Body Hunter (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Dana Rice, investigator for the Wichita County Public Defender's Office, had been dealing with the Faryion Wardrip case for nine months. Not only was the pretty, former parole officer responsible for interviewing witnesses, but for keeping Wardrip reasonably in line as well.

Rice's path had crossed Wardrip's before. She had first seen him in the 1980s when she frequented the Stardust Club and he checked IDs at the door. She hadn't really known Wardrip personally, but since she had taken over the investigation of his case for Public Defender John Curry and second-chair Defender Dorie Glickman, Dana had become quite familiar with Wardrip and many of his idiosyncrasies.

“Who died for our sins?” Wardrip had asked Dana Rice on their first meeting.

Rice had stared at Wardrip questioningly.
Is this a trick question?
she'd thought.

The question had been one of many religion-based inquiries Wardrip had made during their meetings. But when the trial proceedings began, Wardrip had concentrated his dialogue with Dana on requests for snacks and treats. Because of his diabetes, Faryion had to have orange juice during the court breaks, as well as an occasional milk shake. Wardrip loved milk shakes—and he loved to be waited on. Because of his nervous snacking, he was confined to the jail infirmary every night with his blood-sugar levels reaching erratic highs and lows. Rice wondered if he would even live through the trial.

November 1, 1999, the first day of scheduled trial testimony, Dana Rice was leaving the Radisson Hotel with Dorie Glickman. Dorie, an attractive young woman in her thirties, wore a black conservative suit; Dana, a black-and-white-checked jacket with black pants.

The prominent skyscrapers that rose from the campuses of the University of North Texas and Texas Women's University were shrouded in fog. Temperatures were in the mid-fifties.

“Wait a minute,” Glickman said, hurrying back into the room. The bright young female defense attorney picked up the hotel Bible from the bedside table and tucked it neatly under her arm. In her right pocket was Wardrip's wedding ring. She had obtained special permission from Judge Brotherton for her client to wear the ring in court but, because jewelry wasn't allowed in the Denton County Jail, she was responsible for bringing it to her client each day.

Wardrip and Glickman may have thought the ring gave the impression of a stable, normal married man, but in the world of serial killers Wardrip was more the standard than the exception. A serial killer's continuing success largely depended on an ability to look like an average Joe, and Wardrip was as average as one would have expected. Even his marriage didn't exempt him from falling into the serial-killer profile—a large number were married, leading the darkest of double lives.

The Wardrip defense team of Curry, Glickman, and Rice arrived at the Denton County courthouse ready for trial. They got there early enough to capture parking spaces in the courthouse complex, while others were forced to park in the residential area adjacent to the facility.

As Glickman entered the courtroom, she handed the Bible to Wardrip, who was already seated at the defense table.

“What am I suppose to do with this?” he asked.

“I don't care. Just open it. Pretend to read it,” the crafty defense attorney replied.

District Attorney Macha and his assistants, Rick Mahler and Jerry Taylor, sat at the prosecution table closest to the jury box. Across the aisle from them was the defense. Public Defender John Curry and District Attorney Barry Macha had tried capital murder cases together before. They had an easy esprit de corps that made working on opposite sides of the legal system run smoothly.

The ever-present Wichita County Sheriff's deputies, in black jeans and green knit shirts, sat behind Faryion.

Once Judge Brotherton entered the court and settled into his chair, he explained that there were only two punishments for the case of Faryion Wardrip: life in prison or death by lethal injection. Any plea bargain that might be reached would be for life only.

Judge Brotherton then asked Faryion if he understood the punishments and how he would plea to the charge of capital murder.

“I'm fully aware of all my rights and my decision is made,” Faryion stated, as he stood before the judge. “I plead guilty.”

Unknown to anyone outside of the defense, Faryion had decided the week before the trial was to begin that he would plead guilty. He felt at peace with God. He felt that he had to come clean and be up-front with God in order to truly repent. It was a natural flow from the confessions.

