Due Process

by Scott Pratt

  “I did.”

  “How many people were there?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe sixty or seventy.”

  “And why were you there?”

  “I was dating one of the players. He asked me to come along. He said a stripper was coming and it might be fun. I’d never seen a stripper, so I went.”

  “What time did you arrive at the party, Miss Ingram?”

  “Around eleven-thirty, I think. Give or take a few minutes.”

  “Was the dancer already there when you arrived?”

  “No. She didn’t show up until midnight. She got out of a cab and when I saw what she was wearing, I told myself, ‘I have to video this.’ So I pointed my phone at her and started the video.”

  “You started as soon as she got there?”

  “As soon as she stepped out of the cab.”

  “Your Honor,” I said, “we’d like to play the digital recording at this time.”

  “Go ahead,” the judge said.

  Jack had the recording on his laptop, which he had blue-toothed to the large monitor on the wall of the courtroom to my right. Everyone looked up as the video began. It showed the time and the date. It showed Sheila Self stepping up onto the curb as her cab pulled away. She was dressed in skin-tight, red spandex, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels. She was carrying a clutch purse in one hand and a boom box in the other. She walked up the short sidewalk as the video camera followed her, and went through the front door into a room full of young men who were whooping and hollering. She seemed lucid enough, friendly and smiling. She waved at several of the players. Laurie Ingram must have been intrigued, because she stayed within five feet of Sheila.

  Sheila didn’t touch any of the players, and none of them attempted to touch her. You could hear her say very plainly, “Where can I freshen up just a bit, handsome?” to one of the players. She was directed to a room about ten feet away. She went into the room and closed the door. I asked Jack to stop the tape.

  “Miss Ingram,” I said. “Do you happen to know what room the young lady just went into?”

  “It’s a bathroom,” she said. “There are two bathrooms in the house. That was one of them.”

  “How long was she in there?”

  “Objection,” Armstrong said. “Calls for speculation.”

  “She stopped the tape when the dancer went into the bathroom,” I said. “But she started it again as soon as she came out. If we can just resume the tape it’ll tell us exactly how long she was in the room. It’s time-stamped.”

  Sheila came out seven minutes and forty-seven seconds later. When she did, she was like a different person. Her eyes were droopy, she was moving slowly, and when she tried to speak, it was unintelligible. It took her a full five minutes to get her boom box positioned, set up and turned on. Once the music started, she was totally incapable of dancing and nearly incapable of staying upright. She stumbled around the room for a couple of minutes before falling flat on her face. Two people reached out to help her, but she cursed them and told them not to touch her. After a few minutes, a few of the players started to boo. The chorus grew louder, and Shelia threw up her middle finger. She mumbled a racial slur and turned to walk out the door. Another young woman who was at the party grabbed her boom box and clutch purse and carried them outside. She handed them to Sheila while people behind them yelled about her returning their money and others hooted and laughed.

  Sheila pulled a wad of cash out of her clutch purse and threw it at the groups of players outside. While they gathered up bills, she staggered up the street and was gone less than twenty minutes after she arrived. The tape showed her disappearing over a small rise at 12:18 a.m.

  “Miss Ingram, after this young lady’s initial visit to the bathroom, did she return to that room?”

  “No, sir. She left.”

  “You didn’t witness anyone dragging her into the bathroom?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You didn’t hear any sounds of struggle? You didn’t hear her crying out for help?”

  “No, sir. She couldn’t even talk.”

  “She didn’t come out of the bathroom later and claim she’d been raped?”

  “No, sir. What you just saw on the tape is exactly what happened.”

  “Thank you, Miss Ingram. Please answer Mr. Armstrong’s questions.”

  Armstrong stood, cleared his throat, and straightened his tie.

  “How much did Mr. Dillard pay you for that recording?” he said.

  I started to object, but I knew the answer so I kept my mouth shut.

  “He didn’t pay me anything. The young woman over there, Miss Story, she was the one who found me and asked if I’d taped anything at the party. I showed it to her and she asked if they could make a copy.”

  “Has the tape we’ve just seen been altered in any way from the copy you gave Miss Story?”

  “No, sir. It’s exactly the same.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Objection,” I said. “Argumentative. Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained. Move on, Mr. Armstrong.”

  “How long after you recorded this did you leave the party?” Armstrong said.

  “About five minutes. It got pretty rowdy in the front yard for a few minutes and I was afraid the police would come. So my boyfriend and I left.”

  “So you have no way of knowing whether Miss Self, the dancer, returned later on, do you?”

  “Objection,” I said. “There’s no foundation for the question. Their entire narrative has been that she was raped at the party and now he’s trying to say she may have returned and been raped later? She was in a police car an hour later and then went to the hospital. That’s all documented. I object.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “That’s all I have,” Armstrong said, and he sat down.

  “Next witness, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Neese said.

  “We call Bret Marshall,” I said.

  Marshall, who was Bo Riddle’s partner at the Johnson City Police Department for a very short time, walked into court wearing a brown suit over a white button-down shirt. He was just a kid, maybe twenty-five, with light brown hair cut very short, clean shaven, and green eyes. “State your name, please,” I said.

