The Onion Field

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “I never received one. I only had a visitation from the head of the school as to why you wanted taken off the honor roll as a patrol boy.”

  “Just a minute, I’m sorry,” said Schulman, “but I have to object to that hearsay testimony.”

  “This isn’t hearsay,” said Ethel Powell. “This was said to me direct. I’m repeating what I heard.”

  “Mrs. Powell,” said the judge, “may I suggest that Mr. Schulman’s objection is directed to the court.”

  “Was I engaged in a lot of sports and so forth?” asked Greg.

  “Yes. Oh gosh, you got a lot of ribbons too. Blue ribbons. Yes, we had a wonderful track meet in which you did very well.”

  “Did you go to the track meet?”

  “I sure did. My husband and my father and mother did too. Gee, I know your father was happy. You took part in two things. You could’ve had top honors in both of them if you’d taken his advice. Which you didn’t do. One was a throwing thing.”

  “Softball. I took second.”

  “I thought you got a blue ribbon.”

  “I did in the relay.”

  Schulman was now holding his head, tapping his tablet with a pencil.

  Then Ethel Powell began a narrative of Greg’s unhappiness when his grandfather died, and of falling into bad company and running away with Archie. And of her trip to Florida to bring him home, and of a later trip to Colorado when he was arrested there. And of her many pilgrimages to visit him.

  “I went first to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and later to Englewood, Colorado, to a reformatory. Another time to Washington, D.C., to another kind of reformatory.”

  “Did you come back to visit me a second time there?”

  “Yes, for three weeks. I also saw you in Kansas, in Leavenworth. I had just gotten out of the hospital. I had an emergency appendicitis. You told me you had attempted suicide more than once.”

  “Just a minute, I am going to object …”

  “Was I in bed receiving blood transfusions?”

  “Yes you were.”

  “After that did you visit me in Atlanta, Georgia?”

  “I was refused permission. Then I received a letter from you at the medical center in Springfield, Missouri.”

  “Later when I moved to Los Angeles, Mrs. Powell, did you see very much of me?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “You were in the company of a colored man named Pinky. We thought it was like a homosexual.”

  “After I came out of Vacaville in May 1962, did you come to know Maxine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Powell, you told me that you were president of a Toastmistress Club?”

  “Yes I was.”

  Schulman started to his feet, thought better of it, and sat back down.

  “Mrs. Powell, what is your health at present?”

  “I am under the care of a doctor for a heart condition. I just received permission to go back to college this fall. I’ve been out of college for a year.”

  Greg smiled then and looked at her. He was proud of his mother. “Thank you. That is all,” he said.

  “I have no questions,” said Schulman.

  “You may step down,” said the judge.

  Next, Greg called an administrator of the California Adult Authority to show that, if not sentenced to death, he would be safely locked in prison the rest of his life. The witness was however cross-examined intensively by Marshall Schulman, who once again had done his homework.

  “Is it fair to state,” said Schulman, “that sixty-three percent of those individuals sentenced to prison for life on first-degree murder were released after serving somewhere between seven to nine years?”

  “Your Honor, I would object,” said Greg.

  “Do you have any table of individuals who have murdered a police officer and been committed on a death sentence?” asked Schulman.

  “No sir, we do not. We don’t have enough such cases to compile a table. We had one such case recently that we investigated.”

  “What were the results on that investigation?”

  “He was granted a further commutation to life with possibility of parole. He has subsequently been paroled.”

  Marshall Schulman smiled slightly. He had no further questions of consequence.

  Then a parade of family witnesses took the stand, a service-station owner in Oceanside for whom Greg once worked, his off-again on-again brother-in-law who at that time was between marriages to Greg’s sister, finally Robert Powell, his father.

  “Mr. Powell what is your occupation?” asked Greg.

  “I’m a schoolteacher,” said the tired-looking man with the long muscular neck and the handsome friendly face.

  “How long have you been a schoolteacher?”

  “About seventeen years.”

