Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17)

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

30

  AFTER OPENING STATEMENTS, THE PLAINTIFFS’ CASE HAD taken only the remainder of the day for Louis to present, which demonstrated to Karp that his strategy had worked. It was obvious that Louis had expected to settle and was unprepared for the trial.

  Largely his efforts consisted of calling his clients to the stand to talk about their disadvantaged childhoods and how they had been intimidated and threatened into confessing to the rape and attempted murder of Liz Tyler.

  Cross-examining each of the first three plaintiffs—Davis, Jones, and Wilson—Karp was satisfied merely to establish that none of them had been questioned without the presence of an adult family member. “And at what point were you intimidated or threatened or coerced?” he asked. None seemed to have a better answer than “the cops scared me.”

  Otherwise, they sullenly denied making comments in front of the police or to other witnesses that indicated their guilt. He let it be for the time being; he’d return during the defense part of the trial with his witnesses and the videotapes of the confessions.

  When Louis called Sykes to the stand, the young man nearly bounced out of his seat as though eager to tell his story. Sitting back down in the witness box, he smiled broadly at the jurors. However, he allowed his demeanor to crumble almost to tears as he described, at Louis’s request, the years he’d spent in prison. “They…they do horrible things to you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it.”

  Louis then asked about the night twelve years earlier on the Coney Island boardwalk. “Mr. Karp in his opening statement described your behavior as ‘wilding.’ Would that be accurate?”

  “No. I’m afraid the police came up with that term, which would be an exaggeration,” he said. “It was mostly just pushing and shoving people—admittedly not very nice—but we were just a bunch of poor kids and were trying to get people to give us a little change so we could eat a hot dog. But the Korean man grabbed my arm…he had his hand in his coat pocket and I thought maybe he had a gun. I was scared and hit him just to get him to let me go.” Sykes paused and shook his head sadly. “I guess I hit him harder than I intended.”

  “And you were convicted of that crime,” Louis said, “am I correct?”

  “Yes,” Sykes replied dutifully. “I did the crime.”

  “And did you do the time?”

  “Yes. I was sentenced to six years to serve concurrently with my other sentence. With good time, I could have been out in four years.”

  “Good time?” Louis asked. “Can you tell the jury about that?”

  “Yes,” Sykes answered. “I stayed out of trouble and did my time. I was reborn again as a Christian and tried to spread the good word among my brothers in prison.”

  Louis moved on to Sykes’s confession to the police. “I was scared,” he said. “I was just a big kid and they kept threatening me. They said I could get the electric chair. They talked about how hard it would be on my momma if I was to be executed.”

  “So what did you tell them?”

  “Actually, I told them what they told me to say for the camera.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sykes. Your witness, Mr. Karp.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sykes,” Karp began.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Karp,” Sykes replied and gave the jury a small, frightened smile.

  “I understand that you struck Mr. Kim with a piece of steel rebar, is that correct?”

  Sykes shrugged. “I believe you are right. I don’t really remember…. I’ve tried to block that out. I’ve felt so terrible about it.”

  Karp walked over to his table and picked up a plastic bag marked with an old evidence tag. Inside was a fourteen-inch piece of rebar. “Did it look like this?”

  “Could be,” Sykes said. “It was just something I picked up from a construction site.”

  “Any explanation why it would be found under the pier at Coney Island?”

  “Not at all,” Sykes responded, looking bewildered. “I dropped it after I hit Mr. Kim. I suppose Mr…. um…Villalobos could have picked it up…. Or maybe the police just said they found it under the pier.”

  “Let’s move on,” Karp said. “You just told the jury that you felt threatened by the police officers and detectives after your arrest. Did anybody do anything to you physically?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did anybody hit you or push you or touch you in any violent way?”

  “No.”

  “So the threat was a verbal one.”

  “Yes, they sort of hovered over me like they might hit me and said those things to me.”

  “Do you recall saying to a female police officer, ‘I want to lick your pussy’?”

