Ahh, but recounting what happened  is never exact, now, is it. Everyone knows this. At this very moment, in courtrooms around the country, juries and judges are listening for The Truth in the  stories told by witnesses, family members, the police, etc.

God bless them.

My account re the night of March 31, 2005 will be just as sloppy, subjective, and just plain wrong in spots as the sworn testimony those juries and judges are listening to:

In February of 2005, having recently been honorably discharged from the army (he’d served in Afghanistan), Nesto Monell came home to discover that, after pipes had burst, his family had moved from their  Taunton, MA home. Indeed, the seriously-damaged house was for sale. A self-starter and “between jobs,” so to speak, the twenty-five year old decided to renovate the house himself.

After some false starts and not much progress, Nesto’s ” friend,” who’d been letting Nesto sleep on his couch, suggested the “help” of 2 well-connected guys (WCGs) who owned a lot of property in the Taunton area so had connections with construction workers.[Quotation marks certainly help my take on this story, don't they!]

On the evening of March 31, Nesto had been drinking beer and playing pool when he received a phone call from one of the WCGs, asking him if he planned to come by the house. Nesto said no. Later that night, driving past his house, he sees all the lights on and cars in the driveway.

What the hell?

So he goes into his house and tries to talk to one of the WCGs but he’s on his cell. Frustrated, Nesto calls his girlfriend but, as he’s talking to her, suddenly two men (three men? I was never sure) in hoodies burst into the room with guns and handcuffs. Nesto keeps his cell phone on, his girlfriend hears everything, she calls the police. Nesto is handcuffed, forced to the floor, but decides that “if I’m going to be killed, I don’t want to be on the floor,” and, in fact, manages to escape. Still handcuffed, he runs through the neighborhood until, some time later, circles back to see his house surrounded by police cars. Handcuffed, “a black man,” as one policeman described him, Nesto walks up to a policeman, asks what’s happening, says “That’s my house,” and is promptly arrested. You see, when the police responded to the home invasion call from Nesto’s girlfriend, they’d  found 5 kilos of coke and several guns, including an AK 47.

Yikes.

February 16, 2010, Bristol Superior Court, Taunton, MA:

So here we are, in a gloomy, badly water-damaged, second-floor  courtroom: dozens of prospective jurors;  Nesto’s supporters; the African American woman judge; Christopher Tarrant, the prosecutor; Joseph Krowski, Nesto’s attorney; the court recorder; three bailiffs and Nesto Monell, himself.

As the interminable, mysterious, and mostly behind-the-scene jury selection proceeds, there’s plenty of time for those of us not directly engaged to take note of our environment. We stare at the courtroom’s gigantic gas chandelier refitted with energy-efficient bulbs, the intricate green and brown stenciled ceiling, the mosaics on the wall over the judge’s head and wall of law books behind her, the barely-functional window shades, the worn blue-green carpeting, the intricate, beautifully-turned spindles of the courtroom’s railings. We stare and stare again at those bulging, sloppily-repaired water-damaged walls.  We listen to sleet striking the courtroom’s air conditioners and the rackety sounds of a major construction project—a brand new courthouse is being built just feet away.

But we’re here. In the current Bristol Superior Courthouse, a formerly palatial 1895 Greek Revival building [shown below], located in the very heart of downtown Taunton—which, BTW, resembles “It’s a Wonderful Life” ’s Bedford Falls.

What’s the metaphor?

More importantly (But perhaps the same question): What does the jury make of this setting?

Most importantly: Does what the jury make of this setting work in Nesto’s favor?

The jury pool: Most are in their twenties and thirties, all are white, it seems, most are working-class, I’m guessing; lots of scarves, jeans, jeans with heels; very few suits or dressed-up outfits; only one gum chewer that I can see.

Are they bored? Sleepy? Dismayed to be in this gloomy room ? Impossible to know: their faces give nothing away.

Once selected and seated, the jury hears the judge use words like  ”rule of law” and “presumption of innocence.” Staring at the mosaic of a disembodied, muscled arm wielding a hammer, the metaphor comes to me (OK, it’s not strictly a metaphor):

All of us in this creepy courtroom are exquisitely suspended in A Moment, a particularly Present Moment. Taunton’s “Silver City” past is well-represented by the craftsmanship and lofty ceilings of this courthouse—surely the jury appreciates those spindles, that mosaic arm, those stencils. The future can be seen, literally, right out the window.

What are these spindles, that mosaic, those stencils teaching us? (Hint: It’s something about Nesto’s character.)

What do those construction sounds tell us? (Hint: It’s something about possibility)

What will guide us, moment by moment, in this Present Moment? Answer: The timeless rule of law. And a wondrous, far-sighted (get it?) concept: that a defendant is presumed innocent until proven guilty.

[How Prosecutor Christopher Tarrant would begin many sentences at Nesto Monell's trial, February 16 - February 19, 2010, Taunton, MA ]

Is it fair to say that after the factories and mills of Bristol County shut down, drug-dealing became the next best way to make a living in  Brockton, New Bedford and Taunton?

Is it fair to say that Nesto Monell’s skin color is part of this story?

Is it fair to say that juries notice when white people support a defendant of color?

Is it fair to say, as (Quaker; brilliant) Susan Louks noted during the trial, that although the criminal justice system is deeply flawed, it’s the best thing humanity’s come up with; let’s celebrate its desire to do the right thing?

Is it fair to say that this account is highly subjective? And written by a writer, not a reporter? [Answer: Absolutely!]

So let’s begin, as Quakers so often begin, with another question:

Why were half-a-dozen Quakers from Friends Meeting at Cambridge sitting in a once elegant courtroom in Taunton, MA at 9 am on February 16th, 2010?

The short answer: Because of who Nesto is. (Which is, in part, about his mother.)

A longer answer: In support of  Nesto Monell, age 30, who was on trial for drug-dealing and possession of a firearm.

Who is Nesto Monell? What happened the night of March 31, 2005, the night he was arrested? Who’s his mother? What happened at the trial?

Keep reading.

I’m sitting across from a curly-haired, older woman, completely dressed in black, who receives a phone call just as the train leaves Boylston. She says something in rapid-fire Spanish then, closing her cell phone, begins to weep. She pulls a Kleenex out out her bag, blows her nose, wipes her face, carefully dabbing under her eyes where her mascara has run.

She’s Chilean and has just heard terrible news, I decide.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself, shopping in Copley Square. It could have been anything that made her cry. Anything.

I wanted that woman to cry about Chile’s earthquake, I realize later, walking through the Common. God help me: I needed a connection to that tragedy. She’s it.

February 13th: Watching the news re Haiti with my son-in-law in his living room:

The NYC-based television announcer begins many of her sentences with: “You can imagine. . . ”

Well, no, I can’t. Warm, safe, well-fed and American, no, sorry, I cannot imagine how this earthquake impacts the people of the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.

I simply can’t.