Double Tap

by Steve Martini

  The prosecutors are not yet here. My guess is they are huddled backstage somewhere, probably in a room near the holding cells, putting the final touches on their opening and coordinating the visuals that have already been approved by the court for presentation at this point. Most of these are neutral, arrived at by stipulation: photographs of the outside of Chapman’s house on the beach and of the rocky outcrop overlooking the ocean behind it, and a large aerial of the house taken from a police helicopter. There is a close-up of the murder weapon, a .45-caliber automatic, just as the cops found it in the flower bed near the seawall at the back of the yard, and another shot of the screen that was pried off the window and left propped against the side of the house where the killer gained entry. None of these present much controversy. All of them would no doubt be admitted into evidence even if we were to object. To save time and avoid the appearance of foolish disputes in front of the jury, we have stipulated to their use.

  In the front row, just beyond the rail behind the prosecution table, is an elderly woman. It is Madelyn Chapman’s mother. Sitting next to her is the victim’s younger sister. They put the visual hex on me as I assemble the documents from my briefcase on the table.

  Two rows behind them, Nathan sidles toward one of the center seats as some young kid gets up to give him his chair. The kid heads for the door. Nathan is using a legislative intern to hold his seat. Knowing Nathan, he’ll probably have one sleeping outside on the sidewalk tonight, holding his place in line for tomorrow.

  I take my seat and open the folder with a fresh notepad inside. Trying a case can be an exercise in writer’s cramp as you catch all the details so that you don’t miss anything on cross-examination.

  Harry leans away from Jamie and the computer and across the open chair that has been left vacant between us for Emiliano.

  “As you can see, they’ve already started constructing the gallows,” says Harry. He nods toward the planks spanning the space in front of the jury box.

  I give him a resigned look. “It’s what we expected.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not nearly as menacing when it’s just a mental image in your mind.”

  A second later the door leading to the holding cells opens and the prosecution team enters the courtroom. They are led by Mike Argust, the lead homicide detective in Chapman’s case. Argust is a twenty-eight-year veteran assigned to the case the night of the murder. Unless Ruiz testifies, Argust, who is the state’s representative in the case, is the only other witness allowed inside the courtroom during the trial unless they are on the stand. Witnesses on both the prosecution and defense lists have been excluded by the judge following a stipulation by Templeton and myself. Potential witnesses have been instructed not to discuss their testimony with anyone except the lawyers and representatives for the prosecution and defense, and then only if the witnesses choose to talk with them. We are still awaiting a decision from the court on Sims’s appeal concerning Gilcrest’s ruling on evidence from Isotenics. No doubt, whatever happens, if Sims loses he will take the appeal to the state supreme court, if for no other reason than to stall for more time.

  I tried to coax an affidavit out of Nathan Kwan regarding the telephone conversation between Klepp and whoever was on the other end of the line during Nathan’s meeting out at Isotenics. A declaration under penalty of perjury might be enough to convince the judge to allow me to question Klepp more thoroughly. But Nathan declined. He said he couldn’t get publicly involved, especially now, being new to Congress. It could blow up in his face. I understood. Bringing information and delivering it to me was one thing. Getting his name in the press and involved in the case on the wrong side was another.

  Argust takes the seat in the middle at the prosecution table, counterpart to Ruiz. The computer tech, an expert who performs visualization duties in most of their heavier cases, is at the far end. Templeton takes the chair nearest me and climbs onto the box that is already assembled on top of the seat waiting for him.

  A few moments later a burly guard from the sheriff’s jail unit opens the holding cell door once more. He is followed by a second guard. They take their time, checking the courtroom, making eye contact with each of the guards stationed at the back of the courtroom and along the side aisles. When they are satisfied, one of them turns and offers the come-hither sign, the signal for the guards inside to bring him out. Emiliano walks through the open door followed by two more guards. Harry and I both stand as they usher him toward our table. The choreography here is like a polka. Ruiz could turn in any direction and instantly be dancing with a uniformed guard. They surround him. I have demanded on several occasions that none of this be played out in front of the jury and that the guards melt into the walls before they bring the jury panel in. If they fail in any way, I will document each instance on the record as grounds for appeal. A show of law enforcement on this order can pollute a jury faster than anything said at trial. It sends a less-than-subtle signal that, not only does the state view the defendant as a stone-cold killer, but that an overwhelming show of force is needed to prevent him from escaping and killing again, and to protect the jury itself. If jurors begin to fear for their own safety, your case is over.

  Ruiz is clean shaven; his hair, a little longer than when we first met, is neatly combed. He is dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and solid burgundy tie. The suit is a bit baggy on his body since he could not be fitted for it. Janice, my secretary, selected Emiliano’s attire off the rack from a men’s shop a few blocks from the office. The shoes, buffed-up cordovans, are stiff as boards, right out of the box, making Ruiz’s stride as he enters the courtroom a little stilted. They have to steady him to keep him from stepping on the feet of the guards.

