Written in Blood

by Diane Fanning

  Black pointed to Dr. McElhaney’s testimony, which refuted the defense theory of a fall. “Now, who else did the defense bring to you? Major Palmbach.” She said his name with as much revulsion as any Southern belle reserved for a carpetbagger. “Well, according to Major Palmbach, we need to brace ourselves in Durham,’cause we’ve got problems.”

  Black summarized the state’s financial testimony and then moved on to the most sensational of all witnesses, “Brad”—Brent Wolgamott. “Do you really believe that Kathleen knew that Mr. Peterson was bisexual? Does that make common sense to you? That it was okay with her to go to work while he stayed at home and communicated by email and telephone with people he was planning on having sex with? Does that make sense? ‘Go on off to work, honey, I’m gonna be talking on the computer with some of my boyfriends.’”

  She picked up the pack of pictures of Brad and waved them in the air. “He’s got his picture—he’s downloaded his picture, front-side up and backside up—naked.”

  Across the room, Mike Peterson’s eyes twinkled and his lips pursed as he struggled to hold back that smile that wanted to dance across his lips.

  “I asked Brad what they were gonna do. He told you. And I don’t mean to offend anybody but he did say they were gonna have anal sex. Do you really believe that was okay with Kathleen? [ …] The only reason that meeting didn’t take place was because of Brad. It wasn’t because of Mr. Peterson. He was fired up and ready to go. Even got the price right. [ … T]hat’s not the way that soulmates conduct themselves.”

  Freda Black brought her fiery argument to a close. Her high energy was still outwardly displayed, but around her eyes, weariness from the long fight had left its mark. “We do thank you. All of our lives have been disrupted. But it’s worth it, to find the truth and to seek justice. Not just for Michael Peterson, to seek justice for Kathleen. She’s the one that died a horrible, brutal death. Nobody deserves that. Not even a dog deserves to die like the way she had to die. Can you imagine the pain and suffering she endured? You can just look at the pictures of the back of her head and just try to fathom that thought.”

  She stared straight into the eyes of the jurors. She extended an index finger as she spoke, elongating the sentence for her last declaration. “Michael Peterson is guilty of first-degree murder.”

  Behind the prosecution desk, Candace Zamperini wiped away tears.

  52

  As District Attorney Jim Hardin approached the podium, a large blow-up photo of Kathleen was by his side. Dressed in his dark blue suit, white shirt and gray-and-white-checked tie, his pale face radiated determination. The length of the fringe brushing his collar made it clear that a haircut was not on the top of his priority list during this trial.

  He spoke in a soft, slow, low-key voice. His North Carolina accent caressed each word he spoke. “There is only one question you have to ask yourself and then answer: Was this a beating or was this a fall? Was it a murder or was it an accident?

  “We have said all along that Kathleen Peterson was murdered. And they claim it was a fall. We’ve claimed that she was brutally beaten by this man right here,” he said as he pointed his finger at the defendant. “They claim that this was just some bizarre coincidence. But all you have to do is look at these pictures and you can make your mind up quickly.”

  He talked about the evidence that the defense did not present to support their contentions in this case. “The bottom line, ladies and gentlemen, is, it didn’t fit into their nice little package. It didn’t fit into the plan. Kathleen Peterson took too long to die for this to work.

  “And how do we know that? Dr. Bouldin is a good example. He combines the best evidence. He says that the red neurons in Kathleen’s brain could not develop unless she were unconscious and there’s a significant deprivation of blood to her brain, and it had to take at least two hours. So, ladies and gentlemen, she had to lay unconscious for two hours.”

  Hardin dangled Michael Peterson’s bloody shorts from his hand. “Do you think the defendant really was out at the pool? I mean, he’s got a pair of shorts on and a tee shirt. Is he contending to you that he was out there for the couple of hours it would have taken Kathleen Peterson to die? It was fifty-one degrees. It was damp. Who in the world is going to stay outside at a pool smoking a pipe for a couple of hours in the middle of the morning in December and it’s fifty-one degrees and it’s cold and wet?”

  Putting up a chart of Dr. Deborah Radisch’s findings, Hardin ticked off the thirty-eight lacerations, bruises and contusions she found when she performed the autopsy on Kathleen’s body. “How in the world can someone get thirty-eight injuries over their face, back, head, hands, arms and wrists from falling down some steps—even if there are two falls? There is absolutely no way that makes common sense.”

  Hardin defended the state’s allegation that a deadly weapon was used—that whether or not it was a blowpoke was irrelevant. What is important, he asserted, was the totality of the evidence. “And in this case, what’s one of the most important things they saw? The seven lacerations on the back of the head.”

  Like Black, he reminded the jurors about Lee’s contention that there was too much blood for a beating. “He talks about the fact that the scene is very dynamic.” The volume of Hardin’s voice rose and passion tinged his tone. “You better believe there is a lot of motion and a lot of action in there. She was fighting for her life.”

  “[ …] We contend to you that she was struck, that she went down, that she was probably down for some time. She began to bleed. And then she got up.

