30
The courtroom can be a lonely and scary place. Especially when you are a criminal defense attorney representing a client who appears to be guilty as sin. Even more so if you are handling the case without a partner.
Tom sat alone at the defense table with his legs crossed and gazed at the yellow pad in his lap, which was blank now but by the end of the day would be filled with notes summarizing the witnesses called by the prosecution. He was leaning slightly to the right in his chair, which seemed to be the only position he could sit in that wasn’t painful. The back pain that had started a couple months earlier with a few spasms was almost ever present now, and he knew he would eventually have to follow his son’s advice and get it x-rayed. For now, though, with a capital murder case in full swing, there simply wasn’t time. He’d have to stick with his regimen of several Advil a day and pray that the ibuprofen alleviated the pain enough so that he could function.
He raised his eyes and looked at the clock behind the judge’s bench. It was 8:55 a.m., and the preliminary hearing was supposed to start at nine. In all capital murder cases in Alabama, the court is required to schedule a preliminary hearing within thirty days of arrest to determine if there is probable cause that the defendant committed the crime. Though many times “the prelim,” as it is typically referred to amongst lawyers, is extended by mutual agreement, the state had not asked for an enlargement. Today was June 11, 2012—exactly thirty days since Wilma Newton was arrested for the murder of Jack Willistone.
“Professor, how you doin’?”
Tom looked up and saw Powell Conrad standing in front of him. The prosecutor wore a navy suit, white shirt, and red tie. His sandy hair, which appeared to have recently been trimmed, still looked like a mop on his head. “My back is killing me,” Tom said. Then, as gingerly as he could manage, he stood and shook hands with his former student.
“We got the final ballistics, autopsy, and DNA reports back yesterday afternoon,” Powell said, holding up a manila envelope and flipping it onto the defense table. “Those are your copies. I put a rush on them so that we could have them before the prelim.”
Tom felt his stomach tighten. “Can you give me a sneak preview?”
“Ballistics analysis confirms that shell casings found on Zorn’s dock as well as the bullet dislodged from the victim’s sternum are a match for the nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson pistol discovered underneath the dock. As you know already, that weapon was registered in your client’s name and had only her prints on it.”
Although it was jarring, Tom had already assumed that the ballistics report would match, given what Wade had told him on his first visit to the jail. “And the DNA?”
Powell’s eyebrows creased. “Remember the cap found on the dock? It’s mentioned in Wade’s investigative report, and Willistone is wearing it in the video at the Oasis.”
“Yes.” In his mind’s eye, Tom visualized the hat as seen on the tape and described in the detective’s summary. White with the block letters “WTC” in crimson on the front and “Willistone Trucking Company” in smaller crimson lettering underneath.
“Well, saliva matching the sample provided by the defendant was found on the bill.” Powell hesitated. “There was also a very small strand of saliva located on the victim’s collar, which must have hung out of the water enough for it to stay on. It also matches the defendant’s sample.”
Tom felt his heart constrict, and he was too stunned to speak.
“She spat on him, Professor,” Powell continued. “After she put three bullet holes in him . . . she spat on him.”
A few seconds of silence passed as the prosecutor allowed Tom to appreciate the gravity of this finding. Though his stomach was turning, Tom forced himself to speak in a calm, measured tone. He knew there might be other explanations for the saliva, but Powell’s conclusion certainly made sense, and the image that he had just painted would be powerful in front of a jury. “Anything else?”
Powell’s grim expression reminded Tom of the way a dog owner might gaze at a long-suffering pet a couple minutes before the veterinarian puts the animal down. “We also have a video from the guardhouse at the entrance to Zorn’s neighborhood for the night of May 8.” Powell pointed at the envelope on the table. “There’s a DVD in that package with a copy of this recording on it.”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “I take it my client is on there.”
Powell slowly nodded. “Coming and going.” He took a step closer and leaned his head forward, his bloodshot eyes resonating intensity and conviction. “She killed him, Professor. I was sure of it before we had those things, but now I know I can prove it beyond any shadow of doubt.” He started to say more, but then the bailiff swung open the door to the judge’s chambers. “ALL RISE!”
