by David R. Dow
She said, Of course, there is always a motive, and I knew what she was going to say, and I wanted to look down, but even more than shame, I felt anger. This person accusing me of a violence beyond my capacity had no idea how I adored my wife, how the best part of my day was seeing her and the worst part was telling her goodbye. Her entire case depended on portraying me as a caricature. She said, People of all stations loved this generous woman. Who on earth would have butchered her, other than a much younger husband, a serial philanderer, a struggling line cook who had lived hand to mouth for his entire life and now stood to inherit billions—billions she had worked hard for? She paused, pretending she needed to catch her breath, then she whispered again, Who else on earth? Pointing again at me she said, No one.
If the theme of the first day’s testimony had been, This is how you know the husband did it, the theme of the second day was, And this is why. The prosecutor put up a video screen and showed a picture of Tieresse and me walking out of city hall after our wedding. Underneath was the date. The state then called a succession of three women, who all testified they had sex with me in between the day of my wedding and the day Tieresse was killed. The prosecutors did not call Britanny, however, and that omission gave me hope. It shouldn’t have. They were lying in wait.
My lawyers asked each of the women the same set of questions: Did you know he was married? Did Rafael say anything about leaving his wife? Did it feel like anything more than a one-night stand to you? They all answered the same way: Yes, I knew he was married because he was wearing a ring. No, he did not say anything negative about his wife or that he was going to leave her. No, it was just sex. Three of the jurors stared at me, and I could sense disgust. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care if they deemed my behavior the worst sort of infidelity. It was, after all. In truth, I didn’t care what they thought of me. I confess I hoped these strangers could see I did not kill my wife, but all I really cared about was that they know how much I loved her.
On the third day of the trial, it was finally our turn. The prosecutor might have had passion on her side, but we had the truth on ours. My lawyers called as witnesses neighbors who had known Tieresse for twenty years and me for two. They had seen us together and been to our home. Maybe they could not swear that I did not do it, but they could swear it was unimaginable. They called people who had worked at La Ventana since the day we opened. They also could not swear to a negative, but they could say they had never seen me happier since the day Tieresse and I went on our first date, and they did.
Benita was also my business manager, and her testimony was a direct rebuttal to the prosecution’s case. She testified we had never struggled financially. Since being on the New York Times list of ten places to watch, we had a four-month waiting list for reservations. She told the jury how Tieresse had asked me not just once, but at least three times, to open more restaurants using her money, and how I had declined each and every offer. She was sincere and angry, and I loved her for it.
Many of the witnesses cried. They looked me in the eye when they first took the stand, and they stared straight at the jurors when saying there was no way I could have done this. I wanted to hug every one of them.
We saved the star witness for the next day. Britanny was my alibi. That was the good news. The bad news is that her testimony certainly wasn’t going to cause the jurors to like me. Jonathan had tried to lay the groundwork during his opening statement. He told the jury they would hear from some women I had sex with since getting married. He said the prosecution would make it sound as if I were a gold digger who had been cheating on my wife since the first day of our marriage. But I hadn’t, Jonathan said. According to my lawyer, who held a thick Physicians’ Desk Reference in his hand, Tieresse was a non-libidoist—someone who got no pleasure from sex. Even worse, because of a series of unfortunate medical decisions, having sex caused her agonizing pain. She knew that about herself, and she had given me permission to sleep with others. They had an arrangement, he said, and when he used that word, I shuddered. I leaned over to Heidi and whispered, That is not what it was at all, and Heidi patted my knee and whispered back, Let us be the lawyers here, okay?