  “How long did it take you to get your degree, sir?”

  “About fifteen and a half years.”

  Then Robert Powell told of playing music in onenight stands during the Depression, and of his wife’s poor health.

  “Mr. Powell, during the time you knew me as a child did you spend a lot of time with me?”

  Robert Powell replied, “I … I spent available time with you … that is, what I’m trying to say is … it was limited. My time.”

  “Would you say I was a sensitive child?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Neurotic, to put it mildly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Powell, starting with my arrival home from Vacaville last year, did I seem changed from the child you knew in those early years?”

  The tired grieving man smiled a little and said, “Oh yes. You used to feel real cut down because you couldn’t play music as well as your dad. But when you came back from Vacaville, why, your brother Doug and you and I had little jam sessions at the house. We sang trios. We worked out some real fine material and there was nothing but harmony in both senses of the word, when you first came home.” And Robert Powell dropped his eyes and swallowed.

  “Dad, I hate to ask these questions, but I’ve got to. You have four children. Two boys, two girls, and I’m the oldest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Starting with Sharon, has she been divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Going to Lei Lani. Has she been divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has your youngest son, Douglas, been in trouble? Was he discharged from the army because of trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why have four children all had trouble adjusting to society? Do you know the answer, Mr. Powell?”

  “No,” said Robert Powell, and the muscles of the long neck rolled as he gulped again.

  “Mr. Powell, do you personally think I can write well?”

  “Yes I do,” said the father. “The idea content is excellent.”

  “Mr. Powell, I asked your wife and I will ask you also, why do you want me to live?”

  “All right now, I am going to have to object to that as immaterial,” said Schulman, shaking his head. “It appears difficult enough on this witness …”

  “Mr. Powell, do you believe two wrongs make a right?” asked Greg quickly.

  “Objected to …”

  “No,” answered Robert Powell.

  “That is all, your Honor,” said Greg.

  When the lawyer of Jimmy Smith called Jimmy’s Nana as a witness to his nonviolent personality, Marshall Schulman set out to prove that Jimmy Smith did have a violent moment in his life, as a teenager, when he pulled a knife on a truant officer. Jimmy’s Nana took the stand.

  “Mrs. Edwards, do you remember that on March 7th, 1947, Jimmy was picked up for truant at a theater at 539 South Broadway?”

  “I don’t know anything about dates, Mr. Schulman,” said the crippled old woman. “I don’t remember very well. I don’t know nothin about dates.”

  During the old woman’s testimony, there was a disturbance at counsel table. Jimmy Smith was babbling incoherently t
o no one in particular. “It ain’t right. My Nana never had nothin! My Nana never so much as said a swear word, or took a drink, or went to a dance in her whole life!”

  “Did you hear that Jimmy pulled a knife?” Schulman asked.

  “Only when the truant officer kicked him and pulled a gun on him,” the old woman said softly. “And the gentleman I worked for in Beverly Hills said this boy had just as much right to pull a knife as the truant officer had to pull a gun, because they are not supposed to have guns, he said. That’s what he told me, Mr. Schulman.”

  “Thank you. That’s all,” said Schulman.

  Now the tears were spilling from Jimmy Smith’s eyes. “You leave her alone! You leave my Nana alone!” he sobbed.

  Jimmy Smith could never discuss his great-aunt or think of her as other than my Nana. It was always my Nana, the only thing which was ever truly his.

  “Mr. Smith, you will have to speak in a quiet tone of voice,” said the judge.

  “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” Jimmy shouted.

  “The jury is admonished to disregard any statements of Mr. Smith,” said the judge. “He is represented by counsel, who will speak for him.”

  “Nothing further,” said Ray Smith.

  “Defendant Smith rests?”

  “Yes, your Honor,” said Ray Smith.

  Before the final arguments to the jury there was one last witness to testify for the defense—Gregory Powell.