As they waited for Her Honor to emerge from the opening, Powell leaned closer and spoke into Tom’s ear. “If you ever decide to withdraw as counsel, I won’t oppose it and I’ll make sure Ms. Newton has enough time to retain a new attorney or have the court appoint her one. You have my word on that.”
Tom gazed at his former student in disbelief. “When have you ever known me to quit?”
Powell’s face darkened but he didn’t blink. “You’re gonna want to at the end of this hearing.”
“The State of Alabama v. Wilma Christine Newton.” The Honorable Leah Combs banged her gavel once on the bench and gazed down at the attorneys. Combs was a district court judge elected three years ago after the more popular candidate, who had been expected to win in a landslide, failed to list all of his campaign donations and was disqualified from the race. As a lawyer, Combs had been a solo practitioner who had forgotten none of the hard knocks she had suffered during fifteen years of private practice battling spoiled attorneys from silk-stocking firms and overworked assistant DAs. In her three years on the bench, she had a reputation for starting on time, not fussing with much pomp and circumstance and, first and foremost, entering rulings, whether right or wrong, in a timely manner. Her quick and decisive judgments made her a favorite of the local bar, as the other two district judges, both of whom had much more distinguished careers as attorneys, had grown lazy in their years wearing the robe. Not Leah Combs. With her face full of freckles, petite stature, and curious eyes, she still looked like the awkward, inquisitive student who had sat on the front row of Tom’s Evidence and Torts classes almost two decades earlier.
Still standing, Combs looked over the attorneys’ heads to the gallery, which was filled to capacity with spectators, many of whom were reporters for local, state, and even national news outlets. Tom had noticed the cameras in the hallway as he entered, and he knew that whatever the results of today’s hearing, there would be full coverage in the newspapers and online publications within hours of its conclusion. Not too long ago, Jack Willistone had been one of the richest businessmen in the country, whose trucks lined interstates and highways from Alabama to California. His fall from grace and subsequent incarceration were big news two years ago, and his brutal murder just thirty-six hours after being released from prison had galvanized the news media’s zest for scandal. The defendant’s being an attractive former prostitute whose husband had been killed driving a Willistone rig did nothing to quell the reporters’ interest. Finally, Tom knew his own involvement in the case had also stirred the pot. The Tuscaloosa News’s Sunday edition had even published a photograph of him below the front-page story announcing the date and time of the prelim with an article entitled “Local Legend McMurtrie Representing Another Capital Murder Defendant.” The story hit on Tom’s career as a professor and return to the courtroom in Henshaw two years earlier to bring Willistone down, but the majority of the article focused on the televised trial of Bocephus Haynes in Pulaski the previous fall. The last sentence posed a question that Tom himself had asked several times since visiting Wilma Newton at the jail three weeks ago: “Given his age and the stress of litigation, could this be Professor McMurtrie’s last trial?”
Judge Combs cleared her throat
and spoke in a strong voice. “I realize that this case has gotten a lot of attention in the press, but I expect quiet in the courtroom today. Anyone who cannot respect the decorum of this court will be removed by my bailiff.” She then placed both hands on the bench and leaned forward, looking at Powell first. “Mr. Conrad, is the state ready to begin?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
She then looked at Tom and gave him a warm smile. “Professor McMurtrie, are you ready?”
Tom gave a slight bow. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Combs’s face flushed a slight pink, which Tom remembered had happened in class when she was able to answer a question correctly after being called upon.
“Very well,” the judge said, the smile now gone as she turned to her bailiff. “Benny, please bring in the defendant.”
Wilma Newton was escorted into the courtroom by two sheriff’s deputies, with the judge’s bailiff, Benny Passon, leading the way. Wilma wore a black blouse and matching skirt that she said was the most professional outfit she owned. As she passed the front row of the gallery, where her daughter Laurie Ann sat alone, Tom stole a glance at the teenage girl who had gotten him into this mess. Laurie Ann Newton wore dark jeans and a burgundy blouse, and her dirty-blond hair was done up in a ponytail. She raised her eyebrows, and Tom could tell that she was holding her hands together to keep them from shaking. He gave her a thumbs-up sign as the officers removed her mother’s handcuffs and left her with Tom at the table.
