The Color of Law sf-1

by Mark Gimenez

  “Was he ever arrested for a sexual crime?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

  “Was a complaint ever filed against Clark McCall alleging a sexual crime?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “So, bottom line, your chief called in the Feds because he knew the victim was the son of Senator McCall?”

  “Yes, sir. And because we’d never worked a homicide in Highland Park.”

  The next witness for the prosecution was the FBI agent first on the scene, Agent Paul Owen, fifty, ex-military with a soldier’s bearing and haircut.

  “Agent Owen,” Ray Burns said, “you arrived at the McCall residence at what time?”

  “Approximately two-thirty P.M.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I entered the residence, which Highland Park PD had secured, and went upstairs to the crime scene. I observed the victim’s body lying on the floor. I commenced documenting the crime scene, and I called in the Evidence Response Team. They arrived at approximately three P.M.”

  “You were in charge of the investigation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you process the crime scene?”

  “Yes, sir, we collected the evidence.”

  “And what evidence did you collect?”

  “We cut out the carpet under and surrounding the body to obtain blood samples. We collected hair next to the body, fingerprints, various pieces of clothing, personal effects, the sheets off the bed, drinking glasses, a. 22-caliber bullet imbedded in the floor, a. 22-caliber pistol, and the body.”

  “And what did you do with this evidence?”

  “The body went to the Dallas County medical examiner. The rest of the evidence went to the FBI lab at Quantico, Virginia, for analysis.”

  “Did you conduct a luminol test to locate blood elsewhere in the room?”

  “Yes, sir, we did.”

  “And did you find blood elsewhere?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So the victim died where he was found?”

  “Yes, sir. The body had not been moved.”

  “Did you immediately run a check on the fingerprints?”

  “Yes, sir, we did that in Dallas.”

  “And did you get a match?”

  “Yes, sir. The fingerprints on one of the drinking glasses and the pistol belonged to the defendant.”

  “Shawanda Jones?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “We obtained an arrest warrant for Shawanda Jones.”

  “Did you make the arrest?”

  “No, sir. I sent Agent Edwards.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I called next of kin.”

  “Senator McCall?”

  “Yes, sir. I informed the senator that his son had been murdered in their residence.”

  “And what did Senator McCall say?”

  “He asked how his son had been killed.”

  “And did you tell him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Back to the crime scene, Agent Owen. Were photographs taken of the crime scene?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ray Burns stepped over to Scott and handed him the four photographs he would show the jury. The crime scene photos had been the subject of heated pretrial arguments over their prejudicial effect on the jury. Burns wanted to introduce two dozen photos, but the judge had approved only these four, one of which was particularly graphic. Scott handed the photos to Karen, who was sitting next to him. She inhaled sharply. He forgot she hadn’t seen the photos. Which reminded Scott; he twisted in his chair, caught the girls’ attention, and gestured that it was time for them to lower their eyes. He knew the photos were coming and had discussed it with them on the drive over that morning. He told them to stare down at their feet until the photo show was over.

  “Agent Owen, would you look at your computer screen and identify the photo being displayed to the jury on the overhead screen?”

  Agent Owen turned in the witness chair to view the computer screen. Scott kept an eye on the jury box.

  “This is the view of the crime scene from the bedroom door, as I first observed the scene. The bed is directly in front of the door, the bathroom over to the right, and the body over to the left. Only the victim’s legs are visible in this photo.”

  “This is an accurate representation of the crime scene?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  The next photo came up on the overhead screen.

  “Agent Owen, can you identify this photo?”

  “This is a close shot of the bed, evidencing that it had recently been, uh, occupied.”

  “And is this an accurate representation of what you saw?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And this photo?”

  “The bathroom, and it is accurate.”

  “And finally, this photo.”

  A collective gasp went up in the courtroom. In the jury box, the two housewives averted their eyes, the bartender grimaced, and the car salesman stared. Ray Burns had displayed his climactic photo, a close-up of Clark McCall’s body, his eyes open and vacant, a hole in his forehead, his head in a pool of blood.

  “This is a close shot of the victim’s body. He was naked, no wounds evident except about the head. There is apparent swelling around the right eye, some scratch marks on the face, and the entry wound in the left forehead.”

  Scott turned to the girls. They were staring down at their feet as instructed, but Pajamae’s hat brim rose slightly; she was peeking. Scott snapped his fingers at her; she looked at him. Her expression said it was too late. She had seen the photo.

  Ray allowed the gruesome image to sink into the jurors’ minds before saying, “No more questions.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Bobby cross-examined Agent Owen about the toxicology reports, which showed alcohol and cocaine in Clark McCall’s blood, so that the jurors would leave the courtroom that day with something on their mind other than the crime scene photos. After he passed the witness, Judge Buford adjourned for the day. Scott, Bobby, Karen, and the girls returned home; Senator McCall held a press conference on the courthouse steps. The senator spoke with the confidence of a man who knew his words would not be contradicted by Hannah Steele: “Clark was the kind of son every man dreams of having.”

