by Kenneth Eade
“The court recognizes that this is a capital case. Therefore, I’m going to give the defense leeway to present any evidence it can establish as relevant and connected to this case, on a case by case basis.”
***
The Chateau Marmont was a bit of living Hollywood History. Set back on Sunset Boulevard near Crescent Heights, it had seen its share of celebrities and had become a celebrity itself. When Jack walked in, he saw Babs sitting back on one of the padded benches in the classically tailored room. Babs was Barbara Taylor, Jack’s ex-colleague from his days at the Bureau in Los Angeles and one of the ones who never faulted him for crossing over to the “dark side” of defense work. He slid in next to her and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Hey, Babs, you look as great as ever!”
Barbara blushed and smiled a set of perfectly whitened teeth. It looked like she had even made up her turquoise eyes and put lipstick on her ample lips for the occasion. Babs was a little on the heavy side, but not hard to look at. Nothing had ever happened between them. Jack was always too much business for any monkey business.
“You’re looking pretty good yourself, Jack. Next time try to call me when you don’t need something. Just to talk.”
Jack looked down. “I didn’t want to cause you any trouble. You know, since I started working for the other side.”
Babs smiled and stirred her drink nervously. “What are you having?”
“What’s that?”
“Singapore Sling.”
Jack motioned for the waiter. “I’ll have a Corona.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the small talk was out of the way, the meeting lost its social appeal.
“So, what did you find out?”
“There’s an outfit called J.C. Riley and Sons Towing in Goleta that reported one of their heavy duty wreckers was stolen, that fits within your time frame.”
“Heavy duty wreckers?”
“Yeah. You know: those big tow trucks. This one can handle as much as 75 tons. It would have made toast out of that bus with minimal damage to itself.”
“Was it recovered?”
“Found it down in Ventura somewhere. Sorry, Jack, but I couldn’t get the report for you.”
“That’s okay. You did enough. I’ll go over to J.C. Riley and Sons to pay them a visit.”
“You didn’t hear anything from me.”
“No worries, Babs: that goes without saying.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Voir dire was the first process in every trial – the selection of a jury. It means “to tell the truth” in French, but it is really a process of weeding out potential jurors that each side doesn’t want, and in doing so, attempts to stack the deck as much as possible in your favor against the other side without knowing anything about the prospective jurors except the way they answer the questions and the way they appear - which is probably more important.
Brent (and Chernow) each had 20 peremptory challenges which allowed him to kick potential jurors off the panel without giving a reason, and there were certain people he could not have on the jury: people who had relatives who had been a victim of murder and people who, themselves, (or someone close to them) had been victims of a violent crime. There was no way they could be fair and impartial, especially in this case.
But no matter how skillful Brent was in selecting a jury, the end result was still going to be a random group of individuals who each had only one thing in common – most of them to be there for this society-imposed indentured servitude, and Brent didn’t want anyone on the jury who wanted to sit in judgment of his client. They each would be different, with varying degrees of intelligence, and would, based on their own biases, prejudices, and life experiences, decide sometime after the trial began (but certainly not before it had ended) whether Banks was guilty or not.
“All rise,” the Clerk called as Judge Carlyle took the bench. With the long black robes that covered everything but her little head, she looked kind of like a Tim Burton cartoon character from “The Nightmare before Christmas,” except not as scary.
Judge Carlyle sat down and, in her best “gruff” voice, greeted everyone and asked them to be seated. The gallery was full of spectators - mostly press - but it also held Susan Fredericks, who herself held nothing but contempt for Brent.
“We’re here on the case of People v. Joshua Banks. Counsel, please state your appearances.”
“Bradley Chernow for the People, Your Honor."
“Brent Marks representing the Joshua Banks, who is also present, Your Honor.” Where else could he be?
“Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?”
Brent and Chernow answered affirmatively in stereo.
“Good. Then we’ll call in the first panel.”
The panel was roughly half Caucasian and half Mexican American, with a smattering of African American thrown in. Brent didn’t expect any of them to be sympathetic to an accused serial killer, so his job would be to try to throw out the ones who seemed as if they could make their minds up right away, without bothering to listen to any evidence. The Clerk called out the first twelve names at random, and they each took a seat in the jury box.
Brent’s task was insurmountable, compared to the dozens upon dozens of times he had participated in the jury selection process. This time, he had a client who sat with him at the counsel table with wide, crazy eyes. Even adorned in the dark blue suit that Melinda had bought for Joshua Banks to wear for the trial, he was jittery, fidgeted around in his seat, and silently babbled to himself, and there was little Brent could do to control his behavior. He looked, well, just how you would expect a serial killer to look.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Judge Carlyle walked the jurors through the basic questions regarding their families, backgrounds, employment history, history with the judicial system, prior jury service, and what they had already heard about the case. It was virtually impossible to find jurors who had not read or seen something about it in the media. She dismissed two potential jurors who she felt were not able to serve as impartial jurors, and two names were called at random from the panel to replace them. Then she turned the show over to the attorneys.
