Rule, Ann - If You Realy Loved Me UChtm,FBS 38

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  "There's no doubt in my mind—Patti."

  In this utterly fascinating study of psychopathy, David Brown completely reversed himself on everything he had emphatically stated at the beginning of the interrogation.

  He had assessed the damage to himself and "erased" what he had said before.

  Now, he remembered telling Cinnamon to say she did it so she would get less time.

  Now, he remembered telling Cinnamon to say she had lost her memory.

  Now, he remembered that he went to his fourteen-year-old daughter and asked her to lie—to protect' Patti.

  Now, he recalled preparing medication for Cinnamon to drink to make it look as if she were trying to commit suicide. But he didn't want to hurt her. He had mixed up Tylenol, Bayer aspirin, and baking soda, "just something to make her sick to her stomach." He would not admit that he gave Cinnamon any medication that would kill her, or even hurt her.

  Now, David admitted that he knew about the plot to kill Linda, but he was helpless to stop it. Patti promoted it. David could not control Cinnamon. "She was headstrong just like her mother. . . .

  "This is the honest-to-God truth. ... I didn't think they were going to do it. I told them, 'Absolutely no way.' I said, 'Cinny, I hope this is a game. . ..' She said, 'No, Daddy, it's no game.'"

  And then David had driven away from the house where his beloved wife slept, fully aware of the wicked girls' plot to murder her. The concoction he had made for Cinnamon was, he insisted, only something that would foam up and "maybe make her numb for a while."

  But he reminded the detectives he had told them not to do

  it.

  "Who got the gun out, David?" Newell asked.

  "I believe it was in Linda's nightstand."

  "Who got the gun out?"

  ". . . Either Patti or Cinnamon.

  "I told Cinnamon if she was to go through with this thing, no matter what I said, I didn't want to be there. If she was to go through with this thing, she should leave the note somewhere like in the kitchen where everyone would see it, and she was to go hide in her trailer."

  David Brown actually sounded relieved. He seemed to believe that he was in the clear. He had given up Patti. He had given up Cinnamon. He embroidered a little more on Patti's guilt. He thought he had heard her confess in her dreams. Not, of course, because they were sleeping together, but because Patti was given to "nap attacks."

  If that was not enough, he offered more. At the end of November of 1985, he said he had asked Patti directly if she was the one who killed Linda. "She said, 'You really don't want to know.'"

  "Why, then," Newell asked incredulously, "why at the end of November 1985—you have a daughter in prison— why didn't you bring that forward?"

  "What could I do?"

  ". . . This is September of 1988, David." .

  "She didn't really confess.... I only heard her reliving it. Is that proof?"

  For just a moment, Newell—who never betrayed emotion during interrogation—had disgust in his voice. His own daughters meant everything to him.

  "Do you have a sexual relationship with Patti?"

  ". . . God, no ..."

  "Did you ever have a sexual relationship with Patti?"

  "We hold each other. . . because it gets to me real bad over what's happened. It just tears me up—"

  "Wait a minute," McLean's voice broke in. "You're telling me and Jay that you embrace—for support—the woman that you believe killed your wife, who you told us earlier you were so deeply in love with?"

  David could not come up with an answer to that one before the next question.

  "Is Patti in love with you?" Newell asked.

  "That's the most confusing part."

  "Yes or no."

  "I don't know."

  David Brown had tripped himself up again and again, and now he accused McLean and Newell of playing word games with him. He could not explain why he had left Cinnamon in prison while he lived with the woman he had just said murdered his "beloved wife." He could not explain why he continued to live with that woman he called a murderess. He could not explain why he would bring his parents to live with a murderess. He was not even sure if he had had "love" or "sex" with Patti.

  Newell and McLean had spun the spinner, and he had lost his balance.

  The screen went fuzzy. The interview was over.

  1 he tape that Gary Pohlson feared lingered in the minds of everyone who had seen and heard it. The courtroom was quiet, save for the sound of David Brown scuffling his feet nervously beneath his chair.

