Bloodsworth

by Tim Junkin

  They went over the questions he intended to ask Kirk. He told Kirk not to look the witnesses or the jurors in the eye during the trial. Best to avoid eye contact, he suggested, at least until Kirk took the stand to testify. He didn’t want any of them thinking Kirk was trying to intimidate them. He instructed Kirk to avoid getting emotional. Toward the end of the meeting, he began pressing Kirk to tell him more of the truth. “Are you telling me everything?” Scheinin said. “It’s of vital importance that you’ve told me the whole story. That you haven’t left anything out.”

  Kirk took this the wrong way. He lost it, flipped out, started shouting at his lawyer, called him a fucking idiot. “All this damn time, and now the day before we’re going to court, and here you’re telling me you don’t believe me?” He was mystified, upset, and becoming only more lost in this crazy maze that seemed to offer no way out.

  FIFTEEN

  THE POLICE INVESTIGATE the crime, narrow the suspects, gather the evidence, and arrest the assailant. Typically, in a capital case their work and conclusions are reviewed by the prosecuting authority, in this case the Office of the State’s Attorney for Baltimore County. The prosecutors then take over, interviewing witnesses, preparing the evidence for trial, planning the strategies necessary to win before a jury. Sandra A. O’Connor—not to be confused with Sandra Day O’Connor, the Supreme Court justice—was the state’s attorney for Baltimore County. A Republican, O’Connor was first elected to the position in 1974. Prior to that, she’d worked as a prosecutor in Baltimore City for eight years. O’Connor’s policy was to seek the death penalty in every first-degree homicide case that qualified under state law. She’d make an exception only when the victim’s family opposed it or when the only evidence of guilt was the testimony of a codefendant. Prosecutors in other jurisdictions in Maryland took a different view. In neighboring Balitmore City, for instance, the lead prosecutor used more discretion. The death penalty there was rarely invoked. O’Connor preferred the consistency resulting from her approach. She removed any randomness from the decision process. No one could accuse her of racially biased prosecutions where the death penalty was concerned. Every defendant meeting the criteria faced a death sentence. She was a tough prosecutor.

  O’Connor had assigned one of her most capable trial assistants to convict Bloodsworth, Robert Lazzaro, and Lazzaro had handpicked his trial assistant, Ann Brobst. Lazzaro was impressive, a man with a presence in the courtroom. He had graduated first in his class in the evening division of Baltimore University Law School and had been hired by O’Connor, rising quickly in the ranks and earning the reputation of a superb trial lawyer. He’d already tried two death penalty cases and not only won them both but obtained death sentences in both. He was two for two.

  He’d also had some experience with FBI profiles. Lazzaro had attended a seminar at the FBI training center at Quantico conducted by two experienced profilers, who taught by going over past cases in which skillful profiles had led to the solving of some horrendous crimes. Lazzaro had been very impressed. He’d become a believer in psychological profiles.

  Tall, handsome, dark haired, and sporting a trim mustache, Lazzaro seemed to own the courtroom. His suits were dark, conservative, and impeccably tailored. His shirts were starched, his shoes shined. He was always dressed to the nines, in glaring contrast to Scheinin. Lazzaro’s delivery was always articulate, self-assured, smooth as ice. He was likable, the classic icon of authority. The jury took to him immediately.

  Brobst, the junior of the two, was a short, thin woman, blond, stern, and formal, with blue eyes that to Kirk were cast-iron cold. She wore stiff dress suits to court. She was all business. Throughout the trial and often during recess, she bore her eyes into Kirk with a ferocity that shook him. She’d stare at him with malice in her eyes, like he was some beast, like she wanted to burn a hole right through him, until he had to look away.

  Sandra O’Connor had sent a strong team. She did not like to lose. Her office had no intention of losing this one.