From that point on, Carlyle would be an evidence referee until the time came for her to instruct the jury on the law that applied to the case. The justice system, if you can call it that, makes for a very limited inquiry in a criminal trial. A trial is a game. The rules of the game are the rules of evidence. If a piece of evidence does not fit those rules, whether or not it has anything to do with the truth or justice, it does not come in. As a result, many a guilty defendant has walked free and, more unfortunately, many an innocent man has been sent to the prison or the gallows.
Both parties sought to load the jury with people who were biased toward their side. Brent’s job was to look for skeptics: people who question authority. His main objective was to try to keep people on the jury who would pay attention, keep an open mind, and, above all else, like him. Chernow’s job was to look for “law and order” people who paid their bills on time and never questioned the police. His objective would be to load the jury with as many “law and order” people as possible, and to use his peremptory challenges to kick off the jurors that Brent wanted on the panel. Joshua Banks’ job was to sit there and not look crazy, which was probably the most difficult task of all.
Chernow was allowed first crack at the jurors, and chose that opportunity to give a speech about circumstantial evidence. He knew that Brent would be hitting hard on the fact that the People’s case was entirely built upon circumstantial evidence, and that there was no direct evidence or eyewitness testimony that linked Banks to the crime. The fact of the matter is that most prosecutors' cases are built almost entirely upon circumstantial evidence, and a good set of circumstantial facts is just as good as direct evidence to hang a guilty verdict on. It didn’t take Chernow long to learn that most of the panel had no problem with the concept, and he noted the ones who hesitated. They wouldn’t be sp
ending any more time in the jury box.
Next, he talked about the death penalty. Nobody had been executed in California for years because its death penalty had been shot down by several court rulings, but that didn’t stop the young D.A. from seeking to fry Joshua Banks. He just wanted to make sure everyone sitting in that box had no problem with it. Everyone who did was dismissed with a peremptory challenge.
Chernow then went into his general questions, designed to show bias by the raise of hands. After that, he started prying into the private lives of every juror; asking everything from favorite hobbies and TV shows to how much time they spent on social media and what websites they frequented the most.
When the floor was turned over to Brent, he gave a little speech about the burden of proof and reasonable doubt. It was the People’s case to prove every element of murder beyond a reasonable doubt. The defendant didn’t have to do anything. Brent was there to raise the specter of reasonable doubt in everything he possibly could. The problem was that nobody really understood what reasonable doubt was, and that made it equally difficult to explain. That problem was coupled with the fact that, since it was not final argument, Brent couldn’t tell the potential jurors what his definition of reasonable doubt was: he was therefore stuck with the one in the jury instruction book.
Reasonable doubt was defined as “not ordinary doubt,” which was confusing enough. It required the jurors to decide whether each essential element of the case has been proved by the People to the point of an abiding conviction in them that the charge was true. The judge would instruct them as to reasonable doubt as well as all the law they would apply to the case, and would shuffle them off to the jury room to decide the fate of Joshua Banks by the seats of their pants.
When the dust had finally cleared on voir dire, there remained five Mexican American men, three Mexican American women, one African American man, two Caucasian men and one woman, and two white male alternates whose job would be to sit through the whole trial, take notes, and not end up participating in decision making unless another juror took sick or was incapacitated.
“The People accept the jury as presently constituted, Your Honor.”
The easy part was over.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
J.C. Riley and Sons Towing was one of the largest towing companies in Santa Barbara County. It had a huge inventory of trucks of all different types and a large staff of drivers. Jack met with Tom Riley, one of the “sons,” at their main office on Hollister Avenue. Riley was a big man who had not yet seen fifty, with huge biceps that had faded motorcycle tattoos on them. One of the biceps held a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his short-sleeved shirt. Looks like he saw the light and joined his father’s business before it was too late.
Riley greeted Jack with a death grip handshake as he made direct eye contact.
“You a cop?”
“Ex-cop. I’m a private investigator now. I’m working on the Honeymoon Stalker case.”
“The bad guys?”
“Our guy got a bum rap. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess. But I already talked to the cops.”
“You got the truck back?”
“Yeah, and they already went over it and released it. It’s already been fixed.”
“Mind if I see it?”
“Sure.”
Riley led Jack through the yard, full of tow trucks and grease monkeys, to a line of heavy duty tow trucks four deep. The one he pointed out was a monster, with several axles and 18 wheels.
“Here she is.” Riley put his hand on the brand new front end.
“Was she damaged badly?”
“Took a couple a dents, but she was still runnin.”
“Where’d they find her?”
“Down by the beach in Ventura. The cops have all that.”
“You got video surveillance on the yard?”
“Yeah.”
“How far does it go back?”
“Bout six months.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure, come on in the office.”
Riley’s office was at the end of the yard. It had several secretaries, an accountant and a security guard at a security station, and was equipped with video monitors of the yard. Riley pulled up two plastic chairs for himself and Jack at the security station. He withdrew his pack of cigarettes from his sleeve, slapped the pack against his palm several times, opened it, and pulled out a cigarette with his mouth.
