by J J Miller
A few people had arrived before me, including prosecutor Dale Winter and his two assistants. As I reached the defendant’s table, Winter was deep in conversation with his team. I assumed he was giving his day’s strategy one last run-through.
Winter and I, overseen by Judge Clinton Birch, had completed jury selection the day before. Of the twelve jurors and four alternates chosen, I had no major concerns. You can never feel too presumptuous about the sympathies of any given jury, but on balance I had no misgivings. My overriding sentiment was that the verdict would ultimately reflect my performance. I either managed to counter Dale Winter’s villainous portrayal of Chip Bowman or I didn’t.
Over the next few minutes, the courtroom began to fill and soon, right on nine o’clock, Judge Birch took his seat on the bench.
If trial lawyers had a similar say over judges as they do jurors, I’d have struck Judge Birch from contention without hesitation. As much as judges must base their decisions on law, their leanings show. And Judge Birch, a tall rake of a man just a few years off retirement, had shown himself to be a willing combatant in the War on Drugs. Other than that, he was just about impossible to read. His eyes, underscored by puffy bags, were often kept hooded, so he usually appeared bored or immune to your argument.
Judge Birch asked the bailiff to bring the jury in, and once they were settled, he turned to Winter.
“Mr. Winter,” he said, and paused for a moment to turn away from the microphone and clear his throat. “Is the State ready to get us started with opening statements?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Winter, and he got to his feet, pulled his jacket over his belly, and, after a little wrangling, succeeded in buttoning it.
He looked very much at home standing at the lectern. Giving the jury a modest smile, he clasped his hands in front of him he let his arms go slack. His relaxed, reasonable demeanor exuded confidence, no doubt, but it also hinted at his ease of conscience. Without uttering a word, Winter conveyed to the jury that he was on the side of good.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to start by expressing thanks on behalf of the State of California for taking time out from the important duties of your own lives to serve your fellow citizens. And when it comes to taking care of the members of our community, few things are as important as justice.
“Sure, that’s the sort of thing you’d expect to hear from a lawyer, but I actually believe it to the very core of my being. And you, for the duration of this trial, serve as the conscience of all Californians.
“We are here to seek justice for the deaths of two men: Nathaniel—or Nate as his friends knew him—Reed, and Bo Hendricks.
“And I’ll tell you from the outset that this is a case of cold-blooded murder and cold-hearted greed. These two men, Nate and Bo, are the victims of a most treacherous, heinous crime. Two brave veterans dedicated to their jobs, gunned down like dogs in the street. Two close friends, whose deaths have brought untold grief to their loved ones, family, and friends.
“Yes, Nate Reed and Bo Hendricks were veterans. They took up a gun and faced the worst of our enemies far from our shores. They put their lives on the line to defend the democracy that we enjoy here in America.
“When they came home, they found honest work as security guards. Sure, there were risks involved in these jobs, but these men felt confident that the dangers were small by comparison to what they’d been through.
“But whatever the risks, they had every right to feel safe amongst their fellow workers.
“Sadly, they were not.
“One day they got dressed, kissed their kids and partners goodbye, and left home for work. They probably said something like, “See you later.” But not long afterward, both men were dead.
“Nate Reed and Bo Hendricks transported money and legal cannabis around the state, and someone killed them in order to steal the fortune they guarded.
“The evidence tells us they were shot at close range. It tells us one of them drew his weapon in self-defense but he was too late.
“How could this happen? How could someone get the better of two armed, battle-hardened vets? How could they approach these men and shoot them at close range? The answer is clear: they were murdered by someone they trusted.
“The bullets that ended the lives of these two men came from the same gun. And that gun belonged to the defendant, Nate and Bo’s trusted co-worker.
“Bo Hendricks didn’t raise so much as a finger before he was shot. No defensive wounds. No unholstered weapon. He never saw his execution coming.
“Nathaniel, on the other hand, did manage to draw his weapon and fire one round in his defense.
“Where did that bullet land? It ended up in the body of the defendant, Nate and Bo’s trusted co-worker. Nate did all he could, as fast as he could, but he didn’t stand a chance.
“Three victims were found at the scene of this violent robbery, ladies and gentlemen. But only one survived. Only one survived to tell his version of what happened. And that’s the defendant. The sole survivor of this brutal attack.
“He says he had nothing to do with the deaths of Nate Reed and Bo Hendricks.
“But thankfully we don’t have to rely on his version of events to know the real story of what happened that fateful night. You will hear the real story as it is told by forensic evidence. A story told clinically and impartially. You will hear a story that tells us who ambushed these two battle-hardened men and how. And this story, the one the evidence tells, does not match what the defendant would have us believe.
“There can only be one truth here, ladies and gentlemen, and it lies in the power of facts and evidence.
