by James Ellroy
Witness Grady was dead. We tried to locate Witness Amos. We tapped out.
Rick called Witness Skillern. Rick left a message. Rick asked her to call the hotel.
Rick called Witness Etuk. Rick called Chester Thornton and Ron Mock. They agreed to interviews.
Rick called Florence McDonald. She promised to find her son and James Mukes. Leodis Wilkerson was long gone.
Rick called the D.A.’s Office. An assistant pledged more paperwork.
Rick called Witness Hubbard. Rick left a message. Rick asked him to call the hotel.
Rick called the Terrell Unit. Rick confirmed our meet with Gary Graham.
We studied our papers. We gleaned new details.
Per photo spread #2:
Witness Skillern views mug shots. Graham is clean-shaven. Graham has short hair.
Four men have longer hair. Four men have facial hair.
Ms. Skillern said the shooter was clean-shaven. Ms. Skillern said he had short hair.
Four shots bear dates. Four shots bear booking numbers. Graham’s numbers are obscured.
Ms. Skillern says Graham looks like the shooter.
But:
The shooter had darker skin.
Ms. Skillern views a live lineup. Ms. Skillern ID’s Graham.
Graham was in the lineup. Graham was in photo spread #2.
Graham was the only man in both displays.
Ms. Skillern knows this. She tells Detective Owen. She recalled Graham from spread #2.
From the defense brief. A known expert comments.
Dr. Elizabeth Loftus:
There is an enhanced likelihood that a witness will identify the person in the lineup whom she has seen in the photo spread, whether or not the person is actually the one whose crime she witnessed.
. . . This familiarity may be mistakenly related back to the crime rather than back to the photograph where it may properly belong.
Rick found the logic credible. I agreed.
From the defense brief. Two wits volunteer.
4/93:
Malcolm Stephens sees news spots on Gary Graham. He relates them to an event.
It’s 5/13/81. Stephens approaches the Safeway. His wife is with him.
A black male runs in front of their car.
He’s “about 5′5″ . . . compact, but not big, short hair, no beard or anything like that.”
They approach the store. They get close. They see the victim prone.
Cut to:
1982.
Mr. Stephens sees the black male again.
He’s by some apartments. He’s familiar.
They talk. Mr. Stephens tries to place him.
He puts it together. He’s the parking-lot dude.
Mr. Stephens sees him “several more times.” Mr. Stephens “learned more about him.”
Cut to:
4/93. Gary Graham on TV.
He’s not the Safeway killer. He’s not the parking-lot dude.
Mr. Stephens comes forth. Mr. Stephens views the Skillern composite.
It looks like the parking-lot dude. It does not look like Gary Graham.
I thought it was bullshit. Street jive triumphant. Rick agreed.
I called my friend Bill Stoner. Bill worked Sheriff’s Homicide. He worked it fifteen years.
I asked him if he’d file on a one-wit ID.
Bill said, “No way.”
HOUSTON WAS BIG. Freeway grids crosshatched it. Dive neighborhoods stretched wide.
Rick dug the grid aspect. Heist men loved freeways. On-ramps greased quick escapes.
Graham stayed mobile. His spree turf stretched wide. He dodged hot-car bulletins. He spreed for seven days.
I drove. Rick navigated. We toured black Houston.
The strip malls were old. The houses were shabby. Triple locks and window bars reigned.
The color scheme held. Southwest shades abundant. The bars and steel doors clashed.
Witness Skillern didn’t call. We left a card in her mailbox. Witness Hubbard didn’t call. We left a card on his door.
It was hot. Pedestrians walked slow. Houston was heat-warped.
We drove by the alibi alley. We drove to the Safeway. We logged six miles between.
The Safeway was defunct. The building was a new-car show-room.
We toured the parking lot. We toured in daylight.
I turned off the sun. I turned on the night lights. I added vintage cars.
I added flustered witnesses. I saw what they saw.
Witness Skillern sees Gary Graham. Graham’s 5′9″. Graham is thin.
