I took what was becoming my usual table, near the back, where a big screen TV tuned into the Classic Sports Network was playing a tape of the first game of the 1988 World Series. The Oakland A’s were supposed to win that one, with a one run lead in the ninth over the Dodgers and Dennis Eckersley on the mound. But with two out and a man on, Kirk Gibson came limping up to the plate to pinch hit. He had two bum legs and hadn’t played the entire game, but now he was going to give it a go.
As I drank a beer, I watched that moment of high drama again. Eckersley, the best reliever in baseball, got two strikes on Gibson right away. Gibson worked him, getting the count to 3 and 2.
You couldn’t have designed a better scenario: Bottom of the ninth, full count, two down, man on, one run lead, great pitcher, gutsy hitter. Eckersley delivered the pitch. Gibson swung, and as the ball took off toward the right field bleachers, Vin Scully, calling the game for NBC, said, “. . . she is gone!”
A round of cheers erupted from the Frisbee’s crowd, as if the home run had just happened. I had seen it on TV when it did happen and felt the same elation as I had then. It remains, for me, the most exciting sports moment I’ve ever witnessed.
As I watched Kirk Gibson limp around the diamond again, pumping his fist in elation, getting mobbed at home plate by his teammates and the elfin Dodger manager, Tommy Lasorda, I had an amazing insight.
I was Kirk Gibson.
Tomorrow I would be limping into a courtroom for one last at bat. Could I come through? Hit it out of the ballpark? Set Howie free?
It was both exhilarating and frightening.
On the TV Bob Costas was interviewing Gibson. Gibson was talking about how he’d wanted one more at bat and then said something about “the good Lord” coming through for him.
I snorted and looked into my beer. “All right, Lord,” I said to the foam, “let’s see what you can do for me.” And then I drank my prayer.
A couple of minutes later, after ordering another beer, and as I was mentally rehearsing my closing argument, I felt something in my chest. It was a vibration but not a steady one. Pulsating. A thumping.
It grew stronger.
I then realized it was the sub-woof of a car stereo. It continued for another second or two, then shut off. I watched the front door and somehow knew it would be him.
Darcy Hazelton swaggered in. He was greeted by some buddies with whoops and hollers and joined them at the bar.
Suddenly, through that mysterious mental alchemy that sometimes happens, diffuse thoughts and images began to coalesce into an odd semblance of order. Connections were made in my mind . . .
Darcy Hazelton . . .
Warren Hazelton . . .
Tolletson . . .
Daphne Barth . . .
Thumping noises . . .
Murder . . .
Did any of this make sense? Daphne Barth had reported a thumping noise, thinking it was someone trying to break into her house. Could it have been a car stereo? This car stereo? What was it she had said? She looked out her window and saw a car. No, she said, more like a truck than a car.
Could it have been Darcy Hazelton’s? And could he have possibly been the one Howie saw in the room?
I had no evidence of that. This was all a patch of thin reeds. But having nothing else to weave a story from, I stood up, drained my beer, and walked over to the bar where Hazelton was sitting.
He was bracketed by two guys who looked like they spent a lot of time in the gym. The one on his right had a tank top on, exposing a snake tattoo just below the neck. The other one didn’t have any distinguishing marks, but he did have biceps that looked like croquet balls. The two guys were laughing hysterically. Darcy Hazelton, who wore a cream-colored silk shirt, appeared to be shaking with laughter too.
When the guy on the right saw me standing there, he stopped laughing. He nudged Hazelton on the shoulder, then nodded my way. Hazelton twirled on his barstool and faced me.
“Darcy Hazelton?” I said.
He had an angular face, one that narrowed from a prominent forehead down to a sharp chin. His skin was pale, blending almost seamlessly into the colorlessness of his shirt, and his eyes were narrow in a weak sort of way. His hair, what was left of it, was black and combed straight back.
“Who are you?” he said. His voice was about as friendly as a syringe.
“My name’s Denney. I’m here on business.”
Hazelton’s eyes thinned a scintilla more. “Denney?”
“That’s right.”
“The lawyer?”
“People seem to know me, don’t they?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was having a drink.”
“Then drink.” He clipped the words dismissively.
“Can I have a word with you?” I asked.
Hazelton looked at his buddy on the right, the one with the snake. “Can you believe this guy?” he said. Mr. Snake half-smiled and shook his head.
Returning to me, Hazelton said, “You got to be kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“I got no reason to talk to you.”
“If I could just have a sec—”
He started to spin back around.
“It’s important.”
Hazelton stopped midway and half-turned his head toward me. “Don’t you know you’re a cockroach?” He spun back so he could look at me directly. “You’re a cockroach. You know that?”
His two friends cracked smiles, and I noticed a few others at the bar looking at me, no doubt wondering if I’d scurry away like the unsanitary bug I’d just been compared to.
“Sure I know that,” I said. “It’s like the old joke.”
“Huh?” Hazelton looked genuinely confused.
“What’s the difference between a cockroach and a lawyer?”
Darcy Hazelton turned to Mr. Snake, who shrugged.
I said, “One is a dirty, ugly, crumb-sucking pest. The other one’s an insect.”
