“Please continue, Officer Simmons,” Atwater said, oblivious to her distress. “Tell the court how you were rescued from the kidnapper.”
“Objection,” the defense attorney said. “This isn’t relevant to the present case. Your Honor.”
“Is there a reason for this particular line of questioning, Mr. Atwater?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” he said. “I’m trying to establish the credibility of my witness. Her past history as a victim qualifies her expertise beyond her present position.”
“Objection overruled,” the judge said wearily. “Try to make your point, Counselor. We don’t have all day.”
“Officer Simmons,” Atwater continued, “can you advise the court how you escaped from the kidnapper?”
“A woman wrote down the license plate of the car the man was driving,” Rachel said. “An officer with the San Diego Police Department spotted the car in the parking lot of a nearby motel. They dispatched the tactical team, and a police sharpshooter shot and killed him.” Her eyelids fluttered, the shotgun blast reverberating inside her head. How many times had she relived that moment? The man slumping to the ground, the splattered blood, the terrible wound on the side of his head.
“A police officer saved your life, then,” Atwater said, giving a glance in the direction of the jurors. “Isn’t it true, Officer Simmons, that the man who kidnapped you had previously been imprisoned for kidnapping and raping another child?”
“Yes,” Rachel said. “He served only seven years of his sentence. He was a doctor at the time of the earlier crime, so I guess the parole board took that into consideration.”
“Wasn’t it probable that this man would have raped you as well if the police had not come to your rescue?”
“That’s possible,” she said.
“Wasn’t this event the impetus behind your seeking employment as a police officer?”
“More or less,” she answered, folding her hands in her lap.
“What happened to you after the kidnapping?”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Rachel answered, her throat muscles tightening. She looked up at the judge, whispering, “Can I have a drink of water, please?”
The courtroom fell silent as the bailiff carried a paper cup filled with water to the witness stand. She drained the cup, then placed it in her lap.
“Are you ready to proceed now?” the judge asked.
Rachel nodded.
“Didn’t you develop a phobia of leaving the house?” Atwater asked, his voice booming out over the courtroom. “Isn’t it true that you were unable to speak for almost a year following the kidnapping, that you developed a form of hysterical muteness?”
“Yes,’ she said.
“When you did speak, who was the first person you spoke to?”
Her face softened. “Officer Larry Dean.”
“The same officer who rescued you from the kidnapper, correct?”
“Yes,” Rachel said.
The defense was alleging police misconduct. Atwater considered Rachel Simmons the perfect witness for such a case—her unassuming manner, the sincerity she managed to project, her past hero worship of men in uniform. His eyes drifted over to the rows of jurors again. They were average, working-class people. Wealthy, sophisticated people seldom served on jury panels. The jury could easily identify with a young widow trying to support her family, particularly one who appeared as idealistic and naive as Rachel Simmons. Her history as a victim further enhanced her credibility. “You’re assigned to patrol, is that correct?”
‘That’s correct,” Rachel said, nodding.
“Were you working on the night of April 20, at approximately three o’clock in the morning?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Can you explain why you came to stop the defendant?”
“I noticed his car was weaving,” she said. “I followed him for several miles during which I observed his vehicle cross the yellow line on four separate occasions.”
“So you initiated a traffic stop, assuming this individual was under the influence? Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Rachel said. Atwater had instructed her to answer the questions without elaborating. She didn’t understand why the process of testifying had to be so arduous. She was telling the truth. No matter how many questions the attorneys asked her or how cleverly they composed them, the truth was still the truth. Why couldn’t she simply tell them what had happened and leave? She had not slept in over forty-eight hours. When she went this long without sleep, she felt as if she were swimming underwater.
“Can you tell us what happened after you stopped the defendant’s vehicle?”
“I asked the defendant for his license and registration,” Rachel said, her voice stronger than before. “Once he handed these items to me, I proceeded to run a wants and warrants check. When the dispatcher advised me that Mr. Brentwood had an outstanding warrant for failure to appear on a drunk-driving violation, I requested a backup unit.”
“This is customary procedure, correct?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you then conduct a field sobriety test?”
“Not until the backup unit arrived.”
“Can you advise the name of the officer who responded for backup?”
“Jimmy Townsend,” Rachel said, her eyes falling on the defendant. They always looked so different when they got to court. The nasty, sloppy drunk she had encountered that early morning in April had transformed himself into a clean, sharp-looking businessman, with his three-piece suit, his starched white shirt, his snappy tie. In his late forties, Carl Brentwood had graying hair and the puffy, bloated face of an alcoholic. He sold used cars at the Lexus dealership off the 101 Freeway in Thousand Oaks.
“Once Officer Townsend arrived and you administered the field sobriety test,” Atwater continued, “what were your conclusions?”
“That the defendant was under the influence of alcohol,” Rachel replied. “He had difficulty walking a straight line. He could not touch his nose, nor could he count backward accurately. In addition, there was a strong odor of alcohol about the defendant’s clothing and person. I advised him I was placing him under arrest for driving under the influence, then informed him that he would be booked on the outstanding warrant as well.”
“What did the defendant do at this point?”
Rachel cleared her throat. “He spat at me.”
“Did he strike you in any way?”
“No,” she said. “But after he spat at me, he proceeded to unzip his pants and urinate on my legs and shoes.”
A few cackles of laughter rang out, issued by the five male spectators in the courtroom. Rachel assumed they were the defendant’s friends or relatives, maybe some of the car salesmen he worked with at the dealership. She narrowed her eyes at them, wondering if they had any idea the degradation police officers endured.
“Where was Officer Townsend when this was going on?”
“Standing about five feet away, near the rear of my patrol unit. When he saw I was encountering problems, he came over to assist me.”
“Did you handcuff the defendant?”
“I assisted Officer Townsend in handcuffing him,” Rachel said. “Mr. Brentwood was cursing and struggling. It took both of us to control him.”
“Who searched him once the handcuffs were in place?”
“Officer Townsend,” she said quickly, the attorney having carefully coached her on this area of her testimony “I went back to my unit to order a tow truck for the defendant’s vehicle.”
“Did you see Officer Townsend remove the .22 pistol from the defendant’s left pocket?”
“I saw …” Rachel stopped speaking and sucked in a deep breath. The defendant claimed the gun was planted on him. He swore Townsend had whispered to him that he was going to pay, that no one urinated on a police officer and got away with it. Carrying a canceled, weapon constituted a felony, whereas the drunk-driving offenses the defendant was char
ged with were only misdemeanors. Jimmy Townsend wanted Rachel to say she had seen him remove the gun to substantiate his story. Atwater wanted the same thing, but during their meeting he had insisted that he was not in any way encouraging Rachel to commit perjury. He called it realigning her memory. When Townsend had discovered the gun, she had been inside her unit ordering the tow truck. How could she swear she had seen something she knew she had not seen? “I saw the gun when Officer Townsend showed it to me,” she finally said, a slight tremor in her voice. “I didn’t see him remove it from Mr. Brentwood’s pocket.”
Mike Atwater scowled. “No further questions, Your Honor,” he said, slapping down in his seat.
About the Author
Nancy Taylor Rosenberg is the bestselling author of Mitigating Circumstances, Interest of Justice, First Offense, and California Angel. With Trial by Fire, she again draws on her personal experience as an ex-cop and former investigative probation officer. She lives in New York.
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