Body Hunter

by Patricia Springer

  Judge Brotherton had opted not to conduct jury selection in his formal black robe, but in the more casual attire of tan jacket, white shirt, and brown tie.

  The judge took his place behind the bench in a cordovan chair embossed with a gold seal of the state of Texas. On the wall above his head, a gold star with a black background was encircled with a gold ring. Leslie Ryan-Hash, Brotherton’s court reporter, was seated below him and to his right.

  Seven hundred and fifty potential jurors were originally called for the Wardrip trial. District Attorney Barry Macha estimated that it would take about four weeks to choose a jury of twelve.

  There were about seventy exemptions that could have been claimed by potential jurors, including stay-at-home parents caring for children under the age of ten, and full-time students. Several jury candidates took advantage of some of the exclusions. Two were excused because they said they had formed an opinion of the case, and two women were eight months pregnant. The process of eliminating those who could not serve, for one reason or another, took most of the first week of Wardrip’s scheduled trial.

  Week two began with a scaled-down jury pool of three hundred. These were interviewed as possible panel members. Once the potential jury pool reached fifty, prosecutors and public defenders then exercised their fifteen preemptive strikes. The remaining panelists would make up the jury seated to hear Wardrip’s case.

  On Monday, October 11, 1999, Wardrip was upbeat, smiling and laughing with deputies who sat close behind him in the courtroom. The unarmed officers could easily be identified as Wichita County Sheriff’s deputies by the black jeans, large silver belt buckles, and tan shirts with neat stitching spelling out WICHITA COUNTY on the left breast and SHERIFF’S OFFICE on the sleeve.

  The courtroom was nearly empty. Curiosity seekers and victims’ families seldom attended the tedious process of jury selection, except for Elaine Kimbrew Thornhill. The attractive, dark-haired mother of Tina Kimbrew sat in the empty jury box waiting for potential jurors to be questioned. She occasionally glared at Faryion Wardrip, trying to catch his eye. She wanted him to be aware of her presence. While Wardrip’s pending trial was for the murder of Terry Sims, Elaine felt like it was Tina’s trial, too. The trial she never got. Elaine sought closure.

  Wardrip’s demeanor changed to serious concentration as John Wyatt, a retired heating-and-air-conditioning technician with graying hair and metal-rimmed glasses, approached the witness stand. The first of many potential jurors, Wyatt was prepared to answer questions posed by the prosecution and the defense.

  District Attorney Barry Macha approached Wyatt, a warm smile on his face.

  “Have you ever served on a jury, Mr. Wyatt?” Macha asked.

  “Yes. I served on a DWI case seven years prior,” Wyatt replied.

  Macha took a chair and placed it about twelve feet in front of the witness box. He casually sat as he explained what constituted the death penalty in Texas. He carefully noted that a capital offense was the murder of a public safety officer, fireman, or correctional employee; murder during the commission of a specified felony (kidnapping, burglary, robbery, aggravated rape, arson); murder for payment; multiple murders; murder during prison escape; murder by a state prison inmate; and murder of a child under the age of six, or murder of a person over the age of sixty-five.

  “How do you feel about the death penalty, Mr. Wyatt?” Macha asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  “I’ve seen some cases that seem are right for the death penalty, but I’ve seen some that don’t. I’m not for it or against it,” Wyatt answered.

  All eyes in the courtroom were fixed on Wyatt, judging his response. All but the defense attorney’s, who avoided looking at the possible panelist.

  Macha stood and walked to the prosecution table. He took a large white chart with black lettering and set it on an easel. Pointing to the chart the DA read the numbered list. “One, can vote for the death penalty. Two, against the death penalty. Three, philosophically opposed to the death penalty, but could serve with others who do believe in it.”

  Macha turned and faced Wyatt. “What category do you put yourself in, Mr. Wyatt?”

  “Number one,” Wyatt answered.

  Macha continued the jury interview by describing the two phases of the upcoming trial—guilt or innocence, and penalty. He then placed a second chart on the brown wooden easel to help him in defining the term “intentionally.” The DA explained that intent was a state of mind wherein the person knows and desires the consequences of his act. Wyatt pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, leaned forward as if to read the chart, then nodded to indicate he understood.

  Macha, careful not to intimidate the jury prospect, pushed back his light brown jacket and slid his right hand casually into the pocket of his dark brown trousers in a nonchalant manner as he approached Wyatt.

  “Mr. Wardrip is assumed innocent today,” Macha said. Then he read the indictment of Faryion Wardrip for the murder of Terry Sims.

  As Macha’s two assistant district attorneys sat at the prosecution table talking to each other, Macha moved closer to the witness box.

  “The burden of proof is on the State,” Macha said. “A burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Macha clarified that reasonable doubt referred to the degree of certainty required of a juror before he could make a legally valid determination of the guilt of a defendant. That innocence was to be presumed unless the jury could see no reasonable doubt of the guilt of Faryion Wardrip. Macha said the term did not require that proof be so clear that no possibility of error existed; it meant that the evidence had to be so conclusive that all reasonable doubts were removed from the minds of the jurors.

