Savage Son (24 page)

“That’s correct.”

“He even brought his dead mother into this and tried to use her to get out of it also, correct?”

Kent was taken aback. “In what way?”

“That she knew that he wasn’t going to school.”

“Oh yes, he told me that.”

“You wanted to believe that—then you realized he was just lying to you?”

“Yes.” Kent nodded again.

“You still wanted to believe that he had nothing to do with these murders, but did, at any point in time, the defendant come up to you and say, ‘Dad, I got something to tell you. I had your wife and son killed,’ at any time?”

“No, he did not.”

“Fact is, he was so good at deceiving you, he actually went to the rodeo.” Felcman recalled the Pat Green concert attended by Kent, Bart, and several of Kevin’s friends.

“We did go to the rodeo and the song was sung in Kevin’s honor, but it wasn’t so much a matter of deception.”

Kent then decided to talk, unprompted, about Bart prior to him skipping town and heading for Mexico. “Before I visited with him on his return from Mexico, I tried and tried and tried to believe the police or to believe Bart, and I was getting no details of the investigation. I got a lot of innuendos, a lot of saying that he’s a horrible guy, but there is nothing I would have turned my back on my son for. I understand it was a criminal investigation and they probably couldn’t have talked to me, but there should have been something that they could have said.” Kent looked up at Felcman. “The point is, I was not believing Bart, nor was I believing the police.”

“What was the defendant telling you while this investigation was going on? Before he fled to Mexico.”

“That he was innocent,” Kent said flatly.

“He also lied to you when you asked him about Adam Hipp and why the police were talking to him?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, he never told you he was talking to Adam Hipp and was trying to get him to lie for him?”

“No, he did not.”

“When the defendant would talk to you, did he just look you straight in the eye and say, ‘No, Dad, I don’t know what’s going on’?”

“Yes, he did,” Kent agreed.

“Looked you straight in the eye?”

“Straight in the eye.”

“And you couldn’t tell if he was lying or not?”

“I didn’t know.”

Felcman changed up the questioning by focusing on something Bo Bartlett brought up. “There’s been some talk about pressure—that somehow he had pressure and he wasn’t living up to expectations. What pressure were you putting on your son, if any?”

“To my knowledge, I wasn’t.”

Felcman spun around and almost smiled at the witness. “Mr. Whitaker, it sounds like you’re one of the nicest men in the world. I can’t imagine you putting any pressure on this defendant. Is that about right?”

“Not exactly, believe me.” Kent shied away from the compliment.

“Well, you forgave him for the burglaries. You helped him out afterward with that. You took him to a psychologist. You forgave him for not going to school and lying about that. I’m trying to figure out where in the world I’m getting this testimony that somehow Bart Whitaker is getting pressure to such an extent that he has to kill your son and wife. You didn’t give him any type of pressure, did you?”

Kent simply replied, “No.”

“Did Lynne Ayres ever tell you how the defendant viewed himself?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“That he viewed himself as an Atlas—that he could carry the world on his shoulders and do anything better than anyone else? Did she ever tell you that?”

Kent smiled and responded, “No, I don’t think so.” He began to chuckle. “That’s ridiculous.”

“She actually wrote that down,” Felcman countered, a rather serious look on his face. “That’s what the defendant told her. It’s not ridiculous. It’s what he told her.

“Did she ever tell you,” Felcman continued, “that the defendant wanted to join the FBI because he thought like a criminal?”

“Mr. Felcman, I don’t recall that conversation.”

The prosecutor moved on. “The testimony that you have given to Mr. McDonald seems to be the defendant wants to ride on your shoulders and somehow let this jury panel answer those questions based upon your standing, and not what the defendant has done. Now, you’ve said that you only have one son left, and that’s the reason you want this jury to spare the defendant. You realize you only have one son left because he’s killed everybody else?”

Kent was nonplussed by the tone of the prosecutor’s question. “I do realize that. Yes, I’m aware.”

Felcman was ready to drive his point home one last time. “Can you give this jury anything”—he sounded almost as if he were pleading with Kent Whitaker—“
anything
at all in regard to the defendant’s background, how he was raised, the way he was treated by you or your wife, that somehow lessens his moral blameworthiness in causing the death of your wife and son? I mean, anything at all?”

Kent did not hesitate to answer. “Regardless of what would have happened during his childhood, there is nothing that would reduce the horror of this act. I am aware of it.”

“You just want this jury to say, ‘No, we’re going to give him life because it’s going to hurt Kent Whitaker and Bo Bartlett,’ right?”

“No,” Kent responded emphatically. “No, that isn’t it at all.”