“The date we’re looking at is May 14th.”
“Bertha was reported missing on the 14th.” Riley flicked his lighter, lit his cigarette and drew in a deep hit.
“Can you play the video from the 13th?”
Riley blew out smoke and sped through the video.
“Wait, stop there.”
Riley rewound the video.
“Bertha’s not there.”
“No, she’s not.” Riley’s words appeared with puffs of smoke.
“Can you rewind it some more? I’ll tell you where to stop.”
Riley rolled back the video until they could see Bertha in her place.
“Stop. Could you play it back now?”
The video showed a figure, dressed in black, getting into Bertha and driving it away.
“Can you freeze it there? Yeah, there. Thanks.”
It was impossible to identify any facial features. The figure had his back to the camera at all times. It’s like he knew exactly where it was.
“Could I get a copy of that footage?”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Riley, do you know if Bertha was hot wired or if the thief used a key?”
“Looked to me like he used a key.”
“Do you have any employees who are overly religious?”
“Ain’t no sin to be a good Christian.”
“I’m not talking about Christians or normal people who are religious. I’m talking about a real nut. Someone who talks about demons and Satan and God all the time.”
Riley’s eyes widened. “You’re talkin’ about Dusty.”
“Dusty?”
“Dusty Clairborne.” He pulled out another cigarette and put it in his mouth. It flapped around as he spoke. “One of our drivers. You think he stole Bertha?”
“Maybe. Maybe even more than that. Can I talk to Dusty?”
“Nope.” Riley lit up again, blowing out smoke.
“Why not?”
“Dusty quit about a month ago.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Bradley Chernow took the stage first, at the lectern that had been set in front of the jury box, with an opening statement that made even Brent ashamed to be sitting next to Joshua Banks, acting as his lawyer. Bad guys need lawyers too. Especially bad guys. The opening statement, not surprisingly, concentrated on the pure evil of the act.
“And, in a fury of rage, ladies and gentlemen, this man, Joshua Banks…” Chernow pointed an accusatory finger at Banks. “This man crept into the bedroom of Ronald and James Bennett, and stabbed them both to death…”
“No, no, it wasn’t me! It was the demon!” Banks leapt up in his chair at counsel table.”
“Your Honor!”
“It was the demon! A most evil creature, sent to earth by the Devil himself! He did these things!”
Brent yanked on Banks’ jacket and pulled him back into his seat. Brent caught a glimpse of both courtroom deputies, on alert, with their hands on their guns and hoped that the jury had not seen them as well. Banks was competent to stand trial in the eyes of the law, but he was incompetent to defend himself.
“Mr. Banks, be quiet! You’re not helping your case this way.”
“Mr. Marks, please control your client or I will have him restrained.” Judge Carlyle cautioned Brent and admonished the jury.
“The jury will disregard the outbursts of the defendant. Mr. Chernow, you may continue.”
“The evidence will show that there is indeed a demon, and he is sitting right there in this courtroom!”
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Brent held himself back. It was argumentative, and strictly not allowed, but he let it go.
“The evidence will show that this man, Joshua Banks, silently crept into the bedroom of Ronald and James Bennett, while they were sleeping, and stabbed Ronald Bennett at least four times, and James Bennett at least four times, which was enough to kill them both. But did he stop there? No! He stabbed Ronald Bennett at least another nineteen times and James Bennett at least twenty two times more.”
“No, no, no, no!” Banks whispered to himself, and rocked back and forth in his chair. There was nothing Brent could do. He whispered to Banks, “Mr. Banks, be quiet and calm down. You’re making yourself look guilty.”
There was a look of sheer horror on each of the juror’s faces. The men grimaced with every detail, and the ladies closed their eyes. Chernow saw that his words were accomplishing just exactly what he intended, and he stepped into the well of the courtroom, away from the podium and closer to the jury.
“There was no way they could escape the fury of this evil and heinous murderer. The stab wounds in their chests and backs punctured their heart, lungs and liver. Then he dragged the bodies to their living room, posed them in a sexual position, and wrote, in their own blood, 'GOD HATES FAGS' on their living room wall.”
“The evidence will further show, ladies and gentlemen, that the defendant, Joshua Banks, is a religious zealot who committed prior violent acts toward the victims and was vocal in his opposition to their lifestyle as a same-sex married couple.”
“But it’s a sin! God says it’s a sin, punishable by death,” Banks mumbled. “Thou shalt not lay with a man as with a woman.”
“Banks, shut up!”
The men on the jury had turned their attention from Chernow and were now staring at Banks. It’s a lynch mob. And we’re not even finished with opening statements.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence will show that there is no reasonable doubt that this was a hate motivated crime, calculated with premeditation and malice, and that the defendant, Joshua Banks, is guilty of the first degree multiple murders of James and Ronald Bennett.”