Murmurs spread through the courtroom as confused spectators asked what the unexpected plea meant to the outcome of the trial. Their baffled conversations continued as the jury entered the courtroom and took their seats in the jury box to the left of the judge.

In essence, Wardrip had forfeited any appeals to pretrial motions and errors. It more or less shut him down.

It wasn't evident on the faces of Macha or his assistant district attorneys if Wardrip's admission of guilt took them by surprise. Macha was well prepared. He was more than ready to ask the four men and eight women jurors to give Wardrip the death penalty.

Brotherton restated the procedures to the jury and Barry Macha read the indictment against Faryion Wardrip accusing him of the sexual assault and murder of Terry Sims. All eyes of the jurors remained on Brotherton and then on Macha as each man spoke. No juror looked at the defendant sitting fifteen feet away.

“Again, I am instructing you not to talk to anyone, or read anything, or watch television concerning anything about this case,” Brotherton warned. “I want you to keep an open mind.”

It was time for opening statements. The scheduled two-phase trial of guilt or innocence, and punishment, had suddenly become only a question of life or death after Wardrip's guilty plea. District Attorney Barry Macha launched right into a short statement, telling the jury that they would hear evidence that Terry Sims had been raped before Faryion Wardrip brutally stabbed her to death. The State was asking the jury to sentence Wardrip to death for the capital offense.

Macha returned to his seat next to his fellow prosecutors. With the announcement by John Curry that the defense reserved the right to make an opening statement later in the trial, Macha was back on his feet calling his first witness to the stand.

“The State calls Leza Boone,” Macha announced.

From the back of the courtroom a blond-haired woman entered through the double doors. Wearing a black jacket and white blouse, Leza Boone took the stand without glancing toward Wardrip.

In a voice laced with nervousness, Boone told the jury that she had worked with Terry Sims at the Bethania Regional Heath Care Center. She had ridden to work with Terry; then after their shift, they had gone to their friends, the Whitakers, to exchange gifts about 11:25
P.M.
They were at the Whitakers about an hour; then she took Terry to her house. Then she went back to work a second shift.

“Terry planned to stay at my house to help me study for finals and to help me stay awake,” Boone said. “She had stayed at my house occasionally.”

Boone described her house as a small, two-bedroom, one-bath home on Bell Avenue.

“We got to my house close to twelve-thirty
A.M.
,” Boone said. “I drove Terry's car because my car was out of gas. I was poor. My car was parked at the side of the house. There were no lights on inside. The porch light was on outside. Terry went in with my house keys. I left her there and went back to the hospital.”

Leza explained that the next morning, December 21, 1984, she got off work at 7:15. She drove home and knocked on the door because she didn't have her keys; she had given them to Terry. There was no answer, so she went to her landlord's house two doors down from her place to get an extra key.

“I opened the door. The living room was in disarray. I yelled Terry's name, but there was no answer. I ran. I was scared. [I] ran back to the landlord's. I said, ‘Something is really wrong.' He followed me back to my house and he went in,” Leza said, a touch of fear still present in her voice.

She explained that she was hysterical. The police were called and she learned that Terry had been murdered.

Barry Macha moved the wooden easel used during jury selection closer to the jury. The large white poster board with black markings depicted a diagram of the streets around Boone's house.

“Will you please step down here, Ms. Boone?” Macha asked.

Boone pointed out her street, her house, and a redbrick apartment house nearby.

Macha exchanged the poster with one diagramming the layout of Boone's house. She pointed out the two bedrooms, the bath, and the combined kitchen and dining room.

Macha asked Boone to return to her seat in the witness box, then moved to his desk where he took several minutes to flip though a number of eight-by-ten photos on the table.

“Can you tell the jury what you see in these photos?” Macha asked.

“In this one, Terry's glasses are on the floor,” Boone said as she began to flip through each of the pictures. “The keys are on the floor here. The speaker is turned over. This is the bed in the front bedroom of the house. This is a pillow in the bedroom.”

