The judge questioned me for perhaps twenty minutes, asking various things about the show and the nature of my business. He wanted an explanation of stage diving, he wanted to know if we normally had security, he asked if I had made any effort to contact or meet with the family (I had written them a letter a few months before, expressing my condolences while letting them know that I expected no sympathy from them. I assured them that I would not hide in America, swearing to return for trial if I was called to do so. I also let them know that if they ever felt the need to meet with me, I would do so at any place and time of their choosing, even if it was in prison after I was found guilty.), he asked if I had any memory whatsoever of seeing Daniel (I answered that I did not, for that was the truth). Basically I relayed the fact that the only person that I had any memory of physical contact with was Milan, and that if there had been any other incidents, then I did not remember them. This was the truth. Then it was the prosecuting attorney’s turn to ask questions (he had managed to wake up by this point), and I braced myself. He was going to hit me, and hit me hard. He was going to try to grind me down, break my will, destroy my story, discredit my character. But I was ready to go toe to toe, and I was prepared for the long haul. Bring it, you bastard—let’s do this, I thought as he rose in his chair to cross-examine me.
Muzik asked me a total of three questions. They were so banal, so un-ex-KGB-agent-using-mind-control-tricks-esque that I only remember one: he asked me about my drinking and drug use. I truthfully told him that although I had not yet embraced sobriety as a way of life on the night of the show in Prague, that I had drank no alcohol nor done any drugs before the gig that evening. And that was it. Three questions. It took about seven or eight minutes total. Then, as Tomas Grivna asked me some questions, Muzik went back to sleep.
Un-fucking-real.
As I sat down after everyone had finished questioning me, Jeff leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Did you see the prosecutor? He was asleep. Unbelievable!” I was glad to hear that someone other than myself had noticed this, as it was so bizarre I was half-convinced that my mind was playing tricks on me—perhaps I had experienced a stress-induced acid flashback or something like that? Lamb of god’s manager at the time, Larry Mazer, took the witness stand, followed shortly by our drummer, Chris Adler, to answer a few brief questions from the judge. Larry looked pretty stressed out (as any band manager in his position understandably would be), while Chris looked so nervous you would have thought he was the one on trial. (I didn’t blame him though—it was an extremely intimidating thing to stand there in front of the judges; plus, Chris had not spent the last two weeks in preparation, facing the blistering interrogative wrath of Jeff “Satan Incarnate” Cohen.) Stress and nervousness aside, they both did well. Both explained calmly and coherently that my on-stage persona, which had been described by some witnesses as “extremely aggressive,” was just a part of our show. The judge asked Chris a question or two about the concert, but Chris hadn’t really seen anything during the show, as he was stuck behind his drum kit. This was the precise reason my lawyers and I had decided that he would be the one from my band to come to trial—he hadn’t seen anything, not even my tussle with Milan, and wouldn’t have much to say. All we needed were a couple of people who knew me to come and say I wasn’t the violent lunatic I had been described to be by a few of the witnesses. Reading the statements of these particular witnesses, my onstage persona had seemed so shockingly evil to their innocent little eyeballs that apparently none of them had ever been to a metal show before—I guess prior to that night, they had only attended sugary-sweet pop concerts where the virginally wholesome audience held hands as the well-groomed teen idol frontman warbled out saccharine love songs and threw roses to the adoring girls in the front row.
What a crock of shit.
After Chris and Larry, the father of the deceased young man was called to the witness stand. The judge was very gentle with him, only asking him a few brief questions about his son. I was grateful for this, as I could see the pain running through the poor man’s entire being as he spoke, a mere ten or so feet away from his son’s accused killer. He did not want to be there, and I felt a new sort of sadness well up in me, an awful emotion I had never known before—at that moment, I realized that my presence was the human face of the source of the worst possible pain a parent can know. I have never wanted to simply vanish from this plane of existence so badly before.
One question the judge asked Daniel’s father was if I had made any attempt to meet with the family at any point before the trial. He answered no. I do not believe that Daniel’s father said this out of malice. I believe that he must have gotten confused, understandably overwhelmed by the emotions he had to have felt seeing me sitting there so nearby. Perhaps he thought the judge was asking if we had actually met in person, which we had not. I had sent the family the letter through Martin a few months prior, and had been told by Martin that they had received it and had appreciated the fact that I had made the gesture, but did not wish to meet with me at that time. This was understandable, and I certainly was not going to press the issue. After the judge was done, he asked me (as was my legal right) if I had any questions for the witness. I did not have the heart to ask him to clarify whether or not I had written his family a letter. He had had enough questions that day, and didn’t need to see my face any further; so instead I just told him I was extremely sorry for his loss. He gave me a brief nod, then left. That was the only time I have ever seen him.
