I'll Be Watching You

by M. William Phelps

  “That’s what you understood that to [mean]?”

  She couldn’t answer. She was crying too hard. Too piercingly. Sniffling and heavily breathing in and out. “Can we get some tissues?” the judge asked, intervening. “All right. I’m going to excuse the jury for a few minutes.”

  As the jury exited the room, the marshal said, “Jacqueline? Jacqueline?” She was losing it. The judge said, “Just stay right there.”

  “No, let me go,” Jackie said.

  “Have a seat,” the marshal said. “No, no, have a seat,” he said again as Jackie started to get up. “It’s OK. Have a seat.”

  “All right,” Judge Espinosa said, “we’re going to take a recess.”

  IV

  When Ned handed over his mileage records to the police, investigators were certain he was trying to say, Go ahead, try to catch me. “When you looked at the day Carmen Rodriguez disappeared,” Jim Rovella commented later, “it’s nothing but scribble.” The writing itself was vastly different from the other days around that one date, September 21, 2001—which was the first red flag. “Our task was to take that mileage, which Ned had written out for a few years, and compare it against his appointment logs.”

  They had an abundance of material from Ned’s hand that showed where he was and what he did for just about every day he had worked for American Frozen Foods. “The mileage, in addition, is very well done—except for that one date of September 21.” What was strange to Rovella was that Ned had kept all of his gas receipts; he hadn’t throw them out or burned them after he killed Carmen. Same as Bundy. (“Didn’t he learn anything from Bundy?” Rovella asked, chuckling at the thought.)

  With those gas receipts, the state’s attorney’s office could figure out the gas mileage Ned’s car got, match it up against the mileage he traveled for an allotted time period, see if his record keeping was accurate for, say, a six-month period of time (nowhere near the dates Carmen went missing), and then compare those figures—which were Ned’s—to the day in question.

  Thus, when Rovella reviewed all of the evidence Ned left behind, he came up with a rather shocking revelation for Ned’s car: during the week Carmen disappeared, Ned’s car got four miles to the gallon on one day and eighty-nine miles to the gallon on another.

  “There was no consistency—but only for that time period.”

  Smoking gun or fuzzy math?

  All throughout the course of that year—minus that one week in September—Ned’s car got a consistent twenty-nine miles per gallon of gas. Which meant that his record keeping for the week Carmen disappeared had been doctored. Ned thought he had covered himself, but he had, in fact, calculated wrong. In his own hand, he wrote that on September 21, 2001, beginning at 3:43 P.M., he made a 1-800 call from a pay phone. Then, minutes later, he stopped for fuel at a Mobil station and pumped 10.0006 gallons of fuel into his car. An hour later, he was at a client’s home giving his frozen-food pitch: a 27.7-mile trip from the fuel station to his appointment (per MapQuest). But Ned marked it as forty-three miles. A difference of more than fifteen miles.

  He was then on to another appointment not too far away from the first; he logged eight miles.

  The actual trip was five. A difference of three.

  Then another call from another pay phone; then he logged his trip to Kenney’s in Hartford, which was 18.8 miles from his final appointment of the day, and logged his trip back home to Berlin.

  For the entire trip—from his final appointment to Kenney’s to home—Ned logged forty-one miles, but the actual distance was 34.1. A difference of nearly seven miles.

  According to Ned’s figures, his total for the day was ninety-two. The actual distance, however, was sixty-seven. Ned was building an alibi for himself.

  Mile by mile.

  Why? Because he needed to make room for a trip to Hopkinton, Rhode Island, Zagaja showed with charts and graphs and through testimony. The plan was always to dump the body out of state, Zagaja suggested. That’s the one thing Ned had learned from Bundy: dump the body in another jurisdiction because it is almost impossible—if you do it properly—for authorities to track it back to its original location.

  95

  I

  Jackie composed herself, collected her thoughts, and was able to continue. Zagaja asked her a few more questions and then handed his witness over to O’Brien, who proceeded to do the only thing he could: drag out the statements Jackie had given to police and begin to peck away, hoping to catch her on dates, times, names, or certain situations that conflicted with her direct testimony.

