ULYSSES S. GRANT
Thursday morning was the coldest day of the fall season, and everyone hurried up the sidewalk to the courthouse. The previous evening, Mac and David had made their final decisions and preparations. They had debated again whether Pete should be called to the witness stand and decided they had only one option. On his way home from the office, Mac had met with Joan Brinkley at the Jackson Inn and stopped in to chat a few minutes with a still sober Harry O’Ryan. The troops Mac was assembling for battle were ready.
Mac wanted to give the jury an alternative theory for the murder of Angela Hightower. It was only a theory, but it would be the basis upon which everything the defense presented would rest. The cornerstone for this foundation would be the testimony of his first witness, a nervous, scatterbrained girl.
The jury filed into the jury box. Judge Danielson nodded to Mac. “Proceed on behalf of the defendant.”
“The defense calls Miss Joan Brinkley.”
A bailiff opened the witness-room door and summoned Angela’s former roommate. Joan looked small and young as she walked into the large courtroom. She nervously twisted her hands together and lifted her left hand instead of her right when asked to repeat the oath. After giving her name and a little bit of background, Mac asked her about Angela.
“How did you know Angela Hightower?”
“We were roommates. Really, like, best friends. At least I thought so. Angela had lots of friends, so I don’t know if she thought of me as her best friend.”
“Did you and Angela ever study together?”
“Sometimes. We both took zoology second semester and shared notes, after class and all.” Joan’s eyes suddenly teared up.
“Are you okay?” Mac asked.
A big tear rolled down Joan’s cheek. “It just hit me again, you know, that she’s gone forever.”
It hit Pete, too. He looked down at the table, wishing for the ten thousandth time that he could wake up and find that the past few months had never happened. But this was not a nightmare; it was cold, ruthless reality.
“Joan,” Mac said gently. “Did Angela ever borrow your laptop computer?”
Joan nodded as another tear escaped and fell from her face.
Mac handed her the letter from Angela to Spencer Hightower. “Do you recognize this letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Angela.”
“How do you know that?”
“She used my computer. I was with her in the library when she typed it.”
Mac stepped back toward the jury box. “Please read the letter to the jury.”
In her high, childlike voice, Joan cleared her throat and read, “‘Spencer. Do not call or write again. I do not want to see you or talk to you. If I hear one more word from you, I will tell my parents. I mean it. Get some help. Angela.’”
The normally quiet courtroom was even more silent.
“Who is Spencer?”
“Her uncle in Atlanta.”
“Do you know what happened to the letter after Angela typed it on your computer?”
“She printed it out and addressed an envelope.”
“Whose name and address were on the envelope?”
“Spencer Hightower.”
“What happened to the envelope?”
“She asked me to mail it, and I took it to the campus post office the next day.”
“Was there another letter written at the same time?”
“Yes, you know, the one to her parents.”
Mac handed her a second piece of paper.
“Please read it for the jury.”
“The whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. ‘Dear Mom and Dad. I don’t know how to tell you this except to just come out and say it. Spencer has been bothering me. Last fall at the steeplechase in Dunwoody, he followed me around all day, stood too close to me, and said some things he shouldn’t have said. Then he started writing me letters, telling me how much he cared for me and saying he wanted to come see me here at school. I called and told him to stop, and he left me alone until I was home for Christmas. Then he started back, only worse. One night, he made a pass at me in the downstairs hallway and I slapped him—hard. He got mad, and I hoped that was the end of it. Now I have started getting more letters, and he has left three phone messages for me in the past week! This has got to stop. Can’t his psychiatrist do something for him? Do his doctors know what he’s doing? I’m mad, frustrated, and scared. I don’t want him showing up on campus and embarrassing me in front of my friends. Dad, please take care of this.’”
Joan choked up again and stopped reading. Mac waited. The two newspaper reporters in the room were furiously taking notes.
“There’s not much more,” she said after a few moments. “The last line of the letter says, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault, and I want it to stop. Love, Angela.’”
Mac took the letter from her and held it up in front of the jury as he asked his next question. “What happened to the letter you just read?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Angela send it?”
“I never saw it printed out, and she didn’t ask me to mail it.”
“So as far as you know it was never mailed?”
“That’s right. I don’t know why. Maybe she didn’t want her parents to blow up at her uncle.”
Joe had no grounds to object to admission of the letters into evidence but quickly tried to salvage something from the witness.
“Did Spencer Hightower ever come to the campus?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Joe paused and took a chance. “Did you have any contact with Angela after you left school for summer break?”
“Yeah, we talked on the phone a couple of times.”
“What did you talk about?”
“You know, different stuff. She was working at a camp for kids, and I was spending a lot of time at the beach.”
“Did she mention Spencer Hightower?”
“Uh, I had forgotten about that,” she looked at Mac sheepishly.
Joe pressed her. “What did she tell you?”
“She said she saw Spencer, and it was no big deal.”
“What did that mean to you?”
“Let me see. Like, I guess that there wasn’t a big problem anymore, but then she was killed, and I didn’t know what to think.”