  Then Macha again changed the chart resting on the easel to one that denoted special issues that would be addressed during the penalty phase of the trial. Wyatt sat expressionless as Macha went through the first issue. The district attorney contended that Wardrip had deliberately caused the death of Terry Sims. He emphasized the differences between deliberate and intentional, stating that “deliberately requires more thought process than intentionally” when it came to murder.

  “Can you see the distinction between ‘intentionally’ and ‘deliberately’?” Macha asked.

  Wyatt said nothing. He merely nodded. He crossed his arms and listened closely as Macha continued.

  “The second special issue to address is future dangerousness. Ask if this man would probably commit other crimes on society,” Macha said. “You with me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wyatt said as he nodded again.

  The third issue dealt with mitigation.

  “Is there something about the facts of this offense or about the defendant that would warrant a reduction to a life sentence? Anything to reduce his moral blame?” Macha asked.

  “No, no, yes to these issues means a life sentence. Yes, yes, no equals the death penalty,” Macha continued.

  As Wyatt nodded to indicate his understanding, one of the sheriff’s deputies yawned, leaned his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.

  “If you are selected to serve and sat on the jury and I did prove guilt and I did satisfy the issues for the death to be imposed, can you do that?” Macha said, looking Wyatt in the eye.

  “Yes, sir,” Wyatt said with conviction.

  “The people of Denton County have been nice to us,” Macha said. “I appreciate your service.”

  The tall handsome district attorney returned to his seat at the prosecution table and waited for the public defender to interview the potential juror.

  John Curry remained in his seat throughout the questioning.

  “You’ve had back surgery,” Curry said softly, referring to the written questionnaire completed by Wyatt. “Would that affect you sitting on the jury?”

  “No,” Wyatt said as he turned to face Curry.

  “You said you were uncomfortable at the DWI trial because it was drawn out. Will the length of time that it will take for this case cause you a prob
lem?”

  “No,” Wyatt answered.

  “It seems you’ve done some thinking about the death penalty,” Curry said. “Do you have a special interest?”

  “No special interest. I’ve just seen cases in the news. I’ve thought about it for a long time,” Wyatt replied.

  “You only get one shot at it. There’s no chance to come back when you sentence someone to die by lethal injection,” Curry said.

  Wyatt kept his eyes on Curry. He didn’t notice Wardrip staring at him, waiting for a reaction.

  “Based on the evidence, can you apply the definition of deliberate?” Curry asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On future dangerousness, if a person is in prison and he’d never been in trouble and his behavior is controlled with medication, can you conceive that person could be dangerous in the free world, but not in a controlled environment of prison?” Curry asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When younger, people are more prone to violence. When they are older, they are more self-controlled. Are people capable of change?” Curry asked.

  “Sure,” Wyatt said.

  “All things considered, if the circumstances indicate the death penalty is not appropriate, the third special issue allows you to say life is more appropriate. Can you do that?” Curry asked.

  “Yes, I can do that,” Wyatt said.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the term ‘parole.’ You won’t hear information about parole here. Your decision shouldn’t come down to concern about being released sometime. If instructed not to consider parole, can you?” Curry asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Wyatt said.

  “On behalf of Faryion and myself, I want to thank you for coming today,” Curry said.

  Judge Brotherton spoke to Wyatt before excusing him for the day.

  “We will continue to speak to potential jurors. We’ll call fifty back and let you know the twelve who will serve, plus two alternates,” Brotherton said. “We’ll take a break now.”

  When court resumed, each juror was questioned just as John Wyatt had been. Some, like the young man who followed Wyatt, were excused. The clean-cut young man was scheduled to report on November 17 to Provo, Utah, for missionary training. He would spend the next two years as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints.

  Both Macha and Curry agreed to excuse the potential juror, noting that the trial might very well go longer than the November 17 date he was scheduled to report.

  Macha walked to the witness box and extended his hand.

  “Good luck,” Macha told the soon-to-be missionary.

  And so it went with each of the fifty possible jurors called in the Faryion Wardrip trial, both the prosecution and the defense competing for jurors who would be honest, fair, and sympathetic to their side.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Dana Rice, investigator for the Wichita County Public Defender’s Office, had been dealing with the Faryion Wardrip case for nine months. Not only was the pretty, former parole officer responsible for interviewing witnesses, but for keeping Wardrip reasonably in line as well.

  Rice’s path had crossed Wardrip’s before. She had first seen him in the 1980s when she frequented the Stardust Club and he checked IDs at the door. She hadn’t really known Wardrip personally, but since she had taken over the investigation of his case for Public Defender John Curry and second-chair Defender Dorie Glickman, Dana had become quite familiar with Wardrip and many of his idiosyncrasies.

  “Who died for our sins?” Wardrip had asked Dana Rice on their first meeting.

  Rice had stared at Wardrip questioningly. Is this a trick question? she’d thought.

  The question had been one of many religion-based inquiries Wardrip had made during their meetings. But when the trial proceedings began, Wardrip had concentrated his dialogue with Dana on requests for snacks and treats. Because of his diabetes, Faryion had to have orange juice during the court breaks, as well as an occasional milk shake. Wardrip loved milk shakes—and he loved to be waited on. Because of his nervous snacking, he was confined to the jail infirmary every night with his blood-sugar levels reaching erratic highs and lows. Rice wondered if he would even live through the trial.