“Do you have any evidence to contradict that your son is not going to be a continuing threat to society?”

“I can’t read his heart, Mr. Felcman. I don’t think you understand the basis for my arguing against the death penalty in this case. I am a loving father and don’t want my son to die. I admit it.” Many observers in the gallery sat rapt in attention. Some were on the verge of tears. “I want a relationship with my son, even if it’s in jail, where I can find out why this happened. But the majority of the reason for my objection to the death penalty is because I can’t read his heart. While I believe that the person who came back from Mexico is different from the person who left, when he ran away, I don’t know that for sure. But the single most important thing in my life right now is that my son go to Heaven, and if he has not accepted responsibility in his heart for this, if he has not asked the Lord for forgiveness…” Kent paused to compose his wits. “I have forgiven him. I forgave whoever was involved. But the important one is the Lord. If he has not done that, I want the jury to give him as much time as possible so that he can reach that conclusion.”

Felcman interjected, “How would you…?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Kent reacted quickly. “There’s one more step. If he has reached that, I want the jury to give him as much time as possible so that he can speak to others about the way that the Lord has forgiven him. Redemption is something that everyone in this room has to have before they die. I want it for my son.”

“You understand that you’re not the only religious person in this courtroom,” a piqued Felcman informed the father. “There are people on this jury panel that are deacons in the Baptist Church. You understand that?”

“I don’t know the members of the jury.”

“And here we don’t look into a person’s heart. God does. How would this jury have any indication as to whether or not the defendant has true remorse?”

“I will tell you some conversations that I’ve had with him. You want those,” Kent asked, “or do you think that I’m so deluded that I’d be fooled by him?”

“Did he show true remorse? Did he ever say, ‘I did it. I’ll let the jury know I did it’? Did he ever accept responsibility? Anything like that?” Felcman shrugged his shoulders.

“In the legal system in which we are entangled, I do not know my way around. I have been told that it is imperative that you do not state specifics, because if it’s recorded, that becomes the basis for shooting right through to the death penalty. And so Bart has been very careful not to say specifically, ‘Dad, I did it.’” Kent paused briefly. “The first thing he told me when I saw him after returning from Mexico was ‘Dad, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I’m going to do everything I can to make this easy and painless and as quick as possible for everybody.’ That was the first time I had any realization that there was a possibility that he could be guilty.”

Kent was not yet finished.

“Ever since he was arrested,” the father recalled, “he has tried to accept a penalty of life in prison. He would never, ever get back out on the streets, yet the state has chosen to pursue the death penalty.” Kent looked more intently at Felcman. “Now, this is your choice, and I understand that you’re good men and that this is a decision that y’all have made based on a lot of different factors, but I’m telling you it’s wrong.”

Felcman was not surprised at the answer. “He’s always tried to negotiate. He has never put his neck on the line—”

“He tried,” Kent interrupted emphatically. “I’m sorry, but that’s just not true.”

“Mr. Whitaker, do you see how this defendant has manipulated people time and time and time again?”

“I have. I see all of the lies that you’re talking about. I recognize them.” Kent’s answer obviously did not seem to absolve him of any pain.

“Mr. Whitaker, I have one last question. Do you understand that the way you’re testifying—how this is going to affect you—has nothing to do with what the defendant’s going to do in the future?”

“I can’t read his heart,” Kent reiterated, “so I guess I’d have to answer yes. I don’t know what he’s going to do in the future.”

Felcman looked up at Kent and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitaker, that we got a little bit contentious. I did not plan on doing that.”

“I believe you, and I never wanted to, either,” responded the contrite father. “I think you guys are honorable men.”

Randy McDonald returned for the final redirect examination of Kent. “There is no question in your mind that we have tried to plead guilty to this, for the life sentence?”

“We have tried mightily,” Kent assented.

“And you have known for a very long time, as I have, that Bart Whitaker is going to testify here today, haven’t you?”

“I thought there was a very good chance you might call him.”

And call Bart Whitaker they would.

March 6, 2007
Fort Bend County Courthouse
Richmond, Texas

The moment everyone was looking forward to could not have been more of a letdown. The evil-genius mastermind Bart Whitaker had elected to take the stand in an attempt to humanize himself before the jury of his peers, who already had found him guilty of first-degree murder. Bart did very little in way of turning that impression around, based on his performance on the witness stand that day.

Bart took the stand, looking worse for wear. His close-cropped crew cut did him no favors in bolstering the innocent-looking portion of his redemption. Nor did his usual three-mile stare. A lack of emotion was not going to win him any brownie points with this crowd.