Also during that first day in court, the video obtained by the police was shown in its entirety, as well as two other videos I had compiled. The first was in two parts, beginning by showing both musicians and audience members stage diving to illustrate the actual act for the judges’ understanding; then moving on to footage of several well known musicians shoving audience members who had managed to evade security from the stage. This was to illustrate the fact that I wasn’t some sort of oddity in not wanting people on stage, because I’m not. I’m not a singular and foul-tempered monster, alone in a sea of warmed-hearted rockers who welcome all who want to join them onstage with open arms. The last thing most bands want is fans on stage, period. The people who take the stage and don’t manage to jump before security or crew gets to them often still leave in a flying manner—just the facts, kids, so think twice about it the next time you get the jones to climb over that barricade at any show you are attending—it might not turn out so well for you. In fact, it might be the last thing you ever do.
The second video showed clips from the tail end of several lamb of god shows, including the show we played in Poland the very next night after our Prague gig. In these clips, you see me encouraging the audience to give themselves a round of applause. I say, “Make some noise for yourselves! C’mon!” as I raise my hands and clap, sometimes making a large scooping gesture meant to convey more, as in make some more noise. Over and over, from different angles and different shows, the video showed slightly differing variations of the same thing: me saying “Make some noise! C’mon!” and waving my arms in the air, encouraging the audience to get louder. In my criminal charge, it was written that I gave unclear instructions to the audience, which led to Daniel climbing onstage that evening, as he decided I was inviting him up there. This was based solely on the opinion of his friends (in their testimonies they said “Daniel must have thought he was inviting people on stage”), yet it was presented as fact on my very real criminal charges. I found it ludicrous that mere conjecture could be incorporated into a manslaughter charge, but upon looking over videos of several concerts, I saw how someone who did not speak English very well could perhaps take my gestures and words as an invitation to get onstage. Maybe. So I put the video together to clarify these “unclear instructions,” which I had been questioned about extensively during my interrogation. I had been asked several times if I made a habit of inviting fans onstage—I do not, and I do not give “unclear instructions” to the audience pertaining to their possible presence
on my stage (one particularly ridiculous witness, in describing my unclear instructions, had said that I had held up two fingers while saying “No more than two may come on stage”—while that is just stupid, as I would never say such a thing, those set of instructions seemed rather precise to me).
And according to the testimony of one of the three friends he attended the show with, “Daniel’s English wasn’t that good” so maybe he did misunderstand me. However, according to the testimony of another of those three friends, Daniel’s English was excellent; in fact he said in his testimony, “My English is far from perfect, but Daniel was the best in our class, his English was excellent.” This would set the tone for the rest of my court case—no one could seem to agree on anything, especially the three friends.
The next day in court, eight witnesses delivered testimonies, including the useless security guard who stood to the side of the stage that day and did nothing but shove Milan from the stage once, then yell at him from the floor another time. I found out from a reliable source that he had not wanted to testify at all, as he was afraid I would put a hit out on him if he showed up in court—I had no idea my reputation had gotten so gangster. He did look extremely nervous when he saw me, and this amused me to no end, along with his assertion in his testimony that I was obviously drugged, as I “ran all over the stage like mad” and kept dumping water over my head during the show. (In fact, several witnesses said they thought I must have been on drugs during their interrogations, since I was moving all over the stage very quickly, I was sweaty, and I kept dumping water over my head. To my mind, this indicated that I was doing my job in a normal manner, I got hot as I always do, and as usual I was trying to cool down; but maybe these people knew something about drugs that I didn’t. I mean, I’ve done plenty of drugs in my day, but none of them have ever caused me to repeatedly douse myself with H2O. Or maybe I just wasn’t doing the right drugs—I don’t know, but regardless, the whole high-on-drugs=water-on-the-head thing was pretty funny to me.) When questioned, the security guard refused to take any responsibility for not doing his job, saying that I was too quick and he was too old for this type of music, although I’m sure he had no problem accepting payment for his “services” that night.
Another witness that day was a self-styled “journalist” (translation: writes online metal show reviews for some obscure website—if he qualifies as a journalist because he does that, then I’m a pro surfer because I can catch a knee-high wave without looking too foolish) who had testified that I was punching people out, hammering them like a pro boxer from the beginning of our set: “Once they got up there, Randy immediately attacked them. He attacked them with his fists, beating them to the ground there on stage, then throwing them back into the audience. These incidents happened about three times towards the beginning of the show. These people definitely weren’t drunk or attacking him . . . but I have never seen the level of aggression that Randy Blythe displayed there.” This “journalist” made me out to be a pretty gnarly hard-assed dude, whooping ass and taking names, Bruce Lee–style, from the very start. While this flattered my fragile male ego, there was a slight problem with his elaborate tale of my savage flying fists of fury—we had all watched the video of the show in court the day before. This video showed the whole first half of the gig. Except for a few brief seconds, you can see me the whole time. I’m not punching anyone to the ground, nor throwing anyone into the audience. I’m pretty quick, but I’m not the Flash, able to beat multiple people up in the span of the two or three seconds I was off camera—this guy was full of shit.
Of the six others that testified that day, only the three friends who had come to the show with Daniel really mattered. These three young men all had already been interrogated by the police twice, once in 2010 when the investigation had begun after Daniel had passed away, then again in 2012. Their stories were full of inconsistencies to begin with, but got worse with their second interrogation. The fact that their stories still didn’t match up in 2012 surprised me; after all, the police had given them transcripts of their first testimony, allowing them plenty of time to get their shit straight. Yes, that’s right, the cops interrogated them then gave them notes to study before questioning them again. They even admitted to discussing the differences in testimony in court. Amazing. And as they took the stand, one after the other in the courtroom on that day in 2013, they still couldn’t get their stories to line up, neither individually nor as a unit.
