She said it was. She'd had nightmares.
"I can understand that. Did you see anyone else in that parking lot that evening?"
No one that she could recall.
"You didn't see this man, did you?" He put his hand on Hector's shoulder and squeezed it.
"No, I didn't see him."
"Thank you, Ms. Morrison. No more questions."
Goodpaster called the crime scene photographer to nail down the fact that the photographs shown to the jury were indeed photographs of the body of Dan Ho Trunh. A Fire Department emergency medical technician testified that he had arrived at the Wesleyan Terrace parking lot at 8:27 P.M. on May 19 and checked for a carotid pulse before pronouncing Trunh dead. Then the Harris County assistant medical examiner took the stand to tell the jury that the cause of death, in lay terms, was a .32-caliber bullet lodged in the brain.
It was tedious and painstaking business, but in theory a jury arrived collectively virgin, knowing nothing about either crime or victim. You had to prove to them that crime and victim in fact existed.
Warren waived cross-examination for those three witnesses. From the corner of an eye, he saw Judge Parker nod. Good fellow, she seemed to indicate. That's the way to get on with it.
"The state calls Sergeant Hollis Thiel."
Wearing the customary ill-fitting brown suit of a Homicide detective, Thiel settled into the witness chair. Pink-faced, with eyes like hard little brown buttons, he was at ease. He had been here before. He was a master of cop jargon: "Sergeant Douglas and I received the assignment at twenty-hundred-twenty-five hours on 19 May 1989. We arrived at the seven thousand block of Wesleyan at approximately twenty-hundred-fifty hours. The complainant was in a reclining position in the front seat of a 1983 Ford Fairlane station wagon…"
Goodpaster asked him what he had found when he searched the vehicle.
"Registration papers for the vehicle, which led us to a positive identification of the complainant as Dan Ho Trunh. A box with various electrician's tools. Some dirty shirts and a couple of balled-up jackets."
No weapon of any kind, Thiel replied, when asked. No wallet, no money.
"As an experienced homicide investigator, did you detect any signs of a struggle that preceded Mr. Trunh's being shot and killed?"
"No, ma'am."
"Pass the witness."
Warren stepped in front of the defense table.
"Sergeant Thiel, isn't it a fact that in Harris County more than two out of three homicides involve a victim and a murderer who are either friends or blood relatives?"
That was indeed a fact, Thiel said, before Goodpaster got to her feet to object on the grounds of relevance. Judge Parker sustained the objection.
"Your honor—"
"Don't argue with me, Mr. Blackburn. I've ruled."
Warren tried another tack. "Sergeant Thiel, your expertise in homicide investigations has been established by Ms. Goodpaster. So let's follow through. When you reached the crime scene, the window on the driver's side of the victim's car was open, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"And the driver's door was unlocked, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"You found no wallet on the victim or in the car?"
"None."
"If Mr. Trunh had a wallet, someone took it before your arrival?"
"That's correct."
"And there's no telling, is there, who took that wallet? It didn't have to be the person who shot him, did it?"
"Objection!" Goodpaster barked. "Calls for speculation."
"Sustained."
"But, your honor—"
"Sustained. Get on with it, Mr. Blackburn."
Warren seethed a moment, then calmed down.
"Let me put it this way, Sergeant. All anybody had to do — anybody who came along — was to open the door the way you did, and see a dead man and take his wallet. Isn't that true?"
"Objection!"
"Don't answer, Sergeant!" the judge cried. "Mr. Blackburn, that's enough! I'll see both counsel in chambers!"
Two rebukes from the bench on the first morning. Juries invariably followed the judge's leaning, if the judge leaned. And Lou Parker leaned hard. I'm getting killed, Warren thought. In chambers, seated at her desk, the judge coughed for a minute, lit another cigarette, then pointed that familiar finger at Warren's chest. "Now listen here!" Her voice was phlegmy from smoking. "When I rule, that's it. You want to appeal to a higher court and claim error, be my guest. But don't try to get in the back door when the front door's slammed in your face, or I'll hold you in contempt! This is my courtroom. You follow?"
