Chapter 68
Judge Gianelli's voice bellowed, "Government, call your first witness."
Paine stood and stepped to the podium. "The government calls Sergeant Rodney Cullen."
A side door swung open, and Cullen entered the room.
Jefferson leaned into me and whispered, "He's my boy."
"We'll see," I responded, a hint of skepticism in my voice.
Jefferson was foolish to think that Cullen, or any of his buddies, were going to help him. They had too much to lose. In criminal cases, when freedom is on the line, friends often turn on each other to save themselves. In this case, Cullen was a cooperating witness. He was testifying under a grant of immunity in exchange for a lighter sentence. He wasn't on Jefferson's team.
Sergeant Rodney Cullen was a lifelong snitch. Back in high school, he routinely ratted out his classmates for underage drinking to kiss up to the principal and the local police. Meanwhile, he would steal hooch from his grandpa's stash and sell it to his friends. According to Reggie, Cullen was a deadbeat dad with three kids to three different baby mamas scattered throughout the Big D.
His Army personnel file showed a man with thick, Coke bottle glasses and a thin mustache. Today, he was clean-shaven and wearing contact lenses. Pants creased, blouse starched, brass gleaming, what few ribbons he'd earned displayed and arranged in close order on his chest. His tie disappeared into his shirt as per regs, and his shoes glistened.
His lawyer, L. Edward Williams, had worked out a sweet deal on Cullen's behalf. In exchange for his testimony against Jefferson, the Army reduced Cullen's murder charge to simple assault - an arrangement too good to pass up.
Based on the case file, I wasn't exactly sure why Paine called Cullen as a witness; Cullen hadn't made any statements implicating Jefferson. Paine was calling him first, so he had something up his sleeve. At trial, prosecutors usually front-load their most persuasive witnesses.
"Good morning, Sergeant Cullen," Paine said, smiling.
"Good morning, sir." Cullen smiled and nodded back. "Nice to see you again."
Jefferson shot me a glance that screamed, What the hell?
After Cullen swore, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, Paine asked his first question. "You served at Sangar Prison from January 2002 through December 2002, correct?"
"Yes, I did," Cullen replied.
"He's leading the witness," Jefferson mumbled.
"I know that. Pay attention and take notes," I said, shifting my attention back to the witness.
Paine extended his arm and pointed at Jefferson. "Do you know the accused?"
"Yeah. We're great friends." Cullen nodded his head vigorously. "We played ball together from the time we wuz five or six. He was always thunder. I was lightnin'."
"In total, how long have you known him?"
"Nearly 20 years, I figure. He's like family to me."
"And there is no tighter bond than family, isn't that right?"
"That's the way my mama raised me," Cullen said, looking proud.
"Why are you willing to testify against your friend?" Paine's tone was compassionate.
"What he did wasn't right. No, sir. Tyler whupped that A-rab... I mean, enemy combatant, that Nassar guy - real bad. Real bad."
"Let's back up a little," Paine said. "How do you know Hamza Nassar?"
"He was a detainee at Sangar while we wuz there."
"Did you ever guard Hamza Nassar?"
"Not that I recall," Cullen said. "But I was there when the actions in question occurred."
"What actions are you referring to, Sergeant?"
"When Tyler beat the shit out of him. I mean, (and here Cullen's memorization was perfect) when Sergeant Jefferson repeatedly struck Hamza Nassar about the head, shoulders, and legs with his fists and knees causing... (memory faltered for a second) ah... grave... bodily... harm. Once in the VIP cell and once when he was being transported to the latrine."
"You personally witnessed the beatings?" Paine asked him.
Cullen paused. "Beg your pardon."
"Did you see Sergeant Jefferson hit Hamza Nassar with your own two eyes?"
"Yeah. I saw it," Cullen replied.
"Tell us about the first time."
"Hmm." Cullen stroked his chin and thought for a moment. "The first time, Jefferson was escorting Nassar to the latrine, and he kneed him right here." Cullen pointed to his outer thigh, an inch above the knee. "He struck him so hard I winced."
