and pride may not be crucial. But to Steven, it was the measuring stick of his life. Let’s look at the evidence. Steven was too proud to let Elaine go on welfare. He had too much self-respect to return to Sacred Heart Church for charity. Elaine was too sick to work. She borrowed money from her parents, but could not tell Steven. Look at his continual attempts to find work, going to the Urban League over thirty times to find potential job interviews.
“Let us look at the evidence of Steven’s relationship with his father. He loved his father so much. He identified with him, happy that people would comment on how much he looked like his dad. Yet he resented his father for leaving his mother and him and for never being able to provide for them. Remember how Steven, at thirteen years old, swore he would never fail to protect his family as his father had failed.
“Remember the bank manager’s testimony. When the police were taking Steven out of the bank, he asked Steven if he could get him anything as his nose was bleeding. And what did Steven reply? He said ‘No.’ Then he looked right at Mr. Hanston and said, A man has got to try!’
“It is impossible to understand Steven or his act of bank robbery without understanding this interplay of black manhood with Steven’s own personality.”
I took a deep breath and reminded myself to slow down. The court reporter had already interrupted me once, telling me I was talking too fast for her to take down my words. I spent the next fifteen to twenty minutes dissecting the testimony of both psychiatrists and relating it to what the judge would instruct them was the applicable law of insanity. I ended that part of the argument by putting up a poster on an easel from the Malcolm X School that had earlier been admitted into evidence. I had made a motion to allow the jury to visit the school to see the difficult conditions it operated under and which had contributed to Steven’s breakdown. Although the school was only eight blocks from the federal building, the judge had denied the motion. This was not considered a major trial, and judges almost never allow juries to visit crime scenes or any other relevant locations in regular trials. Even if a viewing would be helpful to the jury’s deliberations, judges feel it takes too much time. There is often more concern for the administration of justice than for justice itself.
As a compromise, Judge Weigel allowed me to introduce three photos of the school building and the poster into evidence. On the poster was a poem by one of America’s greatest poets, an African American named Langston Hughes. The poem was entitled “Raisin in the Sun.” I recited the poem to the jury:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
“On January 22, 1971,” I said, “Steven Robinson exploded, and that explosion propelled him into the bank!”
I was nearing the end. I discussed the evidence that pointed to a conclusion that the robbery was an unconscious cry for help. I explained “reasonable doubt” and told the jury that the government had the burden of proving beyond a reasonable doubt that Steven was not insane at the time of the bank robbery. I told them that the prosecutor had the last word, but asked them to please think about what I would say in response if I was allowed to answer his arguments.
I then paused, looked into the eyes of the two or three jurors we thought were the most favorably inclined toward Steven, and began my final comments. “We hope that this trial has given you a window into the black experience. Unlike some people, we believe that you can begin to understand what it means to be black in America. Steven does not want your sympathy. If you are persuaded beyond a reasonable doubt that the government has proved he was not temporarily insane at the time of the robbery, then find him guilty. Steven asks not for sympathy, but for empathy. Empathy is when you understand another person.
“Looking at all the evidence in this case, can you say that the prosecution has proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Steven Robinson was in rational control of his actions when he robbed that bank? Can you say that?”
I sat down, feeling as if all my energy had been sucked out of me. Steven gave me a small smile of support. After the prosecutor’s rebuttal the judge spent forty-five minutes reading the “jury instructions” to the jurors. These highly legalistic, formal rules are suppose to tell the jury how to apply the laws relevant to the facts of the case. Finally, when the jury instructions were over, the twelve people were led into the jury room. The case was now out of our control.
The jury deliberated for two days. Finally the jurors returned to the courtroom, Steven was brought down from the cells in the United States Marshal’s office and we all congregated for that anxious moment when the clerk reads the verdict. Those few minutes are painfully intense. I often have wondered why I go through this pain time after time. Then the clerk read the verdict: “Not guilty.” There was shocked silence on the prosecutor’s side of the courtroom and a profound, quiet joy on ours.
In 1971, federal law in almost all jurisdictions did not require that a defendant acquitted by reason of insanity be put in a mental institution unless there was evidence that he was dangerous to himself or society. Since Steven’s defense was based on temporary insanity, and there was no question that he was recovered, he should have walked out of the courtroom a free man. But he still had to face the charge for jumping bail, so he was taken back to jail. The judge set a date for a plea and sentencing on that charge in thirty days. Even this problem did not lessen his happiness, and the happiness of his wife and daughter.
The law students and I rushed to the elevator to try to get some feedback from the jurors. After a few minutes, I spoke to the young man who had held out so long for a guilty verdict. “Why did you change your vote?” I asked. The man replied, “Well, I wouldn’t have done what he did, but I can see how he felt he was backed up against the wall.” At that moment I knew we had broken through racial barriers. It was just one small case, with an unknown defendant and a young lawyer. But I felt that a foundation had been built for a defense that broke down racial walls by helping jurors understand another person’s life experience.
Thirty days later we were back in court on the felony charge of failure to appear. The prosecutor adamantly argued for substantial prison time, but the judge had been favorably affected by the evidence in the trial, the defendant’s testimony, and the jury verdict. The sentence was five years probation.
A few days later I called three of the jurors to find out what had taken place in their deliberations. They told me that the first vote was seven for guilty and five for not guilty. The foreperson, Susan Lowenstein, was one of those favoring acquittal. Lowenstein had been very moved by the trial, both intellectually and emotionally. She argued that Steven’s testimony showed his remorse and that the crime was inconsistent with his prior life. The second vote was seven for not guilty, four for guilty, and one undecided.
On the second day some racial issues came up that had not been part of the trial. For example, it turned out that eleven of the jurors were against busing in order to achieve integration. But Lowenstein kept the focus on the case itself. Many of the jurors accepted our theme that the robbery was a cry for help. The third jury poll was nine for not guilty, one for guilty, and two undecided.
The one holdout admitted that his mother