Britanny’s husband was in the courtroom, sitting in the first row, watching his newlywed tell the jury about her final fling before meeting him. She told them about the going-away party, how the entire La Ventana staff, from the cooks and waitstaff to the Hispanic kids who bus the tables and keep the water glasses full, sat around a giant makeshift table and ate and drank and told stories about obnoxious guests. She told the story about her hair catching on fire. She told them I brought the finest bottles of wine up from the cellar and passed around the most expensive liquor we poured. She told the jury everyone at the restaurant knew I sometimes had lady friends upstairs to my loft and they suspected Tieresse knew as well. The prosecutor objected, and the judge instructed the jury to disregard Britanny’s speculation. She seemed rattled. She sipped from her water glass and wiped her palms on her skirt. She told the jurors she had not planned on staying. She said, Things just happened, I wasn’t expecting it, and the next morning, Rafael told me to please stay in touch, and I told him I would. He was my friend. He still is my friend. When she said that, she looked first at the jury, and then to me.
Every word she said was the truth. There is no way anybody could think she was lying. Why would she? She had absolutely nothing to gain. My lawyer thanked her for her testimony, and it was the prosecutor’s turn.
What time did you fall asleep? the prosecutor asked her. I didn’t remember. Britanny didn’t either. The prosecutor said, Do you have a lot of one-night stands? Heidi objected and the prosecutor withdrew the question. She asked, What time did you leave in the morning? Britanny told her it was around nine. I looked over at the jury. I was wondering what any of these questions had to do with anything, but I was worried because the jurors appeared interested. She asked, Had you been to the defendant’s house prior to that evening? Brittany said, You mean his house house, or his apartment above the restaurant? The prosecutor smiled. The fish had taken the bait. She said, Oh, so you know he had two houses. Is the answer to one different from the other? Britanny stammered. She was nervous. Finally she said, I’d never been to either. The prosecutor said, Do you have any idea how long it takes to drive from La Ventana to the defendant’s house? She drew out the word house as if it had three syllables. Brittany said she didn’t. The prosecutor asked whether she would be surprised to learn the drive was less than ten minutes, and Britanny shook her head. The judge asked her to speak up, and Britanny said, No, I would not be surprised. I did not know where their house was.
In her closing argument the next morning, the prosecutor would say I had at least two hours, and possibly closer to four, to drive to the house, murder my wife, clean myself up, and drive back. She used our star witness to make her timeline plausible. She said, Could that have happened? Britanny said, No, that didn’t happen. The prosecutor said, Do you know what is happening around you while you are asleep? Britanny said nothing. The prosecutor said, I am asking you whether it could have happened, and when Britanny still said nothing, the judge told her to answer. The judge said, Ma’am, you have to speak up. My lawyer objected and the judge overruled it and told her to answer. Britanny said, No, I do not know what happens when I am asleep. I do know Rafael is not capable of this. The prosecutor said, The jury will decide that issue, miss. My question for you is whether you slept more than four hours that evening after your rollicking party. Britanny said, Yes. I did. Britanny looked softly at me as she left the witness stand, apologizing, I think, for not being helpful, and I shook my head, meaning to say, No, you did fine. When the judge sent the jury home, not a single juror met my eyes.
That night I didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, Friday, the lawyers gave their closing arguments. The jury started deliberating at eleven o’clock. Not counting the days spent picking the jury, the entire trial had taken less than four entir
e days. Shortly before six they came back. The judge asked the foreman whether they had reached a verdict, and he said they had. The judge asked him to read it aloud, and he didn’t even say my name. He said, Will the defendant please rise? I stood flanked by my lawyers and looked at the foreman. He was staring straight down. None of the jurors was looking at me. The foreman read, We, the jury, find the defendant, Rafael Zhettah, guilty of capital murder. His pronunciation of my name was perfect. I collapsed into my chair.
For the next few moments, I heard many voices, but I did not comprehend any of what they said. I heard the sounds of the judge talking to the jury, my lawyers talking to the judge, the jurors talking to my lawyers, my lawyers talking to each other. Then the judge banged his gavel, and I was present again, in time to hear him tell the twelve who believed me a murderer he would see them Monday morning at nine, and as they filed out Heidi slumped into the chair next to me and began to explain what would happen next. Jonathan stared blankly at the empty jury box.
