Michelle Wainwright had been the center of attention exactly twice in her 29 years, and she hadn’t enjoyed the experience either time. Thirteen months earlier her abduction from a convenience store parking lot sparked an intense manhunt that ranged across five southern states and ignited the press frenzy that always seems to accompany such things. Now more or less recovered, she was in court to testify as the state’s star witness against her attacker.
“Alleged attacker,” the politically correct reporters who took up posts on the courthouse steps every day of the trial were quick to remind anyone who cared. Not many in the close-knit rural community did. The spectators who packed the courtroom already knew that Charles Durham was guilty as sin, and that the trial was nothing more than a formality required by law.
Most everyone in the small town knew Durham, either personally or by reputation. He sported a lengthy rap sheet listing a half-dozen sexual abuse and aggravated assault convictions, and he had a hard-earned reputation as a troublemaker. It surprised no one when Michelle’s detailed description of her attacker matched Durham and his dark green Chevy van. It was even less surprising when, after Durham’s arrest, she picked him out of a state police lineup without a moment’s hesitation.
Whether by coincidence or intent, Durham had been the only black man in the lineup. That was a technicality possibly interesting to an appellate court down the road, but one that clearly was lost on the good citizens of Leonard County. Any implications from the shaky lineup were lost on the jury of Durham’s peers, or at least as many of his peers as could be found on that side of the tracks the defendant seldom visited.
The jurors all swore they could keep an open mind, probably to get free lunch and a good seat for the trial, but everyone knew that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Lynchings might have passed out of favor in Leonard County, but this surely was the next best thing.
Durham shuffled into the courtroom each day with his legs shackled and his large hands cuffed securely to a shiny chain padlocked around his waist. His jail-issue flip-flops slapped the marble floor as he made his way to the defense table where he viewed each day’s proceedings with almost total indifference. Durham made no effort to communicate with his court-appointed counsel, doodling on a legal pad instead as the trial moved along around him.
He took no notice as the attorneys questioned witnesses and argued occasionally about points of evidence and procedure. Not that it mattered, really. Durham had little to add, and the judge’s rulings always went against him anyway.
The state closed its case on the third day of trial, the prosecutor calling Michelle to the stand as the last witness. The small courtroom was packed with people there to see and hear the victim. Remarkably composed given the circumstances, sometimes speaking so softly that the spectators and jurors strained to hear her voice over the wheeze of an aging air conditioner, Michelle didn’t disappoint.
For the better part of an afternoon, the prosecutor worked the courtroom like a skilled tent evangelist, a career path he had seriously considered for a time as a youth. He started slowly, methodically taking Michelle through her background and her work as an emergency medical technician. He knew better than to ask Michelle about specific emergency calls she had worked, but he also knew for a fact that his witness had made life-saving ambulance runs to the homes of at least three of the 12 jurors.
The prosecutor picked up his pace when the testimony moved to the day of the abduction. He could win this one without breaking a sweat, he thought.
Exhausted and too tired to cook after several runs during a 12-hour shift, Michelle stopped that night at a 7-11 for some chips and a soft drink. She recalled someone arguing loudly into a pay telephone at the corner of the parking lot, a black man apparently engrossed in his conversation. Michelle barely noticed the man when she left the store, until she felt the cold edge of a very large knife pressed against the side of her neck.
A massive, calloused hand covered her mouth, she remembered. Bad breath mixed with the faint smell of gasoline registered somewhere in the back of her mind as she was dragged backward toward the shadows. Durham, the jury already had been told, sometimes picked up spending money pumping gas at the only full-service station left in the county. The prosecutor assured the jury in his opening statement that he would tie Durham to the crime, and he was starting to deliver on that promise.
It took Michelle two tense hours to describe the nights and days she spent in the back of a van, blindfolded, bound hand and foot, tormented over and over by the man who snatched her from the parking lot. The repeated sexual assaults were set out in graphic detail, but the descriptions were so clinical, and Michelle’s demeanor so detached, that any titillation value was lost. The jurors sat mesmerized.
By the end of the day the tension in the courtroom was palpable. Only Durham appeared unmoved by Michelle’s testimony. With just one question left to be asked, the ultimate question, the prosecutor laid his papers on the desk and paused. He walked to the rail of the jury box and slowly surveyed the jurors one after another. He knew most of them personally, and he made brief eye contact with each in turn. Savoring the moment of triumph, he returned to his witness.
“Ms. Wainwright,” he said finally. “Michelle. We truly appreciate your testimony here today. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you. I have just one more item, one more formality for the jury. Is the man who kidnapped you from the convenience store, the man who held you against your will for more than three days, the man who raped and tortured you, the man who beat you and left you for dead in a ditch by the side of the road, is that man in the courtroom today?”
The prosecutor turned toward the defense side of the room as he finished the question, his voice rising with each charge. He was starting to point an accusing index finger in Durham’s direction, as if to call down the combined wrath of God and the law on the defendant, when Michelle answered.
“No.”
Michelle’s response was soft, and so unexpected that it didn’t register immediately. Some spectators later recounted a collective gasp from the jury when Michelle spoke the single word, but in truth the courtroom was still. No one moved but the prosecutor, whose momentum carried him on toward the defense table. Then he froze in place, his right arm outstretched, his finger still pointing toward the defendant.
For the first time in three days, the corners of Durham’s mouth twitched upward in a smile. Caught off balance by the answer, the prosecutor turned back to face his witness.
“Perhaps you didn’t understand my question, Ms. Wainwright,” he said, confused but struggling to remain in control. He was just now beginning to comprehend the full import of the answer. “I can understand that. You’ve been through a lot. I asked if the man who kidnapped and raped you is in the courtroom today. And before you answer I feel I must remind you that a few hours ago you put your right hand on the Bible and took an oath before the Lord and all these good people of Leonard County that you would tell the truth, all the truth. Now, I ask you again, is that man in the courtroom? Take your time, Michelle, and look around.”
Michelle had been shredding a tissue in her lap for several minutes, and now she stared intently at her hands. She had prepared for this moment, and she answered without hesitation.
“No, the man who attacked me is not in the courtroom today.” She didn’t raise her head to meet the prosecutor’s eyes, missing the rage that twisted his face.
The crack of the judge’s gavel echoed through the courtroom.
“In my chambers, counsel. Now!”
*
“What’s going on here, Michelle?” the prosecutor asked a few minutes later, still clearly baffled by the sudden reversal his case had taken. “The description you gave the police at the time matched Durham and his van perfectly. Then you picked him out of a lineup, for God’s sake. We’ve gone over your story a hundred times at least, and you’ve never said, never even hinted to me, that you had even the slightest doubt about him.
“You could’ve put him away for years. We were winning, damn it, we were winning.”
“I know,” Michelle said, “and I’m sorry. I really am. I know how hard you and the police have worked to help me. I was so confident that Durham was the man who attacked me. But when I saw him in court just now, I simply wasn’t sure anymore. I can’t be certain it was him after all.”
“Ms. Wainwright,” the judge interrupted. “Has Durham, or anyone else for that matter, contacted you about this case, threatened you or done anything to get you to change your testimony? Because if that happened, there are measures we can take. You can be protected.”
“No, your honor, nothing like that. I’m just not sure it was Durham after all. I’ve been hurt enough already. I don’t want to make it worse by sending an innocent man to prison. I can live with what happened to me. I couldn’t live with that.”
“Where do we go from here, counsel?” the judge asked, trying to hide his exasperation as he turned back to the attorneys.
Durham’s attorney flipped several pages on a legal pad and referred to his notes before answering.
“By my recollection, Judge, Ms. Wainwright’s testimony and her identification of Mr. Durham are the only direct evidence that the state has to connect my client to the crime,” he said. “Unless they’ve got something else that we didn’t get in discovery, which certainly would be a problem for them at this point, I think a motion for a directed verdict of acquittal would be in order. You can’t send this case to the jury if there is a total lack of evidence that links Mr. Durham to the crime.”
“Well, counsel,” the judge addressed the prosecutor, “the ball’s back in your court. Can you connect Durham to the kidnapping and rape without Ms. Wainwright’s testimony?”
“No, your honor, we cannot,” the prosecutor said after a few seconds’ thought. “We have plenty of forensic evidence of the crimes, that’s never been an issue. But we were relying on Michelle’s testimony to identify Durham as the perpetrator.”
“It’s getting late,” the judge said, “and I’m going to call it a day. I’ll rule on the defense’s directed verdict motion first thing in the morning. If the state can’t come up with something more compelling overnight, I’m going to grant it.”
*
The next morning Durham and his attorney paused briefly on the courthouse steps to speak to the reporters.
“We’re not going to take any questions at this time,” the attorney said. “But we are pleased that the judge granted our motion and dismissed the case. We’re also pleased, and sort of surprised, frankly, that someone in this town finally had the courage to speak up and tell the truth about Mr. Durham. He has maintained his innocence from the start, and now he has been exonerated. I’m certainly sorry about what happened to Ms. Wainwright, so is Mr. Durham, but you have to remember that my client has been a victim through all this, too.” The attorney waved off the reporters’ shouted questions.
A black sport utility vehicle appeared as Durham and his attorney stepped off the curb into the street in front of the Leonard County courthouse. Investigators failed to locate anyone who claimed to have seen the speeding vehicle until seconds before the accident, and there was no consensus about the driver.
There was general agreement about one thing. The driver of the SUV made no effort to avoid the accident. Some witnesses even reported that the vehicle appeared to be accelerating when it plowed straight into Durham and his lawyer. The attorney turned in the direction of the speeding vehicle at the last moment and was struck hard. The force of the collision forced an eruption of papers from his briefcase and propelled his body nearly 30 feet backward onto the trunk of a parked car.
Durham got his second lucky break of the day. Lagging a split second behind the lawyer, he was struck a glancing blow by the SUV’s left fender. The bones in both legs shattered and he felt an excruciating pain as the back of his head struck the concrete curb. Durham’s last thought, as consciousness ebbed away, was that at least he was alive, and free.
Awareness returned slowly. Durham was on his back, but strangely he couldn’t move. There was a bustle of activity around him, but he couldn’t turn his head to see what was happening, or where he was. There had been an accident, he remembered that much. But where was he? Was his back broken? Was he paralyzed?
No, he discovered after a quick inventory of his limbs, he could feel his legs and his arms and they hurt like hell. Something was preventing him from moving, though, and something mechanical was holding his head stationary.
Durham felt like the room was moving. He was nauseous from the motion, and from the disagreeable antiseptic smell. Was he in a hospital? No, an ambulance. That was it, he thought, an ambulance. It all made sense now. There had been an accident. He had been injured. Now he was strapped to a gurney and his head and neck were held immobile by one of those foam collar contraptions. He felt a sharp pain in his right arm. A doctor in light green scrubs was working at his side, probably starting an IV. To Durham’s left, another figure swayed into view as the vehicle made a sharp turn.
Michelle Wainwright lowered her surgical mask and looked into Durham’s eyes. She smiled slightly and moved her face close to Durham’s, her lips near his ear. Durham could feel the heat of her breath on his face. Despite the intense pain from his injuries he felt the first stirring of excitement.
“This won’t hurt a bit, I promise,” Michelle said. “I’m a professional.”
Durham caught a quick glint of sunlight off the scalpel as Michelle’s hand moved out of his limited field of vision, down toward his groin. He tried to move his head to see what she was doing, but he couldn’t. Durham’s scream, the first of many that day, was lost in the wail of the siren as the ambulance sped past the county hospital. comment
© 2005 Milton C. Toby