Gideon - 05 - Blind Judgement Read Online Free PDF Page B

for you.”
    I scramble to my feet.
    “If you received some information that Paul Taylor had hired someone else to kill Willie Ting I say, “you’d investigate it before this case goes to trial?”
    The sheriff shrugs.
    “Of course.”
    “I’ll hold you to that,” I say as if I already have something in mind.
    I don’t. But it is never too early to begin the job of softening up the prosecutor.
     
    If law enforcement begins to have doubts about a case, you can be sure they will be passed along to the prosecutor. My advantage in this case is that I know Paul’s track record.
    I ask if he can arrange for me not to have to call ahead to the prison for an appointment each time I want to see Bledsoe. He says he can do that, but to call ahead if I can.
    I smile and shake hands again with Bonner and head upstairs, not knowing how to ask if the prosecutor is also black. I should have asked Class or his wife these questions. All I know is that the judge, Rufus Johnson, is a black man.
    The whites still left over here must be going nuts over this case. If Paul Taylor can be charged with murder, they have to feel nobody is safe.
    I find the prosecuting attorney’s office across from the top of the stairs. There is no secretary, but I can hear a black man’s voice in an inner office. I go stand in the doorway and motion that I’ll be sitting in the waiting room. On the telephone, he nods at me. In contrast to the sheriff’s Hershey’s Kisses color, the prosecutor is polished copper, and his eyes look yellowish from the distance of about ten feet. The sleeves of his white shirt are folded back at the cuffs, and his pink silk tie is flung back over his shoulder as if it has been getting in his way. He sounds agitated, but I can’t make out what he is saying. He motions to me that he will be off the phone in a moment, and I go have a seat across from the secretary’s desk.
     
    Unlike the sheriff’s office, the walls in the prosecutor’s office, as out here, are bare, and it occurs to me that his home base is probably either Forrest City to the north or Helena to the south. Both towns have been more prosperous than Bear Creek, but I remind myself prosperity is a relative term in the Delta these days. As I unsuccessfully try to eavesdrop, it occurs to me that I have deliberately avoided making inquiries about the case through the white community first. Why?
    The answer is obvious, now that I permit myself to think about it. I would have been pressured to turn down Bledsoe’s case, and I might have done so. For the first time, I allow myself to guess who Paul has employed to represent him, but I know already that he must have hired Dick Dickerson, who is considered one of the best trial attorneys in the state. A graduate of Columbia Law School, Dick could have gone anywhere. For reasons I’ve never understood, he chose to come back to practice law in a place where ninety-nine percent of his clients couldn’t have cared less where he went to school. He must be at least sixty. I wonder if he has any regrets. I may find out before this case is over.
    Moments later, the prosecutor comes out and introduces himself.
    “Melvin Butterfield,” he says, apologetically, extending his hand as if I have an appointment and he has forced me to wait.
    “Gideon Page,” I say, as we shake hands.
    “I’m representing Class Bledsoe.”
    The prosecutor’s mouth doesn’t exactly drop open, but he is clearly surprised as he stares at me for a long moment. Perhaps he thought Class
    would hire a black attorney.
    “How do you do?” he says.
    “Sorry, I was on the phone. Want to come on back?”
    “Sure,” I say and follow him back into the office. Butterfield is tall, perhaps 6‘4”, and can’t weigh more than one sixty.
    “I know you,” he says emphatically as he takes a seat behind his desk.
    “You’re that guy who got off Dade Cunningham in that rape case up in Fayetteville. Damn. First, Taylor gets Dick Dickerson, whom I