by J J Miller
“Did the bullets examined in the murder cases of Luke Jameson and Toby Connors have other extraneous markings not acquired from the rifling of the barrel?”
“Yes, that is why I would be more cautious in attributing both murders to the same weapon.”
“Mr. Sanders, do you know how many Glocks there are in circulation in the United States?”
“It’s hard to say exactly, but from my experience there are probably hundreds of thousands of Glocks in circulation in this country.”
“That would be both black market and legal?”
“Yes.”
“And how many would be in circulation in California?”
“Tens of thousands, I’d say.”
“And in Los Angeles, where the bulk of the state’s armed criminal activity is conducted?”
“You’d be talking thousands.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“If all the Glocks in circulation were legal, getting your hands on one would be as easy as getting an Uber.”
I turned towards the jury, ensuring I wore an expression of serious thought.
“So how did the police tie the same weapon to these two murders?”
“They entered the information they had into the GRC database—it’s all LAPD data—then they tested the weapon and found the striations were the same.”
“They narrowed it down?”
“Yes, by noting how close the striations are together, they can determine how tight the rifling was on the firearm. And they can tell if the bullet came from a weapon whose rifling twisted left rather than right.”
“So it’s a process of elimination?”
“That’s right.”
“And although the markings on the bullets in these two murders were similar, you’d hesitate to say they were fired from the same weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the data does not prove the bullets came from a Glock, let alone the same Glock.”
I heard the jury to my right breathe in sharply in unison. This was good.
“Mr. Sanders, are you saying it is possible the bullets may have come from two different weapons?”
“Yes, it’s even possible a firearm other than a Glock could have fired the bullets in the Connors killing.”
“So different makes and models of guns can leave similar markings on a bullet?”
“That’s right.”
“But what about the marks left by the firing pin on the casings?”
“Well, the LAPD ballistics team naturally tested those to confirm that the shells they’d found were fired by the gun recovered at the Anaheim Convention Center.”
“What about the shells found at the Connors murder scene?”
“There were no casings recovered at the scene of Toby Connors’ murder.”
“Right, so the LAPD’s claim that the same gun was used in both murders is based mostly on the markings left on the bullets.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“But you do not share their certainty?”
“No. As far as matching the murder weapon goes, the LAPD’s ballistics testing puts both killings in the same ballpark, but not on home plate.”
“I see. Now Mr. Sanders. Another piece of evidence being used against my client is the fact that gunpowder residue was found on his right hand. The prosecution has argued this is evidence he fired the weapon.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But my question is this: if I have my right hand out in front of me and someone fires a gun in close proximity to my hand, would you expect to find gunpowder residue on my hand?”
“The short answer is yes. Gunshot residue particles escape a fired weapon at high velocity and travel in many directions because they exit the weapon from every opening. So if you had an exposed hand in the vicinity I would be surprised if gunpowder residue was not detected on it. It would also be found on your clothes and your face.”
“And if there were other people in close proximity to the fired weapon, would gunpowder residue have been found on them too?”
“If they were standing within a few feet, they’d almost certainly have gunpowder residue on them.”
“Demarco Torrell was the only person tested for gunpowder residue following the Luke Jameson murder, does this prove he shot Mr. Jameson?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor.”
As I walked behind Jessica and back to my desk, she almost ran into me in her haste to get to her feet.
“I have some questions, Your Honor. If I may.”
Jessica placed some documents on the podium, shifted them to her liking, then gripped the edges lightly on either side and took a breath. She was projecting a slight regret at it being her task to cast dispersions on my expert witness. A shot of dread ran through me. That feeling I’d had just before I questioned Sanders had been right. She did have something up her sleeve. But she was not about to carry out a swift demolition, she was going to string it out a little.
“Mr. Sanders, I am intrigued that you have such a divergent opinion from the official ballistics findings. But I guess I am not surprised. You mentioned, or at least Mr. Madison mentioned—I can’t recall—when your distinguished career was detailed for the benefit of the jury that you used to work for the very same ballistics unit whose report you are now discrediting. The LAPD’s Firearm Analysis Unit.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“And you worked in that unit for three years before moving on to the FBI. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Sanders did not seem at all bothered by this line of questioning.
“And before you left you were one of several forensic scientists working in the Firearm Analysis Unit. That’s true, is it not?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What was the official reason you left this position?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Was I not clear? Sorry, I shall ask you more directly: why did you leave the Firearm Analysis Unit?”
“I was keen to work for the FBI. They were hiring, and I wanted to work in their cutting-edge labs.”
“I see. Now, Mr. Sanders, can you please take a look at the ballistics report made by the Firearm Analysis Unit for the Luke Jameson case.”
“Okay.”
Jessica handed Sanders a document.
“Could you please read to the court the name of the person who signed that report on behalf of the team.”
