Groda’s voice was slow and even. “Jack Kramer was accusing Father of, what shall I calls it? Molestin’, messin’ around with the boys.”
Berkoff narrowed his eyes. “There is no question in your mind, that is what they were arguing about?”
“Ain’t no question about it,” he said flatly. “I heard Kramer tell Father a young kid, an altar boy had come to him, and told him Father had molested him after Mass that same day.”
“What was Father Reiniger’s reaction to that?”
“Oh, he was P.O.’d! Furious! He was mad as hell. Finally, I heard Father say, ‘I don’t have to listen to any more of this crap from you!’ And he got up and left.”
Berkoff walked slowly to the jury box, grasped the railing, then turned back to look at Groda. “Mr. Groda, when was the very last time you saw Danny Novak? Do you remember?”
“I sure do. We’d all had our supper around the campfire. The other two boys had turned-in early. I’d picked up the dishes and gear, and gone back to the dining hall. I was busy cleanin’ up the place when all of a sudden I heard the motorboat startin’ up. I dropped what I was doin’ and walked out to the small deck that overlooks the lake. I saw Danny and Father Reiniger easin’ the boat away from the dock. The boat headed out into the lake and that was the last time I ever saw Danny. That is, until they found his body in the lake, the next day.”
“Thank you, Mr. Groda. Your witness, Mr. Ramsey.”
Ramsey remained seated at the counselor’s table for a few minutes. He threw Groda a brief, appraising glance, then quickly rose and approached the witness stand. His voice was cold, sarcastic. “You know, Mr. Groda, it astonishes me, it completely eludes me, that you can relate precisely what Father Reiniger and Jack Kramer were arguing about, that day!”
“I don’t get your point, Mr. Ramsey,” Groda said, with a sheepish grin.
Ramsey sneered. “You don’t get my point! Where were you when this so-called argument was taking place?”
“I was down in the dining hall. Fixin’ supper.”
“And they were sitting on the front porch of the main house, as it were?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“And, how far, is the dining hall, from the main house?”
Groda shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. Three-hundred-yards, I’d guess. Somethin’ like that.”
There was a long pause. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Groda? That you indeed heard loud voices emanating from the veranda, and unbeknownst to Father Reiniger and Mr. Kramer, you sneaked up to the house, entered through the rear, the kitchen, really, and stood there eavesdropping? Isn’t that what really happened. Mr. Groda?”
“Objection!” Berkoff yelled. “Relevance, Your Honor!”
“I’ll allow it. You may proceed, Counselor.”
“I repeat, isn’t that what really happened, Mr. Groda?”
“I dunno where you-all is getting your information from, Mr. Ramsey.”
“One of the boys saw you leaving the main house and walking down to the dining hall. It’s no big mystery, sir.”
“Yeah,” he grinned. “I guess you’re right.”
Ramsey paused; he studied Groda for a long moment. “Mr. Groda, I’d like to talk about the events which occurred later that same day. Sunday, September 5th.”
“Yeah?” Groda said with a touch of annoyance. “I’ve already explained to Mr. Berkoff what went on that day. Nothin’s changed, Mr. Ramsey.”
Ramsey ignored him. “You testified that you, Father Reiniger, Jack Kramer, Danny, and the other boys had your supper around the campfire. Isn’t that true, Mr. Groda?”
“Yeah. That’s true.”
“Later, you picked up the dishes, the ‘gear’ as you called it, and returned to the dining hall. Correct?”
“Yeah. Correct.”
“You were cleaning up, when suddenly you heard the motorboat starting up. Correct?”
“Yeah, that’s correct, Mr. Ramsey,” he said, with a weary intonation.
Berkoff was in again. “Objection, Your Honor!”
“On what grounds, Mr. Berkoff?”
“He’s leading the witness.”
“Overruled. You may continue, Mr. Ramsey, but I’d advise you to move along, get on with it.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” He turned back to Groda. “Mr. Groda, you heard the sound of the motorboat starting up and you moved out to the deck overlooking the lake. Correct?”
“Yeah. That’s correct.”
