Witness to a Trial (3 page)

The eighth witness called by the State was Digger Robles, another jailhouse snitch. His criminal record was not quite as impressive as Todd Short's, nor was his body art. He, too, wore a white shirt with a high collar and long sleeves; indeed, it was identical to the one worn by Short. Swoboda gave a passing thought to asking Digger if Wag Dunlap had found the shirts on sale. Almost all his tattoos were hidden, though one managed to crawl up his neck and evade the collar. Nonetheless, Digger cleaned up nicely and managed to seem relaxed as he prepared to unload an hour's worth of fiction to the jury.

The only truth he told was his recollection of his two criminal convictions, three years in prison, and struggles with meth. Wag breezed him through these trifling preliminaries as if they were of absolutely no consequence. Then on to the story—and the truth! In testimony that was remarkably, and at times astonishingly, similar to Short's, he told in great detail of his brief incarceration with Junior. The man was proud of what he had done. He had caught them in his own bed, popped them twice, stood his ground, and what the hell was the State of Florida doing dragging him to jail and to trial? If it had happened on Indian land, Junior would be hailed as a hero. He had shown not the slightest hint of remorse.

Swoboda leaned over to his client and asked, “Remember him?”

Junior whispered, “Maybe.”

On cross-examination, Swoboda managed to land a few punches when he haggled with Digger over his motives. If he had not been promised something, why was he testifying? Digger said he really didn't want to testify, didn't want to get involved, but he was an important witness because he had heard damaging comments. Swoboda reminded him that he'd spent considerable time behind bars and asked if he had ever heard anyone else admit to wrongdoing. When Digger said no, several of the jurors shook their heads in disbelief.

But, on the whole, it was a fine performance. When Digger left the witness stand, Wag Dunlap announced, “The State rests.”

The Spectator.
He came and went throughout the trial, always choosing a different seat and always with a different look. He changed caps, eyeglasses, clothing, even shaved a full beard after the first two days of testimony. He skipped a few hours here and there, then half a day, then showed up dressed in leather. Not a single person in the courtroom knew his name and no one noticed him.

His name was Delgado, and he worked for a tight and well-organized gang of career criminals determined to build a casino on the Tappacola reservation. His duties varied, but his value to the gang centered on his talents with firearms and his ability to eliminate people without leaving a trace of evidence.

As the trial unfolded, Delgado marveled at the State's case and its incompetence. Unger's autopsy had been hurried and sloppy. And why not? The causes of death were so obvious, why dig deeper? An analysis of Son's blood would have revealed the presence of phenobarbital, a strong barbiturate Delgado had injected. Had it been discovered, Delgado had no doubt that the State's theory would have been slightly altered to include the fact that Son was popping pills before his rendezvous with Eileen. A thorough analysis would have revealed that Son had been unconscious at the time of his death.

In their excitement, the cops had not bothered to dust Junior's hands for residue. Such a simple and routine test would have told them that he had not fired the .38. His prints were not on the gun, but then Montgomery, the ballistics expert, had speculated that Junior had simply wiped the gun clean.

Nor had the State tested Junior's blood while he was hospitalized. A test would have revealed some alcohol, as expected, but also chloral hydrate. In the bar Delgado had enticed Junior into a game of darts and had managed to swap bottles of beer.

And the snitches! Delgado listened to their fabrications and worked hard to conceal a smile. Junior's alleged confessions were a joke. They got it all wrong. Eileen went first. Delgado talked his way into the house, pulled the gun, made her undress in the bedroom, then shot her twice. He carried Son into the bedroom, undressed him, shot him.

The problem with snitches was that they often recanted and changed their stories. Delgado knew this well, as did the men he worked for. As he watched Todd Short and Digger Robles on the stand, and almost chuckled at their fiction, he knew that he would soon get the orders to take them out. Wait for the trial to end, for Junior to be led away, for the endless appeals to begin, and start the process of planning, stalking, waiting. Their testimony was now permanently recorded and could be read into the record in the event of a retrial, though such a scenario did not bother his bosses. Son was dead. Junior would be sidelined long enough. The opposition was crippled. The casino would be built.

The first witness called by the defense was a teenager named Heath. His family owned a country store near the small town of Larkin, about thirty miles from the crime scene. The store sold propane for heating and cooking and had a contract with Junior's employer to collect the empty cylinders and resupply the inventory once a week. Around 2:00 p.m. on that January 17, Junior delivered ten twenty-pound cylinders and picked up ten empty ones. Heath signed the delivery ticket but no specific time was noted.