"Ouch." Paine grimaced at the jury. "Then what happened?"
"The detainee fell to the floor and screamed in pain."
"Was Sergeant Jefferson in danger? Was he perhaps acting in self-defense?"
"No way." Cullen shook his head. "Nassar was shackled at the wrists and ankles."
"Let's talk about the second assault. What happened that time?"
"One night, I was Sergeant of the Guard," Cullen said, "and for no reason, Jefferson showed up and went into his cell."
"That's a lie," Jefferson said in a loud whisper. "Nassar was out of control."
Judge Gianelli darted his eyes at our table. I put my hand on Jefferson's knee and squeezed - a warning to be quiet.
"Please continue, Sergeant," Paine said.
"Well, I heard chains shaking, and what sounded like flesh striking flesh."
"What did you do next?"
"I heard moaning, so I walked to the cell and called his name. Jefferson turned and faced me." Cullen's voice quivered. "Then he said, 'I didn't do nothin', Sarge.' He had this look on his face. I'll never forget it. It haunts me to this day."
"Can you describe the look?"
"Like, you know, a guilty look."
"Objection." I jumped from my seat. "This witness cannot comment on whether or not my client looked guilty."
"Sustained," Gianelli said.
Paine marched on. "Aside from the look on Jefferson's face, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"
"Yeah. Nassar looked like he had been beaten."
Paine stepped closer to Cullen and lowered his voice. "Why did it look like he'd been beaten?"
"Nassar was winded, and his face was sweaty and red."
Jefferson never expected those words to come out of his friend's mouth, either because of naivety or foolishness. Jefferson leaned toward me. The rickety metal chair squeaked under his 200-pound body. "Why is he telling these lies?" his whisper more of a shout. All eyes in the room were on us. I ignored him and kept my gaze on Cullen.
Paine continued, "How was the victim positioned when you entered the room?"
"He was chained to the ceiling by his wrists, hands over his head."
"So, Nassar had no way of striking Jefferson?" Paine asked.
"Heck no. The man was hanging like a piñata."
"What happened next?"
"I never saw that poor man again. I guess he died or something."
I stood. "Objection."
"Sustained."
Paine cleared his throat and spoke dramatically. "Sergeant, based on what you saw, did this detainee, who was chained to the ceiling, dangling like a piñata, pose a threat to Sergeant Jefferson at that time?"
"No. He was as harmless as a baby."
"Thank you. I have no further questions." Paine returned to his chair as the jury stared at Jefferson with cold, hard eyes.
Some friend, I thought.
On the witness stand, Cullen sat with his hands between his knees, palms together, subconsciously protecting his groin. He rotated his high school class ring around his thick finger. I stood and collected my papers. Cullen rocked from side to side like a metronome. "Sergeant Cullen," I said in a commanding voice. "You saw Jefferson hit Nassar, is that correct?"
"Which time?" Cullen cocked his head and smirked at me. "It happened more than once."
"How many times did he supposedly hit him?"
"He didn't supposedly hit him. It happened. Twice to be exact." The prosecution team chuckled and whispered amongst themselves. Cul
len was feisty. I had to tighten up my questions and fast. "On both occasions, you were in charge of the night watch?"
"Define 'in charge.'" Cullen grinned at Paine.
"You were the highest-ranking guard on duty?"
"I guess."
"I don't want you to guess. Were you the highest-ranking guard on duty or not?"
"Objection," Paine said. "He's badgering the witness."
"Overruled." Gianelli did not appear to appreciate Cullen's snark.
I repeated my question. "You were the highest-ranking guard on duty that night?"
"Is that a question or a statement?" Cullen said. Based on the jury's dour facial expressions, Cullen wasn't scoring any points.
I asked my question again, slowly enunciating each word and syllable as if I was talking to a fool. "You - Sergeant - Rodney - Cullen - were - the - highest - ranking - guard - on - duty - that - night? Correct?" Cullen knew I could drag this out all day.
"Yeah," he said.
"That night, your position was Sergeant of the Guard?"
"Yeah."
