A Death in California

by Barthel, Joan;

  Walker held out a photograph, Defendant’s Exhibit HH.

  “Does that show the bed where the clothing was that you grabbed to take with you on the Sunday before you left to go to Beverly Hills?”

  “You know, I was really in such a state, I can’t remember where the clothing was,” Hope admitted.

  “So you are not sure now that it was on that bed?”

  “I know it was in the bedroom. I just picked up what I saw in front of me, the clothes that you put on me, and that’s all. I think I must have put the clothing in your car. I didn’t have very much to carry, because the only thing that ever got home was one pair of pants and one nightie.”

  “What happened to the rest of it?” Walker asked, with interest.

  “I don’t know,” Hope said. “I think the police took it. The rest of the clothing disappeared in the ranch house, and I don’t know where it went to.”

  “Mrs. Masters, what were you wearing when you went in to take the nap?”

  “I’m quite sure that I was still wearing my pink crepe man-tailored shirt. I had probably taken off my vest, and the only pair of pants missing are the navy blue corduroys.”

  “Do you have the pink crepe top?”

  “No, I do not,” Hope said.

  Walker reminded her of her testimony about vomiting, and finding her arms and hands bloody.

  “You were still wearing the pink shirt at that time?”

  “I think I had on the shirt, and part of that bloodstain went onto the shirt.”

  Mr. Haley objected that all this was irrelevant.

  “What’s the relevancy, Mr. Walker?” Judge Ginsburg asked.

  “This witness has said there are clothes missing that she cannot account for,” Walker explained. “They are bloodstained. The police inventory does not show any bloodstained clothes being found on the ranch.”

  “All right,” Ginsburg said. “Go ahead and answer.”

  “Well, I am sure that there are bloodstains on that crepe blouse,” Hope said.

  “Mrs. Masters, does the sight of bloodstains bother you?” Walker asked gently.

  “Yes.”

  “But if you happened to see those two blouses again, you would be able to recognize your blouse, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Walker smiled, and picked up a paper bag from the counsel table. “Mrs. Masters, we are going to show you what has been marked for identification as Defendant’s Exhibit YY and ask you—”

  “Is there blood on it?” Hope interrupted.

  “—and ask you if you would take the garment out of the bag and look at it.”

  Hope looked anxiously at the defense table. “Is there blood on it, Jay? I don’t want to, if there is blood on it.”

  “I can’t ask any questions,” Jay Powell said in a strained voice.

  Walker had Powell hold the open bag in front of her. “Is this the blouse you were wearing at the time you touched the body?”

  “It looks like my pink blouse, yes.”

  “Why don’t you take it out of the bag?” Walker asked.

  “I don’t want to,” Hope said.

  Judge Ginsburg looked at her, then at Walker. “She doesn’t have to,” he said. So Walker took the blouses out of the bag, a pink blouse and a purply-blue one. Hope knew that if they’d been bloodstained, she’d have heard “oohs” and “aahhs.” There were no shocked murmurs in the courtroom, no gasps, because there were no bloodstains or smears on Hope’s clothing.

  Walker stayed in the third person: “he,” “the visitor,” “the intruder,” and usually Hope did too. It gave a weird, phantasmal air to the colloquy. At any moment, Tom Breslin felt, Hope might break through the illusion to the ugly reality: this man had done these unspeakable things to her.

  “When the intruder got you into the bedroom, what did he do?”

  “He put his hand around my neck—well, he put me on the bed and cautioned me not to scream.”

  “Mrs. Masters, how many times were you raped?”

  “I believe it was two, but it was kind of an off-again, on-again thing.”

  “Do you know whether the man reached a climax?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Mrs. Masters, the intruder, after he raped you, did he stay there in bed with you for any length of time?”

  “Kind of got in and out of bed several times. Part of the time when he was making these suggestions to me, he would be standing beside me, and he would be feeling me, and then he would be back in the bed, and he was moving around but always right—right beside me.”

  “I believe you said the intruder was not dressed from the waist down but he had some sort of garment on, on the top?”

  “That’s how it seemed to me in the dark.”

  “Did you sleep at all that night?”

  “For a little while.”

  “Was the intruder in the room while you were asleep?”

  Joe Haley jumped up. “I object; it’s quite obvious that nobody asleep would know whether somebody else were in the room.”

  Walker smiled and nodded. “I believe counsel is right. I had not thought of that, Your Honor. I withdraw the question.” He turned back to face Hope. “Mrs. Masters, did you see the intruder sleep that night?”

  “You mean the person that I am not sure who it was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Hope replied. “You see, it depends on who it was.”

  At the break, Tom Breslin laid down the law to Hope again, only louder. “You are shading your testimony, damnit!” Tom told her. “You’re going too easy on him.”

  “Well, he’s going easy on me,” Hope said.

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about that,” Tom said. “Hopie, you have got to be tougher.”

  It turned out not to be as difficult as she’d expected, when she got back on the stand and Walker took her back home to the Drive.

