Then McGee's cell phone rings. He wrestles it out of his suit pants pocket and stabs the button. “McGee.”
Without a word he presses the button again. He stares straight through the windshield, straight into the hot sun, as he growls, “Goddamn. Verdict's in.”
EIGHT
I'M SITTING UP front next to McGee when the reporters once again burst into the courtroom. Twenty minutes earlier the deputies and security guards outside the building took note of the badges we displayed and let us through the agitated crowd that was massed by the courthouse's entrance like runners at a starting line. Behind us now, they nudge one another and argue for more room on the hard pews.
I feel uncomfortable with the media staring at the back of my head. Once or twice I think I hear my name among the whisperings, followed by the sardonic nickname “QuickDraw.” Then I feel even more uncomfortable when the Lee family is led in to take their seats directly behind us. An apology is on my lips, for exactly what I don't know, but I don't turn around. The five of them sit silently except for the occasional sniffle that I assume is the result of Mrs. Lee's ever present and well-deserved tears.
On the ride over and then in the courtroom, when it was still empty and quiet, McGee had growled out the forensic details of the Lee case.
Kimberly Lee was beaten and raped before she was strangled by a nylon-sheathed cord three millimeters in diameter. Cord of the same color and diameter also had been used to bind her hands behind her back. The strangulation had been carried out by the use of some sort of slipknot rather than simply having been held in two hands like a garrote. When she was found the pink cord flecked with purple was still biting into her flaccid skin. There were several different abrasions on her neck caused by the cord, indicating she'd struggled bravely before the lack of blood flow to her brain and the resulting lack of oxygen caused her to lose consciousness forever.
The bright, thin cord was unusual. It was dissimilar to the cords sold in both the town's mountaineering stores as well as in all of Laramie's hardware stores. One of the few high points in the defendants' case was that no more of it was found among the brothers' belongings. The prosecution was unable to explain where the Knapps had purchased it.
A second point for the defense was the fact that no rape kit was ever performed on the victim's body. The good Dr. Gustavson's autopsy was cursory at best, unlike the exacting procedures the state's examiners would have used.
Generally, the state's superior resources are taken advantage of by local law enforcement in all serious or complex cases. But DCI was not invited to participate in the Lee investigation. With the believed killers so quickly and easily apprehended, both Nathan Karge and Sheriff Willis, his campaign manager, apparently felt the state's assistance was not needed. Or, more likely, they wanted to do this case on their own and not have to share any credit. They wanted to show Wyoming and the nation that they were diligent and effective; that in the wake of Matthew Shepard's murder the town and its elected officials were perfectly capable of handling this all by themselves. In the midst of the campaign, Karge and Willis needed to be the heroes. They jealously guarded the limelight.
I remember a part of the closing arguments I saw the day before. The defense argued to the jury that a reasonable doubt exists for two reasons. First, because no rape kit was performed, there was no DNA evidence tying the Knapps to the scene—only the single fingerprint on the broken crank pipe, which could have gotten there a number of ways. Second, the prosecution had been unable to associate the cord to the defendants. These two facts, their lawyers said, raised a reasonable doubt as to whether the Knapps really raped and murdered Kimberly Lee. It was a rush to judgment based on shoddy evidence and political ambitions.
The defense also tried to explain the Knapps' peculiar way of answering the door as a drunken mistake, the result of several years of “unfortunate” encounters with the local police.
Karge responded in his rebuttal that no case was perfect, there are always unanswered questions, and there are always a few things that can't be explained, but that this sort of speculation did not amount to a reasonable doubt. He pointed out the weighty evidence that proved the Knapps' guilt: that Kimberly Lee was planning on telling the police where she used to get her drugs; one of the Knapps' fingerprints on the crank pipe near the victim's body; the hacked-off piece of Kimberly Lee's breast along with the work glove found in the bed of their pickup; the way the Knapps answered the deputies' knock on their trailer with a shotgun blast as if they expected the police; the racist propaganda found inside; and, most damning of all, the slurred statement one of the Knapps made to Sheriff Willis—“Bitch had it coming.”
