The Onion Field

by Joseph Wambaugh

  The escape from the courtroom was to be a last resort in that it seemed suicidal. Greg much preferred a scheme of having his brother secrete a gun in the law library. A gun could easily be hidden there, and he would only have to shoot one or two people to escape. But even if he was given the right to defend himself, the judge might not permit him to go to the law library.

  Still another inmate, one very close indeed to Gregory Powell, was to inform on him and assure jail officers that he would tell them of the slightest escape move of the accused murderer. Gregory Powell always suspected this inmate of informing. He never suspected any of the others, or even dreamed that half the inmates were anxious to use him to better their own lots. He would never have believed it. He had always wanted people to love him and believed they did.

  In July, in the middle of a hot smoggy summer, in a gray foreboding ancient chunk of concrete known as the Hall of Justice, the jury selection was ready to begin in Department 104 of the Los Angeles Superior Court.

  The courtroom was large and old, impossible to keep looking less than grim or even clean.

  The defendants wore suits and ties and now Jimmy Smith had his astigmatism corrected by horn-rimmed glasses.

  “For the information of the jurors,” said Judge Brandler to the panel, “in California we have what is called a bifurcated trial in homicide cases. The jury makes a determination in the first or main trial of the issue of innocence or guilt of a defendant. In the event that the jury, after hearing all of the evidence and the court’s instructions, returns a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree, then, and in that instance, the defendant has a second trial, at which time the jury makes a determination based upon the evidence as to what the penalty should be. So the matter of penalty as such is not for the consideration of the jury on the first and main issue as to innocence or guilt.”

  “I am challenging the panel,” said John Moore, “on the ground that all persons entering this courtroom are apparently being searched.”

  “The fact of the matter is,” said Marshall Schulman in rebuttal, “these two defendants have probably been treated better than any other prisoner in the jail. Mr. Moore has had access to the prison file, and he certainly knows that Powell could be a security risk, and Jimmy Smith too.”

  Schulman immediately and perhaps intentionally irritated Gregory Powell’s other public defender, Kathryn McDonald, who was attempting to obtain a severed trial for her client.

  “I would like to call attention to a very much earlier case which I don’t believe has been overruled, although it has been explained,” said Miss McDonald. “That is People versus Stewart, which I am sure Mr. Schulman is familiar with, which goes way back, to 1857.”

  “I’m not that old,” Schulman said dryly.

  “Nor am I, Mr. Schulman,” she replied.

  “I’m not familiar with it,” Schulman said.

  Then began several days of jury voir dire, begun by Judge Brandler:

  “Does the mere mention of the fact that the person alleged to have been the victim in this homicide is a police officer bring back to any of your minds or memories the fact that you may have read anything about it in the newspapers? If so, would those of you who recall reading anything at all about this case in the newspapers, or hearing it on radio or television, will you please raise your hands?”

  “That’s the one in San Bernardino?” asked juror number one.

  “It’s hard to say,” said juror number two.

  “You made some inquiry?” asked the judge. “Was this the one in San Bernardino?” asked juror number one.

  “No,” said the judge, “I don’t believe this was in San Bernardino.”

  “Then I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Mr. Hall, you had raised your hand.”

  “It’s kind of hard to say, but it seems to raise a thought in my mind that I did hear about it, but it’s vague, real vague, so I’m raising my hand.”

  “Mr. Johnston, may I ask, what is your business or occupation?” asked John Moore.

  “Truck driver.”

  “Do you recall having heard something of this case on the radio, news, or seeing it on television?”

  “I very seldom watch the news on television.”

  “You say you vaguely recall reading about the case?”

  “I glanced through the papers. That’s the way I read a paper, I just glance through it.”

  “I will challenge each juror in the box under Section 1073,” said Moore, “for actual bias. The existence of the state of mind on the part of the jury in reference to the case will prevent them from acting with entire impartiality and without prejudice for the substantial rights of either party.”

  “This court has no jurisdiction in the first instance,” said Ray Smith, Jimmy’s court-appointed lawyer. “I don’t think you have any authority here except to dismiss this action since the alleged crime occurred in Kern County. I don’t think any result from this jury is going to be worth the paper it’s written on.”

  “You have indicated to us that you read something in the newspapers concerning this matter, is that correct?” another juror was asked, when the motions were denied.

  “When it first came out, yes.”

  “Did you read it on more than one day?”

  “No.”

  “Do you recall whether you saw pictures in connection with it at that time?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You say you did not hear about it on radio?”

  “No.”

  “Nor on television?”

  “No.”

  Two days later Gregory Powell was trying a trick he had been advised of in the high power tank by inmate jailhouse lawyers.

  “The defendant informed me, your Honor,” said Moore, “that just before we came out of your chambers where we had been discussing some informal matters, the bailiff, the deputy sheriff standing in the courtroom, twisted his arm and tore from his hand a cigarette which he had, this all being done in the presence of the jury.”

  “I told him to extinguish the cigarette,” the bailiff said, “because court was going to convene, and he refused. And I said, ‘If you don’t put it out, I’ll have to take it from you,’ and he said, ‘If you’re going to take it from me, go ahead.’ I reached for the cigarette. I didn’t touch his hand at all. And the cigarette fell into the trash can and was extinguished.”