  “And he realized it as he was going through the process of cleaning up everything and he had to continue the assault. Why do we say that?” Hardin gestured over his shoulder to the defense table. “They don’t even dispute that Kathleen got up. There is no dispute about that at all from either side. The question is how she received her injuries.”

  The D.A. turned then to a description of the cleanup on the stairs. “Why in the world would a grieving spouse want to clean if he’s just found his wife dead—dead in the stairs from a fall? Why in the world would you do that? You wouldn’t. But if you wanted to hide something or cover it up, you would.

  “There’s a whole lot of blood here, ladies and gentlemen, and he realized there was too much blood. And he decided that he had to make it look like he had helped her by putting the towels up under her head.”

  Jim Hardin then explained the concept of reasonable doubt and why it did not exist in this case. He followed that with a justification for the charge of first-degree murder. “What we contend to you, ladies and gentlemen, is that he assaulted her. She went down. He continued to assault her and that’s when the premeditation formulated.”

  Hardin speculated about the stresses that could have started the confrontation, including finances, work and, of course, Brad. “We will never know exactly what caused this conflict to occur. But we contend that whatever it was caused that initial assault, during the assault, he develops the intent to complete the act and to kill Kathleen Peterson.”

  He held a photograph before the jury. “This photograph is the first photograph taken of Kathleen at the autopsy table. This photograph at least speaks a thousand words.”

  He held up a picture of the stairwell. “Ladies and gentlemen, these walls are talking to us. Kathleen is talking to us through the blood on these walls. She is screaming at us for truth and for justice.”

  Hardin’s voice turned soft and intimate, it sounded like a prayer. “They’ve said Kathleen Peterson died of an accident. We’ve said that she has died of murder and we ask that you return that verdict. Thank you.”

  When Hardin finished, the courtroom was as quiet as a chapel in the aftermath of witnessing a miracle.

  THE VERDICT

  “What you see in very bright individuals and people with similar backgrounds, you can compare to sociopaths, in that they use people, in that their life is a living book and that’s why they come up with these great plots and sub-plots and ha
ppen to live them, too. Too many coincidences here for my psychological comfort.”

  —Jeffrey Gardere, psychologist

  53

  Jury alternate number three, Richard Sarratt, was eager for the dismissal that would allow him to restart a normal life. He had a list of chores to do that day—a trip to Lowe’s and to Home Depot. He was scheduled for a ten-hour shift as an operating nurse at the Durham Veterans Affairs Medical Center the next day. He hoped to take off on vacation for a week after that. He was prepared to bolt the courtroom as soon as the instructions were done.

  The judge read the 19-page document to the jury point by point. The moment of freedom was a breath away for Sarratt as the judge said, “At this time …”

  Then David Rudolf was on his feet, “May we approach?”

  At dispute was one more juror. The defense had received a call from a co-worker of juror Joanne Hairston. She worked at a bank where Michael Peterson was a customer. Before the start of the trial, she had allegedly been overheard making negative comments about the defendant and mocking him.

  “I have heard information,” the judge told Ms. Hairston, “that could affect your ability to sit as a juror.”

  A deputy escorted her from the courtroom. An astonished Richard Sarratt took her place. The one remaining alternate, Mary Bruckchen, a Kroger stocker, was dismissed. She told The News & Observer, “I think they will find him not guilty because of the reasonable doubt.”

  On the first afternoon of their deliberations, the jury took a preliminary vote. Four of the members were undecided, five voted guilty, four not guilty. They were, however, in agreement on one point: Kathleen Peterson did not die from an accidental fall down the stairs.

  This group of men and women had bonded over the months they spent together. They complained each time they were sent out of the court and wondered just what information was being kept from them. They exchanged observations about the attorneys.

  They pondered the poker face of Jim Hardin and decided what he lacked in charisma, he compensated for with integrity, humility, a calm demeanor and a methodical thoroughness. They also noted that toward the end of the trial, looking good was not his top priority—he had needed a haircut for weeks.

  They talked about the demeanor and the wardrobe of Freda Black. She was an open woman whose emotions flared from her eyes. In no time, they learned to identify the exact moment that David Rudolf had pushed one of her buttons.

  They wondered about the absence of a wedding band from David Rudolf’s hand the last few days of the trial. Although they felt he was sincere, they also thought that he was a showboater with a penchant for last-minute theatrics. Maher did not give them much to talk about. Like Hardin, he appeared calm, methodical and thorough.

  They talked about reading, hunting, fishing, jobs and children. They joked that if they were here for Halloween, they would all have to come in costume. And that maybe they would still be here to draw names and play secret Santa. In the preceding weeks they talked about everything except for the one question that brought them together: Was Michael Peterson guilty as charged? Now it was their focus.

  On Tuesday, one juror fluctuated and now five were undecided. “Why are you undecided?” the others asked. “What can we do to help?”

  They worked to chop away at the evidence to get to the core, where they knew they would find the answer. They set aside the Liz Ratliff matter—any attempt to ascertain Michael Peterson’s guilt in her death would be a distraction.

