A Book of American Martyrs(89)

Once the trial was over, it was different in the jury room. Almost everybody wanted to talk. Like the tower of Babel it was, everybody talking at once. So the foreman instructed us to speak one by one around the table and say what we believed, was Luther Dunphy guilty as charged, or not guilty. And it was shocking to me, it was sickening to me, that ten jurors out of twelve believed that this innocent man was guilty when he had acted to protect living babies. One juror had not made up her mind yet—(this was Edith)—and the other was me.

What about the law to protect a living baby? Babies? Nobody wished to talk about that law.

So it was, after four and a half days we could not agree. The talk turned bitter and bullying but we would never give in, for Edith and I were certain in our hearts that Luther Dunphy was not guilty of any crime of God. It was like Pontius Pilate saying to the Jews, this man is not a criminal, and the Jews saying Yes, yes! He is a criminal, he is to be crucified because we want him crucified.

After a point if I tried to speak, they would cut me off. Edith did not speak at all for she knew how they would leap onto her. And so, I did nothing more than say again, and again, as many times as they would ask me, why I did not believe that Luther Dunphy was guilty of any actual crime, and why I would not vote that he was guilty for it was a “higher law”—as Luther Dunphy’s lawyer argued—“the law of God”—and our country is based upon this principle of rebellion and upon the higher law and by this, Luther Dunphy is a hero and not a criminal.

So it happened, we could not agree. Each ballot it was ten against two—Edith and I would never change our minds. And so the trial was declared a “mistrial” by the judge. I could see, the judge seemed to know who I was, and who Edith was, and he hated our guts as the other jurors did. When I tell this I sound calm and easy but at that time, I was not. Each night sick to my stomach and not able to sleep but we would not give in, for Jesus had spoken. The spirit of the Lord had spoken.

When the jury was called back into the courtroom, and the judge declared the mistrial, at the table where he was sitting Luther Dunphy stared toward us for a moment without seeming to hear. And when the judge repeated his words there were outcries in the courtroom, of disbelief, and happiness, but also of anger, and the judge rapped his gavel hard, and bailiffs and guards came forward to block people from pushing into the aisles and by this time Luther Dunphy was on his knees on the hardwood floor, giving thanks to the Lord and his face streaked with tears.

Later when we were leaving the courthouse I hoped that I would see Luther Dunphy one last time, it seemed to me that Luther Dunphy might come to shake my hand, and Edith’s hand, for we had saved his life, for several of the jurors had expressed a wish that Luther Dunphy should be sentenced to death and not just to life in prison, but this did not happen of course.

If there was to be a second trial, I would pray that God would look after Luther Dunphy another time in his hour of need.

These five weeks were a strained time in my life but always I would look back upon the trial of Luther Dunphy that was a mistrial as the time in my life when my life had purpose.

Before that, and after, I am not always so sure. But I am sure of that time.





“MISTRIAL”: WIDOW OF THE DECEASED


Trial ends, jurors dismissed.

Cheers, cries of triumph in the courtroom, that ripple outside within seconds onto the stone steps, into the street.

Not not guilty. But mistrial.

Still, this is perceived as a (temporary) victory for the defendant—the defense.

She is so stunned, mistrial doesn’t immediately register.

For some seconds paralyzed where she sits, staring and blinking at the judge who has now turned away, rising, with an expression of prissy disapproval, displeasure as if the jurors reporting “hopeless deadlock” have personally offended his honor.

Much of this she won’t remember afterward. Rapid vertiginous ride in a roller coaster that rushes you breathless and dazed to your point of origin. Is this it?—this? That Luther Dunphy did not turn toward her (as she’d fantacized through more than three weeks he might) and lock eyes with hers but appeared to be as stunned by the non-verdict as well.





“MISTRIAL”: CHILDREN OF THE DECEASED


We knew, we’d known, no one had to tell us. I mean Darren and Naomi. Twins joined at hate.

Someone called our grandfather with the news. Not our mother.

Someone who was with her attending the trial in Ohio.

Shithole, OHIO (credit: Darren).

Can’t even remember when Mom finally called us. Or a woman friend called us, and put Mom on the phone, and all Mom could do was say I’m sorry, I’m sorry crying and choking so it made us want to puke, so disgusted.

So sorry, they did not convict him. The judge dismissed the jury after four days. “Mistrial.” Oh God.

Hung up the fucking phone so hard, fucking plastic receiver ricocheted and fell onto the floor. Kicked and stomped fucking plastic receiver until it was just fucking pieces.

“Naomi! Stop! What are you doing, Naomi! Stop.”

Ran out of the room. Out of the house. What do you fucking care, you are not our real grandmother fuck you.


SHE’D SENT US AWAY. Out of Ann Arbor where too many knew Voorhees.

Possibly, there’d been danger. Threats against the children of Gus Voorhees. We were never (exactly) told. Even Darren, who demanded (of the McMahans) to be told what was going on, anything and everything that involved our mother and us, did not really know.