  “Now, Scotty, don’t get depressed,” Bobby said through a mouthful of Chinese takeout. “The first day of a criminal trial is always bad. At least he didn’t surprise us with anything.”

  “I’m not depressed about the prosecution’s case, Bobby. I’m depressed about our defense. We’ve got nothing!”

  They were at their designated places on the kitchen floor and the girls were at theirs.

  “Carl’s still working the case.”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “Del Rio.”

  “What’s he doing down on the border?”

  Bobby shrugged. “With Carl, you give him full rein and don’t ask questions. He always finds something.”

  “I hope he finds something soon, Bobby, ’cause this isn’t looking good.”

  Bobby stuck a little spare rib in his mouth, worked it over, pulled it out clean, and said, “Shit, Scotty, don’t worry about today. Tomorrow’s gonna be a lot worse.”

  Boo and Pajamae were already in bed when Scott entered their bedroom to say prayers.

  After prayers, Pajamae said, “One night, a man got shot outside our apartment. When the po-lice came, Mama and me, we went outside. The dead man, he had a white sheet over him. I always wondered what he looked like, that dead man. Now I know.”

  “Pajamae, you promised not to look.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fenney, but I had to. They’re saying my mama killed that man. I had to look. But she didn’t do it. You believe her, don’t you, Mr. Fenney?”

  Scott looked into her big brown eyes and lied, “Of course I do.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next mo
rning Scott and the girls walked unimpeded into the federal building. The reporters did not shout questions. Instead, from a respectful distance the cameras silently recorded the entrance of Shawanda Jones’s lawyer and their daughters, dressed in smart short outfits, color-coordinated from head to toe. Boo, who had steadfastly refused to wear these outfits despite Rebecca’s continuing threats, had meticulously selected their wardrobes; she knew it was important to look good for Pajamae’s mother.

  They again walked past Delroy Lund, looking like he hadn’t moved since yesterday, except that he was holding the current day’s sports section. They again entered the courtroom to heads turning their way, as if craning to see a bride’s entrance into the church. They again walked to the front row, where Scott deposited the girls for the morning session. And Scott again exchanged glances with the McCalls and Dan Ford. Apparently his former senior partner wanted to witness his protege’s final defeat.

  Scott soon learned that Bobby was right. The second day of the trial was a lot worse than the first day. The prosecution’s first witness was the FBI agent who had made the arrest. Agent Andy Edwards, forty, professional in every way, testified on direct examination by Ray Burns that he had arrested Shawanda Jones at approximately six P.M. on Sunday, June 6, at her apartment in South Dallas; that he had advised her of her Miranda rights; and that his agents had executed a search warrant for her apartment, finding and taking into custody heroin packets, clothing, ten hundred-dollar bills, and a blonde wig.

  He further testified that he had taken her to the federal detention center and that she had given a voluntary written statement admitting that she had been with the victim the night of Saturday, June 5, that she had engaged in sex with him at a mansion in Highland Park, that they had fought, that she had hit him, that she had taken the keys to his Mercedes and the thousand dollars he owed her, and that she had abandoned the car on Harry Hines Boulevard.

  As Ray Burns left the podium and walked to his table, his eyes met Pajamae’s; she made a face and stuck her tongue out at him. Ray just shook his head, but two jurors, the dental assistant and the teacher, smiled. So far the girls were the best thing the defense had going for it.

  Scott stood and began his cross-examination.

  “Agent Edwards, what was Ms. Jones doing when you arrived at her apartment?”

  “Sitting on the front steps playing with her daughter.”

  Scott pointed to Pajamae in the first row.

  “Is that her daughter?”

  Agent Edwards looked at her and said, “Yes, sir, I believe she is.”

  “Did Ms. Jones attempt to run?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did she resist in any way?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did she exhibit the demeanor of a murderer?”

  Ray Burns jumped out of his chair. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  Scott turned to the judge: “Your Honor, Agent Edwards is an experienced FBI agent who has arrested…” He turned back to the witness: “How many murderers have you arrested?”

  “Dozens.”

  Back to the judge: “Who has arrested dozens of murderers. He knows the demeanor of a murderer.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Agent Edwards, did Shawanda Jones exhibit the demeanor of a murderer when you arrested her?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you tell her she was being arrested for the murder of Clark McCall?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Who?”

  “Ms. Jones.”

  “No, sir. That’s what she said. ‘Who?’ I said Clark McCall and she said, ‘Who?’”

  “She didn’t know who Clark McCall was?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “And when Ms. Jones gave her written statement, did she personally write the statement, in her own hand?”

  “No, sir. We had a stenographer take it, then type it up. Ms. Jones read it, I read it to her, and she signed it.”

  “I notice that in her statement she does not admit to killing Clark McCall. Did you ask her?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. She denied it.”

  Ray Burns next called FBI Agent Wendell Lee, the crime lab analyst, to testify as to the results of his analysis of the evidence taken from the crime scene. Agent Lee was methodical, like an accountant giving a quarterly report. Burns took him through the FBI procedures for accepting evidence, logging it in, and maintaining an unbroken chain of evidence to prevent mix-ups. Then he got to the specifics.