  Sykes hung his head as if in shame. He’d been told not to deny this one because it had been taped by the jail’s surveillance camera. “I…I may have. I was scared—there were a lot of bad men around me in the jail—and I wanted them to think I was tough so that they wouldn’t bother me later.”

  “I see, and was that the same reason your prison indicates that you were placed in solitary confinement no less than six times for assaulting other people, including a guard?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You have to understand that in prison, if the other inmates think you won’t fight back, they’ll do…horrible things to you. Fortunately, I found Jesus and reading the Bible taught me to turn the other cheek.”

  “Mr. Sykes, did you know Mr. Enrique Villalobos before he confessed to assaulting Ms. Tyler?”

  “No.”

  “Really? All that time spent in the same prison and you never met him?”

  “It’s a big place. You sort of hang out with your own kind.”

  “And what might your own kind be, Mr. Sykes?” Karp asked.

  Before Sykes could answer, Louis objected. “Your honor, may we approach the bench?”

  Klinger nodded. “Please, Mr. Louis.”

  In front of the judge but out of earshot of the jury, Louis angrily whispered, “Your honor, Mr. Karp knows full well that we…I mean you…already ruled that any reference to my clients’ alleged gang ties would be unfairly prejudicial and is off-limits.”

  Karp snorted. “Alleged? Does the truth ever matter to you, Mr. Louis? Your client is the one who just made the statement that he hung out with his own kind, which I take to mean murdering, raping scumbag pieces of human crap.”

  “Your honor!” Louis complained.

  Klinger pointed a finger at Karp. “You’ve been told to steer away from this subject, Mr. Karp. I won’t warn you again.”

  When they returned to their places, Karp resumed his questioning. “So, your answer is that you never met Mr. Villalobos?”

  Sykes nodded. “That’s right.”

  “What about Igor Kaminsky?”

  Sykes looked like he was concentrating for a moment then shook his head. “I’m sorry but I don’t recall the name.”

  Karp studied Sykes for a moment, just long enough for the young man to start to fidget in his seat. “No more questions.”

  Louis then called a psychologist to the stand. William Randolph Florence, a portly, balding man, entered the courtroom and was sworn in. He testified that “even if the police detectives didn’t physically or verbally assault the plaintiffs, they were psychologically intimidated into giving the detectives what they wanted…confessions.”

  Florence noted that he’d conducted a study in which he’d interviewed 110 incarcerated African-American males who told him that “the mere presence of someone in uniform or in a position of authority was enough to prompt this psychological intimidation response. I call it the Florence Psychological Response Syndrome, or FPRS…Fippers, ha ha.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Karp asked on cross-examination. “You talked to a number of men who had been arrested and incarcerated by other men who were wearing uniforms and/or were in a position of authority?”

  “Yes. One hundred and ten to be exact.”

  “So essentially, convicted felons told you that
cops and prosecutors make them nervous? Seems to make perfect sense to me.” The jurors and the audience laughed.

  “Objection,” Louis said. “He’s mischaracterizing what the witness said.”

  “Sustained.”

  “No further questions for this witness, your honor.”

  Louis had, of course, saved his “big gun” for last. Enrique Villalobos slunk into the courtroom wearing an orange jail jumpsuit. He took the stand and leered at the women in the jury through his red-rimmed and yellow-jaundiced eyes, his lips pulled back from his brown-stained rodent teeth in what was intended to be a smile but looked like a grimace.

  Under Louis’s questioning, Villalobos recounted how he was standing beneath the pier that morning when he saw a young woman jogging toward him. “I hid in the shadows until she was close, then I jumped out and hit her. She was out of it pretty good and just lied there sort of moaning,” he said, licking his thin purple lips, which sent a shudder of revulsion through every woman in the courtroom. “But I jumped on her and punched her in the face and stuff like that.”

  “What did you do then, Mr. Villalobos?”

  “I decided that I was going to fuck her,” he said, smirking. “I took off her shorts and then I did her dirty.”