  While Greg walked to the stand, Pierce Brooks looked around the room at some of the familiar faces, two of which he had come to pity: a crippled black woman and a sad-eyed music teacher from Oceanside. “Jimmy Smith’s aunt was a poor old confused lady,” Brooks said later. “I don’t know what she ever did to deserve that miserable coward she raised. And I felt sorry for Gregory Powell’s father. He was a nice guy. His only problem was he’d never booted his wife in the butt, years before, when he should have.”

  Greg’s testimony was emotional from the start:

  “Well, number one, I guess it’s pretty obvious I’m a sentimental slob. When I go to the movies I cry when there’s a touching scene. I’ve been asked many times whether I feel remorse about this. Yes, I feel remorse for Ian Campbell’s death. I feel more remorse however for his wife and kids. I’ll go to prison, if this is the sentence, and I’ll stay there and work and try to make up for Ian Campbell’s death.

  “I still don’t feel that I should be on the streets. I honestly can’t say and don’t know whether I can cope with the stresses and strains that are out there. I feel in my heart that even though I know I am guilty of a terrible thing, that I should be allowed to live, because I feel that there is good that I can do.

  “There’ve been many men in prison who have done good, that have made contributions to society. Whether I am capable of doing it or not, I don’t know yet. All I can say is that I will be trying.” And then Greg began to weep.

  “Are you composed? Compose yourself,” said Schulman, whose turn it was to cross examine.

  Greg nodded, wiping his nose and eyes with a handkerchief.

  Pierce Brooks burned to read a document he had in his hands, a document which had been given to a sheriff’s deputy in the jail by an inmate named Segal who had been an aspiring writer and actor prior to his arrest for selling marijuana. The document was a one-act drama authored by inmate Segal in collaboration with Gregory Powell, and Brooks had been holding it for five months.

  Inmate Segal thus became the first person to write Greg’s version of the kidnapping. It was not the version told in court by Karl Hettinger, nor by Jimmy Smith—nor by Gregory Powell for that matter. It was what Pierce Brooks would call a punk’s fantasy, which to Brooks revealed the real Gregory Powell.

  Fate intervened though, for Segal escaped after his transfer to Chino Prison, and Pierce Brooks was unable to get the drama introduced during the trial without Segal’s testimony. But Brooks kept it and referred to it often, especially the portions in Greg’s own handwriting wherein he would try to correct Segal’s atrocious grammar and spelling, and insert the word “cop” in place of Segal’s “officer” to make the tale yet tougher.

  Brooks isolated certain passages as his favorites, hoping that somehow there could be a theory of law discovered wherein it could be introduced:

  POWELL: “Take the punk’s gun, Jimmy.” Hettinger hesitated, his hand on his gun.

  POWELL: Laughed. “Go ahead, punk,” he said.

  CAMPBELL: “For God’s sake, he’s got us cold.”

  POWELL: “You know what, man—you should have been a dead man back there acting so funny.” Hett started sniveling.

  POWELL: “Before we drop these punks off, do you think we ought to take care of business—How much bread do you 2 have?”

  CAMPBELL: “I have about ten.”

  HETTINGER: “I have about the same.”

  POWELL: “Boy, you guys are hurtin, we’ve got five times that amount in pocket change.” To S. “We’ll knock over a super Market before we leave the valley.” “I’ll make a deal w/the 2 of you. We’ll pull off onto one of these dark canyons—I’ll put a couple of slugs in both of your guns. Then stick it in your holsters. I’ll shoot it out with you one at at time. If one of you gets me Jimmy will throw your guns in the bushes & split. I need some action and it shore would be a quick way to solve this mess. I don’t think the punks have enough nerve to try it. What about it?”

  CAMPBELL: “No thanks, man—I don’t want any part of it. Just turn me loose and I’ll be happy. They don’t pay me enough to try to be a hero.”

  POWELL: “What about you, Buddy—you were making noise like a hero back there when we picked you up. Are you game?”

  HETTINGER: “No, if I shot you you might still manage to shoot me.”