The guy with the biceps snorted a laugh. Hazelton shot him an angry look, and he clammed up.
“Why don’t you get lost?” Hazelton said to me.
I half considered it. In a macho bar like this, I was a perfect target and outnumbered to boot. But Hazelton’s hostility told me I was on to something. I didn’t move.
“What kind of car do you drive, Darcy?” I loaded my voice with mock conviviality, giving the question a sarcastic spin.
“You better get out of here now,” Hazelton said. I half expected the two muscle boys to stand simultaneously, like thugs in a 40’s film noir, and escort me out.
I stood my ground like Victor Mature. “You’ve got a nice sound system.”
Blinking, Hazelton seemed momentarily baffled. I congratulated myself on a small victory. “I told you, I got nothing to say,” he finally offered.
“That’s what he said,” Mr. Snake added, looking at me with macho eyes of menace. He was reveling in this.
“How would you like to be called as a witness, Darcy?” I said.
“What?”
“Yeah. How would you like me to drag your sorry butt into court tomorrow? I have a feeling you could tell the jury some things.”
His narrow slits widened enough so I could see his eyes. Just as quickly, they closed down. Mr. Snake said, “Let’s do him.”
Darcy Hazelton put his hand up to stop the thought, much to my relief. “Outside,” he said.
He got up from his stool and walked toward the door, leaving his two companions to give me the testosterone glare. I smiled, nodded, and followed Hazelton outside.
The midnight air was crisp. The moon was nearly full, giving the parking lot a faint, silvery wash. Young Hazelton stood near the first row of cars, his back to me, looking down the road that led here to the social center of Hinton.
I saw a Range Rover a couple of cars down and walked toward it. “Yours?” I said.
Hazelton gave me a half-turn look. “You know who my father is?” he asked.
�
�Sure.”
“Then why are you being stupid?”
“I don’t follow you.”
When Hazelton turned to face me, the moon gave his pale face a moonlike quality of its own, dull light reflecting off it—a ghostly luminescence. It was hard to make out, but I thought I saw a touch of fear.
“Look,” he said, “you don’t mess with my father.”
“I don’t care about your father. I care about you.”
“Why?”
“What do you know about the murder of Rae Patino?”
For a long moment he stood and stared at me, a fleshy statue in this eerie automotive garden. “I just know what everybody else knows,” he said finally.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“You ever go out with her?”
“You’re crazy.”
“You ever go over to her house? Spend time with her?”
Darcy Hazelton took a step toward me. The look of fear had given way to anger, but not just any anger. It was . . . twisted. Like he’d lost control. Now he seemed truly dangerous.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Hazelton said, “but if you come near me again, I’ll get you messed up. I’ll get you messed up, and then I’ll kill you.”
Quickly he turned and charged back into the bar, leaving me to wonder what I’d just witnessed. Was it consciousness of some sort of guilt? That was possible, but only if Darcy Hazelton was playing with a full deck, something I was doubting seriously. It could have just been the reaction of a spoiled and somewhat off-kilter, rich kid who was not used to threats or insinuations.
All I knew for sure was that what had started as a simple inquiry had turned into an oddball scene with a manifestly dangerous man. The sooner I got out of Hinton, the better, I decided.I returned to the motel and didn’t fall asleep until sometime after 3 A.M.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
TOLLETSON SEEMED FRESH as a Tic-Tac.
As is the rule, the prosecution got the first word in closing argument. Tolletson spoke without notes for two and a half hours—and he was masterful.
He used charts to fully explain the jury instructions the judge would give. Visuals are always a good idea for the jury.
He stopped at emotional points, letting it all sink in with the jury, his voice rising and falling as appropriate. He painted Howie in broad strokes as a jealous husband and Rae as the helpless—and pregnant—victim.
“This is a case of first-degree murder,” he said in conclusion. “No more, but certainly no less. The very nature of the crime proves it. Twenty-five stab wounds to the body of a young mother carrying a child inside her even as she cared for the one child she had. And you heard the defendant declare how much he loved that child. Was it love to deprive him of his mother? Was it love to kill the only mother he knew as well as the baby brother or sister she carried in her womb? Was it, ladies and gentlemen?”
He stopped here and let the jurors answer in their heads.
“Then you heard the defendant, faced with incontrovertible evidence against him, come up with this story that he saw the devil in that room. Well, ladies and gentlemen, if he saw the devil, he must have been looking in a mirror because the devil who committed this crime is sitting right over there.”
Tolletson pointed at Howie, looked at him for a long moment, then returned his gaze to the jury. “When the defendant’s lawyer gets up to argue, I plead with you not to let him obscure the issues. His client stabbed an innocent victim—two innocent victims, really—to death. In cold blood. After planning the crime. It is your job to hold him accountable for this horrific act by bringing in a verdict of guilty on the charge of first-degree murder. Thank you.”
Judge Wegland thanked Tolletson, then informed everyone that I would begin my closing argument after lunch. It was eleven-thirty, and she ordered us back by one o’clock.