He testified that it was “around 2:00 p.m., give or take,” but could not be more specific. He said he saw Junior almost every week and that they usually “shot the bull” for a few minutes during each delivery. He estimated that Junior was at his store for less than fifteen minutes.

Swoboda produced a large map of three counties—Walton, Brunswick, and Okaloosa—and marked the locations of Heath's family's store and the Mace home.

The second witness called by the defense was Len McGuire, owner of a nursery and garden shop in the town of DeFuniak Springs. Mr. McGuire sold a lot of propane and had done business with Junior's company for years. On the day of the murders, he remembered Junior arriving on his weekly round at “approximately 3:00 p.m.” He dropped off a dozen cylinders of propane and picked up the empties. He produced a delivery ticket detailing the transaction but it did not note a specific time. It never did, he told the jury.

Since the time of the two deaths was estimated to be between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m., Mr. McGuire would have seen Junior
after
he had just killed his wife and Son Razko. Swoboda asked him a lot of questions about Junior's demeanor. Nothing seemed out of order. Same old Junior.

The third witness called by the defense was a retired state trooper named Taggart. With the tiny budget Judge McDover had reluctantly authorized Swoboda to spend on experts, he had hired Taggart for $1,000. Standing in front of the jury box and holding a pointer, Taggart indicated locations on the enlarged map. Number one was the country store where Heath worked. Number two was Mr. McGuire's garden shop. Number three was the Mace home. Number four was Junior's employer's warehouse over in Moreville. Assuming Junior made his delivery at 2:00 p.m. and it consumed about fifteen minutes, as per Heath, then Junior left around 2:15 and drove to Mr. McGuire's for his next delivery. Taggart had made that drive on three occasions and it took, on average, twenty-three minutes. So, around 2:35, Junior arrived at Mr. McGuire's, spent fifteen minutes doing what he was supposed to do, and left around 2:50. At that point, he was twenty minutes from his home. If he had hurried there, he could have arrived around 3:10.

According to the pathologist, the deaths occurred between 2:00 and 3:00. However, the pathologist had been quick to explain that this time frame was not exact and could vary half an hour either way.

Even on direct examination, the defense theory was not convincing. A few minutes here and a few minutes there and nothing seemed concrete. Precise times were not logged in. Memories were not that clear. Did Junior make his delivery at 2:00 p.m., or was it more like 1:45? Were they shot at 3:00 p.m., or was it more like 3:30?

On cross-examination, the theory was destroyed. Wag Dunlap walked Taggart along the roads and highways until it was abundantly clear that, in fact, Junior Mace
could have
completed the delivery to Heath's family's store at 2:00 p.m., then raced home because he suspected something, found his wife in bed with his friend, taken care of that business, and hurried away to Mr. McGuire's place and arrived there shortly after 3:00 p.m., acting as though all was well.

Did Junior have time to race to his employer's warehouse, jump into his own pickup truck, then hustle home for the killings? Perhaps, Wag implied, though it wasn't clear.

For two hours Wag harangued Taggart over the times and distances. Swoboda objected. McDover overruled. The lawyers bickered as tempers rose. Taggart eventually lashed out. Swoboda moved for a mistrial again. The judge asked him to sit down. The jurors were frustrated. The spectators were at first amused, then bored.

Through it all, Junior Mace sat stoically amid the chaos, occasionally shaking his head at the fiction.

With the alibis out the window, the defense had nothing left but the defendant himself. Swoboda followed the conventional wisdom of advising Junior against taking the stand, but Junior would have none of it. If he was to be given the chance to tell the truth, then he would not be denied.

In a deep, slow voice he measured his words and looked unflinchingly at the jurors. Swoboda lobbed up the easy ones as they covered Junior's background: education, employment, family, lack of criminal record, no divorces, three children. He loved Eileen, and Son was his closest friend. No, they were not having an affair, and, no, he did not catch them in bed.

He denied owning a handgun and testified that he did not know a single Tappacola who owned one. It was not part of their culture. A few of the men hunted deer for food, but no one in his family did so. He enjoyed a few beers occasionally but did not consider himself a heavy drinker. He and Eileen had never kept alcohol in their home.

He told the story of his people and their deep division over the proposal to build a casino on their land. He and Son had led the opposition to it, and they had won the first election by a narrow margin. The vote split their tribe into bitter camps.

Whoever killed Son and Eileen was now doing a fine job of framing him. Remove Son and remove Junior and the casino would be built.

