But Bob Bennett was being given the easiest notch on his gun a prosecutor ever got. He could save the community time and money and count an easy win for his side. Failing to put down a queasiness in his conscience, Bennett nonetheless agreed to enact the charade. At midafternoon the storm increased. Marcia was brought into the empty courtroom where she was told to sit at the defense table. About her, the bailiff and the court employees were speaking of the rain and the radio reports that tornadoes were touching down, so far sparing human injury. Marcia’s thoughts were on what was about to happen to her. She tried to summon bravado. Over the lunch recess, she had heard from a sister prisoner that the plan was promising. “One of the girls went before a judge and waived a jury trial and she only got a $2,500 fine,” said Marcia to the bailiff. He was a big, fatherly man who was kind to the prostitute and was letting her smoke before the judge entered the room.
“What was the girl charged with?” asked the bailiff.
“Assassination,” said Marcia. “Of a kidnap victim.”
She chain-smoked awhile, listening to the storm. Several times she mentioned to the bailiff that the events about to transpire were “for the best.”
“Charles Caperton explained it to me,” she said, but there was a tinge of apprehension to her voice, “and he thinks we have a good chance of winning on appeal.”
It took five minutes, four of which were used by Bob Bennett to drone stentorially the state’s accusation and evidence and stipulated witnesses against Marcia McKittrick for the crime of first degree murder. Charles Caperton rose and accepted the stimulated testimony—with an exception to the disputed confession.
Clearly troubled by the moment, Judge Price instructed the defendant to rise. “I find you guilty of the felony offense of murder,” he said, over the rising sounds of the heavy rain. Marcia McKittrick closed her eyes, swayed, and threw her hand knotted against the orange and purple smock to push back a sob. The bailiff had handcuffs ready for her wrists, but, moved by her plight, he took only her arm and almost gently led her away.
Bob Bennett walked out of the courtroom with his eyes to the floor, not even bothering to honor custom by shaking hands with Caperton.
Four weeks later, after presentence investigation by the probation department, Judge Price sentenced Marcia to ten years in the state penitentiary. On the way to the elevator that would take her to the subterranean county jail, Marcia was stopped by Bob Bennett. He wanted to know if she would now testify for the state in the upcoming trial of Lilla Paulus. Perhaps her situation might improve, he suggested carefully. The implication was that a warm word from the DA’s office might go down well with those officials in the penal system who decide when an inmate is sufficiently rehabilitated to rejoin society.
Marcia made to shake her head in dutiful negation. But then she shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m so confused. And I don’t feel very good.”
He did not blame her. The same taste of ashes was in his mouth.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Over the mild winter months that rarely torment Houston with any climatic discomfort save torrential rains and an anemic breeze or two from the north, Marcia McKittrick remained the object of many attentions. She was not transferred back to the state women’s prison at Huntsville to complete her old bad check sentence from Dallas, or to begin the new “dime”—as she called it—the ten years decreed for the murder of Dr. John Hill. Rather she was kept cooped up in the downtown Harris County jail where she passed the days reading philosophy, writing children’s stories, and looking forward to the frequent visits of a nun named Sister Sophia who did missionary work among the women inmates. Often the nun cheered her by taking Marcia’s stories to the outside world and reading them to youngsters in the church school and returning with good reviews. “I always had a vivid imagination,” Marcia confided in the sister, “it’s just that I never had the time until now to sit down and write it out.” It did not seem to be the classic example of the whore obtaining religion and rushing to repentance and redemption. Marcia simply liked Sister Sophia because she made no demands, engaged in no pleading and cajoling, as did everybody else who came to see her. The visits from the opposing lawyers became so commonplace that when the matron roused Marcia from an afternoon nap she would often come awake grouchily and say, “Which one this time? Bennett or DeGuerin?”
Marcia liked Bob Bennett and she told him so. He had no trouble starting up her conversation motor and, once engaged, it spun out merry tales of whoredom and irrelevant anecdotes of life with Bobby Vandiver. Had Bennett ever heard about the time when Bobby burned her spot book? “Oh, and there was that night in Corpus Christi when Bobby and I were ripped, really stoned out of our minds on pills, they practically sold them over the counter at this club, and we staggered out and got on these gocarts next door and went around and around and around!”
The prosecutor laughed, as he always did, and he let out the rope until it was slack and comfortable. But then he always yanked it back. “Are you going to testify for us against Lilla?” was what he wanted to know. It was the reason he always came.
“I can’t, Bob,” she usually answered, for she was now on a first-name basis with the assistant district attorney. “I can’t go back on things I learned when I was a kid.”
Once Bennett raged at her. “You and that god damn character code!” he yelled, his voice echoing along the thick-walled chambers of the jail. “Look where it’s got you!”
“It’s not that,” Marcia replied. “It’s just a decision I’ve made. Some mornings I wake up and I wash my face and I think, ‘Well, you’re a class A fool for not testifying against that woman.… But if I did give evidence, then she’d probably get a life sentence. And at the same time, I’d be sentencing myself to die.”