As Boone flipped to the next photo, her voice began to break. She spoke in a hushed tone. “This is an extension cord that was in the bedroom. It was yellow. It ran from the outlet to the waterbed.”

Macha took the photos from his witness and handed them to Curry for the defense's inspection. For several minutes, Curry and Glickman reviewed the photos, as Faryion carefully looked at each one, expressionless.

Spectators sitting on the wooden, pew-style benches in the courtroom strained to see the pictures of what Boone had described. However, the photos were too small to be seen in detail.

During the lull in testimony, while Curry and Glickman reviewed the pictures numbered State's exhibits six through thirty-five, two young student court reporters rested from the practice they were getting covering the trial. Leslie Ryan-Hash, Judge Brotherton's official court reporter, had graduated from the Court Reporters' School of Dallas and had invited her instructor to send a couple of students to the trial.

After the acceptance of the State's evidence by the defense and the judge, Boone again stood next to the easel in front of the jury. She described each picture for the jury: the screen door, the wooden door, the two locks that were secured with the same key and automatically locked when the door closed, a yellow Kleenex on the coffee table, a Kleenex box on the headboard of the waterbed.

Wardrip watched Boone intently as she spoke to the jury. With each photo, she seemed more in control. Until she came to her friend's clothes, spotted with blood, under the coffee table.

Boone's voice was low, barely audible to the courtroom spectators as she described Terry Sims's purse and wallet on the waterbed and the bloodstained, crumpled sheets.

“Those stains were not on there when I last saw the bed,” Boone said softly.

As Macha turned to the picture of the bloody bathroom, Boone was close to tears. Wardrip was busy writing on a legal pad as Glickman chewed on the end of her pen and Curry watched the witness closely.

“Those cleaning materials were usually under the bathroom sink. The towels were usually on the towel rack,” Boone explained.

Boone returned to the witness box as Macha gathered three brown-paper grocery bags and carried them to her. Carefully, he opened each sealed bag using a staple remover, then tugged on white latex gloves before reaching into the first bag.

Macha lifted out a pair of white leather, Nike tennis shoes. They were marred by a blue powdery substance. The strings were still tied securely.

“Are these the shoes worn by Terry Sims on December 21, 1984?” the district attorney asked.

“Yes. She wore them to work,” Boone answered.

Next Macha reached in bag number two and pulled out a pink smock with small flowers, the sleeves turned inside out.

“Do you recognize this garment?” Macha asked.

Taking a deep breath before answering, Boone said, “Yes. Terry wore that at the health-care center. She was wearing it December 21, 1984.”

Boone also identified a pink shirt with small flowers as what Terry Sims wore to work under her smock on the night before her murder. Macha held each garment so that all jurors could see it clearly.

Macha pulled from the last bag a pair of pink pants, turned inside out, with underpants rolled into them.

As Macha held up the uniform pants and panties, a reporter sitting in the gallery heaved a long, moanful “Oh.”

Again, Boone identified the garments as those worn by her friend on December 21, 1984.

Macha passed his witness.

“Mr. Curry,” Judge Brotherton said, indicating that the defense could question Boone.

“No questions,” Curry said, remaining seated.

“The State may want to recall this witness later, Your Honor,” Macha announced. Then Boone was excused.

Wardrip looked at his lead defense attorney questioningly. It was obvious he was wondering why Curry had asked no questions.

By the end of Boone's testimony, spectators had relaxed. They seemed to understand that although the proceedings had skipped right to the penalty phase of the trial, Macha was presenting all the evidence he had scheduled prior to Wardrip's admission of guilt. The jury would hear exactly how he had raped Terry and then killed her. In addition, the jury would hear declarations of other offenses. Testimony that would have a marked effect on them.

 

 

Joe Shephard, chief of police of Seymour, Texas, approached the witness stand as the State's second witness. The stocky, former Wichita Falls police officer with thinning hair and thick mustache swore to tell the truth in a loud voice with a slight Texas drawl.