“She told you that interviewing him was so disturbing that she labeled him narcissistic, didn’t she?” Felcman pressed forward.
“I don’t remember, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“He got irritated with her, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you how he thought his relationship with the family was like?”
“No,” Kent answered brusquely.
“She didn’t tell you that he found no use to have a relationship with friends or family?”
“I don’t recall that.”
“When she told you how disturbing the interview was, how did you react? What did you do about it?”
Kent scooted back in his chair. “Mr. Felcman, I don’t remember. I promise you, if I could remember, I’d tell you the truth. I don’t recall the details of that conversation.”
“What happened, basically, is that you confronted the defendant, he gave you a reason, and you accepted it?”
“That’s sounds about right.”
“In other words”—Felcman paused dramatically—“he lied to you again?”
“Yes.” Kent nodded.
“So, since the age of seventeen, this defendant has basically been lying to you about how his true personality is at this point in time, correct?”
“Correct.”
“You told the jury earlier if you had found out that your son had not been going to school, you would have—what?—sought more counseling for him?”
“I would have done that and we would have pulled him back from where he was and brought him back home.”
“What was the reason the defendant gave you for not going to school?”
“He told me that the country club he worked at had gotten very busy, some people had left, and he spent a lot of extra time at work.”
“You understand that would have been a good year and a half of extra work, and that he hadn’t been going to school or doing anything during that period of time?”
“I did not know that,” Kent responded, seemingly nonplussed by the assessment. “I thought it was just one semester.”
Felcman decided to return to the night of December 10, 2003. “Let me get to the murders specifically. The defendant, in order to get into the house, had to step across your wife’s body. You realize that?”
“Yes,” Kent agreed. His demeanor never changed. “Yes.”
“And to get farther into the house, he had to step across your other son, Kevin’s body. You realize that?”
“I honestly don’t know where he fell, but he either stepped over him or past him.”
“Then, after that, he concocted a lie to you and to the police about what happened out there that night?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Of course, you believed him?”
“I did. He was my son,” he declared with a possible Freudian slip.
“You believed him in regard to the burglaries?”
“Yes.”
“You had believed him in regard to the interview with Lynne Ayres, correct?”
“Correct.”
“You had believed him in regard to his lie about why he was not working, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him that, even before then, that he was going to school and graduating and going into the FBI, or having an internship in the FBI?”
“Correct.”
“That this defendant was so good at lying, that he could fool the one person who should probably know him better than anybody else, right?”
Kent became defensive and responded, “At the time, I had no idea that any of these things had happened. My antennas were not up.”
“That’s not the question,” Felcman countered. “It’s not that your antennas are up—”
“Oh yes, it is,” an adamant Kent butted in. “I think it is important. Because, after the fact, we can sit here in the courtroom and say these things happened in this sequence, and you did not recognize it here or there, and all the way down the line. There was no reason for me to have this expectation of guilt, and so I did tend to give him the benefit of the doubt. After the fact, after the shootings, after he became a suspect, it was totally different.”
“That’s not my question,” a frustrated Felcman repeated. “You’re not on trial here.”
“Well, I feel like it,” an exasperated Kent responded in kind.
“You’re not on trial. The defendant is the one on trial.”
“Yes, he is,” Kent agreed.
“What I’m trying to get across is that the one person he should care the most about—his family, his father, and the people who should know him the best—[he] was able to lie to y’all and cover all these things up, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“He even brought his dead mother into this and tried to use her to get out of it also, correct?”
Kent was taken aback. “In what way?”
“That she knew that he wasn’t going to school.”
“Oh yes, he told me that.”
“You wanted to believe that—then you realized he was just lying to you?”
“Yes.” Kent nodded again.
“You still wanted to believe that he had nothing to do with these murders, but did, at any point in time, the defendant come up to you and say, ‘Dad, I got something to tell you. I had your wife and son killed,’ at any time?”
“No, he did not.”
“Fact is, he was so good at deceiving you, he actually went to the rodeo.” Felcman recalled the Pat Green concert attended by Kent, Bart, and several of Kevin’s friends.
“We did go to the rodeo and the song was sung in Kevin’s honor, but it wasn’t so much a matter of deception.”
Kent then decided to talk, unprompted, about Bart prior to him skipping town and heading for Mexico. “Before I visited with him on his return from Mexico, I tried and tried and tried to believe the police or to believe Bart, and I was getting no details of the investigation. I got a lot of innuendos, a lot of saying that he’s a horrible guy, but there is nothing I would have turned my back on my son for. I understand it was a criminal investigation and they probably couldn’t have talked to me, but there should have been something that they could have said.” Kent looked up at Felcman. “The point is, I was not believing Bart, nor was I believing the police.”
“What was the defendant telling you while this investigation was going on? Before he fled to Mexico.”