Now I find myself staring at the two defendants as the deputies lead them shuffling into the courtroom. The Knapps walk cautiously, limping a little from the leg braces hidden by their public-defender standard-issue cheap polyester suits. I'm thinking about another dead girl with abrasions on her neck and the casually discarded “necklace,” wondering if this entire circus could be a mistake.
The bailiff slams down the gavel and shouts, “All rise!” Everyone in the courtroom leaps to their feet on the old wooden floor but the defendants and their parents. The mother and father sit grim-faced and angry behind their sons, sure like everyone else that their children are about to be found guilty. I take the opportunity to look around for Rebecca Hersh, and spot her thick dark hair and alabaster skin near the rear of the chamber. I wonder what she would write if she knew about the things McGee and I learned in the coroner's cutting room.
When the judge comes in, she gives the family and the public defender's staff who sit among them a brief glare before she tells the courtroom to be seated.
“Mr. Karge, Mr. Crane, Mr. Schneider,” she says to each of the attorneys, “I'm told we have a verdict. Are you prepared to receive it?”
Each answers with a solemn nod. Most of the room gets to their feet a second time as the jury is led into the box. The men and women look uncomfortable, knowing that every eye in the room is searching their faces for some clue. They keep their eyes in neutral places—the floor, the flags, the judge. Once the jury is seated the gallery is told to take their seats again. It's almost like a game of Simon Says.
“Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” the judge asks them. The foreman stands with a dip of his head and holds out a piece of paper to the bailiff, who carries it to the judge. She glances at it without expression and sends it back to the foreman.
Never before having observed a capital trial, I watch impressed by the speed of such a consequential proceeding. As soon as the slip of paper is back to the jury, the judge asks the defendants to rise and the foreman to read the verdict. The defendants' attorneys and family members now stand with them. I've never heard anything so quiet as that room, packed with one hundred and fifty people. It's more hushed than a moment of silence at a funeral.
The foreman reads the first charge, Wyoming Statute 6–2–101, Murder in the First Degree, in an almost serene voice. It sounds suspiciously to me like the soft hiss of a fuse being lit. The room holds its collective breath as the foreman pauses and looks directly and bravely at the defendants. His voice is gentle as he pronounces a single word: “Guilty.” But that one word causes the courtroom to explode.
Before the spectators even have a chance to exhale, one of the brothers shouts, “Bullshit!” He flips the table in front of him into the well of the court. There's an audible pop as the restraining devices concealed beneath his pant legs snap open. He balances awkwardly as he begins to rave. The two deputies, seated in folding chairs behind the defense table, spring toward him. The other brother sweeps his own table clear of his attorney's books, legal pads, and laptop computers.
He too is screaming at the jurors, males and females alike, “You bitches! You fucking bitches!”
The two deputies struggle with the brother who's flipped the table, while the other is held by his own attorneys. Everyone in the room is on their feet and the ch
amber roars with noise. I'm among them, considering a leap over the short wall that divides the pews from the court's well.
Before I can, a door near the jury's box bangs open. Jones strides out followed by another two deputies. The heat goes out of the brothers' curses at the sight of the enormous man moving coolly toward them. Coming at them is something they hold in utter contempt—a black man—with the courtroom lights reflecting off his shaved skull like a halo. Even worse, it's a black man wearing the uniform of authority with a badge on his chest and a gun at his hip. Their shouts turn to mutters as Jones efficiently handcuffs the one held by his attorneys while four deputies take care of the other. Jerking slightly against their captors, as if a brief trickle of potassium chloride is already entering their veins, both brothers are led out of the courtroom.
At a nod from the judge, Jones walks to the rear of the chamber and positions himself against the main doors. He folds his arms across his wide chest. The message on his face is clear: No one is getting out until the judge dismisses them.