  But none did.

  Jackie had forgotten a few things, but her story had stayed the same for the past four years. She had no reason to lie. She didn’t know that much—other than that one word: “was.” That was your mother?

  O’Brien challenged the statement. “And isn’t it a fact that Mr…. that you explained who you were [to Ned], right? And then Mr. Snelgrove said, ‘I’m sorry. Listen, I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything, anything I can tell you.’ Isn’t that what he said?”

  Jackie wasn’t about to be bullied. Not now. Not after what she had been through in life since her mother had been murdered. “He said,” Jackie spoke up, “‘I’m sorry. That was your mom?’”

  “Did you, um…did you tell that to the police—”

  “Yeah.”

  “The next day?”

  “Yeah.”

  After a few more questions, Jackie was excused.

  II

  On the morning of January 12, Ned stood outside the courtroom in the inmate holding area. Several marshals surrounded him. He was dressed in a state-issued pumpkin-orange jumpsuit. His legs were shackled at the ankles. His hands chained to his waist. He was livid. The jury wasn’t going to be in the courtroom today. When the subject of those letters Ned had written to George Recck—and, more to the point of the hearing, the eleven-page sentencing letter Ned had written to the judge in New Jersey back in 1988—came up, O’Brien and Ned argued relevancy. Of course, allowing the letters into trial would alert the jury to Ned’s prior crimes and show intent. A pattern. They spoke of what Ned wanted to do upon his release. But that wasn’t what made Ned so mad. He wouldn’t show himself to the judge until he could change, he said. He didn’t want to present himself in court in prison attire. He thought it made him look guilty.

  When the judge asked where Ned was, O’Brien said, “Your Honor, apparently Mr. Snelgrove wants to change into the clothing that he’s been wearing.” Sport jacket, button-down shirt, necktie, slacks. The salesman’s uniform.

  “He doesn’t have to, there’s no jury here.”

  “I know that. But his position is that he would like to. So if the court would accommodate him.”

  The judge was fed up with Ned, his accusations, demands, and outbursts. This was just one more way for Ned to try and control the proceedings. “We’re going to start,” Espinosa said. “What is the difference?”

  “I guess there’s a feeling of because he’s in a prison uniform that the judge may be swayed by that. Some—I—there’s some element of, perhaps, truth to that.”

  “Well, this court won’t be swayed. I’ve seen hundreds of defendants in prison uniforms.” A few laughs rang out.

  “But that’s his position, Your Honor…”

  “Well, fine.”

  “…that’s all I’m doing is reporting it.”

  The judge paused. Leaned forward. Paused again. “OK. Denied.” Gavel.

  Bring him in.

  III

  Zagaja addressed the judge first, explaining his position regarding the letters and how important they were to proving Ned’s motive, saying at one point, “It’s the state’s opinion that there is no better substitute to indicate the defendant’s intent than the sentencing letter.” That eleven-page manifesto Ned had penned to the judge. “It describes what he wanted to do upon attacking and killing Karen Osmun,” Zagaja explained, “and what he wanted to do when he strangled and stabbed Mary Ellen Renard.
Often-times we are presented in a somewhat routine or normal situation where the state moves to present prior crimes to prove intent or motive…. Rather than having the need for an inference, the sentencing letter lays out, in plain terms, what the defendant’s intent was, what his motive was…. He describes, in detail, the engaging in the strangling process—how, by strangling, he had great difficulty in causing the death of both individuals, describing how it’s not an easy task to do with your bare hands.” For Zagaja, that letter proved Ned had learned his lesson in strangulation and went on to other sure means of killing.

  As Zagaja read excerpts of the letters into the record, those in the courtroom sat in utter silence—shock and awe, actually—as Ned’s pen described, in graphic detail, how he strangled Karen and attempted to kill Mary Ellen by strangulation, and because killing a woman with his bare hands wasn’t so easy, he was forced, instead, to stab both women.

