The Murder of Mr. Jones

As I made my way to the courtroom door, I was met with an elderly bailiff who politely asked if he could be of some assistance. After I convinced him that a murder trial would be a fabulous trial to observe, as I want to go into criminal law, he pointed me to a seat with a gentle smile, his eyes crinkling softly behind his plain, black mask. We conversed quietly about DACC and how he attended there “a long time ago.” We shared a quiet chuckle, as it’s instinctive to be quiet in such a place, much like a library.

Soon thereafter, the bailiff began allowing, who I correctly assumed to be family members of the victim(s), to take their seats behind me. All except the mother, who took her seat two seats down from me, located in the front row. He quietly greeted each family member, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with the parents of the victim(s). Their comradery seemed to me to go back decades, and he seemed to share personally in the family’s loss.

The day is October thirteenth. The time: 08:50. Day two of four. The courtroom now has muted whispers of conversation from the family in the gallery behind me. The courtroom is busy, people milling around as they set up for the morning. The defence attorney is busy going over notes, bent at the table, pen in hand, scribbling down last minute thoughts that might perhaps assist his client. His is the table farthest from the jury box on the far right.

One of the prosecutors was busy setting up a large television screen, which was hooked up to a computer for the showing of photographic exhibits to the jury. The second prosecutor walked into the courtroom moments later, briefcase in hand, and began setting up his station. He set files in an orderly fashion upon the table before setting his briefcase on the floor next to the table on his right.

At approximately 08:55, the defendant was brought in, shackled, accompanied by a male and a female officer. As he walked past the family and myself in the gallery, his head was firmly on his feet, eyes drawn downward. He quietly sat next to his attorney once the shackles were removed. Until that moment, his demeanor was that of someone who was walking to his death. He sat with nervous energy, shifting in his chair, though he was attempting to appear outwardly calm.

The judge, Charles C. Hall appeared from his chambers and we all stood in respect. The bailiff did not call for us to stand before the few of us stood. We sat upon instruction. As the judge got seated and got his files organized for notes laid out in front of him, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. All conversation dropped instantly and the room almost stilled, as if the room itself were waiting in anticipation for the show to begin.

The Defendant:

Lamont Davis. Black male, aged twenty-one, nineteen at the time of the murder in which he was being accused.

I watched him as the jury was brought in sometime around 09:05. He kept his expression, what I could see of it behind his mask, even. However, I could almost feel, as each member filed in, his anxiety at an all white jury.

In age and gender the jury was composed of an even mix of male and female, ages approx thirty to sixty-five. They listened intently as the judge gave his directions, before all eyes turned to the prosecution as he stepped up to speak and call his first witness.

Mr. Jaleal Jones was called into the courtroom, the State’s first witness, aged twenty-five. As he was sworn in and took his seat in the witness chair, he was calm, collected, if a bit nervous. His eyes shifting covertly to the defendant, his expression sad as he remembered the loss he suffered in result of that fateful night two years ago.

As the State begins questioning Mr. Jones, the defense is objecting at appropriate periods. The objection seems to throw the State off his track, as he began thereafter to trip over his words. He seems to have lost his place and has to consort with his notes, asking the judge for a moment, before continuing on with his questions.

As Mr. Jones' narrative begins, the judge is paying close attention to what he is saying and the questions asked, taking notes vigorously.

The State begins asking Mr. Jones about the apartment he and his brother, his brother being the one killed, lived in at the time. Mr. Jones began recalling how he and his brother were selling marijuana to people who not only lived in the apartment building, but to their little brother’s friends, who were in high school; some of which were unknown to the brothers.

As he is speaking, the defense is taking notes and quietly clicking his pen as he listens in-between writing. Mr. Davis is seated in a position with his body mostly facing the doors, indicating a feeling of wanting to flee his environment, added with a defensive posture, as if he were expecting a fight.

As Mr. Jones speaks, the jury is shifting their attention from him to Mr. Davis, diligently watching the defendant as he fidgets in his seat. Mr. Jones also begins to fidget as he begins to recall the night of the murder. His voice remains steady, though decreases in volume, as he remembered.

“What happened on the night of November twelve, 2019?” The State’s voice was full of compassion as he voiced this question, knowing it would be a difficult one for the witness to speak of. Mr. Jones, not much more than a kid when it happened, got the look about him that seemed to me to echo the absolute terror he felt during the events that followed.

Compressing his lips for a moment, he took a calming breath as he prepared to answer the question posed to him. He took the moment and no one rushed him, the room was silent minus the sounds of shifting bodies and clearing throats. Mr. Jones had prepared himself and had been prepared by the attorneys for this exact moment. But as I looked at his face which held a sadness one only knew from this kind of violent loss, I knew that he knew nothing could have prepared him for this moment.

He took a deep breath and began to speak. “I was out with some friends and when I got home that night, I realized that I was locked out of the apartment.”

“What happened then?”