“I’m quoting you now, to the best of my recollection. You said: ‘I saw Danny and Father Reiniger as the motorboat eased way from the dock. The boat headed out into the lake. That was the last time I ever saw Danny. Until they found his body in the lake the next day.’ A fair and true statement, Mr. Groda?”
“Yeah. That’s about what I said. Yeah.” He paused. “Where are we goin’ with this, Mr. Ramsey?”
“Having finished cleaning up the dining hall and the kitchen, presumably, you then left. Correct?”
“I’m a little confused here. Whaddya mean left, Mr. Ramsey? You mean the campsite?”
“I’m talking about the dining hall, sir. You left the dining hall. Correct?”
“Yeah. That’s correct.”
“And you went, where?”
“Back to my quarters.”
“I see. How would you describe your ‘quarters,’ Mr. Groda?”
Again, a hint of annoyance. “When the archdiocese bought the lakeside property, there were two buildings already there. The three-story house Reiniger and Jack Kramer shared with the boys and a smaller house built close to the shoreline. That was where I lived, all year long.”
“I understand. About what time did you arrive at your ‘so-called’ quarters? Do you remember?”
“Uh, lemme see now, it hadda be eight-thirty, quarter-to-nine, somewhere around there.”
“What happened then?”
“I was tired. Bushed.” He hesitated. “Oh, I remember now! I got back just in time to watch the 9:00 o’clock news on TV.”
Ramsey crossed to the podium. He quickly scanned a list of notes, he’d written on a legal pad. He turned back to face Groda. “Mr. Groda, it is my understanding that while you were watching the news on television, you heard voices outside the cabin. Is that not correct?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“The voices you heard were emanating from the strip of sand you refer to, as the beach?”
“Emanating? Whaddya mean, emanating, Mr. Ramsey?”
There was low sniggering from the gallery. Ramsey was trying to be patient. “The voices you heard were coming from the direction of the beach. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“How far is this so-called beach from your residence?”
“Fifty-five, sixty feet, something like that.”
“How many voices did you hear?”
“I heard two voices.”
“You are sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure about that, Mr. Ramsey.”
“And, what was the tone of these voices you heard?”
“Whaddya mean, tone?”
“Well, did it sound like an argument? Did it sound like friendly voices? What, Mr. Groda?”
“I couldn’t tell. All I can say is that the voices was low. Very low.”
“Did you recognize the voices?”
“Only one.”
“And who would that be?”
“I recognized Danny Novak’s voice.”
“You’re positive about that?”
“Yes. I am.”
“What about the other voice?”
“Like I told you, Mr. Ramsey, the voices was very low, and besides, I had my TV on. I did not recognize the other voice.”
“It’s my understanding that when Detective Farrell first questioned you, Mr. Groda, you neglected to mention that you’d heard these voices. Why is that?”
Groda shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal, I don’t guess.”
�
�Did it ever occur to you, that you could have been cited for obstructing a criminal investigation?”
“Nope. Like I just told you, Mr. Ramsey, I didn’t think it was that important.”
Ramsey scowled. A look of disgust gathered around his eyes. “You said you were watching the news on television. What happened after that?”
“Like I said, I was tired. I finally went to bed.”
“So, you never left the cabin after that?”
“No. Why would I do that, Mr. Ramsey?”
“So, the answer is no?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you substantiate that, Mr. Groda?”
“Whaddya mean, substantiate, Mr. Ramsey?”
“Can you prove you never left the cabin that night?”
“No, I caint.”
“You didn’t talk to anyone on the phone? Anything like that?”
“Nope. I didn’t.”
“So, you are testifying in this courtroom that you never left the lakeside cabin that night. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”
“That is correct. That is what I’m sayin’.”
“There are stiff penalties for perjury, Mr. Groda. You are aware of that?”
Suddenly, Berkoff sprung quickly to his feet. He was angry now. “YOUR HONOR!” he yelled.
Judge Baylor tossed the counselor a tight glance. “Yes, Mr. Ramsey. Will you please move it along!”