Warren considered his options. He could placate her, he could argue the point on its merits, he could shut up and let her roll over him, or he could take a stand. He felt he had come a long way since he had lied for Virgil Freer, a long way even since J. J. Gillis. He was tired of being stepped on by this woman.
Warren said, "No, Judge, this is not your courtroom. Your only function is to help the two of us" — he waved to include Nancy Goodpaster — "present a true case to the jury. You can rule, and you may be right more often than wrong. But you've got to rule without prejudicing the jury against me and my client. Because until that jury comes in with a verdict, it's Quintana's courtroom. He faces death. I'm not going to hurry this case along so you can get a better suntan in Hawaii."
Seated next to him, Nancy Goodpaster bowed her head.
Lou Parker had been looking at him, openmouthed. She had clenched a fist and her jaw now moved open and shut a few times in a vacant way. Warren believed she wasn't aware of it.
"Don't say another word," she stammered. "I'm not prejudicing anybody, you hear? You'll follow my rulings! Right or wrong, I'm the judge! Now get out! The next time you give me lip like you just did, you'll find yourself sleeping in jail!"
She had backed off. He wasn't in jail, and if she put him there she couldn't keep him there. A lawyer cited for contempt was entitled automatically to a release on a personal recognizance bond. If not, the judges could always threaten the lawyers: I'll put you in jail if you don't do what I say.
And she had stammered. Maybe she'd lay off from now on, not just back off.
In the hallway, en route to the courtroom, he stopped at the water cooler. When he straightened up, Nancy Goodpaster was looking at him. Tight-lipped, sad-eyed, she shook her head back and forth. He realized again that she didn't have it in for Hector Quintana; she was just doing her job. And you're killing Hector, her eyes said.
===OO=OOO=OO===
Goodpaster called Paul Stimac, a thin, sandy-haired man who looked as if the sun had never touched his face.
"Where do you work, Mr. Stimac?"
"In the Circle K, corner of Bissonet and Harding. I'm the night cashier."
On the evening of May 19, Stimac related in a high-pitched voice, a man had come into the store and pointed a gun at him. Yes, the man was in the courtroom. He identified Hector Quintana.
"Were you frightened for your life, Mr. Stimac?"
Warren calmly objected.
The judge glared down. "On what grounds, Mr. Blackburn?"
"Irrelevant, and calculated to inflame the jury against my client."
"The question goes to his state of mind, not the facts," Goodpaster countered.
"That's still irrelevant," Warren said.
"I don't think so." The judge shook her head. "The man was there and he had a gun pointed at him. I think it's relevant how he felt. Objection overruled."
"Judge!" Warren said sharply. "The state of mind of this witness may be relevant to the alleged attempted robbery but not to the crime my client's charged with."
"Overruled. I said, overruled!"
"Well, I'd been stuck up twice before," Stimac answered. "I wasn't too scared. I knew what to do." He had pressed a button on the floor that would summon the police, then stalled. He handed over the money. The police came.
Warren took over on cross. "Mr. Quintana never threatened you, did he?"
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Goodpaster objected. "Calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness."
"Sustained," Parker said.
Warren shrugged lightly. "I'll rephrase. Did he ever say anything to you like, 'If you don't hand over the money, I'm gonna blow your brains out'? Anything at all like that?"
"No," Stimac said, "he just ast for the money. He looked more scared than I was."
"Would it surprise you, sir, to learn that the pistol Mr. Quintana pointed at you had no bullets in it?"
"Objection," Goodpaster cut in — "there's no predicate."
She meant that you couldn't ask a question implying a fact that had not yet been established as a fact. The gun wasn't loaded, but no witness had as yet testified that it wasn't. As Warren well knew. But the jury didn't, yet, and they would wonder.
"Sustained," Judge Parker rumbled. She seemed to be saying: Do your worst, counselor, but I'm still going to win. I'm the judge and it's my court.
===OO=OOO=OO===
In the afternoon, after lunch, Officer L. E. Manley took the stand. A young, athletic-looking black man, he testified that he and his partner had raced over from the North Shepherd substation and apprehended the defendant as he trotted out of the Circle K, pistol in hand. Naturally they took the pistol away from him.
