The Trial

by Robert Whitlow

  David leaned over to Mac and whispered. “What do I do now?”

  “Cut him loose. He’s not going to give you anything.”

  “That’s all from this witness, Your Honor.”

  David sat down. His first cross-examination of a witness in a jury trial had as much zip as an unsalted cracker. At least he hadn’t joined Pete in a cell.

  Joe stood. “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?”

  “Yes.”

  Mac joined him for a conversation that the jury could not hear.

  “The witnesses who are going to testify about the defendant’s prior similar conduct are staying about fifteen minutes from the courthouse. Could we break for lunch now and hear from them first thing this afternoon?”

  The judge checked his watch and addressed the jury,

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the court will be in recess until one o’clock.”

  Mac, David, and Vicki organized the papers that had become scattered during the morning’s proceedings.

  “What about Dr. Newburn?” David asked.

  Before Mac could answer, Joe called out, “Mac. Can I talk to you a minute?”

  Mac walked over to Joe, who was leaning against the prosecution table. “What is it?” he asked.

  The prosecutor straightened a stack of papers. “I know Bert Langley talked to you about a guilty plea in return for a life sentence without parole.”

  “Yes. My client wasn’t interested.”

  “I talked to Bert this morning and can offer life with the possibility of parole. With good behavior, Thomason might be out of prison by his midthirties.”

  “Why the change?” Mac asked.

  “Why not? I think I have a good chance at a conviction, but we both know nobody can predict what a jury will do.”

  “I’ll talk to Pete before one o’clock.”

  After Mac left, Joe snapped shut his briefcase. His interview with Spencer Hightower the previous evening had been very disturbing. Ever since Mac’s dramatic claim in his opening statement that the real killer was not in the courtroom, Joe had been working through the list of people who might be the object of Mac’s allegation, and Spencer Hightower had moved to the head of the class. The younger Hightower brother acted furtive and evasive when interviewed, and Joe was suspicious about Spencer’s relationship with Angela. Personally, he thought Spencer was a harmless idiot. But if Mac had something that linked Spencer to Angela’s murder, Joe knew his case might disappear as quickly as an April frost on a north Georgia pasture.

  As soon as they were outside the courtroom, Mac told David and Vicki what Joe had said.

  “Well?” Vicki asked. “It’s not a bad offer.”

  “But he didn’t do it,” David said.

  “He says he doesn’t remember anything,” Mac corrected him. “We have some suspicions about Spencer Hightower, but we can’t let our theories become so real in our imaginations that we put on blinders to the strengths of the State’s case. I’m not saying I think Pete should accept a deal, but we have to let Pete decide after we give him an unbiased perspective. His life, not ours, is on the line.”

  After grabbing a snack at the office, Mac and David went back to the courthouse to talk to Pete in the holding cell where he spent his breaks. Standing in front of the bars, Mac explained the special prosecutor’s offer and finished by saying, “We have an obligation to communicate the offer to you. What do you want to do?”

  Pete shook his head. “I’d have to say that I killed Angela, wouldn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Mac said. “The judge would ask you, point blank.”

  Pete looked down at the scuffed tile floor of the cell for several seconds before answering. “A few weeks ago I was so depressed that I might have accepted a deal just to get the whole thing over with. That’s what I did when I was kicked out of the Marine Corps. I avoided the hassle of a fight and accepted the dishonorable discharge. This is a million times worse, but I didn’t kill Angela. I’m not going to lie and plead guilty even though it would save my life and stop the torture of the trial.”

  “So, your answer is ‘No,’” Mac said.

  Pete looked steadily into Mac’s eyes. “My answer is ‘No.’”

  When Joe returned to the courtroom, Mac told him Pete’s decision.

  “The offer is withdrawn,” Joe said curtly. “And there won’t be another.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mac responded. “The boy is not going to plead guilty.”

  Joe began the afternoon’s testimony by calling Sally Neland, formerly Sally Tompkins, of Beaufort, South Carolina. Dressed conservatively in a brown plaid skirt and dark sweater, Mrs. Neland obviously did not want to be on the witness stand. At least Dennison Springs was six hundred miles away from her new husband and home in Fairfax, Virginia.

  She would answer questions and get out of town as soon as possible.

  “Ms. Neland, where were you living during the month of July five years ago?”

  “With my parents in South Carolina.”

  “How old were you at the time?”

  “Twenty. I was a student at the College of Charleston and home for summer vacation.”

  “Have you ever met Peter Thomason, the defendant in this case?”

  Sally looked at Pete with a disgust that signaled more to the jury than any words could have communicated. Pete stared back without flinching, determined not to look as though he had something to hide.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Mac stood. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”

  “Come forward.”

  Joe joined Mac in front of the judge. Mac leaned forward. “I want to make an objection before this witness gives any testimony.”

  The judge turned to Joe. “What is the nature of the testimony?”

  “Prior similar conduct, Your Honor. I mentioned it briefly in court the other day.” Joe quickly outlined the incident in the bar.