“Fair enough.” Ramsey moved to the witness stand. He leaned in close to Groda. When he spoke, his voice cold, condescending. “Mr Groda, we’ll forget Camp Sierra for a moment. Let’s go back to West Memphis, Arkansas.”
Groda was suddenly on the defensive. “West Memphis, Arkansas? Whaddya wanna know about it?”
“What I ‘wanna know about it,’ is just what were you doing back in Arkansas? What kind of work did you do?”
Groda shifted his position. “I did a lot of things.”
“Like what, Mr. Groda?”
“Oh, I washed dishes, did janitorial work. This and that. I was employed as a school guard. I also drove the school bus.”
Ramsey paused, eyeing him carefully. “Mr Groda, does the term, ‘pedophile,’ mean anything to you?”
Suddenly, Berkoff spoke up. “Your Honor! I object to this line of questioning! I fail to see the relevancy here!”
“Overruled! You may continue, Mr. Ramsey.”
“I’ll repeat the question, sir. Does the term ‘pedophile,’ mean anything to you?”
“No, Mr. Ramsey,” he said, dripping sarcasm, “It don’t mean anything to me! Would you care to enlighten me? Clue me in?”
“The word describes a sexual deviant, who is attracted to children,” Ramsey answered, his tone flat, acidic.
Once again, Groda shifted his position. “What the hell’s that got to do with me?”
Ramsey moved in closer. “Yes or no, sir. Were you, or were you not, arrested in May, 1995, on charges of sexually abusing two juveniles?” His voice turned hard. “Yes or no, Mr. Groda?
“Them so-called charges were dropped!” he yelled.
“Precisely. They were dropped because of lack of evidence.”
“That’s right! They couldn’t prove a thing! They couldn’t prove squat!”
Ramsey’s eyes narrowed. “And, in July of that same year, you were arrested and charged with the first-degree sexual abuse of a nine-year-old girl, you’d picked up in a shopping mall. Yes, or no, Mr. Groda?”
Groda was quick to respond. “I was set-up! The cops set me up! They said, I’d”
“Just answer the question! Give me a simple yes, or no?”
There was a long pause. “Yes.”
“One final question, Mr. Groda. Did you, or did you not, serve eighteen months in the Crittenden County Jail, in Arkansas, for the sexual molestation of that same nine-year-old girl?”
There was another long pause. Groda’s face darkened. “What the hell do you want from me, Mr. Ramsey? Yes, I did.”
“I’d like you to speak up! I want everyone in the courtroom to hear your answer. Was that a yes, or a no?”
His voice was low, surly. “I said, yes, I did.”
Ramsey shot a snarl of dismissal. “I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor!”
“You may step down, Mr. Groda. Mr. Berkoff? You may call your next witness.”
“The People call Robert Stiles.”
Judge Baylor hesitated momentarily. “Is Mr. Stiles present in the courtroom and ready to testify, Counselor?”
“Yes. He is. Your Honor.”
Baylor glanced at the small digital clock beside him. It read 4:25. “My apologies to Mr. Stiles, Counselor, but due to the lateness of the hour, we will adjourn at this time. We will hear Robert Stiles’ testimony at 10:00 o’clock, sharp, tomorrow morning.” He banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned!”
--14--
Tuesday, 9/28/99. 10:00 a.m. Courtroom No. 210, on the second floor of the County Courthouse was filled to capacity. It was Standing-Room-Only. In a benevolent move, Judge Baylor had agreed to allow a stationary television camera be placed inside the courtroom. The overflow of spectators could view the court proceedings on a wide-screen TV, set up in the circular rotunda.
Interestingly enough, the next scheduled witness, Robert Stiles, had religiously attended the Reiniger trial from Day-One. He did not go unnoticed. A young man in his mid-twenties, he was tall, dark, exceedingly good-looking; what teen-aged girls would refer to, as a ‘hunk.’ He was lean, lithe, well-built. He was impeccably dressed in a dark blue, tailor-made suit, a red-and-white, striped necktie.
Judge Baylor quickly scanned the courtroom. “Next witness, Mr. Berkoff,” he announced.
“The People call Robert Stiles.”