“Yes, certainly.” Sanders was suddenly looking uneasy. I could see his breathing had gotten shallow. What did Jessica have on him? I’d been through Sanders’ employment record. Jack had vetted him, quizzed his LAPD contacts about him, and nothing had come up. Nothing but a minor disagreement, a misunderstanding with a female colleague.
Sanders cleared his throat.
“Melanie Crofts,” he said.
Jessica nodded her head. Suddenly, I knew I was done. I could see her tilt her head slightly in my direction. She knew I was hanging off her every word. The entire courtroom was. I was now kicking myself for putting Sanders up there, even before I knew what Jessica had been planning to expose.
“Yes. Melanie Crofts. Now, Mr. Sanders I find it very interesting that you should seek to, how shall I put it, challenge the weight of Ms. Crofts’ findings. Because this is not the only time you have contested her findings. In fact, I have three papers here written by you on the subject of ballistics. And in all three you single out the work of Ms. Crofts as being faulty, misleading and in some cases even speculative.”
“That was nothing personal. It was just...”
“Nothing personal?”
“Objection. Your Honor, this is supposed to be a cross-examination. The counselor should be directing questions to Mr. Sanders about this case and I’ve yet to hear her ask one.”
“Sustained. Counselor, please get to it.”
“Certainly, Your Honor. Mr. Sanders, you left the Firear
m Analysis Unit under some controversy. Your departure followed a series of incidents in which you acted inappropriately towards Ms. Crofts. Isn’t that right?”
Sanders was looking extremely uncomfortable now. He knew where this was going. I, however, was still in the dark. I could only hope it didn’t destroy his credibility outright.
“That’s not right, actually. I left of my own accord.”
“Yes. That is the official version. You tendered your resignation and it was accepted.”
“That’s right. It has nothing to do whatsoever with...”
“But the court should know that Ms. Crofts had made a series of complaints against you. One stated you were making unwanted advances, another cited verbal abuse and another complained you exposed yourself to her. Now these were all suppressed because Ms. Crofts did not wish to destroy your career. And so your superiors sent you on your way with a glowing reference, didn’t they?”
Sanders’ head was lowered in shame.
“Mr. Sanders?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
This was a disaster. For a second I fumed at Jack, wondering how on earth he’d missed this. But then I figured the DA probably warned the LAPD brass that we’d come looking into Sanders and wanted to make damn sure Jack’s contacts closed ranks on him.
“And shortly after you left, Ms. Crofts was promoted to team leader, an advertised position that you had unsuccessfully applied for. Is that right?”
Sanders just nodded.
“Please answer the question, Mr. Sanders.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And following that, you sent her an abusive text message.”
“I was drunk at the time. It doesn’t mean that I...”
“And yet you claim you have no axe to grind with Ms. Crofts and her team’s findings?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s true. This in no way means I am questioning her work just for the sake of it.”
“I’m not sure how you can expect us to believe that, Mr. Sanders. You made unwanted sexual advances toward this woman. You tried to intimidate her, and you abused her when she got the job you wanted. I find it hard to believe you were or have since remained impartial to Ms. Crofts and her work. In fact, I would say you bear a severe grudge towards her.”
“That’s not true.”
“So let’s address your findings.”
Her hatchet job was done. Now, having destroyed his character she was set to destroy the value of his testimony. It was a clinical demolition job.
“Mr. Sanders, I’ll make this brief. But let’s compare the findings of Ms. Crofts and her team with your review. From the LAPD’s standpoint, we have a killer who was caught with a Glock handgun that was most certainly used to murder Mr. Luke Jameson at the Anaheim Convention Center. And, just a few blocks away, the man who gave the defendant a ride to the venue was found dead in his car, having been shot by, the LAPD contests, the same handgun. Two murders that were most likely committed within about an hour of each other. The LAPD’s ballistics tests show us it was the same handgun and most likely the same killer.
“Whereas you argue that this is all but a coincidence, that the LAPD team’s ballistics work is flawed. You say that while it could have been the same weapon, we should not conclude that it was the same weapon, even given the similar striations on the bullets, and even given the defendant was, in all likelihood, the last person to see these two dead men alive. Instead of the LAPD’s fine forensic work leading us to a killer, you say it does no such thing. Ms. Crofts is a highly respected forensic scientist, as I’m sure you know. Are you sure you are not letting personal grievances cloud your vision, Mr. Sanders?”
Sanders raised his head. No matter what came out of his mouth, there was no way he could overcome the damning impression Jessica had created of him. He was a wreck.
“I reject that wholeheartedly,” he said unconvincingly. And not one person on that jury believed him.
“I thought you would say that. Nothing further, Your Honor.”
Judge Garner looked at Sanders pitifully.
“Thank you, sir. You may step down.”
I sat there for a few moments. Demarco was sitting silently beside me, waiting for me to do or say something to turn it around. But I had no cards left to play. I stood and addressed Judge Garner.
“The defense rests, Your Honor.”
