My granddaughter beat us out of the car. Even though she didn’t understand the drama that enveloped me and her mother, she was smart enough to know that something outside of the norm was amidst. Anyway, we looked at the model homes’ ghost town for about an hour. It took our minds off the seriousness of the day. When we got home, we ate and went straight to bed. But I knew that there were going to be more dreadful days ahead. This issue of William’s guilt still had to be determined.
51
Closing Arguments, Part II
GETTING THROUGH THE TWO DAYS OF CLOSING ARGUMENTS, FIRST, THE PROSECUTION and then the defense’s presentation, was life altering. There is no doubt about that. For the majority of the time I spent in the courtroom, I was calm, but only after I had settled into the bosom of my faith. God loves me. Those words reeled themselves together and kept playing in my head. While I knew that I was not legally bound to attend this part of William’s trial, I went because I felt compelled beyond all my reservations.
I took great pains to survey the jury, to sneak glances at the families of the victims as I prayed for them inside my heart. ‘Lord Jesus’, I murmured, ‘help them find their peace.’ And for me, it made all the difference that the prosecution was succinct and clearly on point. There was a cogent mesh of facts, an intelligible appeal to the humanity of the listeners, and the visuals presented an enhanced understanding of William’s crimes more than they shocked the conscience.
Thomas Testa, a fortyish or so white man, well above average height, and with persona wrapped in a fortified sheath of confidence, began his speech that he had probably practiced over and over. It was his turn to be at the center stage of justice. He would have his say about the DNA evidence, about the sinister nature of William’s crimes, about the irrefutable facts demonstrating malice and aforethought. Mr. Testa would so eloquently tally up the irrevocable damage that the Defendant’s crimes would do for generations.
But no matter how careful the officers of the court conducted themselves formally to advance the cause of justice; it was inescapable that I would take with me some ever-lasting images that may haunt me for all my days. I can only describe the photographs of the crime scenes attributed to my former spouse as horrifically devastating. It became clear to me that William was not only a sick monster; he had no regard for human life. He was also a thief who had stolen money and shoes from his victims. What the hell? He was a sadist who was equipped with all the accoutrements of torture to the nth degree. He, I believe, was an unrivaled serial murderer because he cultivated a preference for many types of instruments of murder and torture. He had guns, whips, stun guns and enough batteries to kill a generation of women.
I could also discern, from what I saw during the closing arguments, that William had studied his evil craft. He had designed his torture mobile, rigging it to lure women with drugs and his manufactured charm that was so much that of like Ted Bundy. And at the end of the day, William knew how to fly under the radar of the police for years and years. And he had managed to hide from the people who thought they knew him best.
Mr. Testa refreshed the court about the previous testimony of one of the women William was accused of raping. The woman testified that when she had asked William to let her go, he told her, ‘You’re going to die.’ When I heard those words, I could not immediately reconcile them as something that could have come from the man I knew, the man I married. And then came the retelling of the things my former spouse had done to her and other women. It was more horrific than I could have ever imagined.
At the end of closing arguments, perhaps even before, I had convicted my former spouse of all the charges leveled against him. I had no favor for him because he was once my mate and my daughter’s father. But I also had no prejudice either. I weighed the evidence before me as though I had received the same instructions as the jurors. Like the families of the victims, I wanted justice to prevail in the purest way. I did not want any of the O.J. nonsense; no grand standing; no superfluity. I just wanted the facts. I got them and I lined them up a straight line inside my mind.
As I sat quietly like a sponge in a vast, vast ocean, I was able to synthesize the evidence that the prosecutor presented about William’s deviant behaviors toward women with information that could have only been gathered by someone who had lived with him for many years— yours truly. I knew of William’s sometimes almost anal obsession with body building; he needed to be strong in order to snatch his victims into submission.
52
What I Learned
I LEARNED THAT WILLIAM WAS A MURDERER WHO DEFIED THE NORMS OF THE ABNORMAL.
