Hounded (19 page)

Judge Matthews asks me if I would like to wait until after lunch to give my opening statement, and I decline. There is no way I’m going to let the jury sit through lunch having heard only Richard’s point of view. They’re going to hear both sides, hungry or not.

“They’re isn’t much that Mr. Wallace and I will agree on throughout the course of this trial. Believe me, there will be two sides to every story, his and mine. But remarkably, we can start off with something we are in complete agreement on.

“He is right when he says that Pete Stanton has had an outstanding career, and that he has been promoted with remarkable regularity for his fine work, and that his reputation has always been outstanding among his peers, and the public he has sworn to protect. I certainly cannot quarrel with any of that.

“But, respectfully, here is where he is wrong. While Pete Stanton’s biography is not proof of his innocence, it
is
proof of his character. People do not respect him because they know his résumé; they respect him because they know the man.

“Each of you know people you respect, whose character you would never question. Would you believe that person did something terrible, just because someone leveled an accusation? Of course not.

“But please understand that I am not telling you to find Pete Stanton not guilty because of what he has done in his life, or because of what people think of him. All I am asking is that you take all of that into consideration, and because of it hold the prosecution to a high standard.

“Make them prove their case,” I say, and then pause a moment, before repeating, “Make them prove their case.

“They will not be able to do so, and that is because Pete Stanton did not commit these terrible acts. He isn’t a criminal; he brings criminals to justice. You do not have to protect society from Pete Stanton; he has spent his life protecting us.

“Listen to the facts, and then let him go back to his life. Let him go back to what he does best. Let him continue to be the finest police officer I have ever known.

“Thank you.”

I go back to the table and put my hands on Pete’s shoulder. Hike gives me a slight nod, his way of saying that I did a good job. I hope so, because I believe every word I said.

As soon as Judge Matthews adjourns for lunch, I head to the diner down the street to meet Lieutenant Stan Phillips. He told me that if I needed help, he was completely available, so I’m calling on him now.

It’s to his credit that he’s willing to meet with me in public. It takes courage for a member of the department to obviously be supporting Pete at this point, but Phillips does not seem worried about that at all. I’ve never thought much of him before, and we’ve obviously had our run-ins, but maybe I should reassess.

“How’s the trial going?” he asks.

“All we’ve had are opening statements. The bad stuff starts after lunch.”

“They got a case?” he asks.

I nod. “A strong one.”

“So how can I help?”

I take a copy of the Parker photograph out of my briefcase and put it on the table. “This is Alex Parker. He is the guy that I believe murdered Danny Diaz, and set Pete up.”

“What makes you think so?”

Again, I am not going to sandbag Sam. “I can’t say, but it’s legit.”

He considers this for a moment, and then nods. “So you want to know what we have on him?”

“Exactly.”

He holds up the photo. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.”

He stands up, apparently not planning to have lunch, which is just as well, because I have another meeting. “Let’s see what we can find out about Alex Parker,” he says.

A half hour later, right on schedule, Willie Miller walks in. “What’s going on?” he says.

“I need you to go back to your friend Russo,” I say.

He nods. “No problem. What for?”

I give him another copy of the Parker photo, and tell him the name. “Tell him that this is Alex Parker, and he’s the guy that hit Diaz. I need him found.”

“That’s it?” Willie asks.

“No, there’s one more thing that is absolutely crucial. If Russo finds Parker, I want him. He is not to have him killed. Tell him you need this as a personal favor.”

“Russo wants him dead pretty bad,” Willie says.

“Tell him he can get to him in prison, but first I need him alive.”

“Okay.”

“Will he listen to you?”

Willie thinks for a moment. “If I tell him it’s a personal favor? Yeah, he’ll listen; he thinks he owes me.”

“He does owe you,” I point out. “You saved his life.”

He shrugs. “It was no big deal; I enjoyed it. You would have done the same thing.”

“You think I would have jumped into a prison fight and taken on three guys with knives to save a mobster I never met?”

“No?”

