“State your name,” Griffith told him.
“J.D. Randall.”
“What does J.D. stand for?”
“J.D.’s what I go by.”
“Indulge me.”
“Jeremiah Dwight.”
“Where do you live?”
“Now, or when I ain’t incarcerated?”
“Now.”
“California Department of Corrections.”
“What is your occupation?”
“Now, or when I ain’t incarcerated?”
Keefe leaned over the side of the bench and glared. “I warn you to not test my patience, Mr. Randall, because I don’t have much this morning.”
“I’m an electrician when I ain’t incarcerated.”
Randall’s left upper lip curled, and he locked eyes with Keefe. “But right now I’m unemployed cuz I’m incarcerated.”
“For what?” Griffith asked.
Randall waited until Keefe broke the stare-down. “Parole violation.”
“For what crime had you been convicted and paroled, before you were violated?”
“Grand theft auto. Some”—he glared at Granz—“cop found a few chopped Harleys in my garage that weren’t mine. I didn’t know nothin’ about ’em.”
“Was that your first conviction?”
“Nope.”
“Tell us about your prior convictions.”
“ ’Bout twenty years ago I got busted for an armed robbery, but I didn’t know nothin’ about it.”
“You were convicted and spent time in prison for that, right?”
“Right.”
“What else?”
“Did some time for ADW. Cops said I cut up some outlaw biker in a bar, but I didn’t know nothin’ about it.”
“Assault with a deadly weapon?”
“Yeah.”
“Why was your parole revoked?”
Randall shrugged. “Had a little trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Got drunk on an airplane. They said I caused a disturbance. Some— cop —found blow in the head after I passed out, but I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.”
“By ‘blow’ you mean cocaine?”
“That’s what the cop said, but I didn’t know nothin’ about it.”
“You don’t like police officers, do you?”
“Cops? You kiddin’?”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ Prosecutors, either, right?”
“Snakes. Worse than cops.”
“How about judges?”
“Most of ’em used to be prosecutors.”
“I told you to make this brief, Mr. Griffith,” Keefe interrupted. “It’s safe to assume a prison inmate dislikes everybody in the criminal justice system. If there’s a point to this line of questioning, get to it.”
“If the Court will allow me the latitude we agreed the defense is entitled to, I will, Judge.”
“You’d better, and soon. Proceed.”
“You’re not here today because you want to help my client, District Attorney Kathryn Mackay, are you?” Griffith asked Randall.
“Not hardly.”
“Why are you testifying?”
“I made a deal.”
“A good deal for you?”
“I wouldn’t’a made it if it wasn’t.”
“Did it require you to lie under oath—”
Keefe turned red. “Don’t ask ridiculous questions, Counselor!”
“The defense is trying to make the point that—”
“We got the point.”
“Judge—”
Keefe turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, deals are made with criminals all the time to get them to testify, but you shouldn’t assume that means they necessarily lie under oath.”
He returned his attention to Griffith. “Now get on with it, or I’ll take over the questioning myself.”
Griffith turned to look at Kathryn, who closed and opened her eyes slowly, and smiled surreptitiously.
“Yes, Judge, thank you for making my point better than I could have.”
“Mr. Randall,” Griffith continued, “who put together your deal?”
Randall pointed. “That cop—Granz.”
“Santa Rita County Sheriff David Granz?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he approach you, or did you approach him?”
“He came to Soledad.”
“Did he demand proof that what you’re about to tell the jury is the truth, or did he just take your word for it.”
“Cops never take a con’s word for nothin’. He wanted me to give him somethin’ before he put together a deal to prove I knew what th’ f—— and that I was tellin’ the truth.”
“And, to get Sheriff Granz to make a deal, you ‘gave him something,’ to put it in your vernacular?”
“In my what?”
“Never mind. What did you give Sheriff Granz to convince him that what you’re about to tell us is the truth?”
“The guy that snuffed Judge Tucker.”
Keefe dropped his reading glasses on the bench and, reaching for them, knocked his full water glass to the floor. Ice water fell on the court reporter and ran down the front of her blouse. She jumped up and shook it off while a roar spread the room like a hurricane gathering fury.
Keefe rapped his gavel. “Silence!” He leaned over the bench. “I warned you not to test my patience. When you repeat your answer, you’ll knock off the smart-ass remarks and the jailhouse jargon, and respond in language the Court and jury understand. And if you perjure yourself, I’ll personally see that you spend the rest of your miserable, no-account life in prison. Do you understand that?”
Randall dropped his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“You’d better.” Keefe turned to the court reporter, who was drying her transcription machine. “Read back the question.”
“‘What did you give Sheriff Granz to convince him that what you’re about to tell us is the truth?’”
“I told Sheriff Granz who murdered Judge Tucker.”
CHAPTER
* * *
67
KEEFE STOOD AND POINTED at McCaskill and Griffith.
“In my chambers. Now.”