  “Bret David Marshall.”

  “Mr. Marshall, you were an investigator with the Johnson City Police Department when my client was initially interviewed there, weren’t you?”

  “I was.”

  “But you don’t work there anymore, do you?”

  “No, I resigned about a month after your client was interviewed.”

  “And why did you resign?”

  “Because I knew I was going to break what is called the Blue Wall of Silence, and once I did that, I knew I’d be ostracized within the department. I’d eventually be forced out, and I wouldn’t be able to find work at another police agency.”

  “Would you explain the Blue Wall of Silence you just mentioned?”

  “It’s an unwritten code among police officers—an understanding—that you do not rat out another officer even if he’s done something illegal.”

  “And do you plan to testify that you witnessed illegal behavior on the part of another officer?”

  “I do.”

  “Which officer is that, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Investigator Bo Riddle.”

  “And what did Investigator Riddle do that was illegal?”

  “He assaulted your client, for starters, by kneeing him in the testicles, and then he brought the alleged victim in and conducted a totally ridiculous photo lineup with her. He coached her into picking the three players who have been charged.”

  “Did you witness this lineup?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I set up a pinhole camera, microphone and transmitter in the interview room where I knew he was going to conduct the lineup. I watched it on my phone in my car while it was going on. Once I saw what he’d done, that’s when I knew I’d have to quit.”

 
“And where is this recording you made now?”

  “I believe you have a copy. I have a copy.”

  “Did you provide one to the chief of police or the district attorney?”

  “I did not.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t say anything to the chief because I knew I was leaving and I didn’t want to put him in the middle. He’s a good man. I didn’t provide anything to the district attorney because I knew he wouldn’t want it. He’d already made up his mind he was prosecuting this case no matter what. I’d heard conversations between him and Investigator Riddle.”

  “Objection!” Armstrong said. “How can he know what was in my mind?”

  “Sustained,” Judge Neese said.

  “So instead of blowing the whistle, you just quit the police force.”

  “I did both. I quit the force and gave a copy of the tape to your representative.”

  “Right, and we’re about to play it.”

  “I object to this,” Armstrong said. “I haven’t had a chance to see it.”

  “Again, a copy of the tape was in the material I provided to Mr. Armstrong when I filed this motion,” I said. “And again, he obviously didn’t watch it.”

  “Overruled,” Judge Neese said. “Let’s see what you have, Mr. Dillard.”

  For the next several minutes, everyone in the courtroom sat in stunned silence while the oversized monitor on the wall broadcasted the photo lineup in which Investigator Riddle pointed out which players he wanted Shelia Self to choose and then coached her into saying she was one hundred percent certain that the players she’d chosen from the lineup were the same players who dragged her into a bathroom and raped her. I looked over at Armstrong when the tape was almost finished. His face had taken on an odd shade of pink, and a drop of sweat had formed at his right temple.

  When the tape was over, I said, “Answer any questions the district attorney might have, please.”

  Armstrong stood, took a deep breath, and said, “So you’ve gone from being a police detective to being a rat. Congratulations.”

  “At least I’m not a criminal like you and Riddle,” Marshall said.

  “Enough,” the judge said.

  Attababy, I thought.

  Armstrong knew he was screwed. He looked up at the judge and said, “The State is willing to concede this photo lineup was unconstitutional, your Honor. We agree it should be excluded, however, that does not prevent our victim from making identifications in the courtroom at trial.”

  “There isn’t going to be a trial,” I said beneath my breath.

  “Very well,” the judge said. “The identification is excluded. Mr. Dillard, next witness.”

  “Call Investigator Bo Riddle,” I said.

  “Your Honor, what’s the point?” Armstrong said. “You’ve already excluded the line-up.”

  “I think we all deserve to see just how much regard Investigator Riddle has for the judicial process and this court in particular,” I said.

  I desperately wanted Riddle on the stand because I knew he was a hothead and I knew he would commit perjury. I wasn’t sure exactly what would wind up coming out of his mouth, but it wouldn’t be good for Armstrong, and I wanted the judge to hear what he had to say while he was under oath.

  “Will Investigator Riddle’s testimony be relevant to your motion besides the exclusion of the line-up?” Judge Neese said.

  “I think your Honor will find his testimony both compelling and enlightening,” I said.

  “Bring Investigator Riddle in,” she said to the bailiff at the door.

  Riddle came in looking like an upright turtle. His head was small and slick, and his brown jacket was too tight and his sleeves too short. He’d obviously put on quite a bit of weight and hadn’t bothered to adjust his wardrobe accordingly.

  He sat down and took the oath. I decided to go right after him.

  “Investigator Riddle, the first time you interviewed my client, Kevin Davidson, you kneed him in the groin, didn’t you?”

  He wasn’t expecting the question, and I could tell it threw him.

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “If he told you that, he’s a liar.”

  “Your former partner just testified that he witnessed you do it,” I said.

  “Then he’s a liar, too.”

  “Of course he is. Everyone but you is a liar, I’m sure. Investigator Riddle, are you familiar with the report Officer Tonya James filed the morning after she took Sheila Self, the alleged victim in this case, to the hospital?”