  The trial of the case was assigned to veteran Judge William Hinkel of the Baltimore County Circuit Court. Judge Hinkel was a tall and imposing man. Standing at six feet two inches and weighing two hundred pounds, in his dark robes he reminded Kirk of an imperious and frightening version of Ichabod Crane. His head was mostly bald, and he wore a well-trimmed Van Dyke beard. Hinkel was known as a trial machine. He moved things fast and rarely recessed. Only reluctantly would he take a bathroom break. It quickly became evident that he was tough as an old farmer. Kirk had heard he was hard on criminal defendants, and Hinkel did nothing to dispel this notion. The way Kirk saw it, he ruled consistently for the state. Often during the trial, he’d put his hands behind his head and turn his chair away from the proceedings toward the wall, as though he’d already heard enough, as though he’d already made up his mind.

  On February 25, 1985, Kirk was brought from the county detention center to the county courthouse to begin a trial that might lead to his execution. He was scared and felt totally outgunned. He tried to think of God, of his mother and her faith. He was caught in a strong tide, he knew, and could only pray that the truth would be seen, that the jurors would discern who he really was, that the system would work for him.

  Baltimore County’s courthouse is an imposing rectangular structure built from blocks of gray granite. Out front, a large circular fountain shoots up a constant spray of water. Speckled cobblestones surround the fountain. To the side of the building, a large stone memorial honors members of the Baltimore County Police Department killed in action. Shackled with handcuffs, leg irons, and a waist chain, Kirk was brought in through a private entrance on the side opposite the memorial, prodded along by the sheriffs who guarded him. Once inside, he was led through a tunnel to a bull pen in the back of the sheriff’s department. There he changed into a set of street clothes his father had brought for him. When Judge Hinkel was ready for him, he was escorted upstairs to the holding cell behind Hinkel’s courtroom.

  Each time Kirk was brought into that courtroom over the next two weeks, he felt disoriented. He felt he was coming in through the wrong door. The courtroom, like the building around it, was rectangular. The walls were wooden, with rows of wooden benches for spectators. They were filled every day. On the floor, a cranberry-colored carpet ran the length of the room back to a set of double oak doors. The jury box was off to the side of the witness chair. The judge’s bench was polished teak and elevated above everything else. Behind the judge’s bench, hanging on the wall in large display, was the circular Great Seal of Maryland.

  On February 25, the first day of trial, Judge Hinkel disposed of most of the pretrial motions. There was no jury. The lawyers kept arguing. Kirk had no idea what was happening. Hinkel finally adjourned, having scheduled voir dire—jury selection— to begin on March 1. Kirk was led back into the holding cell. He felt left out, in the dark, bewildered by most of what was happening.

  IN MARYLAND, WHEN the state is seeking the death penalty, it is entitled to what is known as a death-qualified jury. During the jury selection process, in addition to being asked the standard questions—whether they know about the crime, know any of the participants, have worked as police officers, have ever been arrested—prospective jurors are asked whether any hold strong opinions about the death penalty. Jurors who respond that they don’t believe in the death penalty or would not impose it are stricken. Only those willing to impose the death penalty, if justified by the facts, are left on the prospective panel.

  Defense lawyers have contended that those who are opposed to the death penalty are also those who are most likely to have an open mind, to accept the presumption of innocence, to give a criminal defendant a fair shake, to actually apply the reasonable doubt standard. Removing such people from a prospective panel unfairly favors a hangman’s jury, they’ve argued. The courts have disagreed.

  Regarding jury selection, Scheinin had filed a motion asking for individual voir dire of each juror on all questions. He also had
filed a motion asking for additional peremptory challenges or strikes. Under the law, he had no absolute right to either. Judge Hinkel had the discretion to grant these requests, but he denied both motions. Many of the prospective panel members had heard about the crime, but it took Judge Hinkel little time to cull out those who’d already formed opinions. Once that was done, Hinkel was quick to select a death-qualified jury of eight women and four men. He went through the entire voir dire and picked a jury before the luncheon recess. Opening statements were scheduled to begin that afternoon.

  Curtis had visited his son the night before. He promised Kirk that he would be there every day. He was in a panic mode now for his boy. He believed in his innocence, he told him. He wouldn’t give up on him. Not ever. Father and son sat, separated by the Plexiglass screen, unable to touch, and wept together.

