“What stands out to me is the selfishness and senselessness of this crime,” Craig Stedman told the court. “… This murder should not have happened. We should not be here…. Mr. Roseboro had opportunities most people do not have and can only dream of. But he wanted it all.”
Sodomsky asked the judge if Roseboro could be held at Lancaster County Prison for the next ten days so he could work with him on the appeal.
Judge James Cullen said he would allow it. Then he ordered Roseboro to pay $25,000 in restitution for what the judge called “necessary counseling for your children,” none of whom attended the sentencing.
In early October, after Allan Sodomsky had a chance to review all of the Facebook comments, he filed a motion in Lancaster County court claiming “juror misconduct.”
The judge ordered Craig Stedman’s office to respond.
“This motion is yet another attempt by this murderer,” Stedman said, lashing out at Roseboro, as he talked to the press, “to try and avoid responsibility for cowardly killing his wife.”
Sodomsky ignored the comments and decided to dig into the law. He demanded a hearing on the matter. He wanted to see both jurors brought into court and placed under oath, so they could answer questions about what Sodomsky referred to as “unauthorized communications.” The law, Sodomsky wrote, entitles Michael Roseboro to a hearing to determine whether there were communication’s between jurors and outsiders about the trial, and whether they prejudiced the verdict.
A fact-finding mission was all Sodomsky was after.
In that same motion, Sodomsky pointed out: The
juror, Hecker, who was clearly disgruntled, bored, and eager to see a speedy end to the trial and to jury deliberations, was advised by a “friend”—who had reason to know the details of the prosecution’s case due to media coverage of the trial—that Hecker “should just vote guilty and get it over with” and that he should “fry him.”
Perhaps the defense lawyer had a point?
This was a gray area, predominantly. Social networking was not something courts had had to deal with all that much in the past. Yet, the future was looking to be something different.
Sodomsky wrote in his motion that he wanted to examine cell phones, computers, hard drives, Facebook accounts, e-mail, and Internet accounts of the two jurors.
A clear invasion of privacy.
Stedman countered by saying that “nothing in the alleged Facebook communications,” from what he had read, “remotely approaches grounds for relief…. In the copies of the alleged communications we were provided with,” the DA continued, “no juror discusses the facts of the case.” To the contrary, one juror, Hecker, had even noted that he could not wait for the case to end so he could finally discuss it.
Obviously, the judge would have to take some time and decide if Michael Roseboro deserved a new trial or, at the least, a hearing.
80
The Amish are not immune to the attraction of American culture and its pull. On December 8, 2009, the PSP arrested an Amish man on charges of drunk driving after he was found “asleep in his moving buggy.” The twenty-two-year-old was slumped over and passed out, horses pulling him and the slow-moving buggy along the road. An off-duty officer from nearby, one report stated, noticed the horse pulling the buggy at a walking pace as it straddled the center line. Ultimately, the Amish man blew a Breathalyzer test of 0.18, which is more than twice the 0.08 legal limit. This incident, perhaps, proved that rural Pennsylvania, with its rolling hills and plush green landscapes, a nod to life one hundred years ago, was not immune to modernism. In the same way that the Roseboro case had proven that a violent murderer can reside next door—a man disguised as a mild-mannered husband and father, smiling and waving to you as you go about your day—an Amish man arrested and charged with drunk driving (a horse and buggy) was a clear indication that times had changed. In that respect, a court had to consider that jurors would forever be attached to their electronics. Unless you sequestered them and stripped them of all their gadgets, you ran the risk of a juror “tweeting” or “facebooking” his or her feelings.
On Friday, January 29, 2010, Michael Roseboro’s chances for a new trial or hearing based on juror misconduct were wiped clear. Judge James Cullen had taken his time, almost three months. In the end, Cullen denied the convicted killer’s request for a new trial, and said a hearing was unnecessary.
Cullen’s opinion was twenty-one pages long. Part of it spoke directly to the heart of the matter: While regrettable and contrary to the Court’s instructions, and the unsolicited comments of others, [the comments] are woefully insufficient to taint the unanimous verdict of the jury, adding that the jury had heard testimony from sixty-five witnesses and viewed over 700 exhibits over the course of twelve days of testimony…. The Court concludes that there is no reasonable possibility that any of the status updates or comments resulted in any prejudice to the Defendant. The motion for appeal itself, Judge Cullen maintained, slapping Roseboro personally, failed to show that there is any reason to believe, beyond his hopes or imagination, that there is anything more to this issue than what appears on the available Facebook webpages.