“That he was innocent,” Kent said flatly.
“He also lied to you when you asked him about Adam Hipp and why the police were talking to him?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, he never told you he was talking to Adam Hipp and was trying to get him to lie for him?”
“No, he did not.”
“When the defendant would talk to you, did he just look you straight in the eye and say, ‘No, Dad, I don’t know what’s going on’?”
“Yes, he did,” Kent agreed.
“Looked you straight in the eye?”
“Straight in the eye.”
“And you couldn’t tell if he was lying or not?”
“I didn’t know.”
Felcman changed up the questioning by focusing on something Bo Bartlett brought up. “There’s been some talk about pressure—that somehow he had pressure and he wasn’t living up to expectations. What pressure were you putting on your son, if any?”
“To my knowledge, I wasn’t.”
Felcman spun around and almost smiled at the witness. “Mr. Whitaker, it sounds like you’re one of the nicest men in the world. I can’t imagine you putting any pressure on this defendant. Is that about right?”
“Not exactly, believe me.” Kent shied away from the compliment.
“Well, you forgave him for the burglaries. You helped him out afterward with that. You took him to a psychologist. You forgave him for not going to school and lying about that. I’m trying to figure out where in the world I’m getting this testi
mony that somehow Bart Whitaker is getting pressure to such an extent that he has to kill your son and wife. You didn’t give him any type of pressure, did you?”
Kent simply replied, “No.”
“Did Lynne Ayres ever tell you how the defendant viewed himself?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“That he viewed himself as an Atlas—that he could carry the world on his shoulders and do anything better than anyone else? Did she ever tell you that?”
Kent smiled and responded, “No, I don’t think so.” He began to chuckle. “That’s ridiculous.”
“She actually wrote that down,” Felcman countered, a rather serious look on his face. “That’s what the defendant told her. It’s not ridiculous. It’s what he told her.
“Did she ever tell you,” Felcman continued, “that the defendant wanted to join the FBI because he thought like a criminal?”
“Mr. Felcman, I don’t recall that conversation.”
The prosecutor moved on. “The testimony that you have given to Mr. McDonald seems to be the defendant wants to ride on your shoulders and somehow let this jury panel answer those questions based upon your standing, and not what the defendant has done. Now, you’ve said that you only have one son left, and that’s the reason you want this jury to spare the defendant. You realize you only have one son left because he’s killed everybody else?”
Kent was nonplussed by the tone of the prosecutor’s question. “I do realize that. Yes, I’m aware.”
Felcman was ready to drive his point home one last time. “Can you give this jury anything”—he sounded almost as if he were pleading with Kent Whitaker—“anything at all in regard to the defendant’s background, how he was raised, the way he was treated by you or your wife, that somehow lessens his moral blameworthiness in causing the death of your wife and son? I mean, anything at all?”
Kent did not hesitate to answer. “Regardless of what would have happened during his childhood, there is nothing that would reduce the horror of this act. I am aware of it.”
“You just want this jury to say, ‘No, we’re going to give him life because it’s going to hurt Kent Whitaker and Bo Bartlett,’ right?”
“No,” Kent responded emphatically. “No, that isn’t it at all.”
“Do you have any evidence to contradict that your son is not going to be a continuing threat to society?”
“I can’t read his heart, Mr. Felcman. I don’t think you understand the basis for my arguing against the death penalty in this case. I am a loving father and don’t want my son to die. I admit it.” Many observers in the gallery sat rapt in attention. Some were on the verge of tears. “I want a relationship with my son, even if it’s in jail, where I can find out why this happened. But the majority of the reason for my objection to the death penalty is because I can’t read his heart. While I believe that the person who came back from Mexico is different from the person who left, when he ran away, I don’t know that for sure. But the single most important thing in my life right now is that my son go to Heaven, and if he has not accepted responsibility in his heart for this, if he has not asked the Lord for forgiveness…” Kent paused to compose his wits. “I have forgiven him. I forgave whoever was involved. But the important one is the Lord. If he has not done that, I want the jury to give him as much time as possible so that he can reach that conclusion.”
Felcman interjected, “How would you…?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Kent reacted quickly. “There’s one more step. If he has reached that, I want the jury to give him as much time as possible so that he can speak to others about the way that the Lord has forgiven him. Redemption is something that everyone in this room has to have before they die. I want it for my son.”
“You understand that you’re not the only religious person in this courtroom,” a piqued Felcman informed the father. “There are people on this jury panel that are deacons in the Baptist Church. You understand that?”
“I don’t know the members of the jury.”
“And here we don’t look into a person’s heart. God does. How would this jury have any indication as to whether or not the defendant has true remorse?”
“I will tell you some conversations that I’ve had with him. You want those,” Kent asked, “or do you think that I’m so deluded that I’d be fooled by him?”
