Mark the Sparrow

by Clark Howard

  Lew Lach and Robert Cloud had entered the courtroom shortly after two o’clock and walked down the aisle to the front row left, marked PRESS ONLY. Cloud did not recognize any of the three already sitting in the row, but Lach apparently knew them all—or at least they knew Lach, for each of them waved or bobbed his head in acknowledgment of his arrival. He and Cloud took the two end seats, and Lach at once lighted a cigarette in complete indifference to several NO SMOKING signs. Cloud saw the bailiff glance at Lach and then resume reading his paper, apparently unconcerned.

  “That’s G. Foster Klein,” Lach said confidentially to Cloud, indicating one of the men at the prosecutor’s counsel table. “He’s the D.A.’s hatchet man. He and old Judge Lukey keep about twenty of those thirty death cells occupied up at San Quentin.”

  Cloud studied the man Lach had indicated. G. Foster Klein was short and stocky, the kind who looked short and stocky even sitting down. His hair was straight and black, almost slick. There was something crisp and sharp about him, an attitude of alertness and formidability. This was belied, but only slightly, by his rather pudgy cheeks, which looked as if they had the capacity, even the inclination, to become florid. This minor characteristic did not, however, detract at all from the imposing impression the man usually made: G. Foster Klein, chief prosecutor of the largest county in the state, a master of trial strategy and an expert in the complicated, often ambiguous field of criminal law.

  “Why do you call him a hatchet man?” Cloud asked.

  “Because in eighteen years of prosecuting killers, kidnappers, and rapists, he’s managed to get death sentences forty-one times. That’s a lot of bodies.” Lach nudged Cloud with his elbow. “Incidentally, for your own information, he’s also a publicity hog. Loves the press. Which makes him a good man to know.”

  Cloud nodded. Then he turned his attention from Klein to a large chart on an easel facing the jury box. “What’s that thing?”

  “Don’t know,” said Lach. “Looks like some kind of breakdown of the charges against the punk.”

  “Think I’ll take a look.” Cloud pushed through the low swinging gate into the business side of the courtroom. “All right if I take a look at that chart over there?” he asked the bailiff.

  “Go ahead. Long as you don’t move it.”

  Cloud walked over to the chart. Several sheets of poster-board had been put together to form a surface perhaps six feet wide and four feet high. The lettering was hand drafted, very precise, starkly black. The words and sentences and the accusations they formed were bold and commanding, a harsh recapitulation of the charges made by the state against Weldon Whitman.

  Cloud’s eyes moved slowly down the list. It read like a one-man crime wave. There were eight charges of armed robbery and one of attempted robbery; one burglary and one grand theft auto; one assault with a deadly weapon and one assault and battery; four counts of kidnapping, two sex-perversion charges, and one attempted rape.

  Cloud shook his head. Weldon Whitman was accused of doing all that—in a single three-week period.

  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” said a pleasant, even voice. Cloud turned to see G. Foster Klein standing next to him.

  “Almost too hard,” Cloud said. He held out his hand.

  “Robert Cloud of the Ledger. You’re Mr. Klein, I believe.”

  “Yes. I thought I noticed you in the press row earlier,” Klein said, shaking hands. “If you have any questions about the case, I’ll be happy to help you.”

  “Did he really do all this?”

  “He did it, all right. Come over here and let me show you something.” Klein led Cloud to his counsel table and picked up a thick, bound file. “This is the record of testimony given at the preliminary hearing in the case of the People of the State of California versus Weldon Carpenter Whitman. Let me recap it for you—”

  G. Foster Klein began paging through the transcript.

  “On a Saturday night early in June of this year, a lone gunman entered a Pasadena menswear shop and held it up for around eight hundred dollars. The proprietor later identified Whitman in a police lineup, identified a stolen sport coat Whitman was wearing when apprehended, and indentified the type of automatic pistol used in the robbery and found on Whitman at the time of his arrest.

  “Ten days later, also in Pasadena, an automobile was stolen from a young housewife while she was shopping. That car was the vehicle Whitman was driving when he was captured by the police.