  In the direct examination, the prosecutor had already sketched that period, establishing her constant state of fear. “He would tell me that a certain kind of car would be driving around, watching my house, and he’d leave, and then I would look out and I would see the car, and I was completely convinced that I not only had the Mafia after me but some friends of his that were watching to see that I didn’t notify the authorities either, and I would see these cars, or he would tell me, ‘Did you see that fellow raking leaves? He is one of my men.’ I was under the belief that I was being watched all the time. He would indicate that he knew through his sources what my incoming telephone calls were. He would say, ‘You have been very good. You haven’t done anything on the phone. If you keep behaving, as long as you behave, I will help you, and everything will be all right.’ I was afraid of him, but I was also dependent on him to get me out of this contract situation, so I was feeling two ways. I was afraid to cross him in any way, but I was also feeling that he would help me. He was very kind to me after this incident, and I felt that he was the only person who could change the contract and save the children.”

  Now, as Walker continued his cross-examination, he brought out that, at some time Sunday evening, she had been alone in her house.

  “You left me in the shower,” Hope said. Tom Breslin noted that she was referring to Walker in the second person—a good sign.

  “Did I have you locked in the shower?”

  “No, but you told me, ‘You better not get out of the shower.’”

  “Did you have your clothes on?”

  “No.”

  “Had I taken your clothes off?”

  “No, but you told me to take them off.”

  “Mrs. Masters, which shower in your house is this?”

  “The shower in the master bedroom.”

  “And adjacent to that shower is your bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a telephone in that bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “To your knowledge, was that telephone in working order that evening?”

&n
bsp; “I would imagine so,” Hope retorted.

  Walker smiled. “How did the defendant Walker and your children get along?”

  “Very well.”

  “Did he frighten them?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Masters, calling your attention to Monday, February the twenty-sixth, the next morning, who fixed breakfast for the children?”

  “You did,” Hope said, a little sullenly.

  “When Walker returned from taking Keith to the school bus, did he change clothes and go jogging?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he take a shower and shave?”

  “Probably. I am sure of that.”

  “Did you make any attempts to leave the house, take the car keys, his clothes, or anything?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Mrs. Masters, when your son Keith returned home, did the defendant Walker go anywhere with Keith?”

  “Yes. You and Keith went out.”

  “When Walker and Keith returned, did Keith have a new jacket?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Mrs. Masters, how long was Keith and the defendant Walker away from your home that evening?”

  “A couple of hours, I believe. It was a pretty good amount of time.”

  “You were alone that entire time, with the exception of your other two children?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Did you make any telephone calls?”

  “I may have called my mother.”

  “Mrs. Masters, was there a car available for your use that night?”

  “No, not that I know of. I didn’t know how to drive Bill’s car, if it was there, because I can’t drive a stick shift. At some later time, there was a car. I don’t remember when it came there.”

  “On Monday night, where did your children sleep?”

  “All in my bed, and I told them to lock the door.”

  “Once the children were in bed, what did you and the defendant Walker do?”

  “I sat in the living room, fixed you a drink, rubbed your back, because you were getting mad at me, and watched you sort your suitcases and things.”

  “What time did you go to bed that evening, Mrs. Masters?”

  “About, oh, maybe eleven o’clock.”

  “Did you join your children in your room?”

  “No, there wasn’t room for me. I went into my son’s room.”

  “Which bed did you take?”

  “The one nearest the door.”

  “Later that evening, did you see the defendant Walker enter that room?”

  “Well, either saw or heard or was vaguely aware of.”

  “Did he enter your bed?”

  “I think he sat down for a little while next to me, and was talking to me, but I was so tired I couldn’t stay awake.”

  “And did the defendant Walker take the other bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you join the defendant Walker in the other bed?”

  “No.”

  Walker suddenly turned formal. “It’s your testimony that on Saturday, February twenty-fourth, when the defendant Walker arrived at the ranch, you did not know him, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s your testimony that, when you were raped in the southeast bedroom at the River Valley Ranch, the lights were not on, is that correct?”

  “Yes.

  “It’s your testimony that, when your clothes were taken off you, the lights were not on, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Walker smiled.

  “Mrs. Masters,” he said easily, “isn’t it a fact that you have a scar that starts in the pubic hair on the lower abdomen and runs to the right side, which is a Caesarean birth scar?”

  “Yes,” Hope said shortly.

  Joe Haley said this was irrelevant.

  “What’s the relevancy?” Judge Ginsburg asked.

  Walker looked serious. “Your Honor, we are attempting to show that the witness is being deceptive.”

  “You saw me naked in the morning,” Hope said.

  “Just a moment, just a moment,” Ginsburg said. But Hope continued angrily, “You saw me at the ranch in the morning, you dressed me, and you made me sit naked on the floor while you took a shower. You have seen me naked.”

  “I don’t believe I heard any testimony—” Walker began.

  “You know it’s true,” Hope snapped.

  “Would you tell us that story?” Walker asked, sounding amused.

  Hope wanted to scream at him. “The story is that you wanted to take a shower,” she said tightly. “You got me out of bed and put me on the floor in the bathroom and kept the shower door ajar, and I was not allowed any clothing or even to put a towel around me.”

  “When was this?”

  “That was in the morning.”

  “Which morning?” Walker still sounded amused.