  “It’s highly prejudicial,” Mac responded, keeping his voice low.

  “There was no criminal conviction.”

  “Is that true?” the judge asked Joe.

  “Yes, but the defendant’s use of Rohypnol in both instances ties them together.”

  “If this comes in, I’ll have to move for a mistrial,” Mac said a little louder.

  The judge hesitated for several seconds before deciding. “Mr. Whetstone, I am going to allow the testimony based on your representation that you can tie it to the defendant. If you don’t, I will give serious consideration to a motion for mistrial.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mac returned to the defense table. “It looked like the judge considered keeping it out,” David said.

  Mac shrugged. “So what. There’s no such thing as partial victory.”

  Grim-faced, Sally proceeded to tell about meeting the three Marines.

  “Did the defendant buy you a drink?”

  “Yes. He went to the bar and brought me a strawberry daiquiri.”

  “Was he out of your sight for a period of time?”

  “Yes. We were talking, and I didn’t pay attention to what he did.”

  “Do you recall if the defendant also got a drink for your friend Patricia Rawlings?”

  “I believe he did. She and the defendant were both drinking margaritas.”

  The young woman’s anger changed to tears when she told about the effects of Rohypnol on her. She ended by describing her middle-of-the-night visit to the hospital.

  Mac walked softly when he asked his questions.

  “Were the names of the other two Marines Walter Monroe and Harry O’Ryan?”

  “I think that’s right.”

  “Have you talked to either of them since all this happened?”

  Sally shook her head vigorously. “No. I didn’t ever want to see anyone from that night again.”

  “I understand. Just a few more questions. Who were you with when you left the bar?”

  The young woman furrowed her brow. “That is fuzzy, but I think it was th
e two men you mentioned.”

  “Not Pete Thomason?”

  “No, I think he followed in another car.”

  “If it’s unclear to you, how can you recall that he followed in another car?”

  “I think, uh, it’s been a long time.”

  “Whose car were the four of you in?”

  “Patricia’s car. She had a blue Camaro.”

  “How did you get home?”

  “When Patricia and I came around, we were alone in her car near the beach.”

  “Pete Thomason wasn’t there?”

  “No one was there but us.”

  “That’s all I have, Your Honor.”

  Sergeant Walter Monroe was all spit and polish. His dark hair was not more than a quarter-inch long at any place on his head, and the big Marine sat so straight in the witness chair that everyone in the courtroom subconsciously adjusted their posture. Pete watched him walk to the witness stand, but Monroe kept his eyes straight ahead, never looking in Pete’s direction. Every other word was “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir,” as he told his version of the events leading up to Pete’s discharge.

  “Did you know the defendant was going to spike the girls’ drinks with Rohypnol?” Whetstone asked.

  “No, sir. He had mentioned it, but I considered it a joke. I never suspected he would carry it out and don’t know where he got the drugs. I thought the girls were just drunk.”

  “Now tell the jury what happened after you left the bar.”

  “Thomason drove the girls in one of their cars toward the beach area. O’Ryan and I decided to go back to the base. Thomason came in later that night, bragging about what he had done.”

  “What happened the next day?”

  “We reported the incident to the camp commandant, and Thomason was dishonorably discharged.”

  Monroe was a good liar, but most fabricated stories had a few loose strings in the details. Mac’s job was to pull a few strings out and show them to the jury until they could be tied together with other testimony.

  “Sergeant Monroe, do you have a nickname?” Mac asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Buster, sir.”

  “Does the Marine Corps have a code of conduct which requires you to report misconduct by fellow marines?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you aware of this requirement when Pete Thomason returned to the barracks and told you about the incident with the girls?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you immediately contact your superiors to report what you learned?”

  “Yes, sir. The next day.”

  “But not that night?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you tell your story before or after the girls’ parents contacted the base commander?”

  “After, sir.”

  “Were you summoned to the base commander’s office?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who else was present?”

  “Thomason, O’Ryan, Colonel Baxter, and Lieutenant General Lietner.”

  Mac walked back toward the jury box as he asked his next question. “Sounds like you were in serious trouble.”

  “Thomason was in trouble, sir.”

  “Did you talk about the situation with Harry O’Ryan before you met with the commander?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was said?”

  “We discussed what we ought to do.”

  “What did O’Ryan suggest?”

  “He didn’t want to come forward at first.”

  “I see.” Mac moved closer to the witness stand. “Did you report this violation of the rules of conduct to Colonel Baxter or Lieutenant General Lietner?”

  “Uh, no, sir.”

  “Because O’Ryan was your best friend?”

  “Yes, sir. But compared to Thomason, he didn’t do much wrong.”

  “I see. What kind of car did Pete Thomason own?”

  “An old Nissan.”

  “Who drove you and O’Ryan to the bar?”

  “Thomason drove.”

  “What kind of car were the girls in?”

  “A Camaro.”

  “So Thomason let you drive his car back to the base?”

  “Yes, uh, wait a minute . . .” Monroe paused. “I can’t remember.”

  “Did you drive the Camaro back to the base?”