“As this trial proceeds, I urge you to keep justice front and center in your minds. I urge you to place logic above sentiment, to commit yourselves to distinguishing fact from fiction. Because that’s what you must do. You must set aside all appeals to your emotions, all desperate attempts to counter what we know to be true. You must listen to the truth of evidence and find the defendant guilty as charged. Thank you.”
Looking quite satisfied, Winter returned to the prosecution table. His team members, who’d lapped up his every word and marveled at his every gesture, received him with silent but vigorous nods of approval.
“Defense, Mr. Madison?” asked Judge Birch in his deep, dry voice.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, already stepping over to the lectern. I then turned to the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as with my colleague, Mr. Winter, I too would like to thank you for fulfilling a vital role in our justice system.
“But why are you here? What is your purpose? If everything is as Mr. Winter claims, this trial is a complete waste of time. You are here because Mr. Winter and I see things very differently. By that I mean the parties we represent are completely at odds over what happened that terrible night.
“In the wake of a terrible crime, there were three victims who were shot. But why is one of them, the only one who survived, now the accused?
“He’s on trial here today because the police and Mr. Winter have settled on one theory about how this crime went down, and they have stuck to that theory with the tenacity of a pit bull.
“You, ladies and gentlemen, are under no such obligation to absorb their theory. I urge you to consider this case to be open, to consider that we have here an innocent man, a victim of the very crime he is accused of committing. And I urge you to consider that whoever killed those men and stole the property they and my client were protecting, is still at large.
“Taking Mr. Winter’s cue, I’ll remind you that, just like Bo Hendricks and Nathaniel Reed, Chip Bowman is a war veteran. He’s a man of honor, a hero who risked his life to protect people like you and me. Like Nathaniel Reed and Bo Hendricks, Chip too took a job with HardShell because it fitted his skill set, it paid well, and it came with an element of risk—something that appeals to a lot of vets.
“And like Bo and Nathaniel, Chip left home that day not knowing how dreadfully momentous
it would become. He kissed his two daughters—Tracy, age four, and Hannah, age two—goodbye. He kissed his wife Carrie. And he went to do his job, only to find himself thrown into a complete nightmare.
“His day’s work would end with him lying unconscious with a bullet in his leg. And from the moment he awoke under the care of a paramedic, Chip Bowman has not only had to cope with the death of his two colleagues, he’s had to live with the hell of being blamed for their murder.
“Now, I need to stress that it’s not up to me to prove that Chip Bowman is innocent of all charges. It’s up to the prosecution to prove to you beyond all reasonable doubt that Chip is guilty. In the end, you’ll have to weigh up all the evidence shown to you, all the arguments put to you, and ask yourselves: does this stack up? Does this make sense? Really? Did Chip Bowman, a hero soldier, a loving father, a devoted husband, decide to risk everything to steal the treasure he was tasked with protecting?
“Where’s the payoff? Where’s the sense? I’d argue that there is none. There is no reason for Chip Bowman to take such an absurd risk and throw his life away. That’s the prospect he now faces: a life in which he cannot kiss his beloved girls goodnight.
“I will be holding the prosecution to account. I will scrutinize every piece of evidence they present to you because justice is not about convenience, it’s about truth. I say to you again. Whoever killed those two men is not in this courtroom.
“Chip Bowman should not be on trial. It is only fair, right, and just that you acquit him so that he can return to the loving arms of his family.”
Chapter 32
The first witness Winter called to the stand was a man named Irving Kovel, a mid-thirties hipster who sported a back-and-sides buzzcut, a slicked-back thatch up top, and about half a foot of pampered beard hanging off his chin. He described himself as a coffee entrepreneur. Kovel said he was collecting beans from the storage unit he leased on Boyd Street, right near where it intersects with Mission Street. He was loading a bag into his trunk when shots rang out. In no doubt as to what he’d heard, Kovel called 911 immediately.
With the basics established, Winter started in on the particulars. “Mr. Ford, how well do you remember those gunshots?”
“They’re etched in my brain,” said Walker. “It’s like can just hear them at will. I can replay the exact sound in an instant.”
“I see. How many shots did you hear?”
“I heard five shots.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Like I said, it’s burned in my brain. There were five. Not one more. Not one less. I can replay exactly how they were spaced out.”
“Is that so?” asked Winter, like he’d never suggested to Kovel pre-trial that it was exactly the kind of thing the jury should hear.
Kovel shifted in his seat and straightened his back. His eyes were wide with the earnest will to oblige. “Well, the first two were close together. Like this… Bam. Bam.”
Kovel smacked his hand down twice on the rail of the witness stand, the beats less than a second apart.
“Then there was a break of about two seconds. Then bam, bam. Another two shots came. But they were spaced out a little further than the first two. Like this.”
Again, he slapped his hand twice on the rail. This time the gap was about a second and a half.
“And then?” asked Winter.
“There was nothing for five seconds before the last shot.”
Winter looked fascinated. “What did you think when you heard these noises?” He gestured with his right palm for Kovel to speak.
