Deliver Us From Evil (17 page)

“Overruled. You may continue, Mr. Ramsey, but I’d advise you to move along, get on with it.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He turned back to Groda. “Mr. Groda, you heard the sound of the motorboat starting up and you moved out to the deck overlooking the lake. Correct?”

“Yeah. That’s correct.”

“I’m quoting you now, to the best of my recollection. You said: ‘I saw Danny and Father Reiniger as the motorboat eased way from the dock. The boat headed out into the lake. That was the last time I ever saw Danny. Until they found his body in the lake the next day.’ A fair and true statement, Mr. Groda?”

“Yeah. That’s about what I said. Yeah.” He paused. “Where are we goin’ with this, Mr. Ramsey?”

“Having finished cleaning up the dining hall and the kitchen, presumably, you then
left.
Correct?”

“I’m a little confused here. Whaddya mean
left,
Mr. Ramsey? You mean the campsite?”

“I’m talking about the dining hall, sir. You left the dining hall. Correct?”

“Yeah. That’s correct.”

“And you went,
where?”

“Back to my quarters.”

“I see. How would you describe your ‘quarters,’ Mr. Groda?”

Again, a hint of annoyance. “When the archdiocese bought the lakeside property, there were two buildings already there. The three-story house Reiniger and Jack Kramer shared with the boys and a smaller house built close to the shoreline. That was where
I
lived, all year long.”

“I understand. About what time did you arrive at your ‘so-called’ quarters? Do you remember?”

“Uh, lemme see now, it hadda be eight-thirty, quarter-to-nine, somewhere around there.”

“What happened then?”

“I was tired. Bushed.” He hesitated. “Oh, I remember now! I got back just in time to watch the 9:00 o’clock news on TV.”

Ramsey crossed to the podium. He quickly scanned a list of notes, he’d written on a legal pad. He turned back to face Groda. “Mr. Groda, it is my understanding that while you were watching the news on television, you heard voices outside the cabin. Is that not correct?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“The voices you heard were emanating from the strip of sand you refer to, as the beach?”

“Emanating? Whaddya mean,
emanating,
Mr. Ramsey?”

There was low sniggering from the gallery. Ramsey was trying to be patient. “The voices you heard were coming from the direction of the beach. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“How far is this so-called beach from your residence?”

“Fifty-five, sixty feet, something like that.”

“How many voices did you hear?”

“I heard two voices.”

“You are sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure about that, Mr. Ramsey.”

“And, what was the
tone
of these voices you heard?”

“Whaddya mean,
tone?”

“Well, did it sound like an argument? Did it sound like friendly voices?
What,
Mr. Groda?”

“I couldn’t tell. All I can say is that the voices was low. Very low.”

“Did you recognize the voices?”

“Only one.”

“And who would
that
be?”

“I recognized Danny Novak’s voice.”

“You’re positive about that?”

“Yes. I am.”

“What about the other voice?”

“Like I told you, Mr. Ramsey, the voices was very low, and besides, I had my TV on. I did not recognize the other voice.”

“It’s my understanding that when Detective Farrell first questioned you, Mr. Groda, you neglected to mention that you’d
heard
these voices. Why is that?”

Groda shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal, I don’t guess.”

“Did it ever occur to you, that you could have been cited for obstructing a criminal investigation?”

“Nope. Like I just told you, Mr. Ramsey, I didn’t think it was that important.”

Ramsey scowled. A look of disgust gathered around his eyes. “You said you were watching the news on television. What happened after that?”

“Like I said, I was tired. I finally went to bed.”

“So, you never left the cabin after that?”

“No. Why would I do
that,
Mr. Ramsey?”

“So, the answer is no?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you substantiate that, Mr. Groda?”

“Whaddya mean,
substantiate,
Mr. Ramsey?”

“Can you prove you never left the cabin that night?”

“No, I caint.”

“You didn’t talk to anyone on the phone? Anything like that?”

“Nope. I didn’t.”

“So, you are testifying in this courtroom that you
never
left the lakeside cabin that night. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”

“That is correct. That is what I’m sayin’.”

“There are stiff penalties for perjury, Mr. Groda. You are aware of that?”

Suddenly, Berkoff sprung quickly to his feet. He was angry now. “YOUR HONOR!” he yelled.

Judge Baylor tossed the counselor a tight glance. “Yes, Mr. Ramsey. Will you please move it along!”

“Fair enough.” Ramsey moved to the witness stand. He leaned in close to Groda. When he spoke, his voice cold, condescending. “Mr Groda, we’ll forget Camp Sierra for a moment. Let’s go back to West Memphis, Arkansas.”