“I called my brother, who was at the apartment above us. And he came down and let me in, then went back upstairs. I sat down and started watching tv and eating a pizza when there was a knock at the door…”

He stood and looked outside through the window in the front door and saw a young man, who he assumed to be one of his brother’s friends, and opened the door. There was a brief exchange where he, later identified as the defendant, Mr. Davis, asked about the purchase of the marijuana he knew the brothers sold. Mr. Jones, not seeing Mr. Davis as a perceived threat, allowed him entrance into the home. It was moments later that the two were joined by two others who then entered the home. As Mr. Jones’ attention as diverted to the two people in his doorway, Mr. Davis drew his weapon.

Distracted as Mr. Jones was with a gun pointed at him, and with the ensuing struggle of the weapon, did not see the other two approach from behind, their own guns in hand. The three of them, now all with guns pointed at him demanded that Mr. Jones lay face down, whereas Mr. Jones then slowly began backing away, before making a dash toward the back of the apartment, where there was a backdoor and a possible escape. As he ran, Mr. Jones heard gunshots as someone shouted, “Just pop his ass!”

He was very specific in saying that he did not turn around to see who was firing, that he was just trying to get away.

When he reached the back door, he was unable to unlock it due to the intense shaking of his hands, though he did not stop trying, nor did he turn around as he heard footsteps running toward his location. He did not turn around as he heard the next gun shot, nor when he felt the bullet enter his left hip; as by this time, he was able to get the door open and flee. He ran two blocks to his mother’s house. The time was now 23:15, and shortly thereafter his mother and uncle drove him to the emergency room.

He was unaware of the events that had played out at home as he ran. He found out hours later what transpired afterward. His body language, the way his gesticulations matched up with his narrative, voice inflections, facial expressions all indicated truthfulness within the telling of events that happened that night within his presence.

The family seated behind me are sitting quietly through his part, their hands neatly folded in their laps, accompanied by the occasional sniffle, though as the tale goes on, they become more pensive.

Throughout the beguiling of this tale, the judge is taking notes, his face one of sympathy at the pain Mr. Jones was experiencing in his courtroom.

As Mr. Jones gets to the part where the struggle over the gun occured, the witness was instructed to step down and demonstrate the struggle. The point the State was wanting to convey to the jury was that there was nothing blocking Mr. Jones from seeing clearly the face of the man who was yielding a gun.

He retook that stand and the State asked, “Do you see that man in the court today?”

“Yes.”

“Can you please point to that man now?”

And he raised his hand, pointing to the defendant, Lamont Davis.

As Mr. Jones steps off the stand, Judge Hall calls for a fifteen minute recess at 10:25. During the recess, once the courtroom is emptied of both judge and jury, the defendant sits uneasily. He is constantly shifting, uncomfortable. Pacifying himself by playing with his hair. His body is seemingly relaxed, going between his feet being crossed and spread apart, lost in thought as his attorney steps from the room.

When the defense comes back into the room, they speak in hushed tones to each other. The two police officers who escorted Mr. Davis into the room look bored as they stand there quietly. The one person, a young woman, who is left in the gallery has a pensive look on her face, pinched with pain and anger as she tries to keep all the emotions coursing through her in check.

Soon everyone is regathered in the room and the session has once again commenced and Mr. Jones retakes the stand for cross.

The witness is a bit nervous talking to him, stuttering as he answers his questions. The defense is aggressive in his line of questioning, though not rude or even coming across as heartless.

There were inconsistencies between what the police wrote down and what Mr. Jones said he told them, stating as he was quoted incorrectly about what happened. In his cross, the defense seems more organized than the State’s initial set of questions, with his thoughts, and generally just seemed more organized in his preparation.

When he steps down, the State then calls their second witness, a Miss Hembill, aged twenty-two, who was also a resident of the apartment building on the night in question. She was, in fact, the girl who’s apartment Mr. Jones’ brother was at that night when he let Mr. Jones into the apartment.

Handling Miss Hembill’s questioning was the other prosecution team member. A female attorney handling a female witness. It’s something I’ve seen numerous times. She seems more put together than her partner, more prepared.

As the witness begins to recount her version of events, her voice lowers in volume and her shoulders come in on themselves. She’s in a defensive position, hands covering abdomen in a natural (female) defensive posture.

She’s looking straight ahead as she speaks. Perhaps she’s focusing on something, some object to direct her focal point at; a method used for public speaking. “We were laying in my bed watching tv when we heard sounds that sounded, to me, like pots banging around. I realized later they were gunshots. Justin knew what the sound was and jumped up out of bed and threw on his pants and ran out the door. I started to get nervous when he didn’t come back and began pacing my apartment and called a couple friends because I was scared, but I didn’t want to go outside in case something was still going on. He left his phone in my room and when it began ringing, I saw that it was his mom and decided to answer it. That’s when I found out that Justin had been killed.”

There was no cross from the defense and the witness stepped down. While she maintained a mostly calm persona while on the stand, I had a perfect vantage point to see her when she stepped outside the courtroom. Once out of sight from most everyone but me and the bailiff and the male prosecutor, she dissolved into silent, pain filled tears.