Bart sat across from his attorney, Randy McDonald, who asked his client to introduce himself to the courtroom.

“Thomas Bartlett Whitaker,” Bart responded, using his entire given name.

“Mr. Whitaker,” McDonald proceeded, “you are convicted of capital murder?”

“Yes, sir,” Bart replied in a calm, even voice.

“Did that come as any surprise to you?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

“In the entire time I’ve been representing you”—McDonald paused, then looked at the impaneled jury—“have we ever offered a defense?”

“No, sir, not on guilt or innocence,” Bart responded, his gaze also drifted up from his attorney over toward the jury.

“Have you ever tried to—and before I knew any facts of this case—have me go to the district attorney’s office and plead to any amount of time that they wanted to?”

“As many life sentences as they wanted to, sir,” Bart responded in the most polite and obliging manner as was feasibly possible.

“Now, as far as you getting up here and pleading guilty,” McDonald asked his client, “that was my call?”

“Yes, sir,” Bart agreed.

District Attorney Felcman was annoyed by this entire sequence of events. He could make neither heads nor tails out of what McDonald and Bart were up to, so he asked for a conference with the judge. He was especially annoyed with McDonald because the defense attorney had insisted throughout the trial that he was not sure if he would ever call Bart up to the stand. Normal protocol is to provide the opposing side with a witness list, and Bart was never designated as definitive.

After some minor bickering between attorneys, McDonald continued his questioning of his own client. “Let’s get to the point,” McDonald declared. “Bart, I know, because of the system and the way it works, the jury had to make the ultimate call to get to this stage,” he stated in reference to their decision to render guilt after the guilt/innocence phase of the trial. “Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.” Bart nodded.

“And had we known for a very long time that at this stage you were going to testify?”

“Yes, sir.” This, of course, was news to Felcman, but he chose to ignore the defense attorney’s machinations.

“In our discussions, have we ever talked about anything with regard to any defense?”

“No, sir.” He repeated, “No, sir.”

“Have we always—since I’ve been involved in this since last April—tried to conclude this matter in a way that you are confined for life and we didn’t have to go through this? And we didn’t have to have these citizens come up and make this call?” McDonald asked, referring to his and Bart’s desire to forgo a trial, accept a sentence of life in prison, and avoid a lengthy and expensive capital murder trial.

“That’s what I wanted more than anything else,” Bart reassured his counsel, as well as anyone who might take pity on him in the jury box.

Many people in the gallery scoffed in hushed tones. Of course, Bart would want to avoid a capital murder trial at all costs—the young man wanted to live. He had no interest in setting a date with a needle in Huntsville.

“Now, one might say that you would be willing to do that to avoid the death penalty.” McDonald acknowledged the psychedelic polka-dotted purple elephant in the room. “You understand why someone might think you’d do that instead of taking a chance with the death penalty?”

“Yes, sir.” Bart nodded calmly.

McDonald mentioned the jury members again, and discussed with Bart the decision they were now going to have to make against him. “What I want to do right now, Bart, is I want you to tell them exactly what you did in this case, and why you are absolutely guilty.”

McDonald was asking Bart Whitaker to throw himself upon the sword of mercy wielded by twelve Fort Bend County residents. His demeanor, his intentions, and his sincerity would all now come into play and be questioned thoroughly. His connection to the jurors would determine whether or not his life would be spared.

Bart paused before he answered his attorney. He briefly glanced up at the jury and declared, “I am one hundred percent guilty for this. I put the plan in motion. If I had not done so, it would not have happened.”

The gallery was silent. It was a promising start for Bart’s contrition.

“I know that my perception of my parents, everything that they were translating to me when I was younger was love, and that I was receiving the signals wrong. I know, over time, that converted into a severe disliking of them.” Bart paused, had a sincere look on his face, along with a slightly arched eyebrow, and continued. “I tried to think about how I got from Step A to Point Z, and I don’t know…” His voice trailed off.

Every member of the audience had all of their attention focused on Bart Whitaker as he attempted to explain what drove him to massacre his family.

“I’ve had about three years to think about this, and I cannot imagine how I let myself get to that point where things got so out of control.” Bart continued on while trying to convey empathy with the family members he left behind, and simultaneously attempting to persuade the jury to believe his position. “I was in such a dark place that I lied to everyone, and I thought it was absolutely necessary that I do so.

“This is all my fault,” he added, “and whatever you decide…whatever you decide I deserve for this, I accept.”

McDonald returned to questioning Bart. “Of course, you could deserve the death penalty for this, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir,” Bart solemnly agreed.