In any reality, I suspect that he is probably one of the most dangerous kinds of killer because— who would ever suspect him? He was ABMWWAFAASDU (a black man working with a family and a supposedly decent upbringing). He was not overly visible in any social setting and he didn’t go out of his way to make new friends. In retrospect, I believe that what I perceived as shyness on William’s part was actually an evolving design to prevent the call of undue attention to himself. He was a budding anti-artist practicing his stealthy craft.
William probably realized, after not getting caught for the first murder in 1988 until nearly fifteen years, that he had the advantage of blending in with his urban habitat. Of course, it was a skill; it was one that many other young black men couldn’t master. In the 80s and 90s, TOO MANY black men in Oakland subscribed to the notion that dealing drugs in their own communities was somehow their key to the American dream. Some were flamboyant like Felix Mitchell and some blatantly flicked their noses at Oakland police. NOT WILLIAM. He dealt drugs quietly and he frequented prostitutes, quietly. THEN HE RAPED AND KILLED, quietly. And if there was ever such a thing as being “on the under,” he was the “King of On the Under.” People who knew William as a child and then as an adult are still scratching their heads about his crimes.
WERE CRYSTAL AND I AN INTRICATE PART OF THE FACADE HE NEEDED TO GO ON RAPING AND KILLING UNCHECKED? No doubt. The whole issue of William’s criminal exploits could have gotten really complicated in my mind, but it didn’t because I convinced myself that dismantling a nightmare which had shadowed me for many years, required my patience and a shrewd amount of mental acuity. My life and my journey through writing this book would require that I break down every mental barrier I unknowingly constructed to insulate myself from William’s madness. I know now that he used us (Alice & Crystal) as the “Perfect Cover.”
But the questions kept coming inside my head as I sat quietly and alone during the near final phase of William’s trial.
I had to ask myself again, why am I here?
What is it that I am supposed to do that no other person on this Earth can do?
I am convinced that indeed there was one if not more specific reasons why I became so preoccupied with trying to understand the crimes of my former spouse. Many times, after I knew of William’s trial date, I tried to waylay the insurgence of desperate thoughts and invading mysteries that I coexisted with when I was married. But there was no escape for me. Every way my brain could turn, I would see the victims; I would hear their screams and I would somehow know that the man, who murdered them, incubated his demons in the home he shared with me and my daughter. The learning continued.
Indeed, it had occurred to me that MY DENIAL to look at the world inside my private life with William and see it for what it really was, (a dysfunctional farce with far-reaching consequences) may have allowed my former spouse to grow more evil by the day to the point where he fine-tuned his desires, seeing finally how they could live— TO KILL.
I begged for understanding from myself: Why I didn’t just insist to know why William went out every night in a trench coat and with a gun tucked neatly into his pocket? Yes, I asked night after night, but I did not put my foot down like I should have. I absolutely needed to know the origin of William’s madness and the measure of how it pursued him or vice versa. I think I know that now. HE WAS HAUNTED BY THE DEMONS OF HIS PAST; THEY WOULD NOT
LET HIM GO.
Could I have stopped him before the first murder? I wondered so many times.
And finally, if I had discovered William’s crimes before we were divorced, where would I be now? Nothing could have stopped William. I would probably be dead if I had caught on to what he was doing. No doubt! And it’s phenomenal, even if people aren’t really willing to take notice, that more and more husbands and lovers are killing their partners. What’s up with this? I think about OJ, Scott Peterson, Michael Peterson, the writer, Drew Peterson, and Dennis Rader, who like William, maintained family connections if for no other reason accept to appear normal. There’s a scary pattern here, you see?
MORE OF WHAT I LEARNED:
In his merciless stance against crime and with minimal legalese, Mr. Testa helped me to know that I was married to a monster. He introduced me to Lawanda Beck, Victoria Bell, and Gwendolyn Lee. These young, beautiful women were daughters, mothers, friends and most of all, they were human beings not deserving to have their lives cut short to satisfy the evil and maniacal desires of a man who could have sought help for himself before he ever raped or murdered. Yes!