“I knew exactly what they were. And I knew they weren’t far off. I don’t mind admitting I was scared.”
“That’s understandable, Mr. Kovel. What did you do next?”
“I called it in. I rang 911 right away.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I walked down the street a little to my car. It was closer to where the shots were coming from. And I waited there, crouched beside my car.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“I wanted to see if I might be of use to the cops.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“No.”
“Could you see the crime scene from your position?”
“No. It was around a corner.”
“Did you see any other activity in the area?”
“No. The next thing I heard was the sound of sirens approaching. It was coming up to ten minutes after I’d placed the call.”
“You heard the police sirens approaching?”
“Yes. That’s when I got in my car and drove slowly toward the corner to see if I could see anything.”
“What did you see?”
“I came up to this lot, and there was a van parked there with its rear doors open. And then I saw three bodies lying on the ground.”
Kovel ran his hand over his mouth and down his beard, unsettled by the memory of that night.
“I see,” said Winter. “Other than those three bodies on the ground, did you see anyone else in the vicinity?”
“No, not a soul.”
“Mr. Kovel, did you hear or see anyone leave the vicinity after you heard those gunshots?”
“No.”
“Did you hear or see a vehicle leave the vicinity?”
“No, I did not.”
“So, if someone left the crime scene during those ten minutes at that time, they did so very cautiously.”
“Objection,” I called. “Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Birch.
“I’ll rephrase,” said Winter without missing a beat. “Mr. Kovel. Did you hear the sound of screeching tires or revving engines?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you hear any shouting?”
“No, I did not. It was eerie how quiet it was.”
“When you got to the crime scene what did you see?”
“I parked my car on the street and walked into the lot,” said Kovel. “I saw one of the guys move his leg. He didn’t get up, or lift his head or anything. His leg just twitched.”
“Was that man you describe the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What happened next?”
“A police car arrived.”
“What did you do?”
“I approached their car but they drew their guns and told me to raise my hands. I said I was the one who placed the call. They approached me and made sure I wasn’t armed. One of them checked my ID then asked me to wait. Then they went and checked the lot.”
“Did more police arrive?”
“Yes. But the paramedics were next. Then a bunch of bikers.”
“A bunch of bikers??”
“They’re members of a motorcycle gang. There were seven of them.”
“Do you know what gang they belonged to, Mr. Kovel?”
Kovel looked very uncomfortable, as anyone would.
“They were Iron Raiders, I believe.”
“And what did they do?”
“They all got off their bikes, and three walked over to where the paramedics were at.”
“How would you describe their demeanor?”
“They looked concerned. Pissed off.” Kovel cast a quick apologetic glance at Judge Birch for having cursed in court.
“What did they do?” asked Winter.
“They began shouting at the guy on the ground.”
“The defendant?”
“Yes.”
“What were they saying?”
“They were saying… Well, they were cursing. They were asking him what happened. They were asking him where their money was.”
“To be clear, these questions were directed at the defendant, were they?”
“Yes. Then the cops stepped in and told them to step back.”
“What did the bikers do then?”
“They called out that if their stuff was gone, that he was in trouble.”
“Mr. Kovel, can I ask you to repeat word-
for-word what the bikers said?”
Kovel again glanced at Judge Birch who nodded his permission.
“They said, ‘If our shit’s gone, you’re dead, motherfucker.’”
“So, they were blaming the defendant for the robbery?”
“Objection,” I called out. “Leading the witness. And hearsay.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Birch.
Winters didn’t seem to mind. He knew the court reporter would wipe his question from the record, but what no one could change was that the jury heard it, and that it was sure to stick in their minds.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Your witness, Mr. Madison,” said Judge Birch as Winter returned to the prosecution table and I got to my feet. My first order of business was to rip out the seed that Winter had place in the jurors’ minds.
“Mr. Kovel, I’d like you to clarify something. At any stage, did you hear anyone at the crime scene accuse the defendant Mr. Bowman of being involved in this fatal robbery?”
“No.”
“More specifically, did you hear the bikers directly accuse Mr. Bowman of robbery?”
“No. They thought he had messed up.”
“Objection,” cried Winter. “Speculation.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Birch. “Mr. Kovel, you must restrict your answers to the factual. What you think someone may have intended is speculation, which is why I’ve sustained Mr. Winter’s objection. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” replied Kovel.
“Did the bikers say anything else to the defendant?”
“Yes. As they walked away, they called him stupid and useless. Not to mention motherfucker.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor.”
Chapter 33
Detective Ed Frierson walked to the stand with almost a skip in his step, like he was coming upstage to receive an award. There was always an energy about him; a sprightly man trapped in a heavy man’s body. He took the oath and then adjusted the microphone to his liking. He fixed his gaze on Winter and waited with confident ease. It was like he’d called us all here, and that he was only too happy for Winter to kick things off.