Groda was suddenly on the defensive. “West Memphis, Arkansas? Whaddya wanna know about it?”

“What I ‘wanna know about it,’ is just what were you doing back in Arkansas? What kind of work did you do?”

Groda shifted his position. “I did a lot of things.”

“Like what, Mr. Groda?”

“Oh, I washed dishes, did janitorial work. This and that. I was employed as a school guard. I also drove the school bus.”

Ramsey paused, eyeing him carefully. “Mr Groda, does the term, ‘pedophile,’ mean anything to you?”

Suddenly, Berkoff spoke up. “Your Honor! I object to this line of questioning! I fail to see the relevancy here!”

“Overruled! You may continue, Mr. Ramsey.”

“I’ll repeat the question, sir. Does the term ‘pedophile,’ mean anything to you?”

“No, Mr. Ramsey,” he said, dripping sarcasm, “It
don’t
mean anything to me! Would you care to enlighten me? Clue me in?”

“The word describes a sexual deviant, who is attracted to children,” Ramsey answered, his tone flat, acidic.

Once again, Groda shifted his position. “What the hell’s
that
got to do with me?”

Ramsey moved in closer. “Yes or no, sir. Were you, or were you not, arrested in May, 1995, on charges of sexually abusing two juveniles?” His voice turned hard. “Yes or no, Mr. Groda?

“Them so-called charges were dropped!” he yelled.

“Precisely. They were dropped because of lack of evidence.”

“That’s right! They couldn’t prove a thing! They couldn’t prove squat!”

Ramsey’s eyes narrowed. “And, in July of that same year, you were arrested and charged with the first-degree sexual abuse of a nine-year-old girl, you’d picked up in a shopping mall. Yes, or no, Mr. Groda?”

Groda was quick to respond. “I was
set-up!
The cops set me up! They said, I’d”

“Just answer the question! Give me a simple yes, or no?”

There was a long pause. “Yes.”

“One final question, Mr. Groda. Did you, or did you not, serve eighteen months in the Crittenden County Jail, in Arkansas, for the sexual molestation of that
same
nine-year-old girl?”

There was another long pause. Groda’s face darkened. “What the hell do you want from me, Mr. Ramsey? Yes, I did.”

“I’d like you to speak up! I want everyone in the courtroom to hear your answer. Was that a
yes,
or a no?”

His voice was low, surly. “I said,
yes,
I did.”

Ramsey shot a snarl of dismissal. “I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor!”

“You may step down, Mr. Groda. Mr. Berkoff? You may call your next witness.”

“The People call Robert Stiles.”

Judge Baylor hesitated momentarily. “Is Mr. Stiles present in the courtroom and ready to testify, Counselor?”

“Yes. He is. Your Honor.”

Baylor glanced at the small digital clock beside him. It read 4:25. “My apologies to Mr. Stiles, Counselor, but due to the lateness of the hour, we will adjourn at this time. We will hear Robert Stiles’ testimony at 10:00 o’clock, sharp, tomorrow morning.” He banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned!”

--14--

Tuesday, 9/28/99. 10:00 a.m. Courtroom No. 210, on the second floor of the County Courthouse was filled to capacity. It was Standing-Room-Only. In a benevolent move, Judge Baylor had agreed to allow a stationary television camera be placed inside the courtroom. The overflow of spectators could view the court proceedings on a wide-screen TV, set up in the circular rotunda.

Interestingly enough, the next scheduled witness, Robert Stiles, had religiously attended the Reiniger trial from Day-One. He did not go unnoticed. A young man in his mid-twenties, he was tall, dark, exceedingly good-looking; what teen-aged girls would refer to, as a ‘hunk.’ He was lean, lithe, well-built. He was impeccably dressed in a dark blue, tailor-made suit, a red-and-white, striped necktie.

Judge Baylor quickly scanned the courtroom. “Next witness, Mr. Berkoff,” he announced.

“The People call Robert Stiles.”

Stiles, who was seated in the spectator’s gallery, rose and made his way toward the stand. The clerk appeared slightly flustered by Stiles’ handsomeness. “Mr. Stiles, will you please raise your right hand? Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you, God?”

“I do.”

“You may be seated.”

Stiles seated himself on the witness stand. Berkoff rose and then crossed toward him. “Will you state your full name for the record, please?”

“Robert Andrew Stiles.”

“How old are you, Mr. Stiles?”

“I am twenty-six.”

“Where do you reside?”

“2757 Arizona Avenue. West Los Angeles.”

“Santa Monica, to be more specific?”