  November 1, 1999, the first day of scheduled trial testimony, Dana Rice was leaving the Radisson Hotel with Dorie Glickman. Dorie, an attractive young woman in her thirties, wore a black conservative suit; Dana, a black-and-white-checked jacket with black pants.

  The prominent skyscrapers that rose from the campuses of the University of North Texas and Texas Women’s University were shrouded in fog. Temperatures were in the mid-fifties.

  “Wait a minute,” Glickman said, hurrying back into the room. The bright young female defense attorney picked up the hotel Bible from the bedside table and tucked it neatly under her arm. In her right pocket was Wardrip’s wedding ring. She had obtained special permission from Judge Brotherton for her client to wear the ring in court but, because jewelry wasn’t allowed in the Denton County Jail, she was responsible for bringing it to her client each day.

  Wardrip and Glickman may have thought the ring gave the impression of a stable, normal married man, but in the world of serial killers Wardrip was more the standard than the exception. A serial killer’s continuing success largely depended on an ability to look like an average Joe, and Wardrip was as average as one would have expected. Even his marriage didn’t exempt him from falling into the serial-killer profile—a large number were married, leading the darkest of double lives.

  The Wardrip defense team of Curry, Glickman, and Rice arrived at the Denton County courthouse ready for trial. They got there early enough to capture parking spaces in the courthouse complex, while others were forced to park in the residential area adjacent to the facility.

  As Glickman entered the courtroom, she handed the Bible to Wardrip, who was already seated at the defense table.

  “What am I suppose to do with this?” he asked.

  “I don’t care. Just open it. Pretend to read it,” the crafty defense attorney replied.

  District Attorney Macha and his assistants, Rick Mahler and Jerry Taylor, sat at the prosecution table closest to the jury box. Across the aisle from them was the defense. Public Defender John Curry and District Attorney Barry Macha had tried capital murder cases together before. They had an easy esprit de corps that made working on opposite sides of the legal system run smoothly.

  The ever-present Wichita County Sheriff’s deputies, in black jeans and green knit shirts, sat behind Faryion.

  Once Judge Brotherton entered the court and settled into his chair, he explained that there were only two punishments for the case of Faryion Wardrip: life in prison or death by lethal injection. Any plea bargain that might be reached would be for life only.

  Judge Brotherton then asked Faryion if he understood the punishments and how he would plea to the charge of capital murder.

  “I’m fully aware of all my rights and my decision is made,” Faryion stated, as he stood before the judge. “I plead guilty.”

  Unknown to anyone outside of the defense, Faryion had decided the week before the trial was to begin that he would plead guilty. He felt at peace with God. He felt that he had to come clean and be up-front with God in order to truly repent. It was a natural flow from the confessions.

  Murmurs spread through the courtroom as confused spectators asked what the unexpected plea meant to the outcome of the trial. Their baffled conversations continued as the jury entered the courtroom and took their seats in the jury box to the left of the judge.

  In essence, Wardrip had forfeited any appeals to pretrial motions and errors. It more or less shut him down.

  It wasn’t evident on the faces of Macha or his assistant district attorneys if Wardrip’s admission of guilt took them by surprise. Macha was well prepared. He was more than ready to ask the four men and eight women jurors to give Wardrip the death penalty.

  Brotherton restated the procedures to the jury and Barry
Macha read the indictment against Faryion Wardrip accusing him of the sexual assault and murder of Terry Sims. All eyes of the jurors remained on Brotherton and then on Macha as each man spoke. No juror looked at the defendant sitting fifteen feet away.

  “Again, I am instructing you not to talk to anyone, or read anything, or watch television concerning anything about this case,” Brotherton warned. “I want you to keep an open mind.”

  It was time for opening statements. The scheduled two-phase trial of guilt or innocence, and punishment, had suddenly become only a question of life or death after Wardrip’s guilty plea. District Attorney Barry Macha launched right into a short statement, telling the jury that they would hear evidence that Terry Sims had been raped before Faryion Wardrip brutally stabbed her to death. The State was asking the jury to sentence Wardrip to death for the capital offense.

  Macha returned to his seat next to his fellow prosecutors. With the announcement by John Curry that the defense reserved the right to make an opening statement later in the trial, Macha was back on his feet calling his first witness to the stand.

  “The State calls Leza Boone,” Macha announced.

  From the back of the courtroom a blond-haired woman entered through the double doors. Wearing a black jacket and white blouse, Leza Boone took the stand without glancing toward Wardrip.

  In a voice laced with nervousness, Boone told the jury that she had worked with Terry Sims at the Bethania Regional Heath Care Center. She had ridden to work with Terry; then after their shift, they had gone to their friends, the Whitakers, to exchange gifts about 11:25 P.M. They were at the Whitakers about an hour; then she took Terry to her house. Then she went back to work a second shift.

  “Terry planned to stay at my house to help me study for finals and to help me stay awake,” Boone said. “She had stayed at my house occasionally.”