"The Sergeant of the Guard is in charge of the other guards on duty?"
"Yup."
"You were required to document all interactions between the guards and detainees?"
"Yup."
"You were required to document these interactions in a logbook?"
"Yeah."
"Sergeant Cullen," Judge Gianelli interjected. "You are speaking to an Army officer. Start showing proper military bearing."
Cullen swallowed hard. "Huh?"
"Captain O'Donnell is an officer," Gianelli said. "Refer to him as 'Sir' or 'Captain.' Is that understood?"
Cullen's face reddened. "Yes, sir, Judge, Your Honor."
Gianelli gave me a thumbs up. "Captain O'Donnell, please continue."
I moved on to my next question. "You never documented Sergeant Jefferson's abuses, did you?"
"Yes, sir. I did. In the logbook."
"Oh, really?" I paused. Could I have overlooked this? "You're telling us that in the logbook, you wrote down the dates and times that Sergeant Jefferson hit Nassar?"
"Yes. That's what I just said."
My next question was risky because I didn't know the answer. "What happened to this logbook?"
Cullen shrugged. "How should I know? I told CID about it."
"You're positive you told CID about this logbook?"
Paine rose. "I object! This is pointless. We don't have the logbooks."
"Captain O'Donnell," Gianelli said, "how is this relevant?"
"The logbook is relevant because it goes to Sergeant Cullen's credibility. Sergeant Cullen still faces charges for prisoner abuse and murder, and he's testifying under a grant of immunity. Now, for the first time, he claims that Sergeant Jefferson beat Nassar, that he documented the abuse in a logbook, and that CID knew about the logbook. The truth is, CID did not find any records, anywhere, that mention Sergeant Jefferson abusing prisoners. In his CID interview, Cullen said he never witnessed any abuse. Conveniently, years later, when he's facing his own charges, Cullen claims to have witnessed Sergeant Jefferson abuse prisoners. He's lying to save himself." I noticed some of the jurors were taking notes. I hope I had made my point.
"This witness doesn't know where the logbook is," Gianelli said. "Move on."
Next, I went after Cullen's bias and motive to lie. As I continued his cross-examination, Paine objected more, and Gianelli shut me down at every turn. I ran out of material, so I shifted to Cullen's ability to observe Jefferson hitting Nassar. "Where were you when Jefferson kneed Nassar?"
"In the prison," Cullen replied.
"The prison is a big place. Exactly where were you standing when you saw Jefferson hit Nassar, the first time?"
Cullen took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The jurors leaned forward. The question was simple enough, but Paine either didn't prepare Cullen for it, or he never thought to ask. Cullen scanned the courtroom as if looking for someone to feed him an answer. After a minute, he said, "Can you repeat the question?"
"Where were you standing when you saw Jefferson hit Nassar the first time?"
"In the break room. We shared it with the Red Cross."
"Objection." Paine scoffed and put his hands on his hips. He reminded me of every frat boy in every movie I had ever seen. "The Red Cross's presence at Sangar is classified."
I turned to Gianelli. "Sir, how is the Red Cross classified?"
Gianelli held up his hand, stopping me, and said, "I need the jury and all spectators to depart the courtroom."
Once the room was cleared, I said, "The Red Cross is a well-known, international relief organization. They advertise on television for crying out loud."
Paine was ready for the argument. "If Your Honor will refer to the CID report, page 141, you will notice all references to the Red Cross at Sangar Prison are classified."
Gianelli picked up his reading glasses, perched them on his nose, and flipped through a stack of papers. A minute later, he looked up with a blank expression on his face. "I'm mystified. It seems all references to the Red Cross at Sangar are classified and cannot be discussed in open court."
I threw my hands in the air. "Your Honor. I have to be able to cross-examine the witness."
"I understand, but do so without asking about classified material. Is there anything else we need to take up before I reopen the Court?"
"Yes. I offer the prison floor plan into evidence," I said, holding up a document.
"Classified," Paine said. "Page 145."
More thumbing. "So it is," Gianelli said. "Captain O'Donnell, you are 0 for 2."