Wag stood and pleaded, “Objection. Please, Your Honor. Do we have any proof of this? This is a pretty wild theory with nothing to back it up.”

“Agreed. Sustained. Mr. Swoboda, please limit the testimony to something that resembles the facts.”

January 17 had been a typical day for Junior. He made his rounds that morning and had lunch in a country store where he also made a delivery. Around 2:00 p.m., he stopped by Heath's family's store, dropped off and picked up ten cylinders of propane, and drove “about a half an hour” to Mr. McGuire's. He was in no hurry, as always, and drove under the speed limit. He did not detour, did not go home, because there was no reason to do so, and finished his business at Mr. McGuire's around 3:00 p.m. Afterward, he stopped at two more stores before punching the clock at 4:41. On the drive home, he stopped at one of his favorite bars, said hello to Spike, had a couple of beers, and all was well. After that, he remembered little. He passed out, not from two beers, but from something else, and remembered nothing until he awoke in the hospital.

His voice cracked slightly when he tried to explain what it was like hearing that his wife had been murdered and being told, about an hour later, that he was charged with the murder. Handcuffed, dragged away, driven to jail, thrown in a cell, denied the dignity of attending his wife's funeral and burial, denied the opportunity to grieve with his children. He had been so traumatized he had trouble talking, eating, and sleeping.

It was a nightmare that would never end.

The Son.
Patrick Mace, age fourteen, the oldest of Junior's three children. Because of the gruesomeness of much of the testimony, young Patrick had been kept out of the courtroom until today. His younger siblings would see none of the trial.

Patrick had been the first one home from school, the first one in the house, the unlucky soul who stumbled upon the bodies and the unspeakable crime scene. He did not remember making the 911 call; he remembered nothing. The first deputy found him lying on the front porch, curled in the fetal position, shaking and unable to speak or walk. Patrick had spent two nights in a hospital and was still seeing a counselor.

Not surprisingly, Wag Dunlap wanted to call the kid as one of the State's opening witnesses. Slay the jury right off the bat with the kid weeping and bawling and unable to continue. Swoboda objected but McDover said yes. Fortunately, the Mace family resisted so fiercely that Wag backed off.

As Patrick watched his father fight for his life, he battled his own emotions. Tears flooded his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He wiped them with his sleeves and tried not to look at Uncle Wilton seated next to him. Losing his mother was incomprehensible. Losing his father would be the end of the world.

Wilton had explained the truth. He knew his father was innocent.

In his closing argument Wag Dunlap decided to trash the victims. If Son and Eileen were not having a fling, then what the hell
were
they doing? Can you think of another good reason why Son, who knew Eileen very well, would drop by her house around 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, with Junior at work and the kids at school? There was no other reason, and the defendant, who has proven to have a rather vivid imagination, has been unable to pull one out of the air.

What should be obvious, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is actually quite obvious. They were having a fling, and Junior either knew about it or was highly suspicious. He timed his movements almost to perfection, giving himself a brief but plausible window to zip by his house and see if Son's pickup was in the driveway.

And it was! His worst suspicions were true.

He caught them, killed them, did what he had to do, and got on with his propane deliveries. Later, when reality set in, he got drunk, got caught, and showed no remorse for the killings, at least not in jail.

The Chief.
From the front row in the small balcony, the Chief looked down on the courtroom with sadness. His people were so divided. To his left and behind the defendant were members of the Mace family and a few friends. To his right and behind the prosecution were members of the Razko family and a few friends. Two deputies guarded the aisle, ready to make sure the factions caused no trouble. Scattered around the courtroom were other Tappacola, all more curious than concerned. They favored the casino, could almost see and feel its riches. For or Against. No gray areas, no indecision. Every Tappacola stood firmly in one camp or the other.

His tribe had voted no almost three years earlier, back when Son Razko and Junior Mace had been agitating against the casino on tribal land. They viewed gambling as nothing more than another white man's curse, and they had narrowly won. Now, with Son dead and Junior on his way to prison, the tribe would vote again and the casino would be built. Prosperity was just around the corner, and this pleased the Chief. Perhaps in a few years the money could heal the divisions. With money they would build nice homes and fine schools, plenty of roads and parks and clinics, and every Tappacola would share in the wealth. The casino would lift them out of poverty and reunite his tribe. That was his dream.

For now, though, the spectacle of Junior being prosecuted was heartbreaking. The Chief knew what all of his people knew. They could argue, fight, and hold grudges for decades, but the Tappacola did not kill one another.