The Trial: Joe We'll Never Know

At a murder trial, the most important person isn't there.

We saw Joe's bloody t-shirt and counted the knife holes. We heard from the last people he spoke to, and the friends he'd gone with. People Joe had never met testified about seeing him killed. Nobody said a bad word about him. Nobody talked about a hidden dark side or blamed him for bad decisions that put him in harm’s way.

I confess that when I hear news about young people being killed in the city, I quickly assume they brought trouble upon themselves. But Joe didn’t “deserve it."

His parents were always in court. They didn't speak. His Mom fought constant tears, and his Dad silently wrapped his arm around her shoulders. When I remember their faces, all I see is pain.

Their son was a friendly guy having fun at a party. I think I would have liked him.

Continue: Poke the Defendant

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The Trial: Poke the Defendant

Etanis is his real name. Everyone called him Poke. The judge instructed us not to speculate.

His friends had nicknames, too (“Country” was born in the Midwest) and were well-known to the party hosts. Apparently, no matter where you are, teenagers make nice with college kids offering free beer.

After the trial the internet told me Poke had a criminal record. In the courtroom he was a blank slate, presumed innocent. An old picture shown despite the objections of his offensively-minded defense attorney, Rosemary Scapicchio, showed Poke with mildly menacing cornrows. On trial he wore a suit with his hair pulled back in a perfectly harmless man-tail.

Poke didn’t speak. He never took the stand. His emotionless expression never changed and his attention never wavered. We never learned much about his family or his life.

He was an unknown. We were there to decide whether this stranger was a knife-happy murderer.

Continue: Star Witness #1

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The Trial: Star Witness #1

He’d known Poke since Poke was a little boy. That's why he was so sure of what he heard and he knew who said it. When panic hit the party and dozens of people rushed through a narrow alley next to the house, he heard Poke bragging loudly, excited to be a killer.

"I heard him yell, 'I stabbed him! I stabbed that motherfucker!' I was right behind him and his friends, and I recognized his voice right away. I told the cops that night, ‘It was Poke.’"

He hadn't seen Poke's face, of course, because of the red bandana and the hat pulled down low. His height, his shape, his gait, though, he recognized them all.

He also joined other partygoers in the frantic, fruitless hunt for the killer in Mission Park. How could he not? He was one of the only people who knew exactly who to look for.

Continue: Fall of the First Star

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