Witness Grady sees a man. He’s “tall and slim.” He wears a white sport coat.
Witness Amos sees a man. He’s “in his twenties.”
Witness Etuk sees a man. He wears black slacks and a white blazer. Windows blur his face.
Witness Hubbard sees a man. He’s 5′5″, 130. He’s “in his early twenties.” He hides his face.
Three boys see a local dude. They recognize him. They provide no other description.
The initial statements cohere on clothing. The initial statements diverge on height.
Subsequent affidavits recohere.
Witness Etuk—’93 affidavit—less than 5′6″. Witness Amos— ’93 affidavit—5′4″. Witness Stephens—’93 affidavit—5′5″. Witness Wilkerson—’93 affidavit—shorter than the 5′6″ victim.
Ambiguous. A partial consensus in 1981. A greater retrospective consensus.
I said it was all fucked up.
Rick praised indoor murders.
We braced Alfonzo McDonald. We braced him at his pad.
His family watched. They ran the TV concurrent.
Rich charmed them. He played up his white beard. He said he was Saint Nick in disguise.
We questioned McDonald. He offered this story:
He’s eight years old. He’s in his mother’s wagon.
He’s with Leodis and James. He sees a tussle. The white guy’s shorter and heavier than the black guy.
He hears shots. The white man runs in the store. The black man runs away.
The cops quizzed Leodis mostly. Leodis was twelve. Some cops came around. Some cops displayed pictures.
That’s all he knew. He was a kid then.
WE BRACED SHERIAN ETUK. She offered this story:
She was a fast checker. She worked the express line. She got bored. She watched people for fun.
5/13/81:
She’s checking. She’s got downtime. She looks out the window.
She sees a man. She thinks he’s cute. She studies him.
He’s black. He’s short. He’s muscular. He’s dark complected. He’s wearing a turtleneck. He’s wearing dark pants and a tan jacket. It might be vice versa.
He’s late 20s/early 30s. He’s got a low-cut Afro.
She’s inside. He’s outside. He’s leaning on a column.
She’s checking. He’s loitering. She peeks at him. She peeks ten to thirty minutes.
Their eyes meet. He’s good-looking. He’s well-dressed.
She’s checking. She’s bored. An old girl’s counting coins.
She looks outside. She hears a “pop!” She sees muzzle light.
A white man staggers up.
He makes the store. He collapses. The cute man walks off.
She transfers to another store. She fears reprisals. The killer might be a “hit man.”
Her account contradicted her initial account. She said she never saw the man’s face.
I said it was all fucked up.
Rick said hit men were out. Serial killers were in.
RON MOCK HAD asuite downtown. His office was Black History Month.
Wall paintings. Photos. Malcolm X and Dr. King. Muhammad Ali.
Mock was gracious. Mock was feisty. Mock was blunt.
Mock said, “Gary Graham’s a dumb-ass son of a bitch.”
Mock said, “His lawyers educated him to be articulate.”
Mock said, “He’s full of born-again bulls
hit.”
Rick said, “Do you think Graham did it?”
Mock said, “Yes.”
I said, “Did he admit the crime to you?”
Mock said, “No.”
I stretched out. Rick stretched out. We sensed a monologue.
Mock delivered.
He talked. He fucked with an unlit cigar.
Bernadine Skillern was gooood. He didn’t impugn her. She was “strong as an acre of garlic.”
Two women showed up. Alibi wits. He didn’t use them. They weren’t credible.
The case was all strategy. His budget impinged. He got $500.
He excluded the heists at the guilt phase. He looked for character wits. He tapped out cold.
Rick cited Merv West’s affidavit. West claimed you sandbagged Graham.
Mock denied it. Mock stressed his strategy call. Mock said he’d try Graham the same way today.
I cited the other eyewits. I cited their descriptions.
Mock cited strategy.
He didn’t press them. He didn’t want to risk equivocation.
I shut my eyes. I screened pictures.
I conjured eyewits. I conjured spatial perspectives. Mock described Graham’s heist spree. Mock described his rape.
