Chapter 2: Permission to Speak
Jesse stopped at the bar rail and set his composition notebook on the wood like a man laying down a hand of cards. It was a plain black-and-white notebook, the kind that cost a dollar at the drugstore, and its first pages were already dense with his small, exact handwriting.
Your Honor, he said, the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States guarantees every accused person the assistance of counsel. But the Supreme Court has also held, in Faretta versus California, that the right to counsel includes the right to refuse counsel and to represent oneself. I am not asking for that. I am asking to serve as lay counsel, a next friend, assisting Mr. Delgado, who the court appointed. Alabama courts have long permitted defendants to be heard through a next friend where justice requires it, and I ask this court to recognize me in that role.
ADA Dana Whitfield rose slowly, the way a woman does when she intends to be patient with a child.
Your Honor, the state objects. This is a circus. Mr. Cole is a minor. He has no legal training, no standing, and no business addressing this court on a felony arraignment. The state moves that the court instruct him to sit down.
Pruitt held up a hand without looking at her. He was watching Jesse.
Continue, he said.
Jesse turned a page in the notebook. Under Alabama Rule of Criminal Procedure 6.1, he said, a defendant may waive counsel knowingly and voluntarily. My brother wishes to waive appointed counsel's recommendation, not appointed counsel himself. Mr. Delgado would remain as standby counsel. I would assist in preparation, in research, and in addressing the court with the court's permission. I cite also the court's inherent authority to control its proceedings in the interest of justice. My brother is charged with armed robbery, a Class A felony carrying twenty years to life. He has been offered eight years for a crime he did not commit. He is twenty-three years old, Your Honor. Eight years is a third of his life.
Delgado cleared his throat. Your Honor, he said quietly, my client has expressed dissatisfaction with my recommendation. I can't say I blame the young man for wanting his brother beside him.
Pruitt leaned forward, elbows on the bench. Son, he said, do you understand what you're asking? This isn't a school debate. The state has an eyewitness. They have a vehicle description. If you step into this, you step into deep water.
Yes, sir, Jesse said. I've read the discovery the clerk provided. Mrs. Finch identified my brother from a photo array conducted under poor lighting conditions, three days after a cross-racial identification at night. The vehicle described was a dark blue sedan. My brother drives a dark blue two thousand nine Camry, as do roughly forty thousand other people in this state. The mask recovered from the ditch was never tested for DNA. The written statement in the file is unsigned, was produced after six hours of interrogation without counsel, and my brother denies its contents. I am not afraid of deep water, Your Honor. I learned to swim in it.
A sound moved through the gallery, something between a gasp and a laugh. Whitfield's mouth had gone thin.
Your Honor, she said, the state strenuously objects. This child has memorized a few phrases. That is not the practice of law.
Pruitt was quiet for a long moment. He looked at Jesse, at the too-big suit and the steady hands, and then at Andre, who had not taken his eyes off his brother.
Pruitt glanced at Delgado. Counselor, does your client join this request? Delgado looked at Andre, who nodded, his eyes bright. He does, Your Honor. Pruitt nodded slowly, tapping his pen against the bench, the sound loud in the quiet room. Whitfield opened her mouth, then closed it, her jaw working.
Ms. Whitfield, Pruitt said at last, the court is going to grant a hearing on the young man's motion. Not today. Friday, nine a.m. Full briefing, if the state wishes to file it. Until then, Mr. Delgado remains counsel of record and will serve as standby counsel should the motion be granted. The defendant is remanded without bond pending the hearing.
He banged the gavel once.
Jesse closed his notebook. He walked back down the aisle past Whitfield, who stared straight ahead, and past Delgado, who looked at him with something like wonder and something like fear.
Outside the bar, Lena grabbed his sleeve. Jesse, she whispered. Baby, what did you just do?
He looked at her, and for the first time that morning his face softened.
I just bought us four days, Mama, he said. Now I have to earn them.
Chapter 3: Three Years in the Stacks