  “What do you mean ‘did her dirty,’ Mr. Villalobos?” Louis asked.

  “I fucked her in the ass,” he replied, winking at one of the female jurors who quickly looked down at her notepad.

  “And when you were finished raping Mrs. Tyler?”

  “I hit her again a couple times to kill her so she couldn’t identify me.”

  “Then why after all this time have you come forward now, Mr. Villalobos?”

  Villalobos did his best to assume a look of shame but it came off more as constipation. “Well, it was like this,” he said. “I have lived a life of sin. I raped women and even some children. But one night in prison, I had a dream that my soul was in danger and that innocent men were in prison because of my sin. The only way I could be saved was to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior and to confess.

  “So I talked it over with the prison chaplain and he encouraged me to talk to the prison superintendent and he told me to write to the Brooklyn District Attorney. And, well, you know the story from there.”

  “Were you offered any deals for this? Did you get something for this information?”

  “Only a clear conscience,” he said. “I’m what they call a lifer. The only way I come out of prison will be in a pine box.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Villalobos,” Louis said, mopping his face. He turned to Karp. “Your witness.”

  Villalobos waited like a man facing a firing squad as Karp approached and said, “Mr. Villalobos, you testified that you hit Ms. Tyler repeatedly…hard enough to crack her skull in three places. Can you tell the jury what you used to hit her?”

  Villalobos looked at Karp suspiciously. He’d been warned to be careful when answering, but this wasn’t one of the questions he’d gone over with Louis. He looked over at the fat lawyer for guidance, but Karp stepped into his line of sight.

  “Yes,” Villalobos said and tried to smile. “It was a piece of driftwood I found under the pier.”

  “I see,” Karp said. “And did you bite Ms. Tyler on the breast before or after you hit her with this piece of driftwood?”

  “After,” Enrique said, then looked at the women in the jury, “after I fucked her.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Villalobos,” Karp said. “I have no further questions at this time for this witness—”

  The remainder of his statement was interrupted by a murmur of astonishment from the audience. Even Louis looked surprised. But Sykes turned his back toward the jury and smirked, first at his colleagues who struggled to keep their faces noncommittal, and then at Liz Tyler. When he caught her eye, he smiled and made a kissing motion with his mouth.

  “—however, I ask the court to hold Mr. Villalobos over so that I can recall him during the defense portion of the trial,” Karp said.

  Villalobos stopped smiling and looked over at Louis, who looked worried but offered no guidance as he rose to his feet. “Your honor, that is the plaintiffs’ case.”

  31

  Tuesday, January 25

  THE NEXT MORNING, KARP WAS SURPRISED TO SEE LIZ TYLER standing outside the courtroom without her police escort.

  “I told them it wasn’t necessary,” she said when he asked. “I said it was fine if they just got me past the crowds at the screening area. They have better things to do than shepherd me around like I was in kindergarten. I don’t know, maybe I’m starting to feel stronger.”

  “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do when this is over?”

  Tyler looked surprised, as if the question had never occurred to her. “I don’t really think that far ahead, Mr. Karp. I know I must seem so weak to you. I know other women have survived what I went through and gone on with their lives, whatever that means. But if my life ended tomorrow, I wouldn’t be sad. I’m tired of being afraid all of the time, Mr. Karp.”

  “Butch,” he said.

  Tyler smiled. “Butch…. I think that’s why I couldn’t deal with resuming my life with my husband and child. I was afraid—not of what might happen to me, but that something might happen to them and I’d be powerless to do anything about it. Just like I was powerless that morning when Jayshon Sykes and the others raped me.”

  “You remember?” Karp asked.

  Tyler hesitated. “I won’t take the stand, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I couldn’t…and it probably wouldn’t help you anyway. I’m sure Mr. Louis would soon have me confused. And to be honest, I still have a hard time differentiating what is nightmare and what was reality. But I remember Sykes was the one who first grabbed me and dragged me under the pier by my hair. And I remember…” She started to cry. “…I remember him on top of me but he couldn’t…he couldn’t finish, so he hit me again. The others…I remember faces and being raped, but it was as if I were crawling into a shell…they could have my body but they couldn’t have me.”

  The last statement came out as a sob. Hesitantly, Karp put his arm around her, felt her tense and then relax against his chest. After a minute, she pulled back. “I’m sorry, but I think I needed that,” she said and gave him her tiny smile. “I’ve never been able to find my way back out of that shell, Mr…. Butch. It’s like I’m living in a body that doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

  As he began to present the defense case that morning, Karp briefly touched the damp spot on his jacket where Tyler’s tears had soaked in. “Your honor, the defense calls Jack Swanburg to the stand.”

  Karp looked toward the back of the courtroom where a short, rotund man wearing bright green suspenders to hold up his pants entered. Swanburg looked a little like Santa Claus with his flowing white hair and beard, merry blue eyes, and a round belly that Karp suspected did, indeed, shake like a bowl full of jelly. However, Karp knew that the man’s mild appearance belied his reputation as one of the country’s foremost forensic scientists, a freelancer from Colorado who made his living examining forensic evidence for both prosecutors and defense lawyers.

  On the witness stand, Karp quickly established that the man was a doctor of pathology with expertise in a variety of forensic disciplines, “including blood-splatter analysis, bite-mark identification, forensic photography, ballistics, and dactylography…better known as fingerprint analysis.”

  “Is there anything you’re not an expert in?” Karp asked with a smile.

  “Well, you’d have to ask my wife, Connie,” Swanburg replied with a chuckle. “I’m not too handy around the house.”

  “Doctor, can you tell the jury how many cases you’ve testified in?”

  “Nearly three thousand.”

  “For the prosecution or defense?”

  “Both. I like to think that I testify on behalf of the truth,” Swanburg said. “There have been times when my testimony has worked against my employer. They all know going in th
at I will report my findings as a man of science—without prejudice.”

  “Dr. Swanburg, have you studied the evidence in this case?”

  “I have looked at everything—the reports and photographs, as well as the physical evidence—that I was given,” Swanburg said carefully.

  “Fair enough, Dr. Swanburg,” Karp said, approaching the witness stand and handing Swanburg “a photograph marked as People’s Exhibit 24 J from the criminal trial of the plaintiffs. Can you tell the jury what it depicts?”

  “Yes, I can,” Swanburg said. “It’s a photograph of a bite mark on the left breast of a woman. And according to the tag on the back that woman was…Mrs. Liz Tyler.”

  “And what can you tell us about what it shows?”

  “Well,” Swanburg said, speaking to the jury, “in some ways, a clear bite mark such as the one in the photograph can be used like a fingerprint to identify who it belonged to, especially if there are particularly significant characteristics.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Swanburg,” Karp said, retrieving the photograph and handing it to the jury to look at. “Now, did you get a chance to match the bite mark in that photograph with the dental records of Mr. Enrique Villalobos?”

  “Yes,” Swanburg said. “I examined the X-rays taken in the prison dental office during a routine checkup.”

  Louis almost knocked over his chair standing up. “Objection. Whatever tomfoolery is going on regarding this bite mark, these records were obtained without a proper search warrant or notification to counsel.”

  Karp silently thanked Harry Kipman. “To the contrary, your honor,” he said. “We obtained the records with a subpoena duces tecum and notified counsel, all as part of our pretrial motions. However, Mr. Louis made no objection at that time. I guess he must have missed it.”

  “I’ll allow it,” Klinger said, though it was clear she wasn’t happy.

  Karp handed Swanburg a set of X-rays. “Are these the dental records you examined?”

  Swanburg nodded. “Yes. You’ll notice that Mr. Villalobos has protruding incisors—somewhat rodentlike.”

  The courtroom erupted with laughter as Louis again jumped to his feet. “I object to that characterization—obviously planted by the defense.”