Bennett’s red flag went up. He lived with the continuing worry that a pair of scissors would find its way into the prostitute’s back. That was one reason he was keeping her in the basement jail of the courthouse. The other was convenience. He did not have the time to drive seventy-five miles to Huntsville for his regular bouts of frustration with her. “Have they threatened you?” he demanded to know.
“Let’s just say they made me an offer I can’t refuse,” she giggled. Then she turned serious. “No, I’m kidding you. I just couldn’t live with myself if I knew I put somebody else in jail. Listen, Bob, I’m only twenty-five years old. And I’ve only got a dime to do.”
On another day, Bennett discovered Marcia obviously frightened. Her mood was as grave as the shroudlike light trying to work its way through the opaque windows of the jail. Gently, the prosecutor tried to learn the source of her fear. Finally she spoke, her voice heavy with emotion. “If I testified,” she said, “I’m scared they would hurt my little boy.”
Nonsense, said Bennett, trying to put out this fire. They wouldn’t hurt a child.
“You don’t know them,” said Marcia. She once knew a hooker in Dallas who defied the character code of silence and bore witness for the state. Then her four-year-old boy was “mangled” before her very eyes.
“Who are these people?” demanded Bennett. Who was “them”?
Of them, Marcia had nothing further to say. Bennett gathered that she desperately feared some of the guests who had formerly enjoyed the hospitality of Lilla Paulus. He tried to dissuade her of that concern. If she was in any way worried about the safety of her loved ones, then the DA’s office would bring her child and parents under escort from Dallas, install them in a house, and throw the entire Houston police force around its perimeter as guards. Then would she testify against Lilla?
Marcia appreciated the offer, but the answer was still no. “I can’t, Bob. I wish I could help you out, but I can’t.”
The prostitute clung with what seemed unshakable determination to her position over a period of four months. Bob Bennett almost abandoned hope of any co-operation from her. He had no weapons of negotiation remaining. He had called her a dupe and a fool for taking the rap when others w
ere living free. He had held out the tempting suggestion that the state of Texas would look with favor on her co-operation as evidence that she was rehabilitating herself and entitled to rejoin the community. He even tried appealing to her sense of the theatrical; she would be the star! He did not tell her that without her appearance there would be no show.
On the evening of February 16, 1975, a dozen hours or so before Lilla Paulus was due in court to answer the state’s accusation that she had been an accomplice to the murder of John Hill, Bennett paid one last visit to the women’s section of the county jail. He was in a foul mood, uncharacteristically snappish, tired of fooling around with Marcia, even weary of his job and the system and the city of Houston. An offer had come to him recently from the United States Attorney’s office in Washington and the temptation was strong to take it. The eternal John Hill murder case had worn his faith in a judicial process down to a nub. He knew that the next morning a travesty would occur. Oh, he was going to appear for the state and shuffle through the motions of trying to convict Lilla Paulus, but without Marcia, without her nasal little-girl drawl pouring out the tale of Ash Robinson’s money and John Hill’s blood, then by the end of the day he could probably go home and maybe get the first good night’s sleep since he first heard all the names he now so despised.
“It’s a god damn shame,” he said. His voice was hot. Marcia had never seen him this way. “And you’re crazy! You’re flat out stupid. Bobby Vandiver, your great friend, did twelve days in the city jail. Twelve days! Ash Robinson, the son of a bitch who put this whole thing together, is sitting out there in his River Oaks mansion and doesn’t even have to come down to the courthouse! And you’re going to sit back and let Lilla Paulus walk out of here a free woman? It’s insane, Marcia. You’re a smart woman in some things, but you’re certifiably crazy when it comes to the most important decision you ever made.”
Marcia began her response by saying that she had already made her feelings known. She was not going to testify. Period. She had, in fact, just told Dick DeGeurin the news in his most recent visit, and he had praised her for the courage it took to keep her silence. Then, suddenly, she interrupted herself and looked away. A clutch of confusing emotions passed across her face. Bennett wondered briefly if she was ill. Then she smiled, curiously, an enigmatic smile that would have sent Da Vinci for a paintbrush. “Well, who knows what I might do?” she finally said, teasingly. But it was enough to make Bennett sit up. Was there a tiny sliver of hope? “Yeah,” Marcia went on, “who knows what I might do if you put me on the witness stand and I see that old bitch sittin’ out there in the courtroom?”
“Would you testify against her?” asked Bennett, trying to guard his mounting excitement.
Marcia shrugged. “I told you, Bob. Who knows?”
They all gathered, like kin whose names were written in a family Bible and linked by a great disaster. Jerry Carpenter was there first, arriving at the courthouse long before the starting hour of ten. He had suffered still another tragedy in his personal life; it seemed to reflect the misery of his police work. His teen-age son had been gravely injured in a high-speed traffic crash and the boy’s face, shredded, would require years of plastic surgery. If that were not enough to make a man somber, the detective had, just the day before, learned that a “contract” was reportedly out on his life, presumably due to his zealous work in the Hill matter. Carpenter reported the rumor to his superior and was told to take off a few days and stay low. Instead, Carpenter went directly to the courthouse. He would probably be called as a witness in Lilla’s trial sooner or later but he was so deeply committed to a conviction of the woman that he could not bear to stay at home and wait for a summons. His former partner, Gamino, had been transferred out of homicide, assigned to the training division for rookie cops. He sent word to Bennett that he would be available on five minutes’ notice if his testimony were required. “We may not get as far as testimony,” cautioned Bennett.