Stiles, who was seated in the spectator’s gallery, rose and made his way toward the stand. The clerk appeared slightly flustered by Stiles’ handsomeness. “Mr. Stiles, will you please raise your right hand? Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?”
“I do.”
“You may be seated.”
Stiles seated himself on the witness stand. Berkoff rose and then crossed toward him. “Will you state your full name for the record, please?”
“Robert Andrew Stiles.”
“How old are you, Mr. Stiles?”
“I am twenty-six.”
“Where do you reside?”
“2757 Arizona Avenue. West Los Angeles.”
“Santa Monica, to be more specific?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m an architectural draftsman. I work for an architectural firm in Beverly Hills.”
Berkoff paused. “May I ask, Mr. Stiles, what is your association with the defendant in this case?”
“I knew Father Reiniger when he was the pastor at Queen of Angels parish, in Los Angeles.”
“How many years ago are we talking about?”
“About ten. I was sixteen-years-old at the time.”
“Did you consider yourself an active parishioner at that time?”
“Yes. I was an altar boy. I went to parochial school, I was an usher, I worked in the rectory. I was very active in church affairs.”
Berkoff turned toward the jury. “For the record, I want to make it clear that Mr. Stiles was not subpoenaed as a witness. He came to this courtroom today on his own volition. Why is that, Mr. Stiles?”
“When I heard about what had happened to Danny Novak, and that Father Reiniger had been arrested on suspicion of murder, I decided I’d do everything I could, to see him convicted.”
There was a slight rumble throughout the courtroom. Judge Baylor lightly tapped his bench gavel. “Quiet in the courtroom, please!”
Suddenly, Ramsey spoke up. “Objection, Your Honor! It calls for speculation.”
“I’ll allow it. You may continue, Mr. Berkoff.”
Once again, the prosecutor turned to face Stiles. “I t
ake it then, Mr. Stiles, you knew Father Reiniger quite well?”
“Yes. I did. And after hearing some of the testimony given here in this courtroom, I can see that Father Reiniger hasn’t changed. He’s still doing the same things he was doing at Queen of Angels, ten years ago.”
Berkoff’s look was grim, tight-lipped. “A leopard never loses its spots, as it were. Would you care to elaborate on that, Mr. Stiles?”
“I found myself in exactly the same position as young Mark Novak was in. I was an altar boy too. Father Reiniger insisted I serve the early Mass. The 7:00 o’clock Mass, because I served it alone, I suppose. After the service was over, Father and I would go immediately into the sacristy, the room directly behind the altar, where the vestments, et cetera, were kept.”
“And what happened in the sacristy?”
Stiles was slightly hesitant. “He would grab me, he would fondle me. He’d press his body up against mine. I was shocked, I was embarrassed, I was confused. I didn’t know what to do.” He paused. “He warned me never to say anything about it.”
“Uh-huh. Tell us about the trip to Santa Barbara, Mr. Stiles,” Berkoff said, eyeing the jury carefully.
Again, slightly hesitant. “Father would very often organize out-of-town trips. Usually, over-night trips. He would often take two or three boys on camping trips, or a trip to the San Diego Zoo, Mt. Palomar, wherever. This particular weeked he took two other boys and myself on a trip to the Santa Barbara Mission. He thought it was very important that we be exposed to Father Serra, and the string of missions he’s built, along the California coast. We got a late start on our trip to Santa Barbara and Father insisted we stay the night in a motel.”
“Yes. Go on, Mr. Stiles.”
“Father explained that because the other two boys were older than me, they would share a bed. That meant Father Reiniger and I would sleep together in the other bed.” He paused. “Before we even went to bed, Father pulled an electic vibrator out of his suitcase. He said he wanted to give us a massage.”
“And did he give you a massage, Mr. Stiles?”
“Yes, he did.”
“What were you boys wearing at this point?”
“He insisted we strip down to our shorts, our underwear.”
“What was your reaction to that, Mr. Stiles?”
“I didn’t think much about it at first. No big deal. So Father was giving us a back massage. But then, I got a little nervous. All of a sudden, he was massaging my buttocks, my butt.”
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