  “The morning after Bill was killed.”

  “Would that be Sunday morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the defendant Walker nude at that time?”

  “When he was in the shower, he was.”

  “And you’d be able to tell us whether the defendant Walker is circumcised or not, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, Your Honor,” Haley protested, “I see no relevancy to this.” Neither did the judge.

  Walker looked thoughtful. “You say he had a gun in the bathroom, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was the gun?”

  “On the window ledge near the shower.”

  “Mrs. Masters, which way does the shower-room door of that bathroom open?”

  “It opens toward the window.”

  “So that, if the defendant Walker had been in the shower with the gun on the ledge, he couldn’t get to the gun, because the door would block the ledge, is that correct?”

  “And neither could I,” Hope retorted.

  “Mrs. Masters,” Walker said quietly, “prior to the year 1973, have you ever stayed in a motel with the defendant Walker?”

  “No,” Hope said.

  “Prior to the year 1973, have you ever written to the defendant Walker or sent him any photographs of yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Masters, outside of this courtroom, when is the last time you talked privately to the defendant Walker?”

  “I think when we talked in the counsel room over there a few days ago. Well, I don’t know if that counts. The attorneys were present.”

  “Do you recall a telephone conversation between yourself and the defendant Walker last Thursday afternoon?”

  “That wasn’t private—” Hope began. Haley objected, and the jury was sent out while Walker made his offer of proof. Walker explained to the court that when he and Jay Powell had met with Hope and Tom Breslin, looking at a summary of her statement to the D.A., Hope “indicated she could testify any way the defendant wished her to testify; she could remember or forget anything that he elected to have her remember or forget, and at that time, the defendant Walker reminded Mrs. Masters that he only wished her to tell the truth.”

  “Now do I get to say something?” Hope demanded.

  “No,” Ginsburg said.

  When the jury returned, Walker brought up the out-of-court conference.

  “Did you state to the defendant Walker that you could testify or remember or forget whatever he wished you to?” Walker asked Hope.

  “That is not the way I put it,” Hope protested. “I said on the statement regarding the burning down of the house with Bill’s body, or with both bodies, to prevent identification, that I could remember it either way, because you had said it in both ways.”

  Joe Haley stepped in. “Did he indicate what he meant when he said ‘both bodies’?”

  “Me,” Hope said.

  Walker managed to look both sorrowful and righteous. “Mrs. Masters, did the defendant Walker then state to you, ‘All we want you to do is to tell the truth’?”

  �
�Yes, he did,” Hope said.

  Walker smiled. “No further questions,” he said.

  Jim Heusdens almost came unglued when he heard that the charges against Hope Masters had been dismissed. “They gave her immunity without even knowing what she was going to say!” he exploded to his law partner, Ray Donahue. “Her testimony didn’t make a nickel’s worth of difference. The evidence she gave, we got anyway.” He was never convinced that Hope’s separate trial couldn’t have been postponed by court order. “That was just a red herring,” Heusdens insisted. “Walker would have been tried first because he was the one in custody.”

  Coming unglued, though, was a minor sensation compared with Heusdens’s feelings when he got a call from Robert Bereman, the district attorney. Joe Haley had been taken to the hospital, critically sick with internal bleeding, unable to continue. With such a complicated case—and one that was not going too well for the People, incidentally—it was too late to bring in a new man. Bereman asked Heusdens to return as special prosecutor.

  Jim Heusdens discussed it with Ray Donahue. They agreed Heusdens should go back—“We can’t just let it flap around”—and they also agreed that if Heusdens were to be paid at the old, unimproved rate—$904 a month—he would make a grand gesture and donate his services.

  Thus, on December 10, James Heusdens returned to The People of the State of California v. G. Daniel Walker. He was paid the special prosecutor’s rate, fifteen dollars an hour, which didn’t come close to Ned Nelsen’s fee, or Tom Breslin’s, but the challenge seemed worth it.

  There was no more dramatic example of Heusden’s taste for that challenge than his handling of certain witnesses. Persons whose testimony he had disparaged at the preliminary, issues he had scorned, now became his valued witnesses, issues to be weighed very seriously indeed. What Walker, in questioning Van, referred to as Hope’s “first story” and “second story,” Heusdens called the same story, “but told in a different way.” When Jay Powell asked Gene Tinch whether he hadn’t once identified himself as a police officer to a Tulare gas station attendant—the accusation Heusdens had once hurled at Tinch—Heusdens objected strenuously, and his objection was sustained.

  Most poignantly, of course, Heusdens now had Hope Masters in his court. What had once been, for Heusdens, her suspicious intimacy with Walker—the backrubs, the whispering in Keith’s bedroom—now became a natural consequence of her fear. When Jay Powell objected to Hope’s testimony about several wallets she had seen in the Lincoln, along with Bill’s briefcase, on the drive back to L.A., and her quoting Walker’s remark that she should look away when he paid for the gas because he didn’t want her to see which I.D. he was using, Heusdens made an eloquent plea. “If a person all of a sudden has a dead body at a ranch and is told, ‘I can change my identity and be gone, and nobody will believe you,’ that certainly would create fear in someone’s mind.”