I won’t bother to list out all of the numerous conflicting things these three young men said over the course of three years and three different questionings by the authorities. It only aggravates and depresses me to think about it, so I will only say that my defense team basically eviscerated them, and it wasn’t too hard of a task to accomplish. Hell, I’m no lawyer and I could have done it—I had definitely read and reread their testimonies enough to tear them apart on the stand by myself. And I do not know why they said some of the things they did; why they felt the need to lie about what they saw that night and about me and my actions. I do not know why they changed their stories, why their descriptions of me and my actions got worse with each telling, for they did. Perhaps they were just scared. Perhaps they were angry over losing their friend and wanted to point a finger at someone. Perhaps they thought they were doing the right thing by Daniel’s family by trying to make me look as bad as possible so that I would be sent to prison. Perhaps they were even hiding something, holding some bit of information back, something that . . . well, speculation is pointless at this point. I do not know much about them, their character, their reasoning, and I probably never will. I simply do not know.
But there was one particular inconsistency from one of these three witnesses that does deserve mention, because this young man actually displayed a bit of conscience, and I would like to give him credit for it. I could tell that one of them in particular was severely uncomfortable being near me in the courtroom. Something was bothering him, and he studiously avoided looking my way as he took the witness stand. As he nervously answered the judge’s questions, giving stumbling replies to queries about my aggressiveness and whether or not he thought I had been intoxicated on the evening of the show, I consulted my notes. After the judge, the prosecutor, and my lawyer were done with him, the judge asked me if I had questions for the witness. I did not consult with my attorneys first, and I did not listen to the logical part of my head, the part that was shrieking, Do not do this, you idiot! Let the lawyers handle this! This dumb idea of yours could turn out very badly. I stared at the miserable-looking boy standing before me with downcast eyes, and I decided to take a chance on what my gut told me: here was a young man who knew right from wrong.
During his first interrogation on October 6, 2010, the police asked this witness if he could confirm with certainty that I was the one who threw Daniel from the stage, and if it had been this action of mine that had led to his fatal injury. The young man replied:
“Yes, I am absolutely certain, I know the singer very well, as well as the other members of the band. There are four others: William Adler, guitarist, Mark Morton, guitarist, Chris Adler, drummer, and John Campbell, bassist. As I said, I was their fan and I know them all. I know the singer very well. He acts similarly at all concerts, I can’t say if there were any signs of alcohol consumption or not. As I said, it is perfectly normal at concerts like this and it’s part of the show that members of the audience who climb on stage are thrown back into the crowd. In my opinion, the singer had no intention to harm Daniel in any way.”
But during his second interrogation, on September 14, 2012, he said:
“I have never seen anyone push a fan down in such an aggressive way. And I think that in Blythe’s case, it was caused by alcohol . . . Because I saw them in the backstage when they were coming up, they were drinking Jim Beam, and I think he was drunk, seeing how aggressive he was . . . You simply could tell, for example by his movements, and of course what happened, a sober person doesn’t do this . . . I think he had
to be drunk, he certainly wasn’t stumbling, but it was obvious; also from the energy he poured into it, he had to have something in his bloodstream . . .”
I put my notes down, and stood up in my chair. I looked straight at this dark-haired young man as he managed to briefly raise eyes to meet my gaze, and in a voice as calm as I could muster, I said, “Do you think I had any intention to harm Daniel in any way that evening?”
The boy’s eyes shot back towards the ground, and he closed them as he bowed his head. He looked ashamed. There was a long, deafening pause. I could see the massive internal struggle written on his face as he did battle within himself, grappling with the decision whether to say what he believed to be true and right, or to tell a lie. All around me the courtroom had become a vacuum of silence, and I could see all three judges, the prosecutor, my attorneys, and the people in the gallery, all leaning forward in their seats as they waited for his answer. It felt like being in a movie, so dramatic was the tension hanging in the air. After a solid ten seconds of silence, the young man raised his head, opened his eyes, and said in a soft voice:
“No. No, I do not think you meant to harm him that night. Not on purpose.”
I actually heard the entire courtroom exhale. I thanked the young man, told the judge I had no further questions, and sat down. The female judge shot me an amused-looking glance from beneath a raised eyebrow, as if to say, Well, that was a foolish idea, you big dummy—but somehow it actually worked. Lucky you. And I did not have to ask the young man any further questions. I did not have to ask him why he had suddenly become so sure that I was drunk when before he was not. I did not have to ask him why he changed his story about me behaving in any way other than what he very clearly had known from the start was my normal manner. I did not have to needle him about any of the other inconsistencies in any of his testimonies, including the one given that very day. I did not have to break him down any further, and I did not want to. All I had to do was follow my instincts; the instincts that told me that the young man before me was at his core a decent person, and when it really and truly mattered and he was called to task for his words, that his inherit human decency would prevail.
Dark Days: A Memoir Page 45