In making his practical, candid opinion clearly heard, Judge Cullen compared the remarks the jurors made on Facebook to a person standing “outside the courthouse.” Those direct comments, Cullen wrote, such as “fry him” or “vote guilty,” were nothing more than protesters standing around the steps of the courthouse shouting at jurors as they entered and exited the building.
Although Judge Cullen didn’t agree those Facebook remarks made a difference in the scope of Roseboro’s case, courts all over the country were beginning to recognize that technology was going to be a problem for judges in the future if the issue wasn’t addressed. On January 28, 2010, a day before Cullen issued his opinion, the Judicial Conference of the United States, the policy-making body of the federal courts, released a memo, offering a new juror instruction model for federal courts across the country, asking federal judges to explain to jurors, in part: You may not communicate with anyone about the case on your cellphone, through e-mail, Blackberry, iPhone, text messaging, or on Twitter, through any blog or website, through any Internet chat room, or by way of any other social networking websites, including Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn and YouTub.
State courts were a different matter, however. There have been no nationwide instructions issued for state courts, simply because each state assumes and asserts its own set of jury instructions to the courts in its counties.
Michael Roseboro could take his appeal all the way to the Supreme Court, if he chose to. The Constitution gave him that right. But the fact of the matter remained: Michael Roseboro was going to serve the rest of his life in the State Correctional Institution (SCI)-Mahanoy in Frackville, Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania, for murdering his wife, as he himself had admitted in front of a few of his fellow inmates after the verdict. He took a mother away from her four children because he didn’t want to face up to his responsibilities and admit he was a coward and cheater, afraid he would lose everything.
A self-proclaimed God-fearing man, Roseboro had allowed two of the Seven Deadly Sins to control his life: greed and lust. From there, he broke several of the Ten Commandments, the foremost being “thou shall not murder.”
All because he didn’t want to give up his luxurious life.
In the end, though, Michael Roseboro lost all of it, anyway—including the woman (and their child) he had supposedly killed for.
EPILOGUE
The Roseboro family, just before Michael’s appeal was denied, sold the funeral home to Stradling Funeral Homes, a competitor and larger business based in Ephrata, Pennsylvania. Then Ann and Ralph Roseboro sold the house on Walnut Street, just down the block from their new grandchild and the Roseboro Funeral Home, and purchased a spacious lot in the same neighborhood as their daughter and her husband.
The former Roseboro Funeral Home will now be called Roseboro Stradling Funeral and Cremation Services.
A Roseboro family legacy has come to an end.
At the time of this writing, Angie and Randall Funk are still married. Angie is seen walking Roseboro’s baby around town.
Jan Roseboro’s minor children live with her sister, Suzie, in the same home they grew up in. Sam lives with his paternal grandmother and grandfather.
I am told by good sources that Michael Roseboro has been asked to give up on his fight for retrial, save that money, and provide for his children and their caretaker. As of this writing, I have not heard of any monetary agreement Roseboro has made that would support his children. He continues, instead, a cry of innocence and will, one assumes, exhaust any money he has ever made to more appeals, leaving his kids nothing.
I reached out to Angie Funk (twice), Michael Roseboro (twice), the Roseboro family members (several times), and Allan Sodomsky (three times), but none of these people decided to speak to me for whatever reason. All of them did, however, speak to 48 Hours.
In truth, though, what could they have said that might have changed the facts of this case?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a lot of people to produce a book. For me, I need to have the cooperation of key players in any case before I commit. In the Roseboro case, I had some reservations early on that there was not a big enough story for me to explore. My editor, Michaela Hamilton, was excited about this case from the get-go, and I appreciated her encouragement. The locals I spoke to early in the process informed me that there was a much larger story here, that I shouldn’t be fooled by the narrowness of some of the media’s coverage. And sure enough, the more that I looked into the matter, the more I realized that Jan Roseboro’s murder and the affair Michael Roseboro had with Angie Funk were the results of a deeper, more serious criminal mind.