I look around the room and watch as the reporters assess their chances of getting past Jones, then resort to scribbling and talking among themselves. The defendants' mother is openly sobbing while her husband sits red-faced in what is either shame or fury. Behind me, the Lees are not exulting in the one verdict they've heard. They sit stone-faced. No public condemnation or punishment of the animals who killed their daughter will bring her back. The defense attorneys and their staff right the overturned table and recover their scattered belongings.
The judge beats the bench with her gavel to silence the room. “Mr. Foreman,” she says, “you may continue reading the verdict.”
“Objection!” the lead attorney yelps from where he's crouched, picking up his computer. “Your honor, I move for a mistrial!”
“On what grounds, Mr. Smith?”
“This jury has clearly been prejudiced by what they've just seen.”
Karge speaks up. “It doesn't matter, they've already reached verdicts.”
“But—”
“No more argument, please, Mr. Smith. Motion for a mistrial denied. You'll have an opportunity to poll the jury after the verdicts are read. Continue, Mr. Foreman.”
The defense attorney interrupts again. “Objection as to the absence of my clients from the courtroom.”
“They've made themselves quite unavailable. You may inform them of the jury's verdicts once this proceeding is finished. Now be quiet and save your objections,” the judge snaps at him.
The foreman maintains his composure except for a small quaver in his voice as he reads each count and the jury's finding of guilty. By the end of his reading, the entire courtroom is again buzzing with murmurs. The reporters are visibly anxious to get to their phones and cameras, but the judge keeps them in their seats with a harsh glare. “Frigging ants in their pants,” McGee stage-whispers to me.
After the judge allows the defense to despondently poll each of the jurors as to whether the verdict to each charge was their individual verdict and the unanimous verdict of the jury, she tells the attorneys they can take up posttrial motions the next morning. She sets a sentencing date in eight days—next Friday at nine o'clock.
Karge objects to that. “Your honor, the State is prepared to proceed with sentencing immediately.”
“I'm sure you are, Mr. Karge,” the judge snaps at him now. “But I'm going to give the jurors a few days off. Surely you don't want the jury to vote on whether to impose the death penalty with this scene fresh in their minds.”
Karge wants exactly that. He waits a moment before sitting again, as if he's considering whether he should argue the point further, until the judge's glare burns his legs out from under him. He does a strange thing when he sits—quickly turning in his seat, he gives McGee and me the briefest of glances before turning back to the papers on his table.
I wait for the reporters and spectators to flee from the room before I follow. Moments earlier McGee trailed Karge out through a side door after the County Attorney gravely shook the hand of Mr. Lee and received a low bow from both him and the victim's mother. In the hallway I spot Jones standing by a window, watching the exodus of spectators and the agitated crowd on the grass outside. While disparate portions of the crowd chant different slogans, either in victory or in anguish, or for even some stranger passion, the television commentators talk excitedly at their cameras.
The big man gives me a familiar roll of his eyes when he notices me coming toward him. “Never seen anything like this, QuickDraw. Hope never to again, but I know next week could be worse. The sentencing, you know. At least I finally get a day off tomorrow.”
“Your guys did a good job getting ahold of them.”
“Next week those boys are sure as shit going to be wearing shock belts. One false move and zap!” He pushes an imaginary button with his finger. “We once put it on a young deputy and shocked him. Guy peed his pants.”
Feeling talkative from the day's events, I recall one of McGee's many stories and tell it to Jones. During a robbery trial McGee prosecuted, the defendant hadn't liked the way the case was going. So he grabbed the bag of the state's evidence and took off running out of the courtroom. The jury convicted him anyway, in absentia, and without a good deal of the evidence. When he was finally caught weeks later and brought in for sentencing, the pissed-off judge gave him the max—twelve years. McGee said the guy appealed, arguing that he was convicted without sufficient evidence, and the Supreme Court overturned his conviction, setting him free pending a new trial. Of course the stolen evidence was never recovered. And in the second trial he was acquitted.