He sat behind his desk and glared at the two attorneys. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Griffith?”
Griffith handed Keefe a document.
“What’s this?”
“DOJ takes blood and saliva samples from inmates convicted of violent crimes, profiles them, and stores them in the DOJ Convicted Felon DNA Database in Berkeley. DNA profiles extracted from crime scene evidence are compared to profiles in the databank.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Yesterday, scientists matched DNA from thesemen collected on the anal swabs during Judge Tucker’s autopsy to the DNA profile of escaped inmate Eduardo Berroa. The Court may recall that Judge Tucker sentenced Berroa to state prison. I’m requesting permission to publish this report to the jury before I conclude direct examination of Randall.”
Keefe loosened his tie, leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, and ran his fingers through his hair. A deep sob racked his body but Griffith and McCaskill pretended not to notice.
“That report can’t come in,” McCaskill protested. “It’s inadmissible hearsay.”
Keefe started to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He gathered himself for a moment and wiped his eyes. “He’s right, Griffith. If you want it admitted, give me a relevant exception to the hearsay rule.”
Griffith handed Keefe another document. “Affidavit from the custodian of records at the DNA lab in Berkeley. The report’s admissible under the Business Records Exception, Judge.”
“I agree.” Keefe nodded. “The report goes to the jury. Now give me five minutes alone.”
Griffith poked McCaskill and jerked his thumb toward the door.
Keefe slid the knot up on his tie and smoothed his hair. “Roger?”
“Sir
?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“If you hadn’t found the flight attendant, and followed the lead to Randall, I’d never know who raped and murdered Jemima.”
“Just defending my client.”
“I know, but still—”
“And you’d still be suspected of murdering her, polygraph or no polygraph,” McCaskill interjected.
“Get out of here, McCaskill!”
CHAPTER
* * *
68
“YOU ’RE STILL UNDER OATH , Mr. Randall,” Keefe admonished.
“Okay.”
“Very well.” He turned to the defense table. “Proceed, Mr. Griffith.”
Griffith leaned close to Kathryn, squeezed her hand, patted her on the shoulder, then walked to the podium.
“Mr. Randall, your parole was revoked because you created a disturbance on an airplane. Was that while you were a passenger aboard British Airways Flight 287, from London to San Francisco, last January fifteenth?”
“Yeah, I was hired to be on that plane.”
“Hired to do what?”
“A job.”
“What kind of job?”
“Stir up a ruckus while the stewardess was serving drinks, ’bout an hour before gettin’ to Frisco.”
“How much were you paid?”
“Twenty thousand bucks.”
“Cash?”
“I don’t take American Express.”
Randall glanced at Keefe and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, it slipped.”
Keefe pointed his finger and frowned, but a tiny grin broke through.
“Why were you paid to create a disturbance?”
“To divert attention.”
“From whom?”
“The guy they”—he pointed at Kathryn, then Granz—“had with ’em.”
Griffith approached Randall and showed him a glossy eight-by-ten, black-and-white photo.
“Is this the guy?”
“That’s him.”
“Request this photograph of Robert Simmons be marked defense exhibit next in order.”
“So ordered,” Keefe ruled.
“What else were you paid to do?”
“Get them”—he pointed again—“away from the guy, Simmons, for a few minutes.”
“Away from District Attorney Mackay and Sheriff Granz?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you know Robert Simmons?”
“No, but I seen pictures of him.”
“Where?”
“Soledad.”
“When?”
“Before I got paroled, and again just before that flight.”
“Who showed you photos of Robert Simmons?”
“My roomie.”
“ ‘Roomie’ means your cell mate at Soledad?”
“That’s what it means.”
“What was his name?”
“Berroa.”
“Eduardo Berroa?”
“In the slammer, we called him the Messcan Chihuahua. His real name was ’Duardo.”
Griffith showed Randall a photograph of Eduardo Berroa. “Is this him?”
“Yep.”
“Who paid you to divert attention and lure District Attorney Mackay and Sheriff Granz away from Robert Simmons on that flight from Spain to the United States?”
“Berroa.”
“How did you know what flight Sheriff Granz, Robert Simmons, and my client would be on?”
Randall shrugged. “Berroa paid an ex-con to track Simmons down, e-mailed her with his whereabouts, then me and him went to Spain and waited. We was only two steps behind them the whole time they was in Spain. I dropped a few bucks on a ticket agent to find out what flight they was on back to the States, and we bought two tickets for the same flight.”
“Did Berroa tell you why he was paying you to do this?”
McCaskill stood. “Objection, calls for hearsay.”
“Overruled, it comes in as a declaration against interest. Continue, Mr. Griffith.”
“He told me him and Simmons was tight once, but Simmons fucked—’scuse me, messed up his life, that it was Simmons’ fault he was in the joint.”
“Did Berroa tell you he planned to murder Simmons while you created a disturbance?”