  Ruiz seems surprised, somewhat taken back by the size of the crowd in the courtroom, even though Harry and I have told him to expect this. He is looking out at them over the railing with an expression approaching mystification as they lead him toward the table. The guards wait until he finds his seat and takes it, hovering over him for a few seconds, checking things out before they back off. They finally leave us and take up positions at the sides and back of the courtroom. Two of the guards station themselves down the darkened corridor along the side of the raised bench leading to the judge’s chambers in the back.

  None of the guards or bailiffs carry firearms, only pepper spray and collapsible metal batons that, if used with enough force, can shatter a clavicle or fracture a skull. Whether the judge will be packing when he takes the bench, no one knows. In this state there have been enough violent confrontations in courtrooms—including a judge in Marin County who was taken hostage, then shot and killed outside the courthouse—that some judges have been known to carry loaded, concealed handguns under their robes.

  Ruiz leans toward me and speaks almost without moving his lips: “Quite a crowd.” He is breathing heavily. I suspect it is the largest group of people he has ever seen assembled in one place for any event in which he was the center of attention. Fighting a battle and staying alive is one thing; dealing with a crowd where everyone in the courtroom is looking at him as if he is some caged beast is another.

  A few seconds later I hear Gilcrest whisper “Excuse me” down the darkened corridor. The judge is telling the guards to get out of his way so he can clear the hallway and mount the bench.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor.”

  “All rise,” says the bailiff in a booming voice, and instantly everyone in the courtroom is on their feet. The judge quickly climbs the three steps and takes his seat. He opens the file in front of him on the bench. “You may be seated,” he says. It takes a couple of seconds for the noise of shuffling feet and cushioned behinds to die down. “The clerk will call the case.”

  “People of the State of California versus Emiliano Ruiz. Case number …”

  We have already waived a reading of the charges, so, with the preliminaries done, Gilcrest cuts to the chase. He looks out at the audience, a squinting stare that could freeze ice. “Before we get started, I
’m going to lay down some ground rules for the people in the audience,” he says. “I don’t want to hear any talking, shouting, hooting, clapping, or laughing from anybody out there. I don’t want to see anybody reading newspapers or books in my courtroom. You want to do that, you go to the library. I don’t want to hear any comments or see any signs being held up for the jury or anybody else to read. If I see any of this, you will be removed from the courtroom. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.

  “I don’t want to hear any cell phones going off,” he goes on. “I don’t want to see anybody talking on a cell phone. In fact, I don’t want to see any cell phones at all. All electronic devices should have been checked at the door. They are not allowed in the courtroom. If anybody has an electronic device, including any camera, recorder, or cell phone, now is the time to hold it up and announce it.” He waits for a moment and scans the courtroom with his eyes to see if any hands go up. “Because if one of the guards or one of my bailiffs sees you with any kind of electronic device from this point on, they will seize it, and you with it. You will be detained,” he says. “And trust me, you will not enjoy the reception or the accommodations in the county jail.

  “I don’t want to hear any audio recordings of the proceedings in my courtroom being played on the six o’clock news or any other news, and if I do, there will be a very select audience admitted to this courtroom for the next day’s proceedings and from that point on.” This last is aimed at the first three rows of reporters seated directly behind us. “I hope I make myself clear.”

  You can almost hear the nodding of heads and bobbing of Adam’s apples in the chairs behind us.

  “If anybody gets up and leaves, they lose their seat. That goes for reporters as well as the public. There are no favorites in my courtroom,” he says. “Now, if there are any questions, this is all posted on the board outside the courtroom as well as online, so that you can read it on your computers at home at night if you want.

  “Mr. Templeton, are you ready to proceed?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Madriani?”

  “We are, Your Honor.”

  “Then we’ll bring in the jury,” says Gilcrest.

  A minute later, with one of the bailiffs leading the way, they file in, five men and seven women: a schoolteacher; an architect; two college students; an employee of one of the local telephone companies; a store clerk at Robinson’s; a retired college history professor, one of our two picks who survived only because Templeton ran out of peremptory challenges; a bus driver for the local transit district; a housewife; a guy who installs fire suppression systems for a construction company; a waitress at one of the local Coco’s; and a short-order cook who looks as if he’s been eating too much of his own food. A cross section of modern America.

  In addition there are six alternates seated in chairs just outside the jury box at the judge’s end of the courtroom.

  Fortunately for us, Templeton had to steer away from retired military personnel. With a naval base, Miramar, and Camp Pendleton all within a stone’s throw, retired military make up a sizable chunk of the local population and are usually well represented on local juries. Ordinarily they are a good bet for a foundation around which a prosecutor can build a hanging jury, especially retired military officers. But with Ruiz—himself a retired career soldier—in the dock, Templeton can’t be sure exactly how we will play this card. It could backfire on him. He has been cautious. One wrong pick—if the person has the sand to stand up against the mob and you have a hung jury—no verdict. If one is to listen to Harry, this is the best we can hope for.