  “For the record, I will ask for a mistrial,” said Moore, “and I will challenge the panel of jurors in the courtroom on the basis of what they may have seen or did see. It may have the effect of prejudicing them against this defendant and prevent him from having a fair and impartial trial.”

  “I would like to join in that motion,” Ray Smith said.

  On July 11, before leaving his apartment for the homicide squad room where he was now waiting each day for the jury selection to end, Karl looked fearfully at Helen’s enormous stomach.

  “I wish I could stay home with you. I wish they’d give me a few days off.”

  “I’ll be all right, Karl. You just stay close to a phone.”

  “No pains?”

  “I’m okay,” Helen smiled, and she indeed looked fine that morning. She’d gotten up early and her light brown hair was combed. She was wearing lipstick.

  “I should be worrying about you instead of this trial.”

  “Don’t worry about anything, Karl. I’ll be all right. If I need you I’ll phone.”

  “If anything should happen … I mean before …”

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll call the doctor. Or an ambulance. Or a cop.”

  And so he left for the police building, somewhat reassured. He rode his motorcycle to better get through the traffic.

  Later that day something did happen. Pain. Sudden, devastating, unbelievable. And Helen Hettinger called the police department and left a message. Then she found herself struck down, half on the floor and half on the bed. Her hazel eyes were round with fear. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,
not like this!

  Helen fought for the bed and pulled herself over on her back. Another call was impossible. This was as far as she would get. The thrashing, pitiless thing within her was demanding to be free.

  The young woman breathed deeply and bit her knuckles and concentrated on not screaming in panic, on saving the life of the thing she was sure would kill her.

  Helen tried to prepare, and she raised up and looked down but the tears and sweat were blinding. She was wiping her eyes when the real pain struck.

  Karl and Pierce Brooks were having coffee in the police cafeteria that morning. Karl was sitting silently as usual. Brooks was worrying that he looked thinner and more tense with each passing week.

  “Have some more coffee, Karl.”

  “No thanks.”

  “How about a doughnut?”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Gets to be a drag sitting around waiting to be called over to court.”

  “Yes it does.”

  “Guess you’ll be glad to get back to regular duty.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Pretty good break about you driving for the chief. You’ll make sergeant first time you’re eligible.”

  Karl smiled and glanced around the cafeteria and through the windows out into the burning smog filled sky. Yes, quite a break, he thought. But why did I get it?

  “Telephone for Officer Hettinger,” said the cashier’s voice over the microphone, and Karl left Brooks, only to return a moment later, his face gone white.

  “My wife. Helen …”

  “The baby?” said Brooks.

  But Karl was gone, running to the elevator, in a few moments speeding down the freeway, talking aloud to himself: “I can’t … Oh, my God, I can’t even be there when my wife … what good am … Oh, my God.”

  Twenty minutes later he was stumbling over the steps, bursting through the door and falling breathlessly into the bedroom.

  And there was Helen. She was smiling at him, beads of perspiration on her forehead and lip. She was pale but she was smiling so that he wouldn’t panic. The bed was soaked. They were covered only by a sheet, the two of them. Helen and the red naked baby she herself had delivered, which lay on Helen’s stomach still joined to her mother by the uncut lifeline she no longer needed.

  “Say hello to your daughter,” said Helen. “Her name is Laura.”

  “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” said Karl.

  On the fifteenth day of July the jury was picked.

  The jury panel members were certainly not atypical, thought Pierce Brooks. It was a fair representation of one’s peers perhaps, if one could possibly have lived in the Los Angeles area without reading a newspaper, or seeing television, or listening to a radio. If one had nothing better to do than endure a trial which would certainly last two months at least, enjoyed being sequestered, had little or nothing at home to be sequestered from. If one was not a professional man, nor high-salaried, nor prominent, it was quite possible to get a jury of one’s peers.

  Yes, thought Brooks, it was an ordinary jury and as such would be capricious, unpredictable, naïve, totally ignorant of law and justice and violence and violent men, crime and the criminal. The responses to what the jurors would hear in this case would be conditioned not by life, not even by books or newspapers—I just glance through them—but by movies. And that, thought the detective, was the most insidious enemy of justice itself as far as a jury is concerned. It has to be true! I can believe it! Because I saw in this movie one time …

  Karl Hettinger was to wait another week before he was to testify. There were other witnesses, many of them: pawnbrokers who sold the killers the guns, liquor store and market clerks who faced those cocked and loaded guns.

  Despite the air conditioning, the big courtroom was hot. The paint was peeling near the ceiling, and people had carved their names into the wooden seats. Karl sat and absently read the names and hardly heard the beginning of the bickering.

  “Even Gregory Powell can buy a gun in Nevada?” said Schulman concluding the direct examination of a pawnbroker.

  “I object, as argumentative, sarcastic, and facetious,” said Ray Smith.

  “We request that the district attorney be cited for misconduct and we move for a mistrial at this time,” said Moore.

  “I withdraw the question,” said Schulman.