  The Steinhart tapes were next. The jurors were handed new transcripts. David Brown now had to listen to his good friend "Goldie" and himself as they plotted the deaths of an unnamed prosecutor and an unnamed prosecutor's investigator, as well as the murder of the "girl upstairs."

  From the "Birdcage" tape to maneuverings to get money to fund the "hits" to the last tape where Steinhart assured David Brown that his enemies were dead, the jurors and gallery scarcely shifted in their squeaking chairs.

  Tapes 12A and B, 13A and B, 14A and B, 15A and B. Hours of cunning plans.

  From time to time, David shook his head slightly or wrote on the yellow pad in front of him. The jurors heard of his escape plan, of his belief that it didn't matter if two deputies died because David figured he was "worth more than they are." And when he got the word on the day before Valentine's Day that the DA's men were dead, the jurors heard David Brown say, "You did great. . . wonderful, you're a good man. . . . God, I love you, Richard."

  As the tapes played, Jeoff Robinson sat with his back to the jury and Jay Newell looked down at the table in front of him. Neither knew if the jurors realized that David's designated targets were, at this moment, in the courtroom. Their names were carefully "whited out" of the transcripts.

  The men David wanted dead might well have been any prosecutor, and any investigator.

  The descriptions David gave to Steinhart were way off ^nyway. And Newell, for this trial, had shaved his mustache. He smiled faintly as he heard himself described as "looks like a big ugly rat—has an ugly mustache; yeah, we'll call him Ugly Mustache."

  And through this long afternoon of listening to tapes about murder for hire, Steinhart emerged as something of a comedian. David had never detected it, but the jurors and the gallery did. Steinhart's breezy style, his deft manipulation of the "boss," were, at times, hilarious.

  Suddenly, there was a great gap in the continuity of the trial. A year ago, Gary Pohlson and his wife had bought tickets for a Hawaiian vacation—to begin on May 20,1990. David Brown's trial has been delayed so often, at his own request, that his new attorney's vacation now coincided with his court dates. Everyone concerned had waited for the defendant; now Brown would have to wait for eleven days while Pohlson went on vacation.

  No one familiar with California trials seemed surprised. Department 30 would be "dark" until the day after Memorial Day.

  The trial began again on May 29 with more tapes featuring Steinhart and David Brown. And finally, on May 30, Robinson announced, "There are no more tapes." A witness more familiar to a murder trial took the stand. Martin Harry Breen, a criminalist, did the toxicological examination of the blood sample drawn from Cinnamon Brown on March 19, 1985. He testified that a blood screen for alcohol proved negative—as did analysis for barbiturates, sedatives, hypnotics, PCP, opiates, cocaine or its metabolites. Breen explained that he found propoxyphene—"an analgesic used in Darvon or Darvocet. It's a mild painkiller."

  "Can it be toxic?" Robinson asked.

  "It can be lethal." "What was the quantity in Cinnamon Brown?"

  "Six-tenths of a microgram per milliliter."

  "Was this a therapeutic dose?"

  "Generally, it is not. It is above the therapeutic level, which would normally be one one-hundredth to three-tenths micrograms per milliliter."

  "What would six-tenths mean?"

  ". . . It would be either toxic or lethal."

  "Call Richard Steinhart!"


  Richard Steinhart, larger than life, filled the courtroom with his presence. He wore a black T-shirt, jeans, and a black leather vest, and his long hair, goatee, and mustache were all black and luxuriant. His tattoos were the only touch of color.

  Steinhart stood at attention, shoulders back, to be sworn, then swung himself into the witness chair with one powerful arm. There was a crackling vibrancy about him, this witness so familiar already because his voice had filled the courtroom for days.

  "How many times have you been in the Orange County Jail?" Robinson asked.

  "Two or three times."

  "What was the nature of your offense?"

  "Probation violation on a drug charge."

  "Was Christmas Eve, 1988, your first time in jail?"

  "That was the first time."

  Steinhart explained that he had used cocaine, eventually a thousand-dollar-a-day habit, for twelve years.

  "You stopped?"

  "Yes, sir ... a little over a year ago. Since May 14,1989,1 have had no drugs or alcohol."