“Willie, I’ve got to be honest with you, I have trouble picturing it.”

“At strong safety, number twenty-four, George Selby.”

That was how the stadium announcer at the University of Maryland introduced him on November 21, 1993. Selby had two interceptions that day, returning one for a touchdown in a four-point Maryland win over Virginia Tech.

George thinks back upon those days, and especially that game, but not as often as he used to, and only when he is sober. And the memory of the interceptions, and the crowd reaction, is not what is most clear in his mind.

What dominates is what happened on the next-to-last play, when Virginia Tech was driving to try and salvage a win. A linebacker made the tackle, and Selby was simply standing near the pile when an offensive tackle took his leg out. It destroyed his right knee, tearing the MCL and ACL ligaments. Knee surgeries are much better today than in Selby’s day, and the injury effectively ended his chance of making it in the NFL.

Plenty of people have similar disappointments, and most of them come back and create productive lives for themselves outside of football. Not George Selby. He left school, bounced around unsuccessfully in a few jobs, and found drugs and alcohol.

He didn’t lose his family and his money, because he had no family and money to lose. So his spiral downward wasn’t long and deep, but it certainly reached the bottom. For the last four years, Selby has been homeless, living in shelters when the weather is bad, and on the street when it’s good. He’s been eating where and when he can, mostly at soup kitchens or from handouts.

This particular night was clear and not too hot; the July temperature actually got down to seventy-one degrees. Selby, therefore, was sleeping beneath a trestle on Market Street in Paterson, under a blanket with all of his worldly possessions in a duffel bag behind him. The duffel said
UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND
on it, truly his only remaining physical attachment to the glory days.

At two o’clock in the morning, Selby was awakened by a leg nudging him. He was used to being hassled, but it hadn’t happened in a while, and almost never at that hour of the morning.

“Get up,” said the voice, sounding so authoritative that Selby figured it had to be a cop.

“Aw, come on, man. Why are you hassling me? Go hassle someone else.”

Selby had no idea that the man had considered hassling six other people in various locations, but had settled on him instead. “I said get up.”

“Who am I hurting?” Selby asked, still not having opened his eyes fully to look at this intruder.

“How tall are you?” Alex Parker asked.

It was such a strange question that Selby started to turn to look toward the voice. “Six three.”

“Get up.”

Selby, now fully awake, saw that it was not a cop at all. It was a stranger, a guy as big as himself, and he was carrying a gun.

“Hey, what are you doing? I ain’t got nothing.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Alex Parker. “Time to go.”

Richard is starting off by demonstrating opportunity.

He is beginning his case with testimony designed to show that Pete was present and physically able to commit the murder of Danny Diaz. That is why his first witness is Stanley Wilson, the man who came from across the street and identified Pete as coming out of the house just after the bullets were fired.

Wilson is dressed in a suit and tie, beaming and looking like he’s making his Broadway debut. Once he gives his name and confirms that he was across the street that night, Richard asks, “Is that where you live?”

“No, I was at my girlfriend’s house. Her name is Rita, and she’s sitting right back there.” He points to an area near the rear of the courtroom.

Richard opts to not have Rita take a bow. Instead he brings Wilson back to the night in question, and asks what happened.

“Well, I heard these shots, so I ran downstairs to see what was going on.”

“You could recognize them as gunshots?”

“Sure, I know that sound when I hear it. I own guns myself.”

“How long did it take you to get downstairs?”

“Maybe a minute. Maybe less. I was really moving,” he says, with obvious pride.

Wilson goes on to describe the events of that night much as he described them to Laurie and me. He heard the shots, came downstairs, and saw Pete leaving the house. Pete then went into his car, and sat there for a few minutes, before other cops arrived.

The story is straightforward, and while it’s not eyewitness testimony in that Wilson isn’t saying he saw Pete fire the shot, it is certainly very damaging if not impeached.

Enter Andy Carpenter, Impeacher in Chief. “Mr. Wilson, you testified that you were sleeping in the bedroom. Is that the one upstairs, in the back of the house?”