  Karl heard many motions that week:

  “I will ask for a continuance until tomorrow morning,” said Moore. “Mr. Powell has apparently received some information which has affected his mental state at this time.”

  “This man is on trial for killing a policeman,” said Schulman, “and I think we should proceed unless there is some strong justification for the continuance beyond a ‘Dear John’ letter or something of the kind.”

  “We are getting sick and tired of Mr. Schulman coming over to our side of the floor and pointing out the defendant all the time,” said Moore. “We are sick and tired of Mr. Schulman holding papers in his hand and approaching witnesses with papers.”

  “Mr. Moore goes on into a long dissertation about what he is sick and tired of which bothers me not at all. I don’t care one way or the other what he is sick and tired of,” said Schulman, hitching up his pants in what the defense maintained was a belligerent gesture.

  And still more motions as Gregory Powell proceeded with his escape plans.

  “In what way are you being prejudiced by the fact that you cannot just interview witnesses in the county jail without the presence of your attorney?” asked Judge Brandler suspiciously.

  Finally, in late July, Karl Hettinger was called to the stand. The jurors and indeed the entire courtroom were absolutely quiet when he described the killing, and the escape, and the hunt, interrupted only by specific questions by Marshall Schulman. Toward the end Schulman let the witness narrate, and only the husky voice of the witness and the whir of the air conditioner and a persistent buzzing fly interrupted the breathless silence. The witness faltered often, and every juror, every spectator, and especially every man at the counsel table leaned forward, not to miss a word. The direct testimony was making two jurors begin to weep which in turn was making the prosecutor fear a mistrial.

  “When I got back to the shooting scene I saw that … I saw that Ian was lying in a ditch face down. I didn’t go over to him. The sheriff and the ambulance drivers went over to him. And I saw … I saw what appeared to be drag marks on the ground … quite a bit of blood leading … this appeared to be leading from a spot where I had last seen him … had last seen Ian fall on the ground, over toward the ditch. The ambulance drivers put Ian in the ambulance, and I got in the ambulance also, and we drove into Bakersfield, and I entered the hospital there … I don’t know where Ian went.”

  “Your Honor, I am going to go into another long phase. I wonder if this might be a convenient time for a recess,” said Marshall Schulman. “The witness seems distraught.”

  Karl Hettinger’s testimony was also disturbing to defendant Jimmy Smith, terrified him in fact, and while the jury was still in recess he leaped to his feet to address the court.

  “Look, your Honor, I have stood up several times in this courtroom. I don’t know how to talk to explain myself properly. I mean, I’m not an idiot, or whatever my attorney claims I am. I’ve been tryin to ask this man to … I don’t want him for my attorney anymore. He comes back from the bench here now and tells me that the district attorney is gonna prove … that he has got some kind of a theory, or ballistics, or somethin, that I fired shots into the man’s body. And I asked him again, ‘Do you believe what I am tellin you? Do you believe that I did commit the crime or not?’ He don’t answer me. In other words, he don’t believe me. I might as well defend myself as to have him sit here for me, and it don’t do any good and I’m goin to the gas chamber anyway. I might as well do it myself as to have him do it.

  “He told me, ‘I don’t know, Jimmy, how’re we gonna prove it? It looks bad. There’s nothin I can do.’ And this. And
that. What can I do with a man like this defendin me for my life?”

  “If I understand,” said Judge Brandler, “this is a motion again to have Mr. Ray Smith relieved as your attorney of record, is that right?”

  “Motion? What good does it do me? What good does it do me to ask? I’m already in Death Row now. So just forget about it. Go ahead and take me up, because that’s what all of you are gonna do. I understand perfectly what I’m sayin, your Honor. It’s just too obvious … I don’t know what this is. I don’t understand it.…” Jimmy sat and his lip quivered as he held a sob in his throat. His forehead wrinkled and he resumed his hangdog pose.

  “That very statement of yours that you don’t understand it, that you don’t know what this is, is one of the reasons why the court …”

  “It’s a conspiracy!” shouted Jimmy suddenly.

  “The court heretofore and again now refuses to grant your motion that you represent yourself in view of the serious nature of the offenses.”

  “I don’t want him to ever say anything to me as long as I am in this courtroom anymore. I don’t want him to have anythin to say to me. No time,” said Jimmy Smith, and folded his arms and turned away from his elderly attorney, who shook his white head and shrugged helplessly.

  During the cross examination of Karl Hettinger, Attorney Ray Smith asked a rather innocuous series of questions which would be pondered by the witness that night.

  “When this case is over and you go back to the Hollywood Station, what are your duties?”

  “Upon the completion of this trial, sir, I am going to be permanently assigned downtown to the police building.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I will be driving for the chief.”

  “You will be what?”

  “Driving for the chief.”

  “You mean Bill Parker?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You will not be out in the field any longer?”

  “No sir.”

  Late that night, when as usual he sat before his television drinking beer long after Helen was asleep, Karl glanced in at the baby. She was not red now, but creamy, and stunningly beautiful, he thought. He touched her cheek and then crept back toward the living room to resume his vigil before the lighted screen and the droning voices which lulled him. He seldom knew what the movies were about.