  “No. He would have gone with the girls.”

  Mac raised his voice and looked toward the jury, “So the semiconscious girls drove Thomason back to the base, dropped him off, and went back to the beach until the effects of the drug wore off. Is that what happened?”

  “I don’t know how Thomason got back to the base.”

  “How far is it from the beach to the base?”

  “Ten to twelve miles.”

  Mac took off his reading glasses and laid them on the defense table. “Sergeant Monroe, would it surprise you to learn that an hour ago in this courtroom Sally Tomkins-Neland testified that you and Harry O’Ryan drove her and Patricia Rawlings from the bar to the beach?”

  Monroe gave Mac a puzzled expression, and for a second a crack appeared in his steely veneer before he quickly closed it.

  “Uh, that’s not what I remember.”

  “Is it possible Harry O’Ryan may recall additional details you have forgotten?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all,” Mac said and returned to the defense table.

  Joe announced in his best courtroom voice, “As its final witness, the State calls Mrs. Sarah Hightower.”

  David leaned over to Mac and whispered, “What about Dr. Newburn?”

  “He’s not going to use him until later,” Mac responded.

  “Which means we won’t need Dr. Wilkes?”

  “Maybe not.”

  Sarah Hightower was impeccably dressed in a dark navy dress with a heavy gold necklace and a very large diamond ring. She remained poised as Joe asked her about Angela and the events leading up to August second. She identified a beautifully posed photograph of Angela taken soon after her eighteenth birthday. Sarah seemed almost reluctant to give it back to Joe so that he could present it to the jury as an exhibit.

  “Tell us about that night,” Joe continued.

  “Alex and I had gone out to dinner and returned home about nine-thirty. When I checked our answering machine, we had a message from Angela.”

  Joe faced the judge. “Your Honor, I would like to play the tape so Mrs. Hightower can identify it.”

  “Proceed.”

  Joe placed the cassette player on the railing in front of the jury box and pressed the play button.

  The tape scratched to life and the “beep” of the answering machine came through the speaker.

  “Mom. Pete and I were stuck in traffic because of a wreck on the expressway. We’ll be home a bit later than I thought. I love you. Bye.”

  Hearing her daughter’s voice, Sarah touched her eye with a tissue she had been clutching in her hand.

  “Was that the call recorded on the evening of August second?”

  “Yes. It was about seven-thirty in the evening.”

  “And was that Angela’s voice?”

  “Yes. That’s the last time—” Sarah’s trailed off.

  Mac straightened his tie and stood a respectful distance from the witness stand. In a calm voice that nevertheless carried across the courtroom he began his cross-examination.

  “Mrs. Hightower, who are the other members of your husband’s family?”

  “His parents are deceased. He has a younger brother and some cousins.”

  “What is the brother’s name?”

  “Spencer Hightower.”

  “How old is Spencer?”

  “I think he’s twenty-six or twenty-seven.”

  “Mrs. Hightower, are you aware of any personal conflicts between Spencer and Angela?”

  “No,” she said sharply.

  Mac let the answer rest in the air while he walked to the defen
se table and picked up a copy of the letter about Spencer from Angela to her parents. He held the sheet in his hand while he asked his next question.

  “Who was Angela’s roommate in college last year?”

  “A girl from North Carolina named Joan Brinkley.”

  Mac handed the letter to Joe, who quickly looked at it and kept it.

  “Your Honor,” Joe said, rising to his feet. “We need to discuss a matter outside the presence of the jury.”

  “Approach the bench.”

  It was Joe’s turn to raise an intense objection. “Your Honor, the defense is attempting to use a libelous letter that could be a complete fabrication.”

  “Let me see it.” The judge read it and handed it back to Mac. “How do you intend to prove the authenticity of this letter, Mr. McClain?”

  “Angela used Joan Brinkley’s laptop computer to write the letter. Ms. Brinkley has firsthand knowledge about the letter and is arriving in Chattanooga from Virginia this afternoon. She will be available tomorrow to testify about the legitimacy of the document and the circumstances surrounding it.”

  The judge leaned forward. “Gentlemen, I do not want a mistrial in this case because of the introduction of inflammatory material that would so prejudice the jury that an impartial consideration of the case becomes impossible. Mr. McClain, I am going to instruct you not to ask the witness about the letter at this time. If it is admitted into evidence during the presentation of your case you may recall Mrs. Hightower and cross-examine her about its contents.”

  Mac stepped back from the bench. “Your Honor, in light of the court’s ruling, I reserve my right to ask more questions of the witness at a later time.” Mac walked past the jury with the sheet of paper in his hand and put it, faceup, on the corner of the defense table.

  “Very well,” the judge said.

  “That concludes the State’s case, Your Honor,” Joe said with a lot less confidence than he had hoped to convey two minutes earlier.

  Thus, with more of a pop than a bang, the prosecution ended its case, and the jury was left wondering what was on the sheet of paper in Mac’s hand and why they couldn’t find out.

  32

  Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike at him as hard as you can and as often as you can.