"Your Honor, I was given this floorplan in discovery. It's not classified."
"Let me see it." Gianelli beckoned me forward. I walked to the bench and handed the judge a copy. He reviewed it and gave it back to me. "Captain O'Donnell is holding what purports to be the prison's floor plan," Gianelli said. "It is not marked as classified." Paine stood to respond, but Gianelli cut him off. "Government, did you provide this floorplan to the defense?"
"Yes, but-"
Gianelli interrupted Paine again, "I'm admitting the floorplan into evidence. Bailiff, recall the jury and get Sergeant Cullen back in here."
Cullen retook the witness stand. I handed him the exhibit and asked him, "Is this what the Sangar Prison floorplan looked like back in 2002?"
Cullen squinted at the diagram. "One and the same."
"Do you see where you were standing when you saw Sergeant Jefferson hit Nassar the first time?"
"Yes, right here," Cullen pointed at the drawing.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm positive."
I stepped forward and handed him three Sharpie markers. "Using the red marker," I said, "write the letter C on the floorplan to show where you were standing when Jefferson hit Nassar the first time." Cullen marked the paper. "Now, use the green marker and write the letter J to show Jefferson's location." Cullen took the marker and followed my instructions. "Last one, Sergeant," I said, "take the blue marker and draw a straight line from the C to the J." Cullen complied. I turned to Judge Gianelli. "Your Honor, I'd like to show the jury the floorplan."
"Go ahead," Gianelli said.
Using an overhead projector, I displayed the floorplan on a pull-down screen that hung from the wall. The jury studied it. Some of them took notes. I pointed at the screen with a laser pointer and said, "Sergeant Cullen, what is that black line separating the C and the J?"
Cullen scratched the back of his head as his eyes darted around the room.
"Go on now," Gianelli said.
"It's a wall."
"A concrete wall?" I asked.
Cullen nodded. "I think so."
"Sergeant, are you Superman?"
"Huh?" Cullen glared at me sideways.
"Do you have x-ray vision?"
"Objection," Paine said.
"Sustained."
"Can you see through concrete walls?"
Before he answered, I gl
anced at the jury. "I have no further questions," I said and sat down. Back at the table, Jefferson was laughing, like he was at a comedy show. I tapped his leg. "Knock it off. The jury's looking at you."
I watched as Paine desperately tried to rehabilitate Cullen's testimony. It was too late. The jury had lost interest. Some smirked, as Cullen tried to explain how he "saw around the wall." Others stared out the window. Gianelli must have noticed the jury was daydreaming. After Paine finished questioning Cullen, he recessed for the evening.
Paine stormed out of the courtroom. His entire team, including the paralegals, secretaries, and possibly the janitor, were ordered into a conference room where Paine berated them for "blatant and inexcusable incompetence." After Paine ran out of insults, he and his prosecutors stayed until midnight, coaching their next witness.
After court, I met with Jefferson and Reggie, who had by now made amends, to discuss the day's testimony and the way forward. Inside our makeshift office, Jefferson wore a broad, confident grin. Reggie, on the other hand, wanted to rip someone's head off.
Once I closed the door, and we had some privacy, Jefferson blurted out, "That was tight. You think they'll drop the case?"
"Not a chance," I said.
"Why not. I mean, you completely exposed Cullen as a liar."
"They have two dozen other witnesses lined up behind him. We have to-"
Reggie interrupted me, "I'm gonna murder Cullen, that son-of-a-bitch."
"Reggie, you're not murdering anyone," I said.
"I don't take orders from you, counselor," he replied.
"Cut the macho bullshit, Reggie. It's not helpful. Tomorrow, they plan on calling the forensic pathologist. He's going to be a powerful witness. Have you found any dirt on him?"
"Not yet. He's pretty strait-laced."
"Then, you got some homework. Stay out of the strip club and find me something I can use."
Like a scolded child, Reggie crossed his arms and sighed.
"And Reggie," I said, "keep away from Cullen. The last thing we need is you in prison. We caught some lucky breaks today, but this is far from over."
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