It was unavoidable that I would discover how much I didn’t know about the man I had been married to for twelve years, and had known for twenty years prior to our divorce. Most of the “new” facts about William’s insane world came to me little by little through his defense team, but I believe that they never gave me any more information than they had to. I believe I know the way William lured his victims. I think that my former spouse was so meticulous about his dental hygiene because a pretty smile could help to him lure women right into his bait when coercion wouldn’t work. He knew how to look innocent right before he turned into the DEVIL.
EVERYTHING STARTED COMING TO ME IN BRUISED CHUNKS.
The nice cars, the perfect sports coats and the fine leather shoes— they all fit into William’s devious scheme. He was a sick, methodical, and chameleon- like killer. Again, I thought of Jekyll and Hyde with his two personalities and his ability to sometimes take amorphous jumps between them. He must have come to believe that he was invincible.
53
G—u—i—l—t—y
IT TOOK LESS THAN TWO DAYS.
I believe I got the call of William’s conviction thought his attorney, Lorna Patton Brown. I would have never expected that when the verdicts came down, I would lose my breath. But somehow it escaped and I felt suddenly light-headed. At the same time, I could and couldn’t believe that William had officially entered the ranks of the most dangerous people to walk the Earth— people who viciously preyed on other human beings. Just the thought of all the implications nauseated me.
How would I give our daughter the news?
Her dad is a convicted serial killer.
I had no choice but to figure out a way to tell a child what no child should ever have to hear— that their parent is a serial murderer who is eligible for the death penalty.
I got on my knees. Jesus, please give me your peace so that I can give it to Crystal.
It was quiet in my house. Crystal was in town for her dad’s trial; she was asleep upstairs. I went into a daze and for the first time after understanding the negative emotional steam that powers the state of dazing; I still wanted into that space like I had never wanted in before. I wanted all the comfort of oblivion and the temporary peace of being absent from myself and from the sure intelligence that my brain was putting together about William’s conviction.
I must have stayed on my knees for thirty or so minutes.
54
The Aftermath
BEFORE WILLIAM WAS SENTENCED TO DEATH ON DECEMBER 15, 2008, LESS THAN FIVE days before his fifty-fifth birthday, I went to see him at the San Joaquin County jail facility where he was being held. It would mark the third and mostly likely final time that I would see him behind bars, or ever. I didn’t know whether he would accept my visit or not. But I was going to give it a shot.
My first objective for seeing William was to appeal to him to do the right thing for the children he was leaving in the free world. He has two sons by another relationship. I worry about their mental well-being just as I do my daughter’s. The carnage he created has to be an incredible burden for his children.
In between the odd small talk (where William told me he hated the mother of his children and wondered once again, why I ever left him) we managed to agree that he would split his Teamster’s Pension between his three children. I wanted nothing from him. I offered to act as a fiduciary to see that the papers and legal documents were drawn up and executed. William and I also agreed that I would come back to visit him once he had time to speak to his attorney to make sure all the documents were in order.
We never had the opportunity to meet again. When I returned to the jail facility where William was being held, pending his sentencing, he had already exceeded his limit for visitors for that week. As far as I was concerned, the case was closed on the issue of him looking after his children. The whole ordeal had already taken a toll on me. Just calculating how I would get up the strength to see my former spouse before he would most likely be sentenced to death, was… I was glad to be spared that agony.
Later, I did what was necessary to secure my community property portion of William’s pension. I was informed that the funds were being held for me until I applied for them. I gifted my share of the money to my daughter. Again, I sent William a letter begging him to look out for his sons. I never heard back from him.