  Steinhart explained that he rode with an "outlaw" motorcycle club and became privy to information on a triple murder in 1980. The FBI approached him in 1983 about being a witness. He agreed. He was now waiting to testify in that trial—also in Orange County.

  "Why did you go into jail on Christmas Eve, 1988?"

  Robinson never attempted to paint Steinhart as less than notorious.

  "My girlfriend and I were visiting her mother. She didn't think I was appropriate for the young lady, so she called the cops."

  "Did you look like you look now?" Robinson asked with a grin.

  "Worse—I cleaned up today."

  Steinhart, at Robinson's urging, described meeting David Brown in the Orange County Jail. David was absolutely fascinated. He showed more interest in Steinhart's testimony than he had in any other thus far in the trial.

  Steinhart recalled David's awe at his impromptu martial arts demonstration. "He said, 'That was really great. How did you do that?' We'd sit alone at the table, and we started talking—about my war stories, my past. ... He told me he was being railroaded; he wanted to know how you get someone out of jail. ... He was quite well-off. He told me about his coin collection, his stamp collection, his jewelry, his safes, his monies.... He said, 'In case things go sour, what would it cost me to get out of jail? . . . How much hits would cost.. ."

  Even though the subject was chilling, Steinhart was funny. "I'd get uncomfortable talking about it," he said. "I didn't need no witnesses. The other inmates were a bunch of rats, looking for a way to make a deal. Also, we were in a PC [protective custody] tank. I was supposed to be testifying against the Hessians. . . ."

  "Ever avoid the DA?" Robinson asked.

  "Every chance I got."

  "Did you intend to testify?"

  "No way."

  "Why?"

  "I'm breathing, aren't I? ... I was being held as a material witness so I wouldn't fly. I'm in that PC tank with homos, child abusers, molesters, and snitches—the cream of the crop."

  "What's a snitch?"

  "A person who gathers information to help their case. See, there's two kinds of rats. Number one is people who make stuff up, and number two is the vulture type who preys on the weak, depressed guys after they've been in jail about two or three days. You want your mommy and you tell what you've done;"

  Steinhart explained that he meant to keep to himself, but that he had become involved with David Brown because of the promise of a half a million dollars^

  "What did you intend to do for that"?"

  "I was to help him escape for fifty thousand dollars. I fully intended to do so, If he'd given me the half million dollars up front, I would have let him rot; ... If he gave it to me in bits and pieces, I'd have done it. . . . He asked me to terminate Bailey. He came to be quite concerned that Patti had given some damaging testimony at some other trial [the preliminary hearing], ... He went to court quite often—he told me Bailey damaged him. He had no problem with Cinnamon's testimony, but he was afraid Bailey's would give him the gas chamber. . . . Bailey had to be terminated, and I told him I could have it done."

  Robinson asked if there were other requests, and Steinhart nodded.

  "To terminate the investigators. David's case was deteriorating all around him. He told me the DA was really trying to screw hfm and fuck with him. He thought. .. if he got rid of the DA and the investigator, their replacements wouldn't be able to catch up 'cause these two had been in on it from the beginning."

  Steinhart was enjoying his own ferocious act. He had the usually enigmatic jury enthralled. He thought, he said, that he was getting out of jail when he left the Orange County Jail, but he had found himself in another jail. "I expected to get out and go live in Brown's house and have a car with monies in it—six hundred dollars for two drop guns for the escape. Great bunch of guys you are!" He teased Robinson about the "fine accommodations you folks set up for me."

  He testified about how the tapes with David were made, beginning with the body wire in the Birdcage. David looked embarrassed and annoyed.

  And then, suddenly, when Steinhart had been on the stand for about an hour, he seemed to have trouble tracking Robinson's questions. He threw up his arms and tossed his head. It appeared, at first, that the testimony had distressed him.

  Was this another act?

  But Robinson called for a recess so that Steinhart could take his medication. A pretty blond woman who wore a headband of feathers and a jean jacket came from the gallery to help him. He was very ill, and it was not an act.