  My partner is laying most of his wagers on our history professor. According to Harry, the man is no doubt a liberal. He would have to be to have kept his job at a state university. He would be used to lecturing others and not likely to be cowed when people disagree with him. Harry is hoping that with any luck, if we can shape the evidence to conform to what we suspect may have happened, his history professor will vote to cut Ruiz free or, if not, that he will at least vote against death. It is the latter that is Harry’s principal burden as counsel to Ruiz in the penalty phase, should we arrive at that point.

  The jurors settle into their chairs. The judge welcomes them. He has already laid down the ground rules for the operations of the jury: what is to be considered evidence and what is not. Templeton’s opening statement is not evidence; it is supposed to be an oral outline of what the state intends to prove by way of evidence. The evidence itself will come later, introduced during the course of the trial.

  During Templeton’s opening, jurors who are smart will take detailed notes of his promises so that they can determine later in the jury room when the trial is over whether he has delivered. For those who fail to take notes, it is my job to remind them of promises and failures. For this I will save two shots, deferring my opening statement until after the prosecution rests its case. At the end of the trial I will have one final opportunity, my closing argument, to reinforce this.

  “Mr. Templeton, are you ready to present your opening statement?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You may proceed.”

  Templeton comes down off his perch and walks in short, quick steps to the box at this end of the jury railing, then climbs the two steps and gets on top of the scaffold.

  “Good morning.” He smiles at them. Most of the jurors respond to the greeting, smiling warmly back at him. Templeton engages them with his eyes as he walks slowly from one end of the scaffold toward the other, stopping between the boxes, lifting his weight on his toes and dropping it on his heels as if to test out the planks at their weakest point. Some of the jurors smile as he does this. He straightens his bow tie and puts his hands in his pockets, then walks on to the other end as if he were a hobo on the tracks, smiling all the while.

  When he gets to the far end, he turns toward them, looks down at his feet for a moment, his hands still in his pockets, then lifts his eyes. In a booming voice that you would not expect from such a small body, he begins: “We are here today to examine the cold and calculated murder of another human being. The intentional taking of a human life in such a callous and cruel manner that the state permits you”—he takes one hand from the pocket of his pants and points at them, peering over his finger down the length of the jury box—“each one of you, to decide whether the defendant committed that crime, and if so, whether to exact the ultimate penalty: the imposition of a death sentence.” He pauses for effect, looking at them. “Make no mistake about it,” he says, “this is an awesome responsibility, one which in ancient times was reserved for emperors and kings and in some places the envoys of gods. It is unlikely that any of you during the course of your lifetime will ever again face such a formidable duty as this. To decide the fate of another human being is not something that any one of us can ever take lightly. It is the most serious business we are ever likely to attend to. You will sit here for many days listening to witnesses, observing physical evidence.”

  Templeton is being optimistic. Given the evidence—or, from our perspective, the lack of it—the case against Ruiz is straightforward. It will take the state no more than a week, possibly ten days, to make their case, and—unless I can come up with something solid from Isotenics—another two days for me to fall on my sword. Ruiz may get his death wish.

  “In the end,” says Templeton, “you will be instructed on the applicable law by the judge and then you will be sent to that room”—he points across the courtroom to another door opposite the one leading to the holding cells—“to make the most momentous decision of your lives: to decide whether the defendant, Emiliano Ruiz”—he turns halfway and points toward our table—“murdered Madelyn Chapman, and whether he did so with premeditation and malice aforethought after lying in wait for her to return home from her job, her office at Isotenics, Incorporated, Software City. We are here for the purpose of deciding the fate of Emiliano Ruiz.”

  He falls silent for a moment, then plunges his hand back into h
is pocket, turns, and takes a few steps, this time away from the bench toward the audience while he allows the jury to consider this.

  Twelve sets of eyes now focus on Ruiz, studying his face, his response to the charge, whether his expression at this moment is that of a cold-blooded killer.

  Templeton may have just answered one of the more nettle-some questions that has plagued us for months. “Lying in wait” is the single special circumstance charged by the state in their criminal complaint that allows them to seek the death penalty against Ruiz. They are apparently prepared to argue that he entered Chapman’s house and either stalked her from room to room, seeking to kill her, or waited for her to come home from work and simply shot her as she came into the entry hall.

  Harry and I have wondered for weeks whether Templeton would try to amend the state’s complaint to add the charges of murder for financial gain or murder during the course of robbery or burglary, either of which would carry additional special circumstances to justify the death penalty. The key in all of this, of course, is the Orb at the Edge, the half-million-dollar piece of art glass that went missing from Chapman’s house after the murder. It would appear that Templeton and the cops have no more idea what has happened to this piece of art than we do. If they had the Orb or knew where it was, and if they could connect it to Ruiz, there is now no question but that they would have brought the additional charges.

  I glance over at Harry, who is making a note. This fact has not gone unnoticed by my partner.

  “Yes, it is an awesome responsibility,” says Templeton, “and one that an ordered and just society must place upon the shoulders of ordinary citizens, because an ordered and just society has no emperors, it has no kings, it has no spokesmen who speak to the gods. It has only ordinary citizens, whose judgment and reason it respects and whose decisions by long history and proud tradition are the legal fabric holding that society together.”