In the days following the news that William Jennings Choyce had been sentenced to death, both Crystal and I kind of walked around in a daze; it had become a comfort zone for us. What was instantly clear was that the both of us were more baffled about how someone so close to us ended up in such a horrible space, doing horrible things. Some nights we sat up with heavy hearts, and we thought about the welfare of the children of William’s victims. But what could we do? We prayed!
For weeks, I couldn’t drag myself away from the Internet; I wanted to see what new information there was on William’s case. He was in the Oakland Tribune, USA Today, but Recordnet, a Stockton, California news organization, stayed on top of the horrible story about the man who preyed on innocent women and then dumped them like they were garbage. It was eerie seeing his photograph with the words, “Serial Killer” above it. And no matter how many times I looked at the reports about William, it felt like I was being lured into a fresh, new nightmare that I couldn’t get away from, even if I woke up.
55
Youtube.Com
BUT THE MOST DISTURBING AND ILLUMINATING ACCOUNT OF THE PATH OF DESTRUCTION that William created in two different counties happened during his sentencing. It was on YouTube.com. I saw my former spouse as I have never seen him before. He looked like the perfect sociopath as the Honorable Judge Linda Lofthus read the sentence that the jury had voted to impose on him. I watched the video several times as though I had no choice. First, I needed to focus on the words of the judge. I needed to hear every single word that was strung together in order to pronounce the sentence of death upon a person that I thought I knew. I had never heard such words except when I watched Court TV. But those words and phrases were being pronounced on people I didn’t know and so they had not been committed to my memory.
The Judge read: “…Mr. Choyce shall BE PUT TO DEATH within the walls of California State Prison San Quentin in the manner prescribed by law upon a date to be fixed by this court in a warrant of execution.”
My God.
Judge Lofthus seemed to be in some emotional pain as she dispatched her duties as the ultimate arbiter in this one case. I had read that the Judge was very thorough in making sure that William, the defendant, received a fair trial. I also read that William’s case was her first death penalty trial.
Pray for her, I reminded myself.
By the date of his sentencing, September 18, 2008, William had totally lost the dapper and anti-serial killer look that he managed to maintain during the guilt phase of his
trial which began July 17. He had grown a full, gray beard and he was dressed in the uniform-like orange shirt and pants issued to him by the jail facility. I watched him intently on Youtube.com. I was mesmerized at what I saw. He was no longer the accused; he was the CONVICTED. But it didn’t look like he gave a damn about anything. He looked like he didn’t care that he had killed without regard for human life. He didn’t care that he had ruined the peace of so many families, or that his notoriety would outlive him.
He carefully tucked his lips inside his mouth so that the camera in his face would not see them quivering. I know him. He was trying not to look like he was not scared, or that he felt utter contempt for the fact that someone white was in charge of his life. Yes, I knew him; he hated the “white man”, and it didn’t matter that behind the white was a woman. Perhaps that was worse for him.
William sat between his two attorneys like he was baloney and they were bread. All through the trial Lorna Brown, the attorney that I had the most contact with, seemed overly protective of William. Maybe that’s just the way she lawyers, I don’t know. But the time I visited William before his sentencing, he said he didn’t trust her because she had not followed through on some of the things he’d asked her to do. The fact was that he probably never trusted any woman, even me.
56
Final Note
SOMETIMES I DRIVE DOWN THE STREETS WHERE WE USED TO LIVE— WILLIAM, ME AND OUR DAUGHTER.
I tilt my head sideways like I always do when I’m trying to solve a puzzle, or when I’m trying to get hold of an answer that eludes me. And when I look at the homes we once occupied, they look less surreal than they did during the times I walked up and down the stairs, or when I mowed the lawn, or hosted family and friends over for happy occasions, which beneath the surface, were not happy at all. How could times have been happy when my husband was plotting rapes and murders, perhaps while he was bar-b-queing and using my secret sauce to marinate the ribs, chickens and links?
Conquering Darkness Memoir of the Serial Killer's Wife Page 21