Carpenter sipped coffee in the basement cafeteria and frowned. His mood was so bleak that he could not even enjoy the parade of pretty secretaries, lined up to purchase carry-out breakfasts. “Without Marcia,” he muttered, “we might as well hang it up. They’ll ask for an instructed verdict, and they’ll probably get it.” He cursed and threw his empty cigarette pack to the floor. It was fortunate that he did not have to question a suspect on this morning, for he might have slapped someone against the wall. “They must have got to her,” he snapped. “Money, maybe. Or threats. She’s vulnerable in so many ways. Her kid, her mommy and daddy. And hell, Marcia’s smart. She knows she’s only serving a dime, and she’s probably got less than a year to go.” Carpenter had also paid visits to Marcia during the weeks and he had tried first reason, then, failing, a dump truck of scorn. “Ah, hell,” he said as he rose to find the elevator and ascend to the sixth-floor courtroom where the others were assembling, “it’s no use blaming anybody. People do what they damn well have to do. The whole city is fucked up.”
Overnight a rumor worked its way out of the women’s jail and was waiting for Bob Bennett when he arrived at his office. Marcia had been supposedly threatened with death by a sister prisoner if she testified. “I’m sure it’s probably true,” he told the investigator who brought the report, “but what the hell do I do with it on the morning we begin trial? I don’t know how to verify it without interviewing every god damn female in the jail. And they’d all deny it.” Briefly he thought of hurrying down to the slammer and soothing Marcia, but he dared not tamper with that fragile ambiguity from their meeting the night before. Instead he began working on a last-ditch squeeze play in case the whore continued her balk. His plan was highly original and, as best as he could determine through hurried research, at least legal. Its moral ramifications were another matter, and he did not relish putting Marcia in the vise he had concocted. But at this ragged eleventh hour, all he wanted was to satisfy his professional obligations and get every one of these maddening people off the stage of his senses. Normally he was as peppy as a vein full of amphetamines on the first morning of a major trial. Today all he felt was numbing fatigue and the anticipation of humiliating defeat.
Conversely, attorney Dick DeGeurin arrived at the courthouse with Lilla Paulus on one arm, an enormous squat briefcase in the other, and the attitude of a performer about to open in a show that would make him a star. He was careful to conceal his confidence, for he was a cool young man, a patrician lawyer who, it was easy to imagine, had been taught from childhood not to wear emotions for public view, or for the servants in the house. All of his life had been in preparation for this day. Indeed he even remarked to a friend, “When Lilla Paulus goes on trial, I go on trial with her.” DeGeurin was a short man as was his old friend Bob Bennett—had a plank been placed across their heads it would have balanced perfectly. And he possessed the attendant ego that so often overcompensates small stature. Happily, the ego was reinforced by good looks. DeGeurin brought to mind the playing fields of an Eastern prep school with his blondish hair modishly long and swept back on the sides like that of a Dutch skater on a frozen windy pond. In his Brooks Brothers suit and high-sheen, tightly tied cordovans, he was almost alien, Houston being a city of double knit suits and white patent loafers. DeGeurin was the child of a prominent Austin silk-stocking attorney who detested soiling his hands in the combat of trial. His fees were from society law—oil and gas leases, an occasional divorce. The DeGeurin dinner table rang with talk of politics, of the father’s college roommate, John Connally, of Lyndon Johnson’s pursuit of the rawest power, of Sam Rayburn’s country boy cunning. The child grew with ambitions to become one of these giant men whose handshakes the father knew well, and after law school his path was established. He would season himself with a year or two in the DA’s office, then run for the state legislature, then Congress, then, who knew? But unexpected roadblocks caused rerouting. The young lawyer had difficulty staying married; two discordant divorces and a reputation for being exceptionally diligent in the pursuit
of comely women was not helpful to an aspiring Texas politician. But he could have probably overcome even that—Texas was loosening its Baptist puritanism in the national sweep of the new morality—had he not spent a discomforting season in Austin as a lobbyist. “I grew up in that town,” he told a friend, “and I thought I knew what went on during a legislative session—a bunch of drinkin’ and screwin’ and ignorance. But I never realized to what extent.” The experience caused severe disenchantment with the political process. He abandoned ideas of becoming the United States senator from Texas and turned his attention toward a blazing career in the law, one that would satisfy his father.
After three years in the Houston DA’s office where he was recognized as a tough and skilled prosecutor, DeGeurin accepted a position with one of the city’s old-line legal firms, a place of thick blue carpets and hushed voices, the kind where the not altogether joking remark was made that only the filing clerk knew the way to the courthouse. From the hurly-burly atmosphere of the DA’s office, DeGeurin found himself assigned to work that could have been done by a $600-a-month insurance investigator. “My constant defense position was to deny some poor bastard what was rightly due him from an accident,” he complained to a friend. “I am sorely afraid my epitaph will be, ‘He devoted his life to determining who entered the intersection first.’”
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