  They discarded the blowpoke. After viewing the stairway, they were not convinced it was the weapon anyway. They certainly did not think that the blowpoke Rudolf presented days before was the blowpoke. Too many questions remained. Who found it? Where did they find it? Was it really found just two days before it was brought to the courtroom?

  They set aside Faris Bandak’s video because of contradictions between the actions of the figure and the blood spatter evidence, and because it showed Kathleen down on the stairs, but did not demonstrate how she got there.

  Although they respected Dr. Lee, his statement that there was too much blood for a beating did not make sense. Since he had not done any testing, they had nothing concrete to compare to Agent Deaver’s work and because of that, they relied on Deaver’s work alone.

  Dr. Deborah Radisch’s testimony about the autopsy rang as true as bird song at dawn. For many, she was the turning point of the trial.

  Their biggest obstacle to reaching an agreement on the verdict was premeditation. Again and again, they referred each other to the vital sections of their instructions:

  [T]he defendant acted after premeditation, that is, that he formed the intent to kill the victim over some period of time, however short, before he acts.

  Neither premeditation or deliberation is usually susceptible to direct proof. They may be proved by proof of circumstances from which they may be inferred …

  Wednesday was the tensest day in their decision process. They might have compromised on a second-degree verdict at that time if they could—but it was not an option. The deliberation room was filled with argument and tears. Still, it felt more like a family around the Thanksgiving table engaged in a charged debate than it did strangers forced together to make a weighty decision.

  Durham County Jury Clerk Susan Cowen added a bright spot to that day. She left her office, where a gift from this jury—a certificate naming her “The World’s Greatest Jury Clerk”—hung on the wall with pride. She went to the deliberation room and gave each member a pen emblazoned with “2003 Juror of the Year” and “5 Month Survivor” in memory of the longest criminal trial in Durham history.

  At the end of that day, no one was undecided. The vote was divided right down the middle—six for guilty, six not guilty.

  They returned to their homes that afternoon to discover a letter in their mailboxes. The envelope had a hand-written return address that did not contain the call letters of a television station. If it had, many would not have opened it.

  The letter inside read: “It has been a long summer in the courtroom—and I know you have gotten to know your fellow jurors very well throughout the Peterson trial. I would like to offer an opportunity for all of you to come together again after you have decided your verdict.”

  The letter tried to weave a bond through their mutual experience with the trial, then continued with an invitation to a dinner on October 18. It was signed by Sonya Pfeiffer of WTVD-TV.

  The jurors had some anger at the presumption that they would reach a verdict by that date. Their reaction, however, was nothing compared to the fireworks in the courtroom, where finger-pointing reigned.

  When the dust settled, Judge Hudson sent a letter to each juror:

  It has come to the attention of the Court that a reporter with a local television station has sent letters to jurors expressing an interest in meeting jurors after the trial is over. The reporter informed the Court that the letters were to have been sent after the jury had been discharged from the trial, and were mistakenly sent while deliberations were still underway. Please disregard this letter, do not respond, and do not let the letter influence your deliberations in any way.

  Thursday morning, Paul Harrison told his fellow jurors that he had made up his mind that Peterson was guilty. “I could look him right in the eye and tell him,” he said. By the end of the day, emotions were raw and the vote was ten guilty, two not guilty. They all committed to go home and think about their decisions.

  Richard Sarratt lay in the hallway of his home with his legs propped up on the steps to the second floor. He considered and reconsidered his decision. It was a fitful night for all twelve.

  54

  Only the deputy heard the muffled knock from inside the door of the deliberation room on the morning of Friday, October 10. He eased open the door and stuck his head in the room. Then he closed it and announced, “We have a verdict.”

  As if by magic, the courtroom filled with tense faces and curious eyes. Michael Peterson took his seat b
etween David Rudolf and Tom Maher. Judge Hudson stepped up onto the bench. He spoke to the gathered audience: “If you think you’re going to have difficulty accepting the jury’s verdict, and you’re going to make noise or do something else disruptive in the courtroom, I am going to give you the opportunity to leave. Right now. If you disrupt my courtroom while I am doing this, and you cause a scene, I’m going to have you arrested.”

  He turned to the deputy. “Bring the jury in. Tell them to bring all their belongings.

  “Have you marked, checked, whatever, the appropriate places on the verdict sheet?” Hudson asked the forewoman.

  “Yes,” she answered and handed the manila envelope to the deputy.

  He carried it to the judge. Hudson passed it over to Court Clerk Angie Kelly. With all eyes on her, Angie opened the envelope and slid out a piece of paper. “We, the twelve members of the jury, unanimously find the defendant to be guilty of first-degree murder, this the tenth day of October, 2003.”

  Margaret and Martha Ratliff collapsed on one another sobbing. The jurors ached for them. Many wanted to wrap arms around the girls and take their pain away. But their pain had not been born today—it had been two decades in the making.

  David Rudolf called for a poll of the jury. Angie asked each one, “Your foreperson has returned for your verdict that the defendant is guilty of first-degree murder. Is this your verdict, and do you still assent thereto?”