The discovery of brightleaf tobacco, and the subsequent industriousness of Washington Duke and his family to capitalize on it, led to the birth of one of the world’s largest corporations, consisting of companies like American Tobacco, Liggett & Myers and R. J. Reynolds. This industrial development drew more manufacturers to the central North Carolina town. The first factory to produce denim was here at one time, as well as the largest hosiery maker in the world.
The courthouse nestled in the heart of the Downtown Durham Historical District. Beyond the flashy cluster of the media, the backdrop of downtown Durham looked abandoned. Across the street, a monument to the Confederate dead stood proud and defiant in front of the old courthouse. In the basement, a cafeteria fed bland but decent food to many of the participants in the trial.
A couple of blocks away, a shabby storefront on Parrish Street housed Ron’s Foods, where the tangy taste of genuine North Carolina barbecue sandwiches was the highlight of the menu. For caffeine addicts, it was a long walk to the Blue Coffee Company—but fueled by a lust for lattes, it was a trip many in the courtroom made multiple times each day. It was also a spot where they could order lunches of sandwiches and salads—an alternative a bit more upscale than the nearby hot dogs and barbecue.
Back in the courthouse, lunch was served in District Attorney Jim Hardin’s office. His mother, Carolyn Hardin, brought in a meal for the prosecution team and witnesses every day. In no time, her menu was a daily feature of the coverage on Court TV.
In the courtroom itself, a long pew-like bench stretched behind the defense and prosecution desks. The prosecution table was stacked with papers and exhibits. The defense table was piled high with computer equipment and gadgets manned by disbarred attorney Guy Seaberg.
Behind that bench were rows of red theater seats—a comfort appreciated by those who filled the courtroom. The middle seat of the first two rows was designated as a press seat to form a line of embarkation between the two sides. Two rows of pure press followed, and the remaining seats were open to spectators.
A frenzy of activity erupted early in the courtroom, as cameramen taped down electrical cords, attorneys organized their materials and court personnel made last-minute preparations. A pall of silence descended when Judge Orlando Hudson entered and the deputy called the court to order. The trial of State of North Carolina vs. Michael Iver Peterson had begun.
Jim Hardin approached the podium and faced the jury. His soft Carolina drawl demanded edge-of-the-seat attention. “I anticipate you must be asking yourself, ‘Regardless of how much I know about this case, what is it really about?’ From a legal perspective, it is very well defined. We talked about that in our selection process with you. The sides are diametrically opposed. The defendant says that Kathleen Peterson’s death was caused by a tragic, accidental fall down stairs in their home. And we say, on the other hand, that she died a horrible, painful death at the hands of her husband, Michael Peterson.”
Hardin walked up to the juror rail and held up a photograph of a living, vibrant, smiling Kathleen Peterson. “You can see from this photograph—you can feel from this photograph—that she is a very genteel, warm person. It does not take much time to see that, from just viewing one photograph, but there it is.”
The next photo the prosecutor presented to the jury was one of Kathleen Peterson bloodied and sprawled on the back stairway of her home. “Now, on December ninth, 2001, at 2:48, when EMS personnel first arrive, [ …] they see Kathleen Peterson in a completely different way. They see her lying at the bottom of her steps, just as you see in this photograph.”
Hardin then showed the jurors a photo taken at the medical examiner’s office. He walked the length of the jury box with this gruesome image of Kathleen lying on a steel gurney. “This is where the rubber meets the road, ladies and gentlemen.
“They,” he said, pointing to the defense table, “say it was an accident that was caused by a couple of falls in that stairwell, and we say it’s not. We say it’s murder, and you will have to decide that. They say this is three or four lacerations. We say it’s at least seven, and you’re going to have to be the judge of it.”
Hardin picked up an oblong package covered in brown butcher block paper and unraveled the covering as he spoke. The jury was captivated—all eyes entranced by the mysterious item in his hands. The crinkling of the paper crackled through his words.