  Following the lunch recess, when he was led into the courtroom, Kirk couldn’t believe the crowd. There was standing room only. Sheriffs, reporters, sketch artists, the family and friends of the victim, and people from Fontana Village had all packed their way in. Kirk craned his neck to find his parents and saw them in the back. Jeanette seemed small and frail. She waved meekly and Curtis nodded. Kirk saw two of his cousins. There weren’t any other friendly faces.

  After some brief remarks to the jury, Judge Hinkel called for opening statements. Bob Lazzaro slowly rose and then paused. He knew how to create a dramatic effect. He first thanked the jurors for their service and then he began. His opening told a story: the story of what happened at Fontana Village on July 25. He spoke of Dawn Hamilton, who she was, how she’d gone missing, and the frantic efforts of Elinor Helmick to find her. He described how Chris Shipley and Jackie Poling had been fishing and caught a turtle, and how they’d waved over a stranger to proudly show him what they’d caught. Lazzaro described how the two boys had spoken to the stranger at length and seen him clearly before he took Dawn into the woods. He somberly told of the police search and of their gruesome discovery: the death and mutilation of this little girl. Lazzaro went through the identification procedures and stressed how certain these boys were that Bloodsworth was the man they’d seen. He mentioned the state’s other identification witnesses. He hinted at Bloodsworth’s bizarre behavior following July 25, how he’d feigned an illness and abruptly fled the area. He softly recounted the incriminating statements Bloodsworth made in Cambridge. Lazzaro deftly handled the circumstantial nature of the evidence. Trial evidence was like a puzzle, he said. The jury would have to put the pieces together. The picture, once complete, would convincingly show that Kirk Bloodsworth was Dawn Hamilton’s killer.

  The prosecutors were trained in the art of conjuring up images for the jury. Bob Lazzaro understood the importance of detail—of selecting the right word, of gesture, intonation, understatement, a pause—and how these can weave an indelible tapestry in the mind’s eye. His opening statement bespoke authority. He was natural, sincere, his manner genuine. The facts were terrible but fascinating. He held the jury in his sway.

  Steven Scheinin tried a contrasting approach. His opening was short and abrupt. His spoke in a loud nasally voice. He ranted about how dozens of police had haphazardly trampled through the woods that day destroying evidence, polluting the crime scene. The physical evidence would clear Bloodsworth, he told the jury, and mentioned the single head hair and a fingerprint. The print, the jury would later learn, had been found on an old church flyer, yellowed with age, which had been picked up off of one of the dirt trails a long way from where Dawn’s body had been discovered. Scheinin never mentioned the alibi witnesses or where Kirk was during the crime. He never explained why Kirk knew the rock was the murder weapon, why Kirk had left the Baltimore area abruptly, or what he’d meant by his statement to Rose Carson that he’d done a bad thing. He never mentioned that Kirk would testify and deny the crime. To Kirk, Scheinin looked unprepared and overmatched. His opening statement resembled a carnie act. Watching his lawyer, Kirk was scared to death. He sat there feeling the suspicion already emanating from the judge, from the jury. He was terrified that the die was already cast.

  A trial is a game. A contest. A re-creation that may or may not bear any semblance to what it purports to mimic. The lawyer’s job is to win this contest. To convince the jury of what the lawyer advocates. Good lawyers can make a difference in a case, irrespective of the truth. Lazzaro and Brobst knew their job well. The next day they began by calling Elinor Helmick to the stand, who quietly replayed for the jury how on July 25, 1984, she’d gone searching for Dawn and then called the police for help. Elinor was followed by Thomas Hamilton, who in a grieving voice related how he’d found his little daughter’s shorts and underpants in a tree. The story the jury had already heard from Lazzaro began to unfold.