“Are we ready?” Wilma whispered, raising her eyebrows in much the same way her daughter had just done as she and Tom both took their seats.
Tom nodded. “Like we discussed yesterday, today we see the state’s case against you. We don’t call our own witnesses. Our goal is to learn as much about the prosecution’s case as possible.”
“How bad do you think it will be?” she asked.
Tom had strategically chosen not to disclose the information provided thus far by the prosecution to his client. He wanted her to see everything fresh without his poisoning the well. He looked across the room at Powell, who was hovering over the prosecution table and looking over some notes on a yellow pad. His focus and intensity were palpable. Tom then moved his eyes to the end of the table, where Detective Wade Richey sat with his legs crossed. He wore a navy suit and maroon tie and held a notebook in his lap. It had been years since Tom had seen Wade dressed for court, and he almost didn’t recognize his old friend, whose normal dress was a black T-shirt and jeans. With his salt-and-pepper hair and matching mustache, the detective bore an eerie resemblance to Sam Elliott’s portrayal of the lawman Virgil Earp in Tombstone. Wade caught Tom’s eye, and his expression was grim. Tom figured Wade had given this same look to many criminal defense attorneys in his years as a homicide detective. Tom also assumed this was the expression Wade saved for those same lawyers’ clients right before he watched them ride the needle.
“Professor?” Wilma grabbed Tom’s arm, and he mercifully broke free of Wade’s stare. He looked at her and tried to keep his expression neutral as she repeated her question. “How bad?”
Tom glanced at the unopened manila envelope that Powell had dropped on the defense table a few moments ago. “Worse than we think,” he said, squeezing her hand and steeling himself for what was about to come.
31
The first and only witness called by the state was Detective Wade Richey. As the threshold in a preliminary hearing is probable cause and hearsay is admissible, Wade was allowed to summarize the witness interviews, expert reports, and video evidence gathered by the state. The picture painted was dire for the defense of Wilma Newton.
Powell began with motive, having Wade describe Jack and Wilma’s encounter at the Oasis Bar & Grill a few hours prior to the murder. He hit the high points from the video and the handwritten statement of the bartender, Toby Dothard, including showing footage of the altercation outside the bar and reading the part from Dothard’s statement where Wilma yells at Jack, “‘You’re going to pay me my money or I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”
Next came evidence establishing Wilma’s opportunity to do the deed, and Powell wisely had the detective start with the discovery of the corpse and work his way backward. The body of Jack Willistone was found on the banks of the Black Warrior River a quarter of a mile west of the Cypress Inn Restaurant. Two fraternity brothers from the university, Todd Shuman and Happy Caldwell, found the corpse while trying to hit a golf ball across the river. Caldwell called 911 at 2:37 a.m. on May 9, 2012, and a group of sheriff’s deputies, led by Roland Lusk, arrived on the scene at 2:50 a.m. Wade was there before 3:15 a.m.
At just after 4:00 a.m., Jack Willistone’s Toyota 4Runner was discovered in the garage of a lake home owned by Gregory Zorn, Willistone’s attorney. Willistone’s cell phone was located on the dock attached to Zorn’s boathouse. Upon investigation, the only calls that Jack had received on the phone, which he had purchased earlier in the day from Verizon, were from his wife, Kathryn, and his ex-wife, Barbara, in addition to a number registered to Wilma Christine Newton. The last communications were an exchange of text messages between Wilma and Jack. The first was from Wilma at 9:30 p.m. on May 8, 2012: I want to see you again.
Jack replied at 9:34: Have you reconsidered my proposition?
Wilma at 9:35: Yes. Where can we meet?
Jack at 9:45: My attorney’s house on the river. 1400 Rice Mine Road. Bent Creek subdivision. Tell the guy at the guardhouse you’re visiting Greg Zorn. His place is at the bottom of the hill nearest the water. Let’s meet here in thirty minutes.