I sat down again, turned to Demarco and tried to offer him some encouragement before they took him away. I gathered up my documents and left.
I only had one last thing to offer—my closing argument.
25
Jessica Pope came dressed for her closing argument in a dark, let’s-get-down-to-brass-tacks pant suit. Her hair was pinned up, her earrings plain and modest, and her expression dour. She wasn’t going to let anything soften her kick-ass delivery. Beholding Jessica Pope in this frame of mind was like admiring a caged tiger or a stalking wolf—you were content to be in awe from a distance. That’s how everyone regarded her at the moment, from judge and jury to the trial-weary press corps: everyone was all ears.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Jessica began. “I want to thank you for the time, thought and effort you have put into this trial. I know how grueling a juror’s experience can be, and I know how heavily the weight of justice lays on your minds when it comes to reaching a verdict, even in the most one-sided of cases. But if you wish to carry out your duty to this court, to this country, to the very name of justice, you must find the defendant guilty of first-degree murder on both counts.”
Jessica took one step closer to the jury and rested her left hand on the lectern, as though it was the comforting touch on the shoulder of a grieving friend. It conveyed Jessica’s capacity for empathy without her saying a word.
“Remember, this trial is about salvaging justice from the ruins of tragedy. It’s about giving two grieving families something positive to carry forward into the future, even as they struggle to cope with heartache borne of the past. They need to know that their community will help bring the person responsible for killing their loved ones in cold blood to justice. They need to know that this murderer will be held accountable for his horrendous deeds and be punished with the clear and full might of the law.
“For let’s not muddy the waters, as the defense has sought to do. This is a clear case of preconceived murder. The defendant set out with cold and cruel intentions to kill two men that day. And he did so with the unfeeling purpose of an assassin. And that, members of the jury, is how we should see him—as a cold-blooded assassin.
“We know that the defendant was with both victims in the last moments of their lives. We know that he had a reason to kill them both, and we know that the same weapon was used to carry out both murders—again, something the defense’s attorney has sought and failed to create confusion over. The defendant was present at the second killing, and his DNA was found at the first. And when piecing together the facts, only one narrative stands up. Only one narrative rings true. Only one narrative provides us with a full understanding of what happened that terrible day.
“This man, the defendant, is a member of one of Los Angeles’ most notorious gangs. By all accounts, he did have a change of heart and tried to leave but failed and sought to return to the fold. We know that there is a strong link between the two young men who were brutally slaughtered and the gang to which the defendant belongs. Both had dared to offend a criminal gang member and both ended up paying for their indiscretions with their lives.
“If you think murder is an overreaction to insult, you do not know gang culture like I know it. Rival gang members have been cut down merely for wearing the wrong color, for simply looking at someone the wrong way. To use a cliché, it’s a jungle out there. And the defendant brought the lawlessness of that jungle to the Anaheim Convention Center and wreaked terrible havoc.
“While teenage girls and boys turned up to see their YouTube idols, he turned up with a handgun to commit murder, to take a life and to leave hundr
eds of others scarred by the shock and memory of the events they witnessed.
“The defense has said it makes no sense. They said if he was guilty, why didn’t he run? Well, we may never know, because the defendant will not testify. Rather than present compelling evidence to prove his client’s innocence, the defendant’s lawyer has sought merely to pry loopholes in the prosecution’s case. And I am convinced, as I’m sure you must be, that he has found none.
“I urge you not to be swayed by semantics, not to be deterred by distractions, not to be sidetracked by sleights of hand. It is your duty to weigh up the truth from all the facts we have presented to you, and to that end you must find the defendant guilty on all counts.”
Nothing Jessica had said was a surprise. She’d kept beating down on the same note—that Demarco’s guilt was the most logical conclusion any sane person could draw. And because I’d been unable to present the jury with an alternative suspect, I now had to try once again to embed in their minds the idea that Jessica’s story just didn’t stack up.
“Members of the jury, I follow an address to you that was downright misleading,” I began. “It was a case of big hammer, small nail. My colleague from the prosecution desk was not subtle in her argument. I urge you to set her fevered argument aside, because in this case, as in life, there is nuance. There is gray between the black and white. And in between the few islands of cold hard facts that have been laid before this court, there are wide expanses of open sea. The prosecutor would have you leap over these large gaps—join the dots, if you will—in order to swallow her heavily contrived version of events. And that is something you must remember. The prosecutor’s version is but one of many that can be drawn, yet she has presented it to you as the absolute truth.
“I am defending a man accused of murder. But I am fighting for the same vital principle that the prosecution claims to have a monopoly on—justice. What is justice? Is it to find the guilty party? Or is it to settle for a guilty party? Will that do? Will that truly serve as recompense to the families of the victims?
“Members of the jury, I wish I could tell you who murdered these two men, but I can’t. What I can tell you, though, what I have shown you, is that it was not Demarco Torrell.