  With Steinhart's permission, Robinson asked him about his condition when the trial resumed. "I've been up at Lake Elsinore, at the Lincoln Christian Fellowship. I've been praising Jesus. I got married on April twentieth, and then I got sicker and sicker. I found out four weeks ago that I was HIV positive. Nine days ago, I found out that I have full-blown AIDS. I take AZT—the docs just doubled my dose."

  There was a real sense of loss in the room. So far in the trial, this bombastic biker was the runaway favorite. After a lunch break, a more subdued Steinhart took the stand.

  It was difficult for Pohlson to cross-examine Steinhart because he agreed amiably to every negative thrown his way. Yes, David had felt the "DA was screwing him."

  "Which hit was first discussed?"

  "I believe Patti.... He said Patti lied. She framed him. David was upset with the way the DA was treating him. I believe, first the escape, then Patti, then the two—the DA and the investigator."

  "Was Mr. Brown scared—nervous?" Pohlson asked.

  "Very much so."

  "He thinks he's going to get the gas chamber for something he didn't do?"

  "Yes."

  Pohlson wanted to show that Steinhart got "favors" from the DA for his cooperation with them. He read through a rap sheet showing that Steinhart was arrested in 1986 and released, and again in 1987 when he did some jail time— both times for possession of cocaine.

  "Oh, yeah ... I pleaded guilty to a felony. I got three years probation and seven days in jail."

  "Any other conditions?"

  "I must testify in the other case. Truthfully. So I lied to them and said I would. I had a habit of not showing up. I just wanted out. The only thing on my mind was to get more drugs."

  "Did you get—or expect—favors for helping the authorities?"

  ". . . It worked before—I got out. This time, it didn't work. . .."

  On redirect, Robinson asked if David wanted to get rid of Patti's testimony, get rid of the "two gentlemen," to keep the case from going sour. "Was Mr. Brown desperate?"

  "Yes."

  "Was he in control?"

  "He had his faculties."

  ". .. You lied [before] to get out and get dope?"

  "That's right," Steinhart agreed readily.

  "You have any reason to lie now? Any charges pending?"

  "No."

  Pohlson had another crack at Steinhart, but questioning him was
akin to wrestling a teddy bear. He wouldn't disagree and he wouldn't fight back.

  Steinhart was passed back and forth between direct and cross several times. He was self-deprecating and open. When Judge McCartin finally excused Steinhart, he waved at the bench and said, "God bless you," as he left the stand.

  The jury clearly hated to see him go.

  Dr. Richard Fukomoto testified to the postmortem examination he had performed on Linda Brown five years before. "Two gunshot wounds of entry in the chest wall from a large-caliber weapon."

  The toxicological screen had shown only one drug: cocaine. "There was no cocaine in the_blood. There was a very small quantity in the brain and liver. Benzoylecgonine— BE, the metabolite of cocaine—was also found. These levels are on the lower spectrum ... at the low end of recreational use."

  Cross-examined by Richard Schwartzberg, Dr. Fukomoto said that he could not tell when the drug was either ingested or injected. Nor could he determine in what amount. His best guess was that the cocaine got into Linda's system within hours of her death.

  This would continue to be a question mark. No one would ever know how the cocaine got into Linda Brown's system. The day she died, she played Uno, cooked a huge meal, took care of her baby, and entertained her in-laws. When did she have time to use cocaine?

  "Call Dillard Veal!"

  Dillard Veal, the consummate insurance man, took the stand. It was Veal who gave Fred McLean a crash course .in life insurance and underwriting. He was a short, dapper man who laughed easily.

  Testifying in a gentlemanly Southern drawl, Veal explained why he had occasion to review David Brown's insurance history. It was his company, Liberty Life, that paid off on a policy that had not even been accepted. Linda had applied on February 21, 1985. Only one premium had been paid—the one that accompanied her application: $ 113.34. "A tentative agreement was made with Mr. Brown to settle his claim for fifty thousand dollars. On my next visit to Orange County, that was not acceptable. I was referred to his lawyer, Mr. Phillips, and we agreed to a payment of seventy-three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars."