“I’ll tie it up later, Judge.” Reeves smirked at me.
Two reasons: He knew the jury couldn’t disregard the suggestion of disease; it was too shocking. And he also knew he was right—and probably had evidence to back up the statement.
The pools of raw sewage that polluted nearly every county in the Black Belt of Alabama caused a host of infectious diseases. I’d read up on it, after I heard a DOJ presentation on the topic at a judges’ conference. The guy from the DOJ said that we’re not supposed to have hookworm disease in the United States anymore. He also said that almost one-third of people tested over in Lowndes County were positive for hookworm. It’s found in underdeveloped countries that don’t have indoor plumbing. Or toilets that flush away human waste. You catch hookworm through contact with the stool of an infected person, or infected soil.
The Black Belt of Alabama is my ancestral home. Fergus Pitt’s land—his soil—was a stone’s throw from my own.
My skin began to itch. I had to suppress the urge to reach under my robe and scratch.
CHAPTER
13
No further questions,” the DA said.
The defense attorney consulted with his client. Appeared to me that he was reassuring the man. Privately, I’ve always thought Chuck Rich’s intentions were good.
It was the execution that was faulty.
Like, for example, his very first cross-examination question.
Rich rose and stepped toward the witness stand. “Mr. Lindsey, have you read the interim agreement that the Justice Department has reached with the Alabama Department of Public Health?”
“No.”
Rich hesitated. As if he hadn’t expected that answer and didn’t know quite what to do next. “Well, are you familiar with it?”
The DA eased out of his chair and called out, “Objection, Your Honor, irrelevant.”
I checked out the jury, wondering whether they were familiar with it and knew what the defense attorney was referring to. They needed to be aware. “Mr. Reeves, I think it’s entirely relevant. Overruled.”
The DA regarded me with hooded eyes. Like he didn’t want to reveal his true assessment of me. “Judge, do I need to point out that neither the federal Justice Department nor the state Department of Public Health is a party to this lawsuit?”
I was running low on patience. “Counsel, approach the bench.”
Both attorneys walked over to my right side, so that the jury wouldn’t overhear. As soon as they stood before me, I snapped.
“Gentlemen, why is this federal civil rights matter being bandied about in state court?”
Reeves wore an innocent expression, phony as hell, as he said, “I’m just doing my job as prosecutor in this district, Judge.”
Chuck Rich had a desperate tone. “Judge, I told the DA he couldn’t proceed with this prosecution. This case violates the agreement that Public Health reached with the feds. The DA should never have filed this charge. The government is supposed to help people who are too poor to have sanitation systems.”
I flipped through the file. “So where’s your motion to dismiss, Mr. Rich? I don’t find any pretrial motions from the defense. Not one.”
“The DA told me not to file it! He said we’d resolve the issue at trial.”
Lord have mercy.“Mr. Rich, do you think it’s smart to take advice from the opposing party? Let’s clear that up right now. It’s not wise. He is your enemy.”
Reeves was smirking, and that pushed me into the red zone. I had to act.
As a rule, I tried to remain in my seat during jury trials. Truly I did. But sometimes it just wasn’t possible. I found myself rising, stepping down the stairs, with the black robe billowing behind me.
I approached the witness stand. “Mr. Lindsey, did you have any conversation with Fergus Pitt regarding the direct piping of sewage on his land?”
“I did.”
“What did he tell you?”