  POWELL: “In other words you’re chickenshit—”

  HETTINGER: “Yeah, I guess I am at that, I never thought I’d get in a position like this—”

  POWELL: Laughing. “Well it sure would have saved us a lot of trouble. If either one of you would have gone for it you would have been dead anyway. It may sound like bragging but you punks don’t know what an expert shot is—cause if there’s any rating above expert I’m about 20 grades above it.”

  Brooks read on and on, a dreary little drama riddled with “punks” and “Powell laughing” until the moment of arrival in the onion field.

  POWELL: “OK H—climb on out.” He did—P climbed out on the passenger side. As I walked across to the back of the car I could hear Smith speaking.

  SMITH: “Are you kidding—Have you ever heard of the Little Lindbergh Law—”

  CAMPBELL: “Yes.”

  POWELL: I raised my gun to cover C as he looked at me—coming around the back of the car & shot him— screamed.

  SMITH: “He isn’t dead,” & he started firing instead into C as he lay on the ground. I ran across behind S & the only thing I could think of was (I’ve got to get that other cop) (It was like a scream in my mind) I was alone w/1 dead cop laying dead in the road and another hiding close by who I had no way of flushing from cover—I walked back to the other cop laying on the ground—

  And now Pierce Brooks looked at Gregory Powell, crying on the stand for the children of Ian Campbell, and Brooks read the last line of the drama where Segal and Greg described his capture:

  I was sick for I knew I would never see Max again. Cause I never dreamed that the cops would get me to the station alive—Had I been granted 2 wishes at that moment I think they would have been 1—to have been face to face w/J with a gun in my hand 2—or more important to know what I knew now & just be meeting my wife for the first time—But wishes were useless for I knew I had been born to loose—

  Scum, thought Pierce Brooks, watching Greg wiping his nose, his shoulders shaking, as Marshall Schulman stood by the counsel table staring at the young man. It was not the killing which now angered and embarrassed the detective. It was the killer’s unwillingness to pay for it with his life, and most of all the unmanly sniveli
ng from him who had edited and coauthored the one-act drama. Scum, thought the detective. Scum. Scum.

  “Who are you crying for, Mr. Powell? Yourself?” asked Schulman finally.

  “No sir.”

  “When did you decide to start crying for Ian Campbell and his wife and children?”

  “Mr. Schulman …”

  “After you were found guilty?”

  “I think the first regret … that I felt was the night I looked down at the ground and realized the terrible thing that had happened, and I attempted to commit suicide.”

  “Is that why you asked Chief Fote for a break? You didn’t do anything, Jimmy Smith did everything. Is that when you felt so bad?”

  “Mr. Schulman, at that time I was thinking of the living.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Max and the unborn baby.”

  “Why weren’t you crying when Chief Fote talked to you?”

  “I was.”

  “He’s not here,” said Schulman sardonically, glancing at the counsel table. “Mr. Brooks is here. Why weren’t you crying when you talked to Mr. Brooks in all those conversations?”

  “I wanted to die then.”

  “You weren’t crying then, were you?”

  “No, because I was attempting to die.”

  “When did you first feel sorry for Ian Campbell and his family?”

  “Well that is a compound question so I will have to answer it in two parts,” said Gregory Powell.

  Pierce Brooks dropped his eyes, and smiled and thought, I knew you wouldn’t let me down Greg, my boy. You never fail me.

  “The outside world was so tough to you,” said Schulman, “that after Officer Campbell was shot by you, you tried to kill Officer Hettinger because you didn’t want to go back to the institution?”

  “Your Honor, I would object to this,” said Greg.

  “Why, does the truth hurt?”

  “Just a moment,” said the judge.

  “I will ask you also,” said Greg, “to cite the district attorney for misconduct, and I would ask for a mistrial at this time!”

  “Did you feel remorse when you were emptying your gun at Officer Hettinger as he was running away?” Schulman continued.

  “I would object to that as being outside the lines of cross examination,” said Greg.