"Yes, this is the same weapon," he said, after Goodpaster had it entered into evidence and placed it in his hands. "A .32-caliber Diamondback Colt. This particular one has a distinctive ivory-inlaid butt. Lightweight, very little recoil. And it's had some work done on the hammer and recoil spring. Makes it real easy to fire. Just a little tug on the trigger will do the trick."
Warren scribbled some notes. New information. Thank you, Officer Manley.
Goodpaster asked Manley, "And were there any bullets in the pistol when you took it away from Mr. Quintana?" She wanted to defuse the issue raised when Stimac was on the stand. You see, jury, we have nothing to hide. I'm letting you find out it wasn't loaded.
"No, ma'am."
"Pass the witness."
In any felony case, the defense always works with a theory to impress upon the jury, a theory that will build and counter the prosecution's contention that the defendant is guilty. The theory of defense may be right or wrong, valid or invalid; it has only to be coherent, logically acceptable, and to plant in the minds of the jurors a reasonable doubt as to guilt. In this case Warren had a rare advantage. He knew that his theory was completely valid. Hector Quintana had not been there in the parking lot on Wesleyan. Warren had known before he cross-examined Hollis Thiel that Hector had not taken Trunh's wallet. And now, with Officer Manley on the stand, Warren knew exactly why work had been done on the Diamondback Colt's hammer and recoil spring to make it "real easy to fire."
With Manley's help he established that Hector had carried no bullets on his person, and none had been found inside or outside the Circle K.
"Do you get many robbers who use an unloaded gun?" Warren asked.
"Only the dumb ones," Manley said, chuckling, and the jury chuckled too.
"Move to strike," Goodpaster said. "Irrelevant."
"Motion granted." Judge Parker instructed the jury to disregard the answer.
Warren persisted: "How many robbers with an unloaded gun have you run across in all the years you've been a police officer — none, right?"
"Mr. Blackburn!" the judge thundered.
"Your honor," Warren said calmly, "it was an entirely different question."
Judge Parker ordered: "Don't answer, Manley! And you, Mr. Blackburn, I am warning you — move along!"
Warren asked, "Tell us this, Officer Manley. This particular gun — you said it had an ivory handle, and the hammer and recoil spring were fixed to make it an easy trigger pull. Have I got that right?"
"That's about it."
"In your experience, it's not the sort of gun a man would carry, is it?"
Manley glanced at Goodpaster. Swiftly, Warren cried, "No, don't look to her for help! Just tell the truth."
"No, it's not," Manley said.
"You would say, wouldn't you, that it's a woman's gun?"
"Objection!"
"Sustained," the judge declared.
But the point was made to the jury, if anyone on it was listening and cared.
"No further questions."
On redirect, Goodpaster asked, "Is there anything about this gun that prevents a man from using it?"
"No, ma'am."
"And the defendant was carrying it that night, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was."
On recross, Warren hammered away. "He was carrying it, but didn't it occur to you at the time that it wasn't his gun?"
"Objection. Calls for speculation."
"Sustained."
"Can you think of any reason, Officer Manley, why a homeless and dirt-poor illegal Mexican alien would be carrying a gun that not only was unloaded but was, by your own admission, the sort of gun that men don't carry?"
"Objection! Calls for speculation, and there's no predicate that he was 'dirt-poor.'"
"You can answer, Manley," Judge Parker said, surprising Warren. Then she added, to the prosecutor, "Or else he'll just rephrase and worm it out of him some other way."
Manley shrugged. "It might have been the only weapon he could get hold of. He might have borrowed it. He might have found it somewhere. Anything's possible."
"Pass the witness."
But that was all for Manley. He was told to step down.
The expert from HPD Ballistics then identified the Diamond-back Colt as the tagged weapon that had been handed to him on the night of May 19 by Officer Manley and afterward matched against various bullets used in unsolved crimes. It wasn't until late the next afternoon that the bullet retrieved from Dan Ho Trunh's brain was brought into the lab. There was an immediate match.