Until I became a defendant, my knowledge of criminal trials came from reading To Kill a Mockingbird and watching A Few Good Men every time it was on TV. Atticus Finch had a human relationship with his client Tom Robinson, and Tom Cruise struggled to connect with the marines he was defending. The central relationship in both stories was the one between lawyers and their clients. What I never noticed was the importance of the relationship between the lawyers and the women and men who would judge their clients. That night in my cell, though, it hit me. The trust between the lawyers and the jury matters way more than the trust between the lawyers and the client, and my lawyers had none left. They promised the jury I had nothing to do with Tieresse’s murder, and the jury hadn’t believed them. Their credibility was spent, and credibility was all they’d ever had.
In a room at the jail reserved for inmates to meet with their attorneys I sat in silence while my legal team desperately debated what kind of lifesaving narrative to construct. It would have been hopeless even if they’d had a month. They had sixty hours. Their only option was to use my neighbors, colleagues, and employees to beg the jury to spare my life, but those same witnesses had already testified I was innocent, and the jurors hadn’t believed them the first time. I asked the deputy to take me back to my cell and left them there without saying goodbye.
If I slept at all the next three nights, it was only for an hour or two a day. My plan was to be so tired on Monday that I would literally fall asleep during the trial. I could think of no more powerful way to communicate to the jury how little I cared about what they thought.
The prosecution called Reinhardt as their first witness. He testified about how he had been raised by a single mother who managed to build a business behemoth and cook him breakfast every morning. Twice he stopped to compose himself. He did not look at me even once. After he stepped down, a parade of philanthropists told the jury Tieresse was an innovator who inspired them to give more to the community. More than one said she was irreplaceable. I did not resent any of the state’s witnesses. If asked, I would have said the exact same things.
Before lunch on Tuesday the state rested its case, and it was our turn. An expert on the prison system explained to the jury I would never get out of prison if sentenced to life instead of death, and there was no reason to believe I would be dangerous either to guards or to other inmates inside. The point of his testimony was to make the jury feel like they could lock me up and throw away the key and not worry they were taking the risk I would injure someone else. For our second witness, my lawyer called me to the stand.
The night before, in the county jail, I skipped dinner and met until midnight with Heidi and Jonathan. They had a script, and we practiced my answers to their questions half a dozen times. They coached me on inflection, pace, and when to look at the jury and when to look at them. I worried I would sound practiced or robotic, but I shouldn’t have. The next day, when I raised my right hand and swore to tell the truth, I felt drops of sweat sliding down my spine and my hands were shaking so hard I sloshed water out of the cup when I picked it up to drink. My voice was a rasp when Jonathan asked me my name.
I didn’t sound rehearsed because I couldn’t remember a single thing they had told me. The first thing he asked me was how to pronounce my name, and then he said, Did you kill your wife? I think the prosecutor objected, but I’m not sure, because I was so shocked by the question. I am positive we hadn’t gone over it before. How could he have the audacity? I felt flushed with anger. There must have been some sort of argument among the lawyers because what happened next was the judge said, Mr. Zhettah, and I turned toward him, and he said, I’ve ruled, you may answer the question. I said, I’m sorry, what was the question? Jonathan repeated it. I wanted to say, Fuck you, and stand up and leave. Let the deputies tackle me. I was done with this circus. But I did not. I said, No sir. I loved my wife.
He asked how we had met, what sort of things we did together, what we talked about, where we liked to go. At some point I was delivering a eulogy in a question-and-answer format, and for a moment a wave of overwhelming sadness rose up inside me, but then I realized I was given this opportunity to tell twelve strangers and a room full of reporters who knew nothing about her except that she was rich what a special creature she was.