Inside was Candace Zamperini’s blowpoke. Harden told the jurors it was just like the one Kathleen’s sister gave to several family members. The one she gave to Kathleen was missing.
“This is not the actual weapon. [ …] But the primary mechanism is something like this. It is hollow. It is light. It’s easily used, and we will contend to you that this, or something like this, is the article that was used to inflict these wounds.”
Hardin paused as the jurors contemplated the viciouslooking hook on the end of the blowpoke.
“[T]his case is about pretense and appearances. It’s about things not being as they seem. As this case begins to unfold, you see the grandeur of the Petersons’ ten-thousand-square-foot mansion that is located in a very affluent area of Durham. You will see the appearance of a storybook marriage between a couple who had a blended family that appears to have it all.
“In particular, you will hear about what some have described as the success of Michael Peterson as a writer and columnist. You will also hear about Kathleen’s success as a Nortel manager, as a patron of the arts, and as the quintessential hostess for all occasions. And doesn’t she look like it?” Once again, Hardin drew the jurors’ attention to the victim’s smiling face. “She looks like a very loving, warm person—the quintessential lady, genteel, exactly what you want your daughter to be.
“From all the appearances, this was a perfect family. But as the old saying goes, appearances can be very deceiving. [ …] Like a storm cloud, many pressurized conditions in the Peterson house began to converge, and on December ninth, 2001, they erupted.”
Across the courtroom, Michael Peterson slouched in his chair with the disinterested attention of someone viewing the proceedings for their educational value only.
Hardin highlighted the dependence of the family on Kathleen’s salary and benefits because Michael had made no income as a writer since 1999. Even with her salary, the family was living on credit and now her employment was in jeopardy because of Nortel’s deteriorating financial condition.
“Kathleen and Michael both knew that the loss of Kathleen’s job and the loss of her salary and benefits would have a devastating effect on an already difficult financial situation.”
The level of Hardin’s voice rose and indignation etched around its edges. “But Mike Peterson, the creative thinker, the writer of fiction, was able to figure out a perfect solution. That solution was to make it appear as though Kathleen accidentally fell down her steps and died. And, like magic, no more money problems. Like magic, Mike Peterson goes from a point where they are going to have to sell assets and live on credit to survive to, all of a sudden, with her death, has one point eight million dollars in his hand. That’s a lot of money. That solves a lot of problems. What a wonderful solution. There’s only one catch: He’s got to kill Kathleen Peterson to get that one point eight million. But Mike Peterson, with that money, was going to be able to pull himself out of the financial fire he had built for himself. Kathleen’s death, accidental death, would then have allowed him to continue to live the affluent privileged life to which he had become accustomed even though he had no job.”
Hardin told the jurors that when Peterson placed that 9-1-1 call, he gambled that the police were as dumb as he always claimed. He urged them to listen carefully to that tape and hear how evasive and deceptive Peterson was.
The prosecutor’s tone softened as he talked about the thoughts of one of the first responders to the scene. “There’s blood on Kathleen, under Kathleen, beside Kathleen. It’s all dry. So he says when he gets there, he sees all this dry blood, and based on that assessment of Ka
thleen, and based on the observations that he makes of the area, he concludes that she’s been dead for some time. He can’t say exactly how long, but she’s been dead for some time.”
Hardin summarized for the jury the list of witnesses that he would call and the evidence they would present. “This is not a case of the battle of the experts. This is a case about your exercise of your good reason and your common sense. And it’s going to be a battle against what this defendant contends happened, what he wanted it to appear as having happened.”
He picked up Kathleen’s photograph and walked toward the jury box. “Up to this point, we have talked a lot about Mike Peterson, but when you really get down to it, it’s about Kathleen. About Kathleen.”
He reminded the jurors that it was their responsibility to determine the truth and asked them to return a verdict of guilty to the charge of first-degree murder.