My pictures blurred. Mock presumed guilt. I leaned toward his assessment.
WE DINED WITH Chester Thornton. We let him expound.
Thornton was gracious. Thornton was perceptive. Thornton was blunt.
He wasn’t sure Graham did it. He wasn’t sure he did not. He knew Graham. He handled his juvie case. Juvie records were sealed. He refused to divulge data.
I stretched out. Rick stretched out. We sensed a monologue.
Thornton delivered.
He knew Graham already. He had more bench time. He should have run the show.
Ron Mock was an insider. He secured court appointments. He played the game well.
Judges sided with prosecutors routinely. Judges assigned defense counsel in capital cases routinely. Judges looked for adequate and noncombative lawyers.
Competent lawyers. No inspired defenses. No reversals on appeal.
Thornton spoke abstractly. He did not condemn Ron Mock flat-out.
He cited poor strategy. He cited Merv West’s affidavit. He cited West’s early presumption of guilt. He cited West’s lackluster job.
He found one alibi wit compelling. Jo Carolyn Johnson made sense.
He questioned Graham’s overall counsel. He assumed partial blame.
He critiqued the Texas court-appointment system. He critiqued the death penalty.
Play-ball lawyers got capital cases. They notched big paydays. They contributed to judges’ reelection campaigns.
Texas law ran exclusionary. Death-penalty opponents could not serve on capital juries. Their opposition meant they could “not discharge the law.”
The prosecution trumped Graham’s lawyers. It occurred at voir dire.
They got their jury. They got their consensus.
We’ll “discharge the law.” We’ll condemn off one ID.
Dinner wound down. Thornton and Rick had dessert.
I screened witness perspectives.
THE TERRELL UNIT:
Gun huts. Reinforced fences. Barbed-wire balls.
One-story cell blocks. White-glazed brick. High guard-to-con numbers.
Terrell was new. Terrell was adjunct death row. The State executed at Huntsville.
A guard boss escorted us. A PR man tagged along.
Terrell sparkled. Inmates passed by. They wore white jump-suits.
We hit a hallway. We saw the interview slots.
There’s Gary Graham—aka Shaka Sankofa.
He’s mid-sized. He’s lean. He’s sweating.
A glass wall enclosed him. It bisected two cubicles.
His. Ours. Wall phones for conversation.
We settled in. Graham had his phone. Rick and I shared ours.
We explained our purpose. We stated our credentials.
Rick said he was ex-LAPD. Rick said he’d never file a one-wit case.
We schmoozed Graham. We lubed him. Rick called him “Shaka.” I called him “Mr. Sankofa.”
Rick asked him when he went Muslim. Graham bristled. He said “Sankofa” was an African name.
We shitcanned the pap. Graham consulted a defense summary.
He spieled.
His epic raw deal. His fucked-up trial. The Hollywood cats out to spring him.
He spoke precisely. He spoke grammatically.
I diverted his spiel. I wanted to contextualize 5/13/81.
Will he see the date as a demarcation line? Will he know which events pre- and postdated it—because he killed a man that night? Will he reveal his guilt through this chronology?
I asked questions. Rick asked questions. We passed our phone back and forth.
Graham revealed shit.
He said he pulled his spree bombed.
He boozed. He sniffed coke. He smoked weed. He popped black mollys.
He consulted his summary. He said he copped to ten heists. He could not recall dates. He could not recall his accomplices.
I mentioned weapons. Graham stressed his .22. The cops exonerated it.
Rick mentioned other weapons.
Graham said he used a shotgun. Graham said he used a “.45 Mag.” Graham said he bought them on the street.
Graham admitted that he used other weapons. Graham undermined his seized-gun logic.
He could have had another .22. He could have shot Lambert with it.
Graham got pissed. He had a canned pitch. He wanted to revive it.
Rick mentioned his shotgun assault. Graham lied. Graham said the guy grabbed the gun. The gun popped accidental.
I mentioned the rape. Graham lied. Graham said it was consensual sex.
The woman claimed she was raped. He didn’t contest it. The D.A. never filed.