Michael Roseboro comes across as a husband and father, the kind of neighborhood guy you’d think was the last person on earth to be a murderer. That, however, is what makes him more dangerous than a guy waving a gun around and threatening people.
Of course, I had at least a dozen sources who chose to remain anonymous. I applaud each and every one of them for coming forward and standing up to Roseboro and Funk and speaking their truth. They changed the outcome of this book.
I appreciate that Craig Stedman was always honest and open with me about the case. I appreciate all of his and Kelly Sekula’s help. I can become quite the pest and bother people about the tiniest detail—the smallest, seemingly inconsequential fact—and I know multiple e-mails per day become burdensome. But in the end, all those small facts help me to produce a book that my readers expect. Thus, I cannot thank Stedman and his investigators enough for taking the time (and having the patience) to put up with me.
I despise lists of any kind. But I can think of no other way to thank those who should be acknowledged for their hard work in this case, some of whom helped me out considerably: First ADA Christopher Larsen, ADA Andrew Gonzalez, Melissa Kurtz, Deanna Weaver, Tammy Weeks, Chief County Detective Michael Landis, Jan Walters, Dean Miller, David Odenwalt, Joe Geesey, William Chalfant, Dennis Arnold, Joanne Resh, Joseph Hockley, Heather Smith, Sergeant Larry Martin, Larry Miller, Lynn Martin, Brian Dilliplaine, Gail Sizer, Michael Firestone, David Fisher, Steve Savage, Darrick Keppley, Kerry Sweigart, and, of course, Detective Keith Neff, who went far above and beyond what I ever expected to make sure I got most of it right. Other law enforcement who participated in the investigation should be recognized: John Schofield, Brad Ortenzi, Graeme Quinn, Lieutenant Edward Tobin, Eric Zimmerman, Jonathan Heisse, Matthew Hinkle, and Corporal Robert Courtright and Trooper Chadwick Roberts. Also, PSP corporal James Strosser, Pete Savage, Scott Eelman, Preston Gentzler, Sergeant Eric Schmidt, Steve Tori, and Steve Gochenaur. There were also a few law enforcement departments involved: Ocean City, New Jersey, Police Department, ECTPD, and PSP, and all three should be recognized.
The crew behind the Phelps machine: my business manager, Peter Miller, Adrianne Rosado, and Natalie Horbachevsky, all of whom reside at PMA Literary & Film Management, Inc. Without their constant help and encouragement, I could not continue to do what I do. They mean the world to me.
Michaela Hamilton, Richard Ember, Laurie Perkin, and Doug Mendini, from Kensington Publishing, have been behind me for a long time. They deserve my gratitude and thanks.
My readers … God bless all of you. Thank you for returning, book after book. I hope I never disappoint. I am grateful for your continued support.
My family.
I also want to thank Elena Siviero, who runs the M. William Phelps Fan Club on FaceBook. I know it takes time to do those things and I greatly appreciate Elena volunteering on my behalf. Please sign up on the fan club, if you have not done so already: www.facebook.com/!/group.php?gid=527520016144.
Enjoy this exclusive preview of M. William Phelps’s next exciting true-crime release!
Too Young to Kill
They befriended her … then strangled, burned, and dismembered her….
M. William Phelps
Coming next from Pinnacle …
Turn the page now and prepare for
Too Young to Kill!
1
Joanne Reynolds pulled into her driveway on Seventh Street in East Moline, Illinois, near 4:00 P.M., on January 21, 2005. As she did every late afternoon after arriving home from her shift at the local Hy-Vee supermarket, Joanne got out of her car, checked the mail, then headed into the house. Inside, she tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and started down the hallway toward the bathroom to freshen up. Joanne’s husband, Tony, had just gotten home himself, right behind her. Joanne and Tony had a good life here in the QC, Quad Cities. Located in the Mid-Mississippi Valley, the towns of Moline, East Moline, and Rock Island, Illinois, along with Bettendorf and Davenport, Iowa, housed some four hundred thousand residents making up the QC, an imaginary state line through the Mississippi River that split the east and west sides of the quad in half. We’re talking Middle America here. Small-town. John Deere’s world headquarters is located in Moline.
Pure Americana.