“Did he show true remorse? Did he ever say, ‘I did it. I’ll let the jury know I did it’? Did he ever accept responsibility? Anything like that?” Felcman shrugged his shoulders.
“In the legal system in which we are entangled, I do not know my way around. I have been told that it is imperative that you do not state specifics, because if it’s recorded, that becomes the basis for shooting right through to the death penalty. And so Bart has been very careful not to say specifically, ‘Dad, I did it.’” Kent paused briefly. “The first thing he told me when I saw him after returning from Mexico was ‘Dad, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I’m going to do everything I can to make this easy and painless and as quick as possible for everybody.’ That was the first time I had any realization that there was a possibility that he could be guilty.”
Kent was not yet finished.
“Ever since he was arrested,” the father recalled, “he has tried to accept a penalty of life in prison. He would never, ever get back out on the streets, yet the state has chosen to pursue the death penalty.” Kent looked more intently at Felcman. “Now, this is your choice, and I understand that you’re good men and that this is a decision that y’all have made based on a lot of different factors, but I’m telling you it’s wrong.”
Felcman was not surprised at the answer. “He’s always tried to negotiate. He has never put his neck on the line—”
“He tried,” Kent interrupted emphatically. “I’m sorry, but that’s just not true.”
“Mr. Whitaker, do you see how this defendant has manipulated people time and time and time again?”
“I have. I see all of the lies that you’re talking about. I recognize them.” Kent’s answer obviously did not seem to absolve him of any pain.
“Mr. Whitaker, I have one last question. Do you understand that the way you’re testifying—how this is going to affect you—has nothing to do with what the defendant’s going to do in the future?”
“I can’t read his heart,” Kent reiterated, “so I guess I’d have to answer yes. I don’t know what he’s going to do in the future.”
Felcman looked up at Kent and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitaker, that we got a little bit contentious. I did not plan on doing that.”
“I believe you, and I never wanted to, either,” responded the contrite father. “I think you guys are honorable men.”
Randy McDonald returned for the final redirect examination of Kent. “There is no question in your mind that we have tried to plead guilty to this, for the life sentence?”
“We have tried mightily,” Kent assented.
“And you have known for a very long time, as I have, that Bart Whitaker is going to testify here today, haven’t you?”
“I thought there was a very good chance you might call him.”
And call Bart Whitaker they would.
52
March 6, 2007
Fort Bend County Courthouse
Richmond, Texas
The moment everyone was looking forward to could not have been more of a letdown. The evil-genius mastermind Bart Whitaker had elected to take the stand in an attempt to humanize himself before the jury of his peers, who already had found him guilty of first-degree murder. Bart did very little in way of turning that impression around, based on his performance on the witness stand that day.
Bart took the stand, looking worse for wear. His close-cropped crew cut did him no favors in bolstering the innocent-looking portion of his redemption. Nor did his usual three-mile stare. A lack of emotion was not going to win him any brownie points with this crowd.
Bart sat across from his attorney, Randy McDonald, wh
o asked his client to introduce himself to the courtroom.
“Thomas Bartlett Whitaker,” Bart responded, using his entire given name.
“Mr. Whitaker,” McDonald proceeded, “you are convicted of capital murder?”
“Yes, sir,” Bart replied in a calm, even voice.
“Did that come as any surprise to you?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
“In the entire time I’ve been representing you”—McDonald paused, then looked at the impaneled jury—“have we ever offered a defense?”
“No, sir, not on guilt or innocence,” Bart responded, his gaze also drifted up from his attorney over toward the jury.
“Have you ever tried to—and before I knew any facts of this case—have me go to the district attorney’s office and plead to any amount of time that they wanted to?”
“As many life sentences as they wanted to, sir,” Bart responded in the most polite and obliging manner as was feasibly possible.
“Now, as far as you getting up here and pleading guilty,” McDonald asked his client, “that was my call?”
“Yes, sir,” Bart agreed.
District Attorney Felcman was annoyed by this entire sequence of events. He could make neither heads nor tails out of what McDonald and Bart were up to, so he asked for a conference with the judge. He was especially annoyed with McDonald because the defense attorney had insisted throughout the trial that he was not sure if he would ever call Bart up to the stand. Normal protocol is to provide the opposing side with a witness list, and Bart was never designated as definitive.
After some minor bickering between attorneys, McDonald continued his questioning of his own client. “Let’s get to the point,” McDonald declared. “Bart, I know, because of the system and the way it works, the jury had to make the ultimate call to get to this stage,” he stated in reference to their decision to render guilt after the guilt/innocence phase of the trial. “Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.” Bart nodded.
“And had we known for a very long time that at this stage you were going to testify?”
“Yes, sir.” This, of course, was news to Felcman, but he chose to ignore the defense attorney’s machinations.
Savage Son Page 24