“Miss Brinkley, you don’t know much about the evidence linking Peter Thomason to Angela’s murder, do you?”
“No.”
“Are you accusing Spencer Hightower of killing Angela?”
“No. I don’t know who did it.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
Rodney McFarland arrived in the courtroom wearing brown polyester pants, a white shirt, and black tie. His wispy white hair was plastered to his head, and he was wearing a strong cologne that smelled like liniment. The aroma wafted across the courtroom as he walked to the witness stand. Mac asked the old man to describe his drive down the mountain.
“It was a dark night. There wasn’t much of a moon showing, so I had on my bright lights. My truck has the old-style headlamps, the kind that look like big eyes when they’re coming at you down the road. It was a warm night, and I’d rolled down my window so I could stay cool and spit out the window instead of into a cup I keep in the front seat.”
Mac decided it was time to regain control of the witness.
“How fast were you going?”
Mr. McFarland looked up at the judge. “Judge. I won’t lie to you. I had been over the speed limit. I wanted to get here before my granddaughter had her young-un, but I’m a good driver. I haven’t had a speeding ticket since . . .” Mr. McFarland scratched his chin. “I think it was 1958. I had a blue Plymouth with more engine than it needed—”
“Please tell us what caused you to run off the road,” Mac said.
“Oh yeah. That road has a lot of curves. I had moved my hands up on the
steering wheel to make sure I stayed in my lane.” Mr. McFarland began turning an invisible steering wheel as he talked to the jury. “I was having to turn this way and that way, when all of sudden this yellow car came barreling around the curve. I jerked it to the right, then back to the left, but I couldn’t keep it on the road and scooted off into the ditch. Man, was I mad.” He looked up at the judge again. “Judge, I said some things I wouldn’t want to repeat in front of the ladies here in the courtroom.” He stopped.
Mac waited for him to mention the dark sedan. Mr. McFarland sat staring blankly. Finally, Mac asked, “Is that all?”
“You want me to repeat what I said?”
“No. Is that all you saw?”
“Oh, you want me to tell about the other car?”
“Yes. That might be helpful.”
“There was another car burning up the road behind the yellow one.
It nicked the tail end of my truck. Ray scraped off some of the paint and sent it to a scientist somewhere. He told me—”
“Don’t tell what he told you,” Mac stopped him before Joe could object. “What color was the car?”
Mr. McFarland smiled. “Well, I told Ray it was a dark purple, but he said it was burgundy. Now he admits that I was—”
Joe stood. “Any testimony about what someone named Ray may have told the witness is hearsay.”
The judge turned toward Mr. McFarland. “Tell what you saw or said. Not what anyone else said.”
Mr. McFarland looked puzzled. “I’ll try, but it won’t make much sense telling just one side of a conversation.”
Several jurors laughed out loud. Mac enjoyed the sound. A laughing jury was less likely to convict a man of murder. “So it was dark purple, correct?” he asked.
“I thought I was right.”
“How close were the two cars to each other?”
“Real close. I’d guess they were together.”
“Objection,” Joe said. “Speculation.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last comment.”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure,” Mr. McFarland said, quickly defending himself. “But if they had been much closer, the purple car could have hooked on to the yellow car’s bumper for a tow.”
“That’s clear enough,” Mac said. “No further questions.”
“No questions,” Joe said. He knew when to keep his mouth shut and leave a witness alone.
Mac had time for one more witness before the lunch break. He asked the bailiff to see if Gary Ogden from Peachtree Labs had arrived. In a minute the chemist, a short, stocky man with a large handlebar mustache came into the courtroom. Mac’s questions covered two topics: analysis of the paint sample from Mr. McFarland’s truck and the drug tests of Pete’s blood. He quickly moved through the identification of the midnight purple Lincoln that Mr. McFarland had so effectively introduced to the jury. Primarily, he wanted Dr. Ogden to reveal the presence of GHB, the memory-loss drug, in Pete’s blood.
“Did you conduct additional tests on the blood sample taken from Mr. Thomason?”
“Yes, on two occasions. First, I tested his blood for the presence of Rohypnol.”
“What were the results?”
“Negative.”
“And the purpose and results of the second test?”
Mac stepped next to the jury box so that the chemist’s answer would project to the farthest seat.
“At your request, I tested his blood for the presence of gamma-hydroxybutyrate, or GHB. This drug was present in the blood sample at a significant level.”
“What do you mean by significant?”
“It would have produced changes in Mr. Thomason’s mind and body for a period of several hours.”
Pete looked at the jurors, wanting to exert his will so that they would pay attention to the chemist’s conclusions. He couldn’t tell what they thought. One man on the front row was slouched down in his seat and a woman on the back row was looking through her pocketbook. In a few seconds the woman pulled out a nail file and gave one of her fingers a few quick strokes.
“What is the effect of GHB?” Mac asked.
“It is the same type of drug as Rohypnol. It makes a person confused, disoriented, and passive.”
“What is its effect on memory?”