Jones says with a laugh, “Justice, huh?” Then he in turn tells me his own story about a courtroom uproar. It was a rape trial he saw Nathan Karge prosecute. During his closing argument, Karge was interrupted by the sound of small shrieks and running feet. He'd been graphically describing to the jury how the perp forced his penis between the victim's lips and shoved it again and again in her mouth, bruising the back of her throat. A troop of Girl Scouts had just wandered in to see justice at work, and their den mothers were chasing them back out the courtroom's door.
“What do you think for the Knapp brothers? Life or death?” I ask.
“It's a foregone conclusion, my friend. Those suckers are gonna die. And fast, with that new expedited appeals process. I give 'em three years and they're toast. I'm not feeling too sad about it. Crime's been way down in this town since we've had those two locked up.”
“You get the feeling there's anything strange about the case Willis and Karge put together?”
Jones won't answer that. He just says, “Wasn't my case, bro.”
So I drop it for now and ask, “You still want to get together? How about me teaching you to climb tomorrow? I've got to go out to Vedauwoo on this Danning thing.”
Jones laughs. “Oh yeah, my wife would love that. I was thinking more along the lines of getting a few beers.” Then he looks thoughtful for a minute, and says, “But I guess it would beat lifting weights in the gym with those redneck peckerheads. You serious?”
“I am.”
“Okay then, I'll give it a shot. If you break any of my precious bones, she'll rip your head off. And both the sheriff and the judge will run you out of town if I can't do the security for the sentencing.”
I arrange to meet him up at Vedauwoo late the next morning after I've climbed with Lynn and her friends.
NINE
OUTSIDE NEAR THE courthouse's large glass doors, Kristi, the DCI secretary, is waiting for me. She carries an oversize purse on a strap across one shoulder. From the top of it pokes a manila envelope that I assume contains the printouts I'd requested. She wears a short navy skirt without stockings, and a man's white shirt. Her blonde hair, curly and piled high, does not quite match her skin. Her tan is too dark. It's the deep bronze of someone who spends her weekends oiled by the pool instead of on the granite. When I worked out of the Cheyenne office her breasts had been the subject of
intense scrutiny and much speculation. Real or fake, everyone wondered. I know that if I'm not careful I'll find out.
She sees me and bounces up the steps. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles as she pecks me on the cheek. Her hug includes the warm press of her hips. From these things I have no doubt she's more than willing to stay the night. She probably carries a change of underwear in her purse.
“Hi, Anton,” she breathes against my neck.
When I manage to politely disengage myself I say hello.
“We all heard about what happened today. What a terrible thing! Are you all right?”
I nod uneasily. “It wasn't that big a deal. Did you bring the printouts?”
“Ha! You won't get them that easy. Making me drive them over is going to cost you at least a dinner.” She says it with a wink and a twist of her hips.
I don't mention that she volunteered to bring them, and don't ask what “at least dinner” means. I'm simply glad McGee isn't here to poke fun. I wonder if right now he's ruining Karge's moment of glory by telling him about our conversation with the coroner.
Kristi drives me to the hotel and on the way I have to fill her in on every detail of what happened in court. In my room, she sits on the bed rubbing Oso's flanks while the big dog groans with pleasure. “A girl doesn't get to make a guy feel this good very often,” she comments.
I pour water for us both into the plastic bottles I use when I climb. I mistrust hotel glasses in general—I've never noticed clean ones on the maids' carts and suspect they simply wipe them off using the same rag they swab on the toilets and sinks.
Picking up the phone, I dial an endless series of numbers: credit card, access code, etc., to check the messages at my small office-of-exile in Cody. The first two are from local police officers wanting my assistance. Then there is one from the County Attorney up there requesting my presence at an evidentiary hearing. The fourth is from a potential snitch I'm courting. The fifth is from the lawyer, Clayton Wells, who is representing me in the civil suit. He wants to talk to me before next week's hearing for summary judgment. He wants to talk about settling, he says. I suppress a grimace and erase that one as quickly as I'd saved the others.
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