Wilma at 9:46: C u then.
Powell then handed the detective a document with several pages stapled together. “Detective Richey, was an autopsy of the victim’s body performed?”
“Yes. Ingrid Barnett, chief medical examiner for the State of Alabama, performed the autopsy.”
“And did Dr. Barnett prepare an autopsy report?”
“Yes. I’m holding it right here.”
“What did she determine to be the approximate time of death?”
Wade flipped the pages until he reached the section he wanted. “It was Dr. Barnett’s conclusion, based upon her examination and analysis of the body, that Jack Willistone died during the two-hour period from 10:00 p.m. to midnight on May 8, 2012.”
Powell finished this sequence by having Wade read from the witness statement of Othello Humphrey, the security guard at Bent Creek, who remembered seeing a woman driving a white Mustang Coupe come through the entrance at just after 10:00 p.m. When shown a picture of the defendant, Humphrey identified Wilma Newton as the driver. Humphrey said the Mustang exited the subdivision approximately thirty minutes after arrival. Wade then summarized the surveillance tape from the guardhouse, which showed a white Mustang registered to Wilma Newton entering Bent Creek at 10:07 p.m. and exiting at 10:38 p.m.
“So, Detective, for clarity’s sake, we have a time of death from 10:00 p.m. to midnight, and the defendant is seen on video coming into and out of the subdivision where the crime occurred during the operative period.”
“That is correct.”
Powell took his time walking to the witness stand, where Wade handed him the videotapes from the Bent Creek subdivision and the Oasis. Tom glanced at Judge Combs, who was writing notes on a pad she kept at the bench. He figured Her Honor was probably marking off the necessary boxes needed for the crime of murder. Motive, check. Opportunity, check. He remembered one of the lessons he had drilled into his trial teams. When you’ve made a key point, oftentimes the best way to emphasize it is to say nothing and let the information sink in. Powell Conrad, one of Tom’s finest former students, had just illustrated the effectiveness of this tactic, and despite his adversarial role in these proceedings, it was hard for Tom not to feel a trace of pride.
That feeling quickly changed to apprehension when the district attorney strode back to the prosecution table and retrieved a clear plastic baggie. Holding it from the ends, he turned and showed the package to
Tom.
Inside the ziplock container was a nine-millimeter pistol.
Next to him, Tom heard a sharp intake of breath. Tom forced himself not to look at his client, but he could hear her legs shaking underneath the table. Calmly, he placed his own foot over hers, and after a few seconds the shaking stopped.
Powell then made a show of presenting Wade the baggie on the prosecution table, who in turn held it up so the judge could view the gun. During this demonstration, Tom looked behind his shoulder to where Laurie Ann Newton sat in the front row. She was still squeezing her hands together, her face pale. He wondered if she knew the full extent of the evidence against her mother. If not, she was seeing it now in all its glory.
He tried to give her a reassuring nod, but he doubted it worked. Laurie Ann gazed back at Tom like he was holding the only life preserver on the Titanic.
Powell then took Wade through the most devastating part of the state’s case. “Detective, were you able to determine the identity of the owner of this weapon?”
“Yes. Using the serial number, we learned that the gun was last purchased at Willie’s Pistol & Pawn in Fayetteville, Tennessee, on February 22, 2010. The purchaser was Wilma Christine Newton.”
“Is the gun registered?”
Wade nodded. “The registered owner of the weapon is Wilma Christine Newton.”
“And did you find any prints on the gun?” Powell asked, his voice rising to the far walls of the courtroom.
“Yes,” Wade said. “There were four prints on the handle of the weapon.”
“And were you able to identify to whom those prints belonged?”
“We were,” Wade said, turning and looking at Judge Combs. “The only prints on the gun were identified as belonging to Wilma Christine Newton.”
Tom could hear his client’s shallow breaths next to him. Stealing a quick glance, he saw Wilma scribbling a note on the yellow pad in front of her. Without looking at him, she slid the pad ever so slightly so that Tom could read the words she had written. “I need a break. I’m going to be sick.”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 17