It was after three o'clock. Time for one more witness if they didn't take a break, and that was Judge Parker's intention. Sergeant Craig Douglas was sworn in, and he explained to the jury that on the morning of May 21, in the offices of HPD Homicide, he had rearrested Hector Quintana for capital murder. He had read the defendant his rights and asked him if he wished to make a statement. The defendant had declined the opportunity. Before Warren could object, Douglas volunteered, "He pretended he didn't know what I was talking about."
"Sergeant Douglas," Warren began on cross, "you said Mr. Quintana pretended he didn't know what you were talking about. Did you have some special method of getting inside his mind to reach that conclusion?"
"No," Douglas said.
"No further questions."
Judge Parker rapped her black oak gavel, then dismissed the jury until nine o'clock the next morning.
When they had gone, the bailiff and another deputy put the handcuffs back on Hector's wrists. They stepped aside for a minute to let the defense attorney and his client confer. Hector looked worn-out and pale.
Warren said, "Listen, it went well. And tomorrow will be even better."
Hector nodded with terrifying politeness, but his face was almost womanly with quiet woe. He knows, Warren realized, knows I'm pecking away at a steel wall.
"Your turn will come," Warren said, a little desperately.
Hector shook his head. "They will not believe me. I will die." His voice was like an axe falling.
"No. Listen! You have to believe in me."
But Hector turned his back and nodded to the bailiff, who led him away.
Johnnie Faye Boudreau entered the courtroom a few minutes after 9 a.m. on the second day of the trial, just after the Quintana jury had filed in from the jury room and taken their places on the black Naugahyde swivel chairs in the jury box. Warren's eye fell on her immediately.
That was not difficult. She was an advertisement of blazing red and white, like two thirds of the American flag which the Supreme Court had so recently decided might be burned without offense to the law of the land. She wore a cherry-red double-breasted linen suit over a white camisole, Mexican silver brace
lets on both wrists, a red leather shoulder bag, red high heels to match the suit, and atop it all a large-brimmed white straw hat. Her tight skirt was well above the knees. She had on silver eye shadow and too much rouge. Warren remembered an old saw that he had heard either in a song or from one of his father's cronies: The devil is a woman in a short red dress.
The courtroom was not crowded. The same friends and members of the Trunh family were there from the day before, plus a handful of the retired elderly groupies who could always be counted on for a capital murder trial.
Johnnie Faye took a seat in a back row and smiled across the room at Warren. He nodded back at her coolly just as Judge Parker entered, the bailiff demanded order, and the state called Mai Thi Trunh as its first witness for the day.
Dan Ho Trunh's young widow wore black. She was a composed witness who spoke slowly and simply, her grief not flaunted but clearly there. Warren was moved by her. When you murder a man, you strike the worse blow not so much at the man as at those who loved him. He wondered if Johnnie Faye ever thought about that. Yes, and pigs could fly.
He had a powerful and almost calamitous urge to clasp Hector Quintana by the arm, turn him in his chair and say, "That woman in red is the one who murdered the man you're accused of murdering. Go to her, Hector. Ask her how she can live with it."
Instead he scrawled rapid notes on his legal pad. Mrs. Trunh was on the stand for two purposes: to elicit sympathy and to help prove that her late husband was in possession of his wallet on the morning of his death.
Under Nancy Goodpaster's patient questioning, the jury learned a great deal about the Trunh family before the day of Dan Ho's death. All of it irrelevant, but Warren did not object. When a bereaved witness testified, a defense counsel had to take it up the culo, as Warren was fond of saying. In most cases, you or your client deserved it. Not in this one. But there was nothing he could do.
Goodpaster's merciful "Pass the witness" occurred only a few minutes before noon. The jury was led away by the bailiff, who would escort them to a nearby restaurant and feed them courtesy of the state. Hector Quintana was led away by the deputy sheriff to a holding cell in the courthouse basement, to be fed a meal brought over in a steam tray through the underground tunnel from the Harris County Jail.
Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller Page 20