Tony and Joanne were high-school friends who lost touch for twenty years and met again later in life. Theirs was a rough road to love. Tony had done some time in prison, been married once. Joanne was divorced, too. Her two adult boys—twins—lived with her and Tony, along with their wives and a baby, and Tony’s adopted daughter, Adrienne. No, not the perfect, textbook family, scripted on the pages of Functional Life magazine. But they loved one another and got along. When the statistics said it shouldn’t, the Reynolds’ blended family, like so many in America today, worked.
From the late-afternoon twilight, as the sun did its lazy dance over Mark Twain’s Mississippi, located approximately three miles north of Joanne and Tony’s modest, ranch-style home, Joanne had been thinking about Adrienne, Tony’s sixteen-year-old daughter. “Lil’ Bit” was what they called Adrienne. She was the pride and joy of Tony Reynolds, a man Adrienne had called “Dad” all her life. Adrienne had moved in with Tony and Joanne in October 2004. This, after a spell of living in the Reynolds’ East Moline home a year prior. That first time Adrienne had come to live with Joanne and Tony did not go so well. Adrienne and Joanne disagreed. Fought like cats. Stopped talking for days at a clip. Tony was constantly stressed, he said. A truck driver, he was always on the road, leaving Joanne to deal with the bulk of teen angst that Adrienne threw at them.
“I want her out,” Joanne had said probably more times than she wanted to recall, back when Adrienne lived in the house the first time. Later, Joanne admitted that she was scared for her two boys. Adrienne had made an “accusation” against her stepfather in Texas, recanted, then made the accusation again. Joanne was concerned that she might do the same with one of her boys.
But ever since Adrienne had been back, she and Joanne—although not skipping stones together, or taking sunset walks along the mighty Mississippi—had reached an impasse and decided to get along. Joanne and Adrienne had a scheduled session with a therapist
on that Friday afternoon, January 21, a follow up to a session the previous Friday, which, according to Joanne, “went very well.”
In truth, they had reconciled.
When Joanne walked past Adrienne’s room on her way to the bathroom, she noticed Adrienne’s work garments laid out.
Odd, Joanne thought, stopping, staring. She should be at work.
From there, Joanne took a quick peek around the house. Nothing had been touched. She had asked Adrienne to empty the dishwasher and do a few additional chores. Adrienne had always done what she was told to, as far as her chores went. But Joanne was quickly succumbing to the opposite of one of those feelings you get when you know someone has been inside your house. In fact, she felt no one had been home all day long. Which was strange.
“Tony?” Joanne yelled. Tony was glad to be home—a Friday night, especially—from his truck-driving shift. Ten hours on the road wreaked havoc on his back. Tony needed some rest.
“Yeah?” Tony answered.
Joanne knew Adrienne had to work that night. “I woke her up this morning,” she told Tony. “She told me she had to be in at five.”
“Ain’t dat right,” Tony said in a heavy drawl.
They both peered into Adrienne’s room. There, on the floor in front of them, was Adrienne’s work uniform. The room was a mess—as most teenagers feel that cleaning is one of those “things” that can wait until later on in life.
“Yeah, she said five.” Joanne was certain.
“She done went to work without her uniform?” Tony asked, more to himself than Joanne. He looked at his watch. It was close to five. Adrienne should have been home to get dressed and head out to work, maybe ask one of them for a ride.
Joanne spotted Adrienne’s work shoes on the floor. She’d never go to work without them. Moreover, Adrienne Reynolds was not a teen who blew off her shift. She loved the job at Checkers, a nearby fast-food joint. It was easy. Very little stress. Plus, it put a little pocket money in her purse. She generally got home from school at noon. Adrienne was in a special GED program at the Black-hawk College Outreach Center nearby, on the Avenue of the Cities. High school had been something Adrienne, to put it mildly, despised. So much so, she had not accumulated any credits to graduate—heading toward the end of her sophomore year—and would need to step it up in order to get her GED. The outreach center program fit Adrienne’s school work ethic, her attitude toward education in general. No homework. Everything you did, you completed at school. You got out by noon. This allowed a people person, like Adrienne, lots of time for socializing, which was something the young girl had put at the top of her “to do” list every morning.
Love Her To Death Page 35