  “Four nights after the car theft, a family consisting of husband, wife, and daughter were returning to their home, again in Pasadena, and had just driven their car into the driveway when they observed a burglar climbing out of their bedroom window. The burglar escaped but was later identified by the family as Whitman after they saw his picture in the newspaper.

  “Less than nine hours after that incident, at about five o’clock the next morning, a man and a woman driving on a lonely stretch of highway up near Malibu were forced to the side of the road by a car with a red spotlight, which they assumed to be a police vehicle. As it turned out, it was a car being driven by a lone gunman; he had put red cellophane over the spotlight. The gunman robbed the people of eighty dollars. The driver of the car identified Whitman in a lineup, and identified the type of automobile and gun used in the holdup.”

  Klein paused and glanced up to be sure Cloud was listening. Then he continued relentlessly, almost as if addressing a jury.

  “Approximately sixteen hours later, between nine-thirty and ten o’clock that night, a man visiting here from the midwest was out with a woman on a date. They were parked up in the hills of Mulholland Drive, in the lovers’-lane section that looks down on the lights of Los Angeles, when a car, again with a red spotlight, pulled up behind them. They were approached by a person whom they first assumed to be a policeman, but who turned out to be a holdup man. The visitor was robbed of forty dollars. The woman with him was slapped across the face by the holdup man when he thought she was looking too closely at his appearance. Both victims identified Whitman in a lineup.

  “Twenty-four hours later, at about nine-thirty the following night, a divorced woman named Doris Calder was on a date with a man she works with. They were parked at another section of Mulholland Drive. Similar events took place: the car with the red spotlight; an approach by a person they assumed to be a police officer. In this instance the gunman robbed the man of forty-five dollars, took his car keys so that he could not leave the scene, and forced Mrs. Calder to accompany him back to the car with the red spotlight. Once in the gunman’s car, the woman was robbed of six dollars which she had in her purse, and was then forced at gunpoint to commit a perverted sex act by copulating the gunman’s penis with her mouth. Both victims of this incident identified Weldon Whitman as the gunman.”

  Again Klein paused to look up. He was satisfied that he still had Robert Cloud’s undivided attention.

  “Around midnight of the following night,” he continued, “a similar incident occurred involving another man and woman parked on one of the lovers’ lanes. In this instance the man was robbed of twelve dollars. Whitman was also identified by this victim.

  “Three nights later, also around midnight, a young college student and an eighteen-year-old high-school girl named Glory Ann Luza were returning from a dance and parked on still another of the lovers’ lanes off Mulholland. They were approached in the same manner by a solitary gunman who emerged from a car equipped with a red spotlight. Incidentally, by this time the newspapers and the police had dubbed him the Spotlight Bandit because of his method of operation. Now, in this particular Spotlight Bandit crime, there was only an attempted robbery, since neither the college boy or the girl had any money. Following the attempted robbery, the gunman then ordered the Luza girl into his car and drove away with her. He drove around with her for approximately a quarter of an hour, then parked on a deserted dirt road somewhere in the foothills. There he forced the girl, at gunpoint, to commit a perverted sex act by copulating his penis with her mouth
. After that, he forced her to completely disrobe and get into the rear seat of the automobile. After disrobing himself, he attempted unsuccessfully to rape the girl. Although he wasn’t able to rape her, he did force the girl to participate in a sexual orgy lasting approximately two hours. After that, he drove her down out of the foothills and released her.” Klein looked up at Cloud and tapped the open page of the transcript with his finger. “Both the girl and her escort made positive identifications of Whitman in a police lineup.”

  “He’s certainly been identified by enough people,” Cloud said.

  “Want to hear how he was captured?” Klein asked.

  “Sure.”

  Klein thumbed through the pages to another part of the testimony. “On the evening after Glory Ann Luza’s ordeal up in the hills,” he said, “a lone gunman entered a small menswear store in Redondo Beach and ordered the proprietor and one male clerk into a back room. When the proprietor hesitated, the gunman struck him across the face with his gun. After taking their wallets and locking the two men in the back room, the gunman looted the store of two hundred dollars in cash and approximately five hundred dollars in merchandise.