  Detective James Roeder was called to identify and describe the items taken from the crime scene. Dawn’s clothes, the stick, and the rock were all entered into evidence. Through him the prosecutors also sought to introduce color photographs of the scene and more importantly, of Dawn Hamilton’s body. Scheinin objected. He’d previously filed a motion seeking to exclude these pictures. They were too prejudicial, he argued. Would evoke too much of an emotional response from the jurors. They weren’t necessary to the state’s proof. The prosecution countered that they were the best available evidence proving the location and state of the body, the nature of the wounds, the amount of blood, the various aspects of the crime scene. Judge Hinkel had to weigh whether the probative value of the photographs was outweighed by their prejudicial impact. He ruled that the pictures could come in. They were introduced—handed one by one to the jury to study and circulate. Color photographs of the little girl with her head bashed in, blood covering her face and eye. Close-ups. Her body, half nude, on the ground. Photographs of the killer’s footprints on her neck. Photographs of the broken tree branch stuck up her vagina. The jurors were horrified. Kirk could see some of them physically recoil, could feel their visceral revulsion.

  Lazzaro called the medical examiner, Dr. Dennis Smyth, to testify as to the cause of death. Smyth explained how Dawn Hamilton had died from a combination of strangulation and blunt trauma to her brain. He also described how at autopsy he’d used an instrument similar to a Q-Tip to take swabs from the mouth, rectum, and vaginal cavity of the victim; smeared a small portion of the fluid from these cotton swabs on glass slides; and stained them for preservation. Smyth had visualized some sperm on the vaginal smears and a larger amount of sperm on the rectal smears. Thinking that the semen might yield a blood type, he’d given the original cotton swabs, containing the bulk of the fluid samples, to Detective Ramsey to take to the FBI lab for testing.

  Detective Ramsey followed Dr. Smyth on the stand. He first related for the jury his experience as a crime fighter: five years with the Baltimore City Police Department, followed by ten years with Baltimore County, four of those as a homicide detective. Ramsey then described the crime scene, the location and state of the body, and how he and his detectives had canvassed the area for clues. Ramsey explained how he had attended the autopsy and then transported the crime scene evidence—Dawn’s clothes, the cotton swabs, the rock, the gum wrapper, the stick, and the sheet Dawn’s body was wrapped in—to the FBI laboratory for testing. He told the jury that in October he’d picked up the vaginal washing from the medical examiner and taken it to the FBI as well. He volunteered that a piece of yellowed paper, an old flyer from the Calvary Baptist Church, had been picked up by Thomas Hamilton on one of the trails in the woods. Scheinin got him to acknowledge that it contained a fingerprint that wasn’t Bloodsworth’s. So what? Ramsey testified he’d suspected that the pair of tennis shoes recovered from Dawn Gerald’s Randolph Road row house were Bloodsworth’s and that he’d measured them with a ruler to be 10½ inches from toe to heel, similar to the size Bloodsworth wore. This testimony surprised Sheinin. Apparently, it surprised Lazzaro and Brobst as well. All the lawyers had assumed the shoes were actually size 10½. Sheinin, having finally seen the shoes
in the courtroom, and realizing that they were in fact size 8, later recalled Ramsey and examined him relentlessly on this deception.

  Lazzaro next called William Heilman of the FBI and asked him about the shoe print. Heilman claimed to have expertise as a shoe print examiner, though he had never before been qualified in a court of law as an expert in this field. He had attended a seminar on the subject, he testified, and read several books on shoe print comparisons. Scheinin objected to his testimony and argued that he was not sufficiently qualified to give opinions as an expert. Judge Hinkel overruled the objection and allowed him to testify.

  Heilman told the jury that he had compared the herringbone marks on Dawn Hamilton’s neck with the soles of the sneakers taken from Dawn Gerald’s house. He’d even prepared a blowup chart for the jury with side-by-side photographs of the neck marks and the shoe print. He opined that while there wasn’t enough of a body mark to compare it with an entire shoe sole, the portions of the body mark that were visible did correspond with portions of the shoe soles. On cross-examination, he couldn’t say whether the body markings were from a right shoe or left shoe. He couldn’t even say whether the impressions on the body were made by the shoes in question. He agreed with Scheinin that hundreds of thousands of the type of tennis shoe seized from Dawn Gerald’s house were sold every year. The gist of his testimony was that he couldn’t conclusively link the marks to the shoe. He could only say that the marks might have been made by the shoe.

  A fingerprint expert from the FBI testified that he’d tried both the chemical ninhydrin and a laser technique in an effort to lift prints from the stick, the gum wrapper, and the rock. He’d been unsuccessful.