I said, You hear about people like Mother Teresa who devote their lives to the poor. I don’t mean any disrespect, but I can guarantee you Tieresse was every bit as angelic as Mother Teresa. She could have walled herself off from the rest of the world if she’d wanted to, lived in a castle, vacationed on private islands, given up on the world. Instead she went on a mission to improve it.
I said, I am the saddest person in this room, I don’t care whether you believe that or not. I am also the luckiest.
We had not rehearsed that, either. And I saw Jonathan freeze and Heidi’s mouth open, and I had no idea whether that was a good sign or a bad. But when at last I finished talking, and the prosecutor had no more questions either, Jonathan came up to the chair where I was sitting between a court reporter and the judge, and he placed his hand on top of mine, and I felt the jurors watching me, and I believed they knew their earlier verdict was wrong.
My lawyers and the prosecutor made closing arguments. The prosecutor said I was a conniving, deceitful predator. My lawyers said nobody was duplicitous enough to fool as many people as had testified on my behalf. I thought the black juror was staring at me, but when I followed her line of sight, I realized she was looking at Reinhardt, who was sitting in the second row. The judge read the jury their instructions and told them deliberations would begin in the morning.
Back at the jail on Tuesday night, I paced in my cell. I could hear an infomercial for a treadmill playing at three A.M. on the TV that was never turned off. On Wednesday morning I drank a cup of instant coffee but vomited it back up before the guards came for me at seven. I sat there, while Heidi and Jonathan tended to other matters, other clients, on their mobile phones. Before the lunch hour, the judge’s law clerk let both sides know the jury had reached a verdict. I stood up, flanked by my lawyers, and the courtroom was completely still. Then the judge said something and the foreman rose and spoke, but I didn’t hear a thing, except for a gasp from Heidi when the foreman sat back down and the judge told me I had been sentenced to death.
PART 2
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• • •
Once in Kansas I saw a tornado. I watched it through binoculars from a mile away. Even at that distance I could hear A-frame trusses exploding and the hiss of gas as propane tanks were ripped from their concrete pads. On my side of the street it didn’t even rain. You can be cheek by jowl with mayhem and simultaneously a thousand miles away.
I lost track of place and time. Jonathan was talking to me, I think. The black woman on the jury might have been crying. The court reporter’s hands were frozen above her stenotype, or perhaps someone was still talking. I didn’t hear the deputy instruct me to stand, so he an
d another yanked me from my chair, slapped cuffs on my wrists, and double-timed me back to the county jail. Two more deputies joined them, and the four took me out back into an alleyway and loaded me into the second row of a windowless van.
Two men were already sitting in the front, separated from me by a plexiglass shield. I was no longer any old prisoner. I was about to become death row inmate number 0002647, and all the rules had changed.
One deputy sat to my right, another to my left. My wrists, still cuffed together, were chained to a leather belt cinching my waist. My ankle restraints attached to a thick metal grommet welded to the floor. The guard to my right held up a bottle of water and asked if I wanted a swallow. I was parched with fear.
I said, No thank you.
I heard my voice quaver, and I felt my thighs tremble, and I said, On second thought, yes, please. He held it to my mouth and tipped it back. Halfway to Livingston, home to death row, we pulled off the highway and parked by a fast-food restaurant. The driver left the engine running and went inside.
When I was a boy, and my papá was at work, Mamá took me to the market where she bought masa and dried beans. The man who handed her back her change leered at her in a way I already knew was a crude assault. She said something to him, and he licked his lips and did it again. He had a raised scar on his forehead and was missing a top front tooth.
That night, when Papá got home, I heard him and Mamá whispering on the porch. He kissed me after dinner, got on his motorbike, and rode away. I heard him quietly return in the middle of the night. The next morning Mamá and I bought our supplies at the same almacén we had been at the day before, but we handed our money to a new proprietor. I never again saw the man who had disrespected my mamá, but I remembered the way he had looked at her when the guard sitting in the front seat turned around and took off his shades and ran his eyes from my toes to my mouth.