“No way, man!” Randall’s eyes widened and he glanced wildly at Keefe, then shook his head emphatically. “Just paid me to cause a ruckus. I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout no murder.”
McCaskill stood again, and shook his head in disgust. “Judge, this jury can’t be expected to believe Randall isn’t an accomplice to murder.”
Keefe crooked his finger at both attorneys. “Approach.”
“Griffith?” he prompted.
“The accomplice rule precludes a conviction on the testimony of an accomplice unless it’s corroborated by other evidence that connects a defendant with commission of the offense. Here, the killer is Berroa, not my client. The accomplice rule doesn’t apply.”
Keefe thought for a moment. “He’s right, McCaskill. Step back.”
Griffith walked close to the witness stand. “To your knowledge, did Eduardo Berroa possess a supply of digitalis?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know?”
“Berroa had me bust into the morgue. Wasn’t a problem, ain’t no lock on the door. Waited till it was empty one night, rode the elevator down, walked in like I owned the place, grabbed the stuff and split.”
“Did Berroa tell you why he wanted the digitalis?”
“Nope. I figured he had a bad ticker.”
McCaskill stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Again, we can’t be expected to believe he didn’t know what the digitalis was going to be used for.”
“I’ve already ruled on this,” Keefe said without hesitation. “So sit down. Proceed, Mr. Griffith.”
“Mr. Randall, why should the jury believe you? You could have made all this up to get out of prison. For all we know, you murdered Robert Simmons.”
“I’m a thief, not a killer.”
“You knifed a man in a bar fight.”
“He started it.”
“How do we know Eduardo Berroa was on that flight?”
“Check the passenger list. He was next to me, in seat thirty-eight-A.”
“Under his own name?”
“No, Fernando Villanuevo. Check it out.”
“I did.” Griffith handed a paper to Keefe and a copy to McCaskill.
“A certified passenger manifest for January fifteenth British Airways Flight 287,” he explained. “It shows the passenger in seat thirty-eight-A was Fernando Villanuevo. Request this document be marked defense exhibit next in order.”
“So ordered. Continue, Mr. Griffith.”
“What else can you tell the jury that will prove tothem that what you say today is the truth, Mr. Randall?”
“Eduardo Berroa murdered Judge Tucker.”
A loud, collective roar arose in the courtroom, which Keefe silenced with his gavel, then he directed Griffith to go on.
“Do you know when?”
“The day after Berroa ’scaped from Soledad. Early in January. Friday night.”
“Could it have been Friday, January eleventh?”
“Sounds right.”
“Do you know where Berroa murdered Judge Tucker?”
“In her chambers, here in this building.”
“Did Berroa tell you how he murdered her?”
“Slit her throat with a scalpel he stole from the prison infirmary before he ’scaped.”
Keefe squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his fists.
Griffith waited for Keefe to recover, then continued. “Did Berroa tell you whether or not he raped Judge Tucker before he killed her?”
“He raped her all right, prison style.”
“By ‘prison style’ you mean he raped her anally?”
“Right. The little spic—’scuse me, Judge, Berroa was a whore—lots a’guys had him in the slammer. Wanted her to
know what it felt like.”
Griffith picked up the DNA report. “At this time, Your Honor, I wish to publish this report to the jury.”
When he finished, he turned back to Randall. “One final question. Did Eduardo Berroa tell you why he murdered Judge Tucker?”
McCaskill started to object, but Keefe silenced him with a glare.
“To get even with her for sending him to prison.”
“No further questions, Your Honor,” Griffith said. “At this time the defense requests that the Court order the entry of a judgment of acquittal of murder because the evidence is insufficient to sustain a conviction on appeal.”
Keefe rotated his chair toward the prosecution. “Mr. McCaskill, I’ll hear argument now.”
“If you believe Mr. Randall, that Eduardo Berroa, not the defendant, murdered Doctor Simmons, then it is unreasonable to believe that Mr. Randall is himself not liable for prosecution of Doctor Simmons as an accomplice to murder.”
McCaskill glanced at Mackay and as quickly turned away. “An acquittal pursuant to Penal Code Section 1118.1 cannot be granted based on the testimony of an accomplice unless his testimony is corroborated by such other evidence as tends to connect Eduardo Berroa to the murder of Doctor Simmons.”
“Mr. Griffith, I’m afraid McCaskill is right. Let’s recess till tomorrow to see if you can find us some corroboration.”
CHAPTER
* * *
69
“THE DEFENSE RECALLS ANDREA LAIN. ”
She wore expensive tan slacks, a beige silk blouse, and no makeup, and her long blond hair hung loosely around her shoulders. She wasn’t smiling.
Griffith had her sworn, then apologized for interrupting another trip to Napa with her husband by subpoenaing her the night before.
“Ms. Lain, you previously testified that on January fifteenth of this year, you were senior flight attendant on British Airways Flight 287. Would you recognize the passenger who created a disturbance aboard that flight?”
Until the Final Verdict Page 20