  “Whitman was captured about an hour after the clothing-store robbery, with the merchandise still in his possession. The car he was driving—the one stolen from the Pasadena housewife—was spotted by a police radio car. When they attempted to stop him, Whitman accelerated. The officers went after him. After a wild chase through the streets, the officers finally were forced to ram the stolen car in order to stop it. Whitman leaped from the car and they had to chase him on foot until they were able to forcibly subdue him. He fought like a wild man even after the officers got him handcuffed.”

  Cloud shook his head thoughtfully. “Almost sounds like the guy’s crazy.”

  “No. No, he’s not crazy. He’s a hardened, confirmed, incorrigible criminal. And a three-time loser on top of it.” Klein tapped the thick transcript again. “Incidently, the proprietor of that menswear store also identified Whitman in a police lineup.”

  “What about the clerk?” Cloud asked.

  “He wasn’t able to make a positive identification,” Klein said. “However, we had adequate circumstantial evidence in lieu of an identification: Whitman had the clerk’s wallet in his pocket at the time of his capture.” Klein picked up a partly filled glass of water and drank a swallow. “At any rate, that particular incident isn’t one that we’re emphasizing in this case. The two we’re concentrating on are the ones involving the Calder woman and the Luza girl. Those are the two that will send Whitman to the gas chamber.”

  “I was wondering about that,” Cloud said. “I’m not too familiar with California law; I’ve only been in the state a couple of months. How can you ask for the death penalty without a murder?”

  “The kidnapping statutes,” Klein explained. “The law states that when a person is kidnapped for the purpose of robbery, and as a result of that kidnapping suffers bodily injury of any kind, that it is a capital offense. Come over here, I’ll show you—” Klein led Cloud back to the big chart. “Right here,” he said, indicating the crime shown next to the name of Doris Calder. “He kidnapped this woman by forcing her to move at gunpoint from her companion’s car to his car; the kidnapping was for the purpose of robbery because he stole six dollars from her purse; and she suffered bodily injury by being forced to commit an unnatural sex act.” Klein leaned closer to him and lowered his voice. “Incidentally, that’s Mrs. Calder in the front row across from the press section.”

  Cloud saw a shapely, rather hard-looking but not unattractive woman in her late thirties. She had bleached hair that on her was very becoming, and was wearing a dress that accentuated her wide shoulders and excellent breasts.

  Turning back to the chart, Cloud saw that Klein’s finger was now next to the name of Glory Ann Luza.

  “Here’s an even better example,” the prosecutor said. “The kidnapping is much clearer in this case, since he actually removed the girl from the scene and drove around for fifteen or twenty minutes. And although there was no actual robbery—the girl had no money with her—the crime was still begun for the purpose of robbery, and that’s all the statute requires. And, of course, the girl suffered the same bodily injury as the other victim: forced participation in a perverted sex act.”

  Cloud nodded again. “What about the other two kidnapping charges? The recap shows four.”

  “Yes, the other two are technical kidnaps,” Klein explained. He pointed to the last two names at the bottom of the chart: Edward Fields and George Roland. “The proprietor and the clerk in the Redondo Beach clothing store. The two men were moved at gunpoint from one room to another.”

  “That’s stretching the law a bit thin, isn’t it?” Cloud asked pointedly.

  “Perhaps,” Klein smiled. “But in a case like this, with a criminal as dangerous as Whitman, well, we feel that the end justifies the means. This is an extreme case, Mr. Cloud. The public must be protected from someone like Whitman.”

  Before Cloud could comment further, the bailiff walked over to them. “Excuse me, Mr. Klein. Jury’s coming in.”

  Suddenly, Cloud was standing by the chart all alone. G. Foster Klein was back at the counsel table speaking briskly to his assistant. The court clerk was clearing off his desk. The old court reporter with the hearing aid was clearing his stenotype machine. New spectators were filing into the courtroom and the bailiff was directing them to be seated quickly before the judge resumed the bench.

  Robert Cloud returned to the press row to rejoin Lew Lach.

  Silence descended upon the courtroom as its high priest, the Honorable Carl V. Lukey, judge presiding, resumed his place on the bench. A moment before, all eyes in the room had been on Weldon Whitman being brought in from the holding cell; now they turned to the slight wisp of a man known throughout the state as “the hanging judge.”

