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Before the sky darkened on this winter day, Yong Jones would
learn whether her son's stolen soul could finally rest in peace.
The Baltimore jury had gone behind closed doors to decide whether
James W. Langhorne was guilty of robbing and killing her son,
Laurence Jones Jr.
Along with determining Langhorne's fate, these 12 men and women
would also shape the destiny of Yong and her son. Yong believed
a guilty verdict would deliver justice to Laurence Jones' tormented
soul, allowing it to rise to heaven. If his murder wasn't avenged,
she believed his spirit would remain in limbo, forever damned
to hover between heaven and hell.
She had done all a mother could do to bring this accused killer
to trial. Now there was nothing left but prayer.
In a small, hot, stuffy room, the jurors sat around a dark wooden
table. They were eager to put this murder trial behind them
and return to their lives.
One of the jurors, Thelma Matthews, had four young kids and
a computer programming job she needed to get back to. Though
she felt sorry for the young man from Maine, she wasn't sure
the state had proved its case against Langhorne.
''What if we're sending this guy to jail for the rest of his
life and he's innocent?'' Matthews asked the other jurors.
Another juror felt uneasy about the letters Yong had written
to politicians in Maine and Maryland. She worried that police
were pressured to arrest the wrong man.
The jurors took a vote to see where they stood. Eight believed
Langhorne was innocent. Three thought he was guilty. One was
undecided.
Benjamin Fulton sighed. He knew it was going to be a long day.
But he didn't care how many hours he spent in this dark, dingy
room. He wasn't going to change his guilty verdict.
Fulton was a 62-year-old retired eye technician. He'd earned
a living assisting optometrists in surgeries and eye examinations
and was now enjoying a comfortable life.
A stout man who usually whistled as he left the courtroom each
day, Fulton loved the opera, liked his shirts tailored and his
ties handmade. And he drank his martinis dry, with a twist.
He had no doubt Langhorne had robbed Jones. He wasn't sure whether
Langhorne had pulled the trigger or whether it was ''Wink''
or ''Skip,'' the mysterious characters Langhorne had tried to
blame the shooting on. But it didn't matter. Fulton knew that
under the law Langhorne was just as guilty.
''If I let that son of a bitch off, I won't be able to live
with myself,'' Fulton thought.
The jurors shifted in their chairs and talked some more. Though
several agreed that Langhorne helped rob Jones, few were certain
he fired the fatal bullet.
''It doesn't matter if Langhorne was the shooter,'' Fulton argued.
He reminded his fellow jurors of the judge's instructions on
felony first-degree murder. ''To convict him of felony murder
all we have to believe is that he was there taking part in the
robbery.''
Fulton convinced the other jurors to ask the judge for a copy
of the felony-murder law. After reading the law, several jurors
agreed with Fulton.
But there were still plenty of jurors who weren't sure Langhorne
had anything to do with the crime. Matthews was one of them.
She didn't believe the state's witnesses.
She thought Alfred Brown, the jailhouse snitch, was an opportunist,
and she believed Langhorne's girlfriend was out for revenge.
''So everybody is a liar except the defendant?'' Fulton asked.
''He admits to everything but taking part in the robbery. He
says he was at the phone booth. He ran after the shooting. He
went home and changed his clothes and came back. Why would he
bother coming back to the crime scene?
''And what's he doing standing by a phone booth with a gun at
3 a.m.?''
Matthews had no use for this juror who wore fine clothes and
lived in a fancy high-rent downtown apartment. Unlike Fulton,
Matthews had grown up in the city's poor neighborhoods. She
knew that plenty of people in the projects carried guns for
protection and that many of them didn't have phones. Langhorne's
actions didn't seem that unusual to her.
''You don't know what it's like to live in the ghetto,'' she
told Fulton.
Like Matthews, juror Jean Randall had lived in some of the city's
tough neighborhoods. Yet she sided with Fulton. If Langhorne
was out at that hour, he was looking for trouble, she said.
Randall also believed that if Langhorne was innocent, he would
have snitched on whomever did pull the trigger. ''I wouldn't
go to jail for anybody,'' she told her fellow jurors. ''You're
putting your life on the line for what?''
The jurors took another vote. They remained deadlocked. Weary
of arguing, they broke for lunch.
While the jurors ate, Yong Jones sat in the state attorney's
waiting room. She leaned her head on her sister's shoulder and
wiped tears from her eyes. The jury had now been out for three
hours. What was taking them so long? She cried.
''I promise Junior justice,'' she said softly. ''That's all
I want. Justice. Fairness. That's all I live for.''
Fulton knew the prosecutors and Laurence Jones' family were
probably worried sick about the verdict. But Fulton knew they
had nothing to fret about. He wasn't going home without a guilty
verdict. Fortified with a bowl of soup, a sandwich and a dry
martini, Fulton was ready to do battle.
He repeatedly argued the details that linked Lang- horne to
the robbery and murder. Fulton told his fellow jurors: ''Langhorne
was on the street that night. He was seen running. He threw
his clothes away. His girlfriend said he came home with a ring
and a wallet.''
As the sunlight waned outside, the jurors, one by one, changed
their minds. Even Matthews came to agree with Fulton.
''Even if he wasn't the shooter, I guess he was there and committed
the robbery,'' Matthews said.
At 5 p.m., six hours after they'd been sequestered, the jury
took another vote. It was unanimous. They were ready to deliver
their verdict.
Before they headed downstairs to the courtroom, the jurors stood
and said a prayer. Several felt sick.
''Lord, I hope we made the right decision,'' Matthews whispered.
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