I wondered where to go during the break. My brain felt like oatmeal, due to lack of sleep and an alcohol bath the night before, and what I really wanted was a bed. Trip asked me if I wanted to be alone to prepare. I told him yes without really knowing why—maybe so he wouldn’t lecture me.
I decided to find a far corner in the courthouse cafeteria and try to down some soup. It tasted like bile.
Sometimes you can read juries, other times you can’t. Or you can get a partial read while the rest of the panel remains obscured.
Then there’s the worst scenario, where you think you have a certain juror or two in the bag, ones who are absolutely for you, and it turns out they lead the charge against you in the jury room.
This jury was a complete puzzle. It might have been the fact that I was barely able to remember what I wanted to say, let alone read the minds of twelve Hinton citizens. The only ray of hope was juror number seven, a middle-aged woman who looked, if you can believe it, slightly like my mother. When I stood up to give my argument, she smiled at me in a way that made me feel reassured.
I spoke with my legal notepad in my hand. At least I had a good outline of the points I wanted to raise and felt like I hit them, one by one. My brain was still warm cereal, but halfway through the summation I began to hit a stride. It was something I just felt, like an athlete who reports being in “the zone.” I was there, I thought, right there—fully in tune with my argument, my client, the jury, and even the judge.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as jurors you fulfill the most important civil duty in our system of justice. You stand between the government and a fellow citizen accused of a crime. That’s the way our founding fathers wanted it. They knew full well what it was to be paraded into court on trumped-up charges, so they put protections for all of us into the Constitution. This isn’t like other countries where there is no jury, where it’s the prosecutor or a policeman who sits where you’re sitting, where there is no burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Turning slightly, I pointed at Benton Tolletson. “In this country, it is not Mr. Tolletson who tells the judge what the facts are. No, here in the United States he is required to prove his case to you, twelve citizens, and to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. Mr. Patino doesn’t have to prove anything to you. What you the jury say to Mr. Tolletson and all the power behind him is, ‘You prove these charges you’ve brought. You call this man a murderer. Well then, you prove it to us beyond a reasonable doubt.’ That is a jury’s solemn duty, ladies and gentlemen.”
Now I swept my hand toward Judge Wegland. “In a little while the judge is going to read you several important instructions on the law. When you were picked as jurors, you gave an oath. You swore that you would follow the law as the judge gave it to you, whether you agreed with it or not. You are sitting on this jury because we believed you. We believed and we trusted that you would follow the law as the judge gave it.
“She is going to tell you that any defendant in a criminal trial is presumed innocent. That presumption goes right into the jury room with you, and it remains unless the evidence convinces you beyond a reasonable doubt. Let’s talk about that a moment.”
I tossed my legal pad on the counsel table. I didn’t need it anymore. What I was going to say from now on was from memory and instinct.
“If you go back into the jury room, ladies and gentlemen, and you discuss this case, and if after that discussion you say to yourselves, ‘You know, Howie Patino probably did it,’ your verdict must be not guilty. That is the law because probably is not enough to convict anyone in this country.
“And know this: a verdict of not guilty, based upon your reasonable doubts, doesn’t hurt us. It doesn’t hurt society or the government. Indeed, society always wins. We all win. You are protecting all of us from being convicted of crimes without evidence. Without that protection, we cease to be the country we are.”
I then spoke about the evidence and the witnesses and the weaknesses in the prosecution’s case. I spoke for roughly two hours, and when I concluded, I faced the jurors squarely and gave them the bottom line from the depths of my b
eing. “Ladies and gentlemen, I just ask you to look at Howie Patino. I say to you, you cannot look at this man, you cannot hear him testify and believe in your hearts that he is a murderer. Putting aside all the problems with the investigation in this case, the sloppy handling of evidence, the fact that the police failed to even consider that another person committed this act—put all that aside, ladies and gentlemen, and listen to your gut instincts.”
I was spent, physically and emotionally. Somewhere inside me I had the thought that I should keep talking, talk till I dropped, but I knew I couldn’t. I’d laid it all out there. I’d done the very best I could. There was just no more to give.
All I had left to say was this. “Return Howie Patino to his son, ladies and gentlemen.”
My head was throbbing as I took my seat. There was silence in the courtroom for an extended moment, then Adele Wegland asked Benton Tolletson if he had more to say. He did, of course. The prosecutor always gets the last word.
But I hardly heard a word he said.
The drama was over.
All except the waiting.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I COULD HAVE avoided the big blow-up if I’d just gone home. I was an emotional wreck after the trial. All I wanted was a drink, a series of drinks. But Trip insisted on taking me to dinner. If I’d known what he was going to talk about, I would have said no.
We hit this steak place near the ocean. I immediately ordered a beer from the waitress and told her to hurry it up with it.
Trip didn’t flinch. Not then. “You done good,” he said. “I didn’t know you had that in you. Great speech about this country and all. Sounded almost like you believe it.”
“I do,” I snapped. Part of me knew he was joking. The other part wanted to blow off steam.
“Most people don’t anymore,” Trip said. “Most people think tricky lawyers go around getting guilty people off.”
“Yeah, well most people don’t know anything about what goes on in court, that 98 percent get convicted, and that a guy with no money, even if he’s innocent, is probably going to the slam.”
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