Before the third witness was called, Judge Hall called for a short recess. It was at this time that I learned that a juror member had fallen asleep during the testimonies. Some of the juror’s had their backs to me and from where I was sitting, could also not see all of the jury members when the State was questioning witnesses. I heard Mrs. Jones speaking to the prosecution and to be able to accurately describe her anger would require language not suitable for this paper. Both the lawyers for the state reassured her that they would speak to the judge about getting that particular juror excused. (Which he was the next day. They brought in an alternate juror.)

After the recess, the third witness was called to the stand, Justin and Jaleal’s younger brother Jalen Jones-Poke, aged seventeen. The defense goes on record as objecting to his testimony but does not protest, as he is restating his objection for the record. He was not there at the apartment that night, but told a story of an incident that happened to him one month prior to the murder where he was jumped by Mr. Davis and two other male accomplices.

His body language speaks of guilt. Not in that he was guilty of any crime, but that he felt guilt for what happened to his brother. Perhaps a feeling of responsibility, even if misguided, for his brother’s murder due to the incident he spoke of. He spoke quietly, his back and shoulders slouched; he looked defeated. As he spoke, his eyes remained mostly cast downward at his hands. And his hands were playing with something outside of my view.

During cross examination, defense was direct, tough and to the point, yet at the same time, as before, not appearing to be rude or heartless. He brings up the point that Jalen Jones-Poke had not told police that the defendant killed his brother.

The fourth witness was a police officer that responded to the scene. As I watched him walk to be sworn in, I noticed and was a bit surprised that not only was the officer carrying his weapon, but the judge didn’t mind. The two officers who escorted Mr. Davis into the room, I could understand the judge not saying anything. But I was surprised Judge Hall did not seem to mind Officer Harrold carrying in his court.

While growing up in Houston, my mother and I would go and watch trials and there were many times that I saw judges dismiss officers for carrying in their courtrooms who were not part of the officer(s) escorting the prisoner to and from the courthouse.

There was no cross for this witness and a recess for lunch was called. Due to scheduling conflicts, this is where I had to leave.

I returned on the fourth and final day of the trail for closing statements and the verdict. I walked into the courtroom at around 08:50. Both the defense and the prosecution are busy getting their final preparations laid out before them. The defendant has not yet been led into the room. The atmosphere this day is polar to the second day. The atmosphere began with a heaviness blanketed over it.

The Jones family and friends begin to file into the gallery seating. Their conversation is null, their emotions at an ultimate high as they finally can begin to move forward.

The defense sits in his chair, rocking slightly as he waits for his client. His posture says to me that he’s wanting to flee from the loss he knows is coming, but doesn’t want to admit to. The prosecution is conferring with one another as they set up the television for their photographic exhibits.

Mrs. Jones, who is sitting next to her husband behind me, stands and walks over and grabs several available tissues before taking her seat.

Judge Hall enters and we stand. The room is quiet, minus sniffling from the friends and family sitting behind me.

Close to 09:00 the defendant is brought in. He is not shackled, though he is handcuffed.

Once the jury is brought in and they are given their instructions, which slightly changed before they were brought in, and the charges against Mr. Lamont Davis was read off.

They were as such:

Aggravated battery with a firearm

First degree murder

Felony murder

Home invasion with a firearm

As the State gives their closing, they go over the story of a brother, who, in fear of the life of his younger brother, rushed outside, on a cold, November night, into danger. He ran into his apartment where he was met with the three assailants who had just accosted and shot his brother. Mr. Jones, while on the stand, described the feeling of the bullet as a “nail being put through the wall, where your body is the wall”, and the prosecution pounded that quote into the jury’s heads. He gave imagery in clear detail about how Justin was shot three times in the back, one shot at point blank range, leaving Justin leaned over his bed “dead in a praying position”.

As she speaks, Mr. Davis writes something on a legal pad and slides it over to his attorney. The prosecution is well organized in her thoughts throughout her closing, authoritative in her words and the facts of the case. The jury is shifty as they keep all eyes on her. She sits with confidence after she’s done.

The defense opens, bringing up points of “what not who”, trying his best to create any amount of reasonable doubt that he can muster.

But in the end, the accountability of the behaviors of the other two accomplices, as they did not know who actually shot what gun, was enough to convict on all charges and specifications. Sentencing is scheduled for December eighth of this year.

I do believe that given the circumstances that the first part of justice has been served. The rest of the determination how successful justice is served in this particular case will be determined on the level of how many years he gets, or if they will give a death penalty sentence. But for now, justice has been served in that he was convicted of all the charges and will, at the very least, spend a considerable amount of his young life behind bars.

What struck me most about this case was Mrs. Jones. She lost her son. Almost lost two sons. And as the police officers were escorting Mr. Davis from the courtroom, she looked at the prosecution with tears free falling down her face and said, “I pray for that boy. I pray God finds him some peace.”

And my last thought before I left the courtroom was She’s a better woman than I.