“It causes short-term amnesia.”
“Dr. Ogden, if you assume the level of GHB you found in Pete Thomason’s blood sample to be accurate, how long would he have been confused, disoriented, and passive?”
“Two to three hours immediately before the sample was drawn.”
“What about amnesia?”
“The same. There would be the potential for total memory loss.”
“During this period, how difficult would it have been for Mr. Thomason to drive a car on a winding mountain road?”
“Very difficult, even for a short period of time.”
“Your witness,” Mac said to Joe.
Joe walked forward, trying to exude more confidence than he felt.
“Dr. Ogden, were you hired and paid by the defense to perform tests on the paint sample from Mr. McFarland’s truck and the defendant’s blood?”
“Mr. McClain’s office contacted me and I submitted my bill to him, but my file indicates Echota County is responsible for paying for my services.”
“And you do not work for the state crime lab?”
“No. I have an independent company.”
“So you do a lot of tests that have nothing to do with criminal proceedings?”
“The majority of my work is for private companies and individuals.”
“Have you ever testified in a murder trial before?”
“Twice.”
“Who hired you in those cases?”
“Counsel for the defendant.”
“So the State has never hired you to testify?”
“Oh yes. I have testified at least twenty or thirty times for the prosecution in complex criminal drug cases. I worked with the U.S. Attorney’s office on several cases when you were with them in Atlanta.”
Having asked one question too many, Joe slunk back to the prosecution table.
After the lunch break, Mac called polygraph expert Bruce Wilcox. As a former GBI agent and trainer of polygraph examiners, Wilcox shot down some of Sergeant Laird’s testimony about polygraph theory and, after reviewing Laird’s charts, mildly criticized the test that indicated Pete was deceptive.
“Mr. Wilcox, please compare the chart from the polygraph test administered by Sergeant Laird with a set from another examination and tell the jury if they support different conclusions.”
Joe quickly responded, “Objection, Your Honor.”
“Come forward,” the judge said. The lawyers came close to the bench. “Mr. McClain, I warned Mr. Moreland about trying to introduce a nonstipulated polygraph into evidence and threatened him with contempt if he crossed the line. You know better.”
Mac kept his cool. “Of course, Your Honor. I have no intention of trying to introduce testimony that connects the other chart with the defendant.”
“That’s bogus,” Joe snorted. “This whole line of questioning is a backdoor way to violate the rules of evidence. Any talk about ‘another examination’ is meant to send a message to the jury that there is another polygraph of the defendant.”
The judge nodded. “Mr. Whetstone, I agree. Objection sustained. Mr. McClain, move on to something else.”
Mac backed away from the bench. “That’s all from this witness,” he said.
Wilcox stepped down from the witness stand.
“The defense calls Harry O’Ryan,” Mac said.
Harry, dressed in a new suit purchased by Peggy Morrison, looked more like his file photo from the bank in Corbin, Kentucky, than the bar-hopping bum tracked down by Ray. If confession was good for the soul, Harry’s soul got a double dose of goodness as he recanted his previous lies and completely exonerated Pete from any responsibility for the incident involvin
g Sally Tompkins and Patricia Rawlings.
“Did Pete Thomason put any drugs into the girls’ drinks?” Mac asked.
“No. Buster did it. I saw him pour something into their drinks from a bottle he took from his pocket while the girls were in the rest room.”
“Did you know what he was doing?”
“Yeah,” Harry admitted. “He told me, but I didn’t think he was serious.”
“What happened next?”
“The four of us left together in a Camaro owned by one of the girls.”
“Where was Pete?”
“He stayed at the bar.”
“Where did you go?”
“The girls passed out in the backseat, and I got scared. I told Buster to drop me off at another bar, and I’d catch a cab back to the base. That’s what I did. The next morning Buster woke me up and said someone was going to get in a lot of trouble about the deal with the girls. We decided to blame Pete and told the base commander it was all Pete’s fault.”
“Why are you telling the truth five years later?”
“When I found out Pete was charged with murder and that Buster was going to testify against him, I decided to come forward and clear the record.”
“Your witness,” Mac said.
Joe placed a stack of papers on the edge of the prosecution table.
“Mr. O’Ryan, how many different stories have you told about what happened with Sally Tompkins and Patricia Rawlings?”
“Two.”
“And in both versions you didn’t do anything wrong, did you?”
“It wasn’t my deal,” Harry shifted in the witness chair. “Buster slipped the stuff in their drinks.”
“And you didn’t go along for the ride?”
“Not very far. I went to another bar.”
“Speaking of bars. You’ve spent a lot of time in bars, haven’t you?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And you’re an alcoholic, aren’t you?”
Harry glanced toward Mac, who had seen similar looks many times from witnesses who saw a train coming around the bend in their direction. But there was nothing he could do. Joe Whetstone was on solid ground.
“Do I need to repeat the question?” Joe asked.
“No, uh, yes. I mean, what do you mean?’
“If an alcoholic is someone who drinks almost every day, would you qualify?”
The Trial Page 28