  “Agent Lee, the blood collected from the carpet removed from the crime scene was Clark McCall’s blood?”

  “Yes, sir. DNA tests were conclusive.”

  “The clump of hair, who did that belong to?”

  “Clark McCall. Also confirmed by DNA tests.”

  “And what part of his body did that hair originate from?”

  “His scalp.” Agent Lee put his hand on his scalp above his right eye. “From this region. It was yanked out by the roots.”

  “What about the clothing?”

  “We examined a blue polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Nothing was found on the clothing.”

  “And the bedsheets?”

  “No semen was found on the sheets. We did remove a condom from the body with ejaculate present.”

  “Did you find anything else on the sheets?”

  “Yes, sir, pubic hairs that matched Clark McCall’s and synthetic blonde hair fibers.”

  “And did you match these fibers?”

  “Yes, sir, we matched them to the blonde wig seized from the defendant’s residence.”

  Ray Burns removed the blonde wig from a plastic evidence bag and held it up like a dead skunk.

  “This wig, labeled government’s exhibit fifteen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the fingerprints?”

  “Fingerprints were lifted from the drinking glasses, bathroom countertop, the pistol, and the vehicle. All prints matched either Clark McCall or Shawanda Jones. The prints on the murder weapon matched only Shawanda Jones.”

  “Were there any unidentified prints?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right. Now to the murder weapon. The. 22-caliber bullet retrieved from the bedroom floor-you ran ballistics tests on it?”

  “Yes, sir. It was fired by the. 22-caliber pistol found at the crime scene.”

  “So the bullet that killed Clark McCall was fired from Shawanda Jones’s gun?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No further questions.”

  Scott walked to the podium. “Agent Lee, the defendant’s clothes were seized during the search of her residence, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was Clark McCall’s blood found on any of the defendant’s clothes?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Wouldn’t you expect to have found his blood on her clothing if she had shot him at point-blank range?”

  “Not if she was naked when she shot him.”

  After that disaster, Scott did not cross-examine Dr. Victor Urbina, the Dallas County medical examiner, who testified next as to the cause of death-“gunshot wound to the head”-and the time of death-“approximately ten-thirty P.M., Saturday, June fifth”-and the entry and exit wounds and angle of the bullet’s path through the brain. He figured that cross-examination would only extend the time the evidence was in front of the jury, which couldn’t be favorable to his client.

  That day’s picnic lunch featured egg salad sandwiches prepared by Pajamae Jones, wrapped in foil and kept cool in a cooler, along with Vanilla Coke, her favorite. After Scott summarized the morning’s testimony for Shawanda, Pajamae said, “Mama, I stuck my tongue out at Mr. Burns.”

  “Pajamae, that ain’t nice.”

  “Neither is he. You should hear the things he’s saying about you, Mama. Your ears must be burning!”

  “Shawanda,” Scott asked, “are you feeling better? Up to testifying?”

  “Wh
en?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  After lunch, FBI Agent Henry Hu, a forensics expert, took the stand. After agreeing with the testimony of Dr. Urbina as to the angle of the bullet’s path through Clark McCall’s brain, Agent Hu, in a long, painstaking, and detailed direct examination, proceeded to offer his expert opinion as to how he believed the murder occurred, according to the forensics evidence and with the help of a graphic exhibit on which was depicted a human figure, halfway between lying down and kneeling up, and standing over him another human figure, holding a gun to the victim’s head. Measurements were noted around the perimeter of the figures, with lines drawn to show various heights and angles and a dark line showing the path of the bullet from the gun, through the skull, and to its impact point in the floor. Dr. Hu pointed to the exhibit with a metal pointer as he testified.

  “The victim was in a semi-kneeling position when he was shot. We believe that because, as you can see here, the bullet’s path through the skull must align with the point at which the bullet impacted the floor. The victim was seventy-one inches tall. If he were standing when shot, the twenty-eight-degree downward angle of the bullet’s path through the skull would require that the perpetrator hold the gun overhead and then shoot at a downward angle, a physically difficult act”-Agent Hu demonstrated the difficulty for the jury-“or that the perpetrator be unusually tall.

  “So, if the victim were kneeling, the point of entry-his forehead-stands only fifty inches above the floor, still a little high. But if he’s in a semi-kneeling position, as if he were getting up off the floor, with the point of entry approximately forty inches above the floor, which is the approximate height at which a normal-sized person would hold a gun in front of him, like this, give or take several inches”-Agent Hu again demonstrated for the jury-“then the bullet’s path through the skull and the point of impact in the floor align precisely.”

  The jurors nodded in agreement with his analysis.

  “We also know that the victim’s hair was ripped out by the roots, which requires great force. This leads us to conclude that the murder occurred as follows: the victim was on the floor of the bedroom. The perpetrator grabbed the victim by the hair on the right side of his scalp and yanked him up to approximately forty inches off the floor. The perpetrator placed the barrel of the gun to the victim’s forehead over his left eye and shot the victim. The force of the gun’s discharge knocked the victim to the floor-which is consistent with the location in which the body was found-and extracted his hair from his scalp.”