“Not in my courtroom, sir. Witness will continue.”
Jenna was keenly disappointed, Dunphy would not testify in his own defense. At least, that was what the Broome County prosecutor had told her.
He’d told her that no competent defense attorney would have allowed this (guilty) defendant to be cross-examined. In fact, very few witnesses would be called to testify on Luther Dunphy’s behalf while the prosecution would present more than thirty witnesses of whom most were eyewitnesses to the homicides and would describe what they’d seen with dramatic intensity.
The prosecutor had charged Luther Dunphy with two counts of first degree homicide and he was (he’d informed Jenna) determined not to settle for less: not a lesser degree of homicide, and not manslaughter.
Manslaughter!—Jenna was incensed. How could such a lesser charge even be considered.
“It won’t be manslaughter, Mrs. Voorhees. Don’t worry. The jury will vote unanimously for first degree homicide, I am certain. And if they do, they will deliberate again to decide whether to send Dunphy to prison for life without parole or to the death chamber.”
Death chamber. The archaic words evoked a shiver. As if death were waiting in a chamber, and the condemned man is made to enter the chamber. Jenna felt a flush of excitement and dread—He should die, for what he did to Gus and to that other innocent man. He does not deserve to live.
(URGENTLY SHE WAS ASKING HIM, what did he want. Did he want the man who’d killed him to die. And Gus allowed her to know, not in words precisely, for the dream was blurred as a windshield in pelting rain, that he did not want Luther Dunphy to die of course—he did not believe in the death penalty, he did not want anyone to die at the hands of the State. And she felt a rush of fury for him, for her dear lost husband, that he should be so forgiving even now, when his enemies did not care for his forgiveness and did not regret his death.)
“YES. I WANT HIM TO DIE.”
Or was it: “I want him sentenced to death. I want everyone to know, he has been sentenced to death. That my husband’s death is a profound loss and the murderer must pay with his own life.” Whether she wanted the man actually to die was another issue.
Of course, Jenna wouldn’t have spoken this way to Gus. Such vindictive words in his wife’s mouth would have shocked and dismayed him.
They had always disapproved of capital punishment. This was barbaric, unworthy of a civilized society. They did not know a single person among their wide circle of friends and professional associates who might have supported capital punishment; as (they liked to say, with a smile) they didn’t know a single person who voted Republican.
In fact of course they did. But they did not acknowledge this possibility.
Did she want Luther Dunphy to die.
Or did she want Luther Dunphy to repent.
It was true, she felt for her husband’s murderer a sick sort of fascination. She could not have said if she was incensed or if she was relieved that the self-ordained “soldier of God” seemed oblivious of her presence in the courtroom, less than twenty feet from her, as he appeared to be oblivious of others in the courtroom who yearned to make eye contact with him, to smile their support of him, to call out to him quickly before one of the bailiffs intervened.
We are praying for you, Luther.
God won’t forget you, Luther! Jesus won’t forget.
Such individuals were escorted out of the courtroom. Their faces shone with righteousness. They were members of the Christian prayer vigil assembled in front of the dignified old granite courthouse who knelt on the sidewalk and on the stone steps each day of the trial taking care to leave just enough space for others to pass by. These were peaceful demonstrators, for the most part—their picket signs didn’t depict aborted infants but only words—RIGHT TO LIFE. NOBODY’S BABY CHOOSES TO DIE. FREE LUTHER DUNPHY.
When she saw these signs, Jenna looked quickly away. She felt that her heart would burst—her head would burst! It was unbearable, that Luther Dunphy should be so defended.
Yet, she understood. Of course.
What had Gus said—Never engage with the enemy.
In Muskegee Falls, entering and departing the Broome County Courthouse, Jenna was never allowed to be alone. Even going to a women’s restroom, she was not allowed to be alone; another woman would accompany her. Always there was someone with her from the prosecutor’s office, or from law enforcement, and there were friends, old friends from Ann Arbor and newer friends from Ohio, associated with the women’s center where Gus Voorhees had worked when he’d been shot down.
Often, the women took Jenna’s hand. Slipping fingers through her fingers, squeezing and gripping. One or two were widows, she’d been told. A widow will tell you, if you are a widow. For there is a sisterhood of sorts.