  The judge wasn’t entirely convinced, however. “So you want to,” she asked Zagaja, “you want to, like, virtually, try those other two cases?”

  O’Brien and Ned brightened up.

  “I don’t want to try the cases. In fact, I believe they become somewhat nonissues because he admits to all the conduct in the sentencing letter. Let me, then, point out specifically what I wish to offer—Mary Ellen Renard coming in, really, just going through her deposition, describing how she met the defendant…going home, and describing the incident that took place with her being strangled by him, the actual strangulation, her passing out, being carried to a bed, finding, at that point, when she regained consciousness, that her top was removed and that she had been stabbed…. She’s not going to testify about the other components of the investigation. As far as Karen Osmun’s homicide, what I’m most interested in getting out before the jury is the similarly situated position of Ms. Osmun.”

  Ned sat in his state-issued jumper, while Zagaja, a man Ned loathed more than any other human being at the present moment, kept pushing his head farther and farther underwater—and Ned wasn’t able to do anything to stop him. There wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t realize what a brutal, evil, woman-hating man Ned was—a man without so much as an ounce of compassion for human life. No conscience whatsoever.

  Zagaja argued his case for including the letters, while the judge peppered him with questions. Zagaja explained: “I would ask the court to consider the sentencing letter and consider what the defendant wishes to do, what his pleasure is when he engages in this conduct—and nowhere does his conduct involve having sex or sexual intercourse with his victim. This is where, in the state’s opinion, the situation of Carmen Rodriguez falls in line with the two previous incidents. There were certain analyses done on the vaginal smears and swabs of Ms. Rodriguez, with no semen being found…. In the state’s opinion, they represent a progression of conduct and that’s really where the defendant’s letters to George Recck come into play, and they’re the utmost relevance, the packaging of the body, the disposal of the body at a remote location.”

  A collective gasp. For the first time, Ned’s previous crimes were aired in vivid practicality. If nothing else, Zagaja was able to get the stories out there for the public to hear.

  Zagaja cited case after case where a similar ruling had been made. While he was at it, Zagaja asked if he could get the actual Styrofoam heads in, too. Previous discussion and testimony had been based on photos of the heads. Showing those actual props to the jury would be dramatic. “…The state would point, specifically, to the neck areas where a grid formation is actually drawn with an X in the center of the neck, which, in my opinion, is right at the Adam’s apple, a perfect space for accomplishing a strangulation. And I think these were actually practice tools for the defendant or tools for his own arousal in the event that a woman was not sought at that time.”

  Ned turned red-faced. He pulled O’Brien close to him and whispered. Zagaja continued, “Also, Your Honor, although this has not been submitted yet, there was a disclaimer on one exhibit of various serial killers—”

  The judge seemed confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “Various serial killers being reported upon in the Hartford Courant,” Zagaja explained, “and the title of the whole story was ‘Why They Kill.’” It was research. A killer and his reading list. Zagaja wanted Ned’s reading choices made part of the trial, adding, “That was also found in the basement area near the defendant’s couch…. And there’s an additional article, ‘Changes Must Be Made to Control Sexual Offenders, Reduce Risk,’ found within that package of literature.”

  “May I see that? Is there a date on this?”

  Ned said something to O’Brien.

  “What about the movie that you—” the judge started to say.

  “Yes,” Zagaja said, unable to control his excitement, “…I would offer the movie The Deliberate Stranger, that of being a story about Ted Bundy. And the reason I’m offering it is because the specific movie is cited by the defendant as he speaks and criticizes or critiques himself and Mr. Bundy for his conduct and whatever, in his opinion, was done right and was done wrong…. And that’s how it impacted his comments relative to keeping receipts, as Mr. Bundy did, and that he would never do that….”

  O’Brien argued that none of it had anything to do with the content of Ned’s character. It was a smoke screen. A railroad. A clever way to try Ned for his previous crimes. “Your Honor, I would submit that introducing what Mr. Zagaja would like to offer that we could all go home, at that point, because there would be no need for additional evidence. What it is, in effect, is a substitute for a lack of evidence. The introduction of this extremely inflammatory material as to what happened in the ’80s in my client’s life no doubt would prejudice, severely prejudice, the jury, and they would think, well, of course he must have done this crime. If he did that in the ’80s he must have—he must have done this….”