After a ten-minute break in the courtroom proceedings, David Rudolf began his opening statements without a word. He pressed a button and the voices of dispatcher Mary Allen and Michael Peterson filled the courtroom. The recording of the 9-1-1 call etched pain across the faces of Margaret and Martha Ratliff. Todd Peterson sat with a steel jaw and inscrutable eyes. Michael Peterson cried as he listened. But at the front of the courtroom, Rudolf listened with dramatic intent—his stance and expression filled with the anticipatory glee of a producer the night his play opens on Broadway.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, was the voice of Michael Peterson right after he found Kathleen Peterson at the foot of the stairs. I want to take you back with me before that terrible night, before that terrible phone call.”
Rudolf sketched out the beginning of Michael and Kathleen’s relationship. Then with unfathomed insensitivity, he read a 1999 letter from Caitlin—a letter praising the man whom she now believed killed her mother.
He told the jury that the Saturday before Thanksgiving, Kathleen’s co-worker Donna Clement said that Michael and Kathleen were “very affectionate and in tune with each other.”
Behind the defense table, Michael Peterson’s lips moved when Rudolf read that line as if he had memorized it.
“If the prosecution is correct, how do you go from soulmate and lover to cold-blooded killer? The answer is very simple: You don’t. Nothing was different that weekend.”
Rudolf painted a portrait of a normal weekend in the Peterson home, enlivened by Christmas shopping, a holiday party, a romantic movie and big news about Michael’s movie deal.
He spoke of Kathleen’s intoxication that night she died, though in far more delicate terms than her own stepson, who referred to her as a weekend drunk in a media interview. He told the jury about her headaches and dizziness. He promised them that they would hear testimony from friends and from her doctor about her medical condition.
He described Michael’s discovery of his wife at the foot of the stairs and his calls to 9-1-1. “Now, they went there, and initially it was treated as an accident because that’s what they initially thought it was. [ …] And so Todd Peterson was allowed to go up to Kathleen’s body and hold her in his arms and get blood on his clothing. And Michael Peterson was allowed to go up to Kathleen. In fact, he had to be physically pulled off of her.”
Rudolf then alleged that if this accident had occurred in any other household, it would have been treated like an accident to this day. It was not, in this case, because of the bias of the Durham Police Department toward Michael Peterson. As a columnist for The Herald-Sun, Peterson’s criticism of the police department was unflinching.
“And so, for the Durham police investigators who arrived at that scene, it wasn’t very hard for them to look at the blood and assume the worst about Michael Peterson. And it was based on that altered and contaminated scene and blood evidence that they decided the death was suspicious.”
He accused the police department of tunnel vision—of looking for evidence that supported their view and ignoring anything that did not.
“What our experts will testify, in short, is, the lacerations on her scalp are much more consistent with a fall than with a beating. And that’s confirmed by the lack of certain injuries. I mean, can you imagine,” he said, shaking his head as he approached the prosecution table, picked up the blowpoke and checked its heft in his hand, “someone beating somebody over the head?” He hauled back his arm to its full reach and slammed it forward. “Whacking them as hard as they can? I mean, you don’t whack someone like this when you are trying to kill them.” He scratched the air with puny swings.
“Imagine that there’s no skull fracture,” he said with incredulity as he dropped the blowpoke with noisy disdain back on the table.
“There’s no brain contusions. There’s no swelling of the brain. There’s no internal hemorrhage, no subdurals, things that you would see from that kind of injury. No. None of it.
“And it’s confirmed that it was a fall by other physical evidence that, as we said, Kathleen Peterson sustained those injuries to her head at least thirty minutes before Michael Peterson walked in and found her and called 9-1-1.”
Rudolf then used video clips of the experimentation done by Agent Duane Deaver to duplicate the blood spatter in the stairwell. He selected the cuts with care, showing the jury those he could mock the best.
“What our experts are going to say is that the amount of blood spatter in that stairway—as horrific as it is—is not consistent with what you would get from a beating. It’s consistent with what you’d get from hitting your head in various places.