I explained why.
They had you for murder. They had you for ten heists.
Graham protested. Graham offered this story:
A friend drove him to a club. He met the woman. They drove to her pad.
They got drunk. They had consensual sex. They got in a beef.
He fell asleep. He woke up. The cops were there.
The woman said he stole her money. It was bullshit. His money was gone.
Rick took over. Rick let Graham talk.
I stared at him. Rick and I shared the receiver.
Graham said he stayed at his grandma’s house. He had a ’65 Mustang. The engine was out.
Graham described his trial. Graham described his appeals. Graham described his “community support.”
His syntax lapsed. He malapropped. He reverted to street jive.
I sat back. I let Rick talk and listen.
I studied Graham. I watched his lips. I waived guilt versus innocence. I waived his arguably unjust ordeal.
He was a thieving, raping, misanthropic sack of shit. He was meretricious appetite and cunningly justified self-pity. He was conscienceless and remorseless. He was monstrously empty.
The PR man showed. Our time was up.
RICK HAD FRIENDS near Houston. We detoured for dinner.
We discussed Gary Graham. Rick shared my assessment.
We discussed guilt versus innocence. We both leaned toward guilt. We both had doubts.
Rick’s friends were great. We laughed and bullshitted. We rehashed historical crimes.
We dined at a golf club. I phased in and out of the talk.
Culture shock grabbed me. The fairway view and death row.
I said, “Fuck the death penalty.”
4.
Witness Skillern dodged us.
We traced her to her daughter’s house. We left a card.
Rick called the daughter. The daughter ran point.
No. She won’t see you.
The press burned her. The activists burned her. Call her lawyer.
We bagged it.
Rick flew home.
I flew home.
We flew home sans indictment. We flew home sans exoneration.
I flew home apostatized.
I didn’t thank or blame Gary Graham. I thanked and blamed spatial perspectives. I thanked and blamed skewed memories and height variance.
It takes two minutes and $86.08 worth of sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride to execute a prisoner. (Copyright © Guy Koppenburg, 2003)
I thanked Chester Thornton. I perched that grave man near my heart.
He taught. He explicated. He worked in ellipsis.
He ran anti-blues riffs. No rhetoric on racism. No vote for reparation. No glorified black victimhood à la Jesse Jackson.
He didn’t know if Graham did it. He shared blame for Graham’s plight. He indicted the systemic corruption he worked in. He set his polemic in Harris County, Texas.
He layered in statistics. He let me extrapolate.
The full house on Huntsville death row. The Harris County Wing. DNA reversals. Sixty-odd convicts released nationwide.
Joe Stalin said it:
“One death is a tragedy. A thousand deaths is a statistic.”
I extrapolated. It was easy. My bottom-line resistance dissolved.
A flawed system. A proven nondeterrent. A proven vouchsafe of judicial error. The empirically based evidence that some innocent fry.
A mass-market palliative. A sop to the fatuous notion of “closure.” A dialogue diverted and subsumed by details of wantonly afflicted murder. The institutional catharsis of human sacrifice.
Thornton lectured well. Thornton sermonized interactively. He withheld Sacco and Vanzetti. He placed me under night lights and let me develop conclusions.
I labored with the prosaics. A prosecutor’s appellate brief helped.
A woman named Roe Wilson wrote it. The brief rebutted the defense summary with stern force.
It dissected the contradicting eyewits. It buttressed Witness Skillern’s account. It trashed the alibi wits’ affidavits. It portrayed them as jerry-rigged and possibly collusive. It logically rebutted the defense critique of the photo-spread procedure.
Ms. Wilson thought Graham did it. His appellate defense disagreed.
Ron Mock thought Graham did it. The cops agreed. Rick Jackson leaned that way.
I leaned that way. Logic took me there. Legal doubts detoured me. The solo ID constrained my full vote.
From the Holy Bible. Deuteronomy 17:6:
“On the evidence of two witnesses or of three witnesses, he that is to die shall be put to death; a person shall not be put to death on the evidence of one witness.”