  Carl Lukey was nearing seventy. His oval face was a mass of deep, dry wrinkles. His eyes, small, slitted, keenly piercing, beady, were made to seem more so by the enormity of his ears. The dome of his head, bullet-shaped, was sparsely covered by irregular lines of black hair combed straight back. As he seated himself at the bar of justice on this particular day, he was in his twenty-ninth year as a judge of the Superior Court. He was already a legend.

  The judge’s eyes swept the courtroom. The spectators were quiet and attentive. Bailiff in position. Court recorder at the ready. Clerk standing by. Prosecution present. Defendant present. Everything as it should be; his domain was in order.

  “Bring in the jury,” the judge ordered in a raspy but firm voice.

  The jury filed into the jury box: nine women first, then three male jurors, one of whom took his place in the foreman’s chair. The judge, who had leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling while this shuffling of feet was going on, straightened when it subsided and silence returned. He faced the panel of twelve.

  “Have you agreed upon a verdict, Mr. Foreman?” he asked.

  “We have.” The foreman rose from his chair and handed the court clerk a sheaf of paper slips folded neatly and clipped together. The clerk took them to the bench and handed them up to Lukey.

  Silence hovered heavily in the courtroom as the judge unclipped the slips and examined them one by one, in order, comparing them with his copy of the indictment. His expression did not alter in the slightest; it was an old, familiar routine to him. He had long since lost count of the number of men who had gone from his courtroom to eternity.

  He handed the slips back to his clerk. “The clerk may read the verdicts as returned by the jury,” he said formally, settling back in his high leather chair.

  “We, the jury,” intoned the clerk, “impaneled and sworn in the above entitled cause, do, upon our oaths, find the defendant, Weldon C. Whitman, guilty of robbery, a felony, as charged in Count One of the Indictment, and find it to be Robbery of the First Degree.”

  Robert Cloud, from the nearby press row, saw Weldon Whitman’s sh
oulders drop.

  “We, the jury … find the defendant, Weldon C. Whitman, guilty of grand larceny of an automobile, a felony, as charged in Count Two of the Indictment.”

  Briefly, a moment of possible hope.

  “We the jury … not guilty of burglary as charged in Count Three….”

  But after that, only defeat.

  “We the jury … guilty of robbery as charged in Count Four … Count Five … Count Six …”

  Then, the ultimate blow.

  “… guilty of kidnapping for the purpose of robbery, and find that the person so kidnapped did suffer bodily harm, and fix the defendant’s punishment at death.”

  All that followed was anticlimactic: Sex perversion, guilty. Robbery, guilty. Assault and battery, guilty. Attempted robbery, guilty. Assault with a deadly weapon, guilty. Kidnapping again, guilty. Another death sentence.

  “Now they can gas him twice,” Lew Lach whispered. Cloud glanced distastefully at him.

  The clerk continued to read. Sex perversion again, guilty. Attempted rape, guilty. More counts of armed robbery, all guilty. Two more kidnapping charges, these the two technical ones; guilty with a recommendation of life imprisonment.

  Then it was over. Almost before Cloud knew it, he was listening to Judge Lukey commend, thank, and discharge the jury, and set two weeks from that day as the date for the formal sentencing of the defendant. He ordered Weldon Whitman back into custody of the sheriff. Then he adjourned.

  After Lukey left the bench and entered his chambers, the spectators began to disperse. Lach and Cloud stood up as a sheriff’s deputy led a handcuffed Weldon Whitman around the defendant’s counsel table. The prisoner passed within a few feet of the two reporters. Whitman glanced briefly at them but did not speak. Cloud felt a sudden strong desire to again say something to Whitman—anything, a word of some kind—but with Lach there he did not. Then Whitman was past them and being taken back to the depths behind the courtroom.

  “Well, that’s it,” Lach said, lighting a cigarette and moving into the aisle. “A good afternoon shot. Could’ve got the whole story on the phone. Hoskins and his bright ideas about one of the jury broads wetting her bloomers. Shit!”