circumstances, the prosecution couldn't possibly prove murder without intent. The results of my psychiatric exam were presented and The prosecution outlined everything, trying to prove that I had been on a personal mission to save innocent lives at the expense of American troops. Randall stepped in, appealing to the judge that this was nothing more than speculation and asked that their remarks pertaining to my psych test be stricken from the record. The judge refused on the basis that it was Randall who had requested the examination and as evidence, could not be excluded. Instead, the judge demanded that the prosecution prove intent or drop the murder charge. It didn't take long for their lead attorney to withdraw the charge and in doing so, avoided a formal reprimand. But at the same time, it became possible that the credibility of their case could have been damaged. I felt very relieved that I would not be convicted of murder.

They still wanted to use the results of my psych test against me and after momentarily regrouping, the prosecution decided to pursue the charge of involuntary manslaughter. The jury had been convinced that I had been holding my sidearm when the shot was fired and that the recovered round came from that weapon. The only issue to be argued was how it happened. But, if the prosecution wanted to use the psych results, so would Randall and he argued that being an educated, principled individual who enlisted right after nine eleven, I was morally incapable of voluntary committing the crime I had been charged with. That being said, the location of the gunshot wound had to have been a chance event and the result of an accident or misfire. The prosecution was quick to point out the flaw in Randall's argument and presented the report that had been filed by the sergeant who had taken me into custody. The report stated that I had been found on my knees crying over the body of a dead infant. They argued that it was my principles that, under those circumstances, pushed me into a heightened state of emotion, causing me to act out of rage. Randall argued that this was purely speculation, but when the jury was reminded about my degree in philosophy, a few of them suddenly became noticeably more attentive. Seeing this, the prosecution offered what they believed to be a probable timeline of events leading up to the gunshot. It all came down to personal ethics.

After closing arguments were made, the jury was released for deliberation. All we could do was wait. It was just a matter of what the jury would find me guilty of. Randall said it could go either way. There was no clear evidence and both arguments were largely hypothetical. It seemed that whatever I would be convicted of depended almost entirely on who was best able to manipulate the jury, but I guess that's what the courtroom comes down to. It's not a matter of who's right, but whose more right. Morality, it seems, doesn't even come into the picture and the only thing that's important is protecting the interests of the client. Is that justice? Probably not, but it's the only thing we've got.