Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

murder phase lasted three days, and arguments could not have been simpler: For the state it was premeditated murder. The man lay in wait for his prey, fell on them, murdered the Rev. Mull and attempted to murder Sister Angie l’Amoureux, who miraculously survived. For the defense it was justifiable homicide. Gil l’Amoureux, in an understandable fit of passion, killed the man who had stolen his wife. Goodman put to the jury the question he had rehearsed in front of the mirror in his office, posing as he rehearsed, preparing for the newspapers:

“Which one of us, confronting our wife’s ravisher, would do any less?”

Blessed with a weekend for research and Sunday newspapers that titillated the public with a preview of what was coming, Goodman was fully prepared for the next phase of the trial. Sitting beside the accused, who was clothed, shaven and combed to look better than he ever had or would, he counseled his client to sit quietly, hands in his lap, with an expressionless face glued on the witnesses—not on his wife. Above all, he ordered, “do not smirk.” The jurors, mesmerized by the gruesome acts and injuries described by police, doctors and nurses, never let their eyes stray far from the defendant as they listened to the witnesses.

When Angie, pretty, petite, fragile, dressed entirely in white, took the stand, Gil began to fidget, nervous hands starting to tap the table. There were gasps and groans in the courtroom as Angie described each kick and punch. She had never lost consciousness, remembered every minute of every horrible hour. She described him carrying her limp and bloody into the bedroom. “My Calvary,” she said, invoking the image of Jesus. “This man tried to destroy my body and my soul. He sought to torture and kill me. I prayed to die.” She turned to the jury. “Look at him sitting there content with himself.” Then softly: “Use your imagination.”

The defense called no witnesses. After Angie stepped down, Goodman took a book from the table in front of him and walked to the jury box. “There is no such crime as spousal rape,” he said, flatly. “This trial should be over, but since the judge is allowing testimony on this business, I have brought this book to show you.” He held it up “Do you know this book? Of course you do. It is The Book of Common Prayer, one of the foundations of our society, of our religion, of our law, called the Common Law.”

He turned to show the book to the judge and audience. Taking his time, commanding the stage as he hoped to be doing many times after this, he thumbed the book, coming to his page. “Our wedding vows come from the Book of Common Prayer, do you know that? Let me read from them in case you’ve forgotten.” By now, some in the audience knew what was coming, and murmuring was heard. “The woman’s vow is familiar to us all,” he said, “and I will read the last words of it to you. Yes, here it is. The bride promises at the altar—and I quote—‘to love, cherish and obey my husband till death us do part.’”

Murmuring broke into shouting, and the judge gaveled for silence.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the word ‘obey’ is in the vows, and I have circled it here in red. And that is why there is no such crime as spousal rape. It simply does not exist—anywhere, in any law book, in any jurisdiction, in any land. It is a complete fiction and a waste of our time here in court. The fact of the matter is this: it is the woman’s duty to obey her husband.”

At this, dozens of women sprang to their feet, shouting, gesturing, refusing to be silenced by Anzug’s vigorous banging and repeated warnings that he would clear the courtroom. The judge had suspected something like this from Goodman and berated himself for not warning him in advance, as Hilda had suggested. He hated courtroom theatrics. With order finally restored, he glared his message at the public defender.

Ignoring the judge, Goodman continued: “Is it the prosecution’s position that legions of women with chronic ‘headaches’ can now come traipsing through this courtroom accusing their husbands of rape for the simple assertion of their conjugal rights?”

Outrage, sheer provocation, beyond the pale, violation of every rule of decency and courtroom decorum. Half the audience, mainly women, was on its feet while Anzug pounded away. What was he to do: clear the courtroom of women? Legal suicide, Hilda would have said. Meanwhile, Goodman returned to his table for another book, this one more familiar, the Bible.

“Leviticus,” he shouted over the din, “20:10. ‘If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife, both the adulterer and the adulteress shall be put to death.’” His shrill voice rose over everything. “The defense charges that the wrong person is on trial in this courtroom.” Swinging around to point at Angie, he shouted: “There is the person who belongs in the dock.”

Pandemonium, this time bringing the judge to his feet. Through it all, Sister Angie sat quietly watching, hands in her lap, her stitched, scarred face never changing expression. The din subsided, she shook her head at her lawyer and quietly asked the judge: “May I respond to the defense attorney’s outrageous accusation? I will be brief.” Since they were arguing the points of a crime that did not exist, how could he refuse? Sighing, he nodded.

Back on the stand, stiff, leaning forward, long white dress covering her shoes, Angie let her eyes sweep the courtroom and rest a moment on Gil and his attorney. Her face showed no expression. When she turned to face the jury she was as composed as in any pulpit. She was fully prepared. The courtroom was deathly quiet.

“Counselor quotes from the wedding vows, which speak of the women’s duty to ‘love, cherish and obey’ her husband. Why didn’t counselor read the rest of the vows?” Her voice was rising. “Why