  “I don’t think I ever read it,” he said.

  “Well, you probably should have, because it basically says that Ms. Self was pretty much incoherent when she first picked her up, but upon learning she was going to the mental health center, Ms. Self began to claim she’d been raped by multiple attackers. She could not, however, identify any of her attackers.”

  “She identified them later,” Riddle said.

  “Right, at a photo lineup that you arranged, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Was there anyone else present at this lineup besides you and Ms. Self?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Would you describe for the court exactly how you conducted the lineup?”

  Riddle went into a lengthy description of how he painstakingly put together several photo arrays that he showed to Sheila Self. He said he included white men, black men and Latino men of different ages. He showed Ms. Self the photos in groups of six. Over a two-hour time period, he said, she eventually picked out the three players who had been charged. Every word out of his mouth was a lie, everyone in the courtroom knew it, and he was in it up to his ears. I watched Judge Neese as he testified and could imagine the steam coming from her ears.

  When he was finished, I said, “Not a single thing you just said was true. You showed her six photos, all of them black football players in uniform, and you showed her which players to pick. You told her you needed to hear from her that she was one hundred percent sure about the identifications. Did you do it because you had some kind of crush on Ms. Self and wanted to make her think you were helping her or are you just a stone-cold racist? I’m betting you’re a racist.”

  Riddle looked at Armstrong for help and then at the judge.

  “Are you going to let him get away with calling me a racist?” he said to Judge Neese.

  “I’d like to hear what you have to say,” the judge said. “Answer the question.”

  “I conducted a by-the-book, constitutionally-sound lineup, and the victim picked out the defendants,” Riddle said.

  “Would it surprise you to know that everyone in this courtroom just watched a recording of your constitutionally-sound lineup?” I said. “Your partner at the time, Investigator Marshall, thought you might be a racist. He was concerned about many of the things he’d seen you do and heard you say. So he put a camera in the room where you conducted the lineup. Unusual, don’t you think? A police officer clandestinely taping another police officer like that? But you know what, Investigator Marshall’s instincts were right. Would you like for me to play the tape again?”

  Riddle’s cheeks were the color of a firetruck. He looked to be on the verge of having a stroke.

  “I’d be happy to play it again. It’s been authenticated. Perhaps, after you’ve watched it, you might want to change your recollection of how you conducted the lineup. Investigator Riddle?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Neese said. “I don’t believe Mr. Armstrong will proceed with a perjury charge against Investigator Riddle, but I can charge him with contempt summarily. Investigator Riddle, I find you in criminal contempt of this court in the presence of the court for willfully committing perjury and for willfully interfering in the process of justice. The maximum amount of time I can put you in jail is ten days and the maximum amount I can fine you is fifty dollars. I wish I could do more, but the law says I can’t. Both of those punishments are ordered. Bailiff, take Investigat
or Riddle into custody and have him taken to jail. Investigator Riddle, don’t ever bother coming into my courtroom again because I won’t believe a word you say. I also plan to call Chief Starring and tell him what you’ve done. I’m going to recommend that he terminate your employment because you’ve been untruthful and I believe you to be a racist. Take him away.”

  As the bailiff was cuffing Riddle, he looked over at me and said, “I’ll be out in ten days, Dillard, and I’ll be looking for you.”

  “That’s another count of criminal contempt for threatening defense counsel,” the judge said. “You’ll be out in twenty days. Open your mouth again and we’ll make it thirty.”

  “I know what you did at my house,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”

  The bailiff led Riddle away. He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. The way he was looking at me said it all.

  Once he was out of the courtroom, the judge said, “I think we need a little break. Let’s recess for fifteen minutes.”

  “Your honor,” I said. “There is a matter I’d like to take up with you in chambers.”

  “Ten minutes,” she said. “You and Mr. Armstrong only.”

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17

  Ten minutes later, Armstrong and I were sitting in front of Judge Neese in her chambers.

  “What’s on your mind, Mr. Dillard?” she said.

  “I’m hoping to end this right now, without having to go back out there and present any more evidence,” I said. “I have several more witnesses, one of whom is Dr. Kershaw. I’m sure you know him.”

  “I do,” the judge said. “He usually testifies for the prosecution.”

  “We sent a sample of Ms. Self’s blood to a laboratory that Dr. Kershaw uses regularly. They conducted a Drug Facilitated Sexual Assault analysis of the blood. It’s a test the TBI lab isn’t set up to do, but the bottom line is that Dr. Kershaw is going to testify that Ms. Self had alcohol, ecstasy and a large amount of GHB in her blood the night she claims she was raped. His expert opinion is that she would have been suffering from anterograde amnesia. She wouldn’t have remembered a thing. When you combine that with what Officer James wrote in her report, the videotape that was taken by Laurie Ingram, and the fact that the TBI’s DNA analysis showed there was no DNA from any ETSU football player on or in Ms. Self, it becomes pretty clear that no rape occurred. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Armstrong ran the same test on the blood and failed to provide a copy of the results to me during discovery.”