“You’ve all seen dogs shake water off and it goes all over. Well, that happens with blood as well if it’s wet, or hands or your clothes coming in contact with the wall. Or coughing up blood. Or sneezing blood. That’s what causes all the blood spatter, you see. As bad at it is, that’s what our experts will testify.”
Rudolf then disparaged the financial motive presented by the prosecution. Wrapping up that argument, he journeyed into hostile territory, the death of Elizabeth Ratliff. The judge had not yet ruled whether or not this evidence would be admitted in trial. The defense took a calculated gamble based on the old adage that the best defense is a good offense and dragged the elephant in the room up to the jury box.
“Now I’m going to talk about Elizabeth Ratliff,” Rudolf began. “Interestingly enough,” he said, placing his left hand on the side of his face, “Mr. Hardin chose not to. I’m not sure why he chose not to. He said before that it was a critical part of his case, but he chose not to. So let me address it.”
He stretched his arm toward the two frightened young women sitting on the front row on the far side of the courtroom. “We’re talking about the mother of Martha and Margaret Ratliff. She died eighteen years ago in Germany. And you all have heard a lot—not everybody, but most of you—have heard a lot about that in the news.”
Rudolf continued. “The police learned of her death in December 2001. How do we know that? Well, they asked Patty Peterson, who was Elizabeth Ratliff’s best friend in Germany. They asked her about it in December 2001.”
He pointed out that the prosecution did not seek to exhume the body until fifteen months later, in March of 2003, and then held back the autopsy for another six weeks.
“And we will submit to you,” he said, pounding his finger into the podium again and again to drive his point home, “that the reason it was delayed for that long was to create a barrage of negative publicity to prejudice Mr. Peterson’s right to a fair trial in this case just before the trial was to begin. And they succeeded. He was tried and convicted in the media.”
“Objection,” roared Hardin.
“Sustained,” answered Judge Hudson.
Rudolf continued, launching attacks on the series of coincidences, claiming they were false. Hardin objected to numerous statements. Some Hudson overruled, others he sustained on the grounds that the defense’s comments were argumentative. As his attorney spoke, Michael Peterson pulled his glasses on and off his face again and again. And he popped Tic Tacs as if hi
s very survival depended on devouring as many as possible in the time allotted.
Up on the large screen behind Rudolf’s back, Michael and Kathleen smiled across the room at the jury. “The truth is that Kathleen Peterson, after drinking some wine and some champagne, and taking some Valium, tried to walk up a narrow, poorly lit stairway in flip-flops and she fell and she bled to death.
“What Michael Peterson brought to Kathleen Peterson was true happiness over thirteen years. That’s the picture—that’s not posed—that’s Kathleen sitting on Michael’s lap.”
Across the courtroom, Michael Peterson bowed his head. When he raised it, he spotted a camera, turned toward the photographer and grimaced.
Rudolf reiterated his claim of their loving marital relationship and insisted that everyone knew Mike had nothing to do with Kathleen’s death. He then asked for a verdict of not guilty.
After lunch, the case in chief began. The first witness called to the stand by the prosecution was Jay Rose, a paramedic with Durham County Emergency Medical Services. Jay sank hard into the witness chair, outfitted in the protective coloring of his uniform. From the look on his face, there were a lot of other places he would much rather be that afternoon.
He sported a buzz cut in his pale hair and even though he was only 30 years old, the thinning process was taking its toll: his hairline receded on both sides of his forehead and on the top of his head. As if in compensation, his full moustache stretched down on both sides of his mouth. The arms of his wire-frame glasses pinched into the sides of his head, punctuating his obvious discomfort on the stand.
He walked the jury through his arrival at the scene, his assessment of Kathleen Peterson and his amazement at the large quantity of dried and drying blood. On cross-examination the next morning, Thomas Maher questioned Rose’s honesty about the state of the blood.
Written in Blood Page 19