  “Well,” said the judge, “if you say that, then doesn’t that mean that the probative value outweighs the prejudice?”

  Zagaja liked what he was hearing. “Well,” O’Brien said, “in the sense that it’s a substitute for lack of evidence. There isn’t any evidence other than the fact that Mr. Snelgrove was last seen with Carmen Rodriguez. If that is the case, then every person that Mr. Snelgrove was seen with, given that alone, if that person is murdered, then there’s no need to have any evidence in the case.”

  96

  I

  Ned and I wrote to each other for about eight months. In some of those letters, Ned goes into great detail while explaining how the state failed to produce the appropriate amount of evidence to convict him. To say that Ned is obsessive-compulsive does not truly describe him accurately. One day, he sent me a package. It contained trial transcripts, autopsy reports, police reports, and other documents associated with his case. In between each page of official documentation was a note from Ned to me explaining why certain pieces of evidence submitted during trial were inaccurate, fabricated, or irrelevant. Ned had separated each set of the documents with a vanilla card—with more exposition and instruction—look here, read this, you won’t believe this—on the cards. He was certain the Connecticut Department of Corrections was going to make sure, he wrote, you don’t get my story told. The key to this line is, “my story.”

  I had explained to Ned that I wanted to understand his side of the Rodriguez matter. Fair and balanced, I promised, stealing that overused phrase.

  He told me I had a blockbuster bestseller on my hands if I was to expose the dishonest prosecutor [David Zagaja], the flagrantly biased judge [Carmen Espinosa], and the many witness statements that [didn’t] make sense when held up to the light…. Everyone, he seemed to suggest, was lying, all brought together by an overzealous, power-hungry prosecutor who had gathered them all together to frame Ned and punish him for his previous crimes in New Jersey. He was certain of it.

  In his letters to me, Ned carries on and on about witness statements and lies and the cover-up afterward. He talks about how the state
had it in for him from the beginning of his trial, solely because of his prior crimes. He had gotten out of prison early, he seethed many times, and they were making him now pay for that early release. In a letter dated June 13, 2007, Ned talked about the medical examiner’s report from Rhode Island and how it failed to explain the many different ways in which Carmen could have been murdered. Ned was upset with the fact that his lawyer failed to ask the medical examiner important questions regarding how Carmen could have been murdered. According to his letter, Ned is somehow under the impression that medical examiners in the real world are like Cyril Wecht or Michael Baden and each case is a cable news program panel discussion. He believes that the medical examiner, in his or her report, should speculate and talk about the different ways a victim could have been killed—if, for example, the manner of death isn’t obvious (as in Carmen’s case). What’s important about this letter is the various ways in which Ned describes to me how Carmen could have been murdered. In and of themselves, some of Ned’s answers—beyond the norm—are chilling. I had to ask myself: Is he telling me how he murdered this woman? Is he telling me how he killed other females several investigators and profilers I have spoken to claimed he has?

  Ned’s list:

  Electrocution

  Drowning

  Forced starvation as a result of being held captive

  Forced dehydration as a result of being held captive

  Hard blow to the temple (no skull damage)

  Heart attack brought on by external traumatic event

  Hard blow to the chest

  Suffocation with pillow

  If I thought this was strange, his next letter was even more shocking.

  97

  I

  When Donald O’Brien returned to his oral argument in front of Judge Espinosa regarding allowing those letters and the Bundy movie, and the Styrofoam heads and the kitchen sink that Zagaja wanted to present to the jury, he said, rather somberly, “In terms of similarities between the crimes, Your Honor, Karen Osmun was the former girlfriend of Mr. Snelgrove. Ms. Renard he met that night at a bar. And Carmen Rodriguez he knew from Kenney’s, as he knew other women from Kenney’s.”