“Yup. Yes. That’s the one.”

“When you jumped up to go downstairs, did you turn the lights on in the bedroom?”

“Let me think … no, I was in a hurry.”

“Were you wearing pajamas?”

“Nah, I told you. I don’t wear nothing when I sleep.”

“So did you get dressed before you came down?” I ask.

“Well, sure. I wasn’t going to go outside like that.”

I nod. “Probably just as well. What did you put on?”

“Not much. I was in a hurry.”

I walk toward the wall, where Hike has placed two large, blown-up photographs mounted on Styrofoam. I ask the judge to admit them into evidence, and she does so without objection from Richard.

“Mr. Wilson, this is a police photograph taken twenty minutes after they arrived on the scene. Do you see yourself in this photograph?”

He points. “Sure. I’m right there.”

“And behind you and to the right, is that the house you were sleeping in?”

“Yes.”

I get him to agree that there are no lights on in the house, and the windows of the bedroom he was sleeping in are dark as well. “So you didn’t turn the lights on before you left, correct?”

“Yeah, like I said, I was in a hurry.”

I take the other Styrofoam mounted photograph and introduce that into evidence as well. “This is the same photograph, except the area where you are standing is magnified. But that’s still you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you wearing in the photo?”

“A shirt, jeans, and sneakers.”

“Socks?”

“Sure.”

“Underwear?”

He laughs slightly, still amazingly not having a clue where I’m going. “Of course.”

“So, just to be clear, tell me if this accurately sums up your testimony. You were sleeping. You heard gunshots, so you jumped out of bed, naked. You put on underwear, then proceeded to put on a shirt, which you buttoned completely, including the cuffs.”

Finally, it dawns on him. “Hey—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson. Let me finish my question, please, and then you can talk as long as you like. You then put on jeans, zipped them up, buttoned them, and fastened your belt. Then you put on socks and sneakers, and as you can see in the photograph, tied the laces on both. And you did all of this in the dark.

“Then you came all the way downstairs and to the front of the house, and went outside. And you did all this in one minute. Is that your testimony?”

“I did it fast, that’s all I know.”

“How fast, Mr. Wilson. Ten minutes?”

“No, not that long. Five minutes.”

“Five minutes to do all of that, just having woken up? To find your clothes, put them on the way you did, and come downstairs, all in the dark?”

“I think I could do it in less than five minutes.”

“Care to prove it?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

I turn to Judge Matthews. “Your Honor, my associate has brought with him clothing that is an exact match for what Mr. Wilson is wearing in that photograph.” Hike holds up a bag to show her. “I would propose that Mr. Wilson go into anteroom four, which has no windows. We can make it completely dark in there, after which he can strip naked, lie down, and on signal, he can jump up and put the clothes on.”

Richard is up, objecting. “Your Honor, this is ridiculous.” The packed gallery is roaring with laughter.

Since I am not aware of “ridiculous” being a valid objection, I continue. “We can see how long it takes, not including the time he needed to run downstairs, go to the front of the house, and exit. In the dark.”

“No way am I doing that,” Wilson says.

I smile as condescending a smile as I can manage. “Of course not, because you know how long it would take you. Ten minutes would be conservative. You know how many cars can pull up and leave a street in ten minutes, Mr. Wilson?”

“Objection. Badgering,” says Richard.

“Sustained.” The judge is trying to regain control of the courtroom. “I believe you’ve made your point, Mr. Carpenter.”

I nod. “I believe I have.”

She excuses Wilson, and announces that we’ll take a ten-minute recess. I smile. “Ten minutes? That’s a really long time.”

My dismantling of Stanley Wilson was more style than substance.

Which is not to say that it was not important, but rather that triumphs like that, by themselves, will not carry the day.

The style victory was significant, especially because of its timing. We showed the jury right at the top that they should not take whatever the prosecution witnesses say at face value. That is a major hurdle, because although the burden of proof is technically on the prosecution, the reality is that jurors have a tendency to believe them, unless they are shown a reason not to.