McDonald asked Bart how it felt to hear his uncle and his father testify before him. “Do you realize, and have you recognized for a while, how devastating this crime is?”

“Yes, sir,” Bart responded. The presence of his uncle Bo seemed to hit him especially hard. “I haven’t seen Bo since 2004, and it touched me in a way that it had not done until today.”

“And do you realize you robbed your mother of a full life?”

“Yes.”

“You robbed Kevin of a full life?”

“Yes.”

“You actually even robbed your father of a full life?” McDonald asked, and turned around to look at Kent Whitaker for added emphasis.

“Yes,” Bart acknowledged; his head was facing down toward his clasped hands.

“And, of course, all of your other relatives?” McDonald continued the public flogging of his client.

“Yes, sir.”

“And because of your involvement, you also recognize that you affected other people’s lives that came into this courtroom?”

“Many, many lives,” Bart responded.

“And it’s all because you just developed this dislike for your parents and just lied about everything?”

“Yes, sir.”

McDonald paused and perused the courtroom. Most people in the audience sat stone-faced, while others seemed skeptical of the defense’s ploy. Others, such as Kent Whitaker, simply seemed sad.

“Did you know who you were then?” McDonald resumed the line of questioning.

“Absolutely not,” Bart responded steadfastly.

“Did you even know what you wanted to be?”

“I had no clue.”

McDonald began to paint the picture of Bart as an aimless drifter, searching the hinterland desperately for some guidance, some assurance, some pathway, that would steer him down the trail toward happiness and decency—a drifter who somehow managed to plunge completely over the edge into an abyss not of his own making.

“Now, that’s no excuse, obviously.” It was apparent, though, that was exactly what McDonald had hoped to conjure up in the minds of the jury members.

“No, there’s no excuse for it,” Bart agreed.

“And you understand that it is hard for someone like myself, as well as the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to even understand this conduct?”

“Yes, sir.”

The next question came as a shocker to most people in the gallery. “It wasn’t motivated by money, was it?” McDonald asked in regard to the plot to kill his family.

“No, sir, not at all.”

Several members of the courtroom shifted around uncomfortably in their seats.

“Was the money what motivated the other people to be involved?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it really didn’t take much motivation or manipulation for those folks, did it?” McDonald asked in reference to Steven Champagne and Chris Brashear.

“No, sir.”

McDonald conveniently passed over the reality that Bart tended to seek out people who were down on their luck, for whatever reason, and were potentially vulnerable to financial gain, group acceptance, and even something illegal to possibly reignite the fires that had been doused in their own lives.

“When did it dawn on you how horrific a crime it was that you committed?”

“It began to dawn on me almost instantaneously, as I was lying on the floor.” Bart recalled having been shot and watching as Chris Brashear dashed out of the family’s back door. “But I don’t think it really hit me until the funeral.”

McDonald continued the barrage of negativity toward his client with the ultimate goal of pity and, hopefully, forgiveness for Bart Whitaker. “There’s evidence before the ladies and gentlemen of the jury that you continued to lie and deny culpability, and even plot with Adam Hipp to somehow get him to not testify,” he stated in regard to the bribe he offered his former friend and onetime cohort in the intended crime. “What do you think your motive was there?”

“Yes, sir, I did continue to lie,” Bart responded while looking down. He raised his eye forward to look at his attorney. “The inertia of the six years that I had been living—the way I had been living my life before that—just carried over.”

Most of the spectators in the gallery looked puzzled. Again, the skeptics frowned. A few, on the other hand, looked concerned for the young man on the witness stand.

“It was shortly after the funeral that I started praying again for the first time in a long time,” Bart continued. “I know that forgiveness, when you truly believe in Christ, is instantaneous. Spiritually, though, it’s a very slow thing.” Most of the words escaping Bart’s lips sounded eerily similar to those of his father in the press and on the witness stand. Mentions of Christ, forgiveness, and redemption seemed to pour out of the young man.

Not so much when it came to Tricia and Kevin Whitaker.

“I was just very weak at the time,” Bart continued. “I continued to lie, even though I knew it was wrong.”

“Weren’t you a little bit scared that you would go to the penitentiary?” McDonald, ever the sensor of skepticism, smartly asked.

“Yes, sir. I was also scared of looking at myself in the mirror and realizing that I had done this.” Bart paused, wiped his brow, and continued on. “I knew I did it, but there was, on some level…” He sounded disjointed. “I just couldn’t look at myself and say that to myself.”

Having positioned his client to display full contriteness and acceptance of responsibility for his actions (though the words “murder,” “Mom,” or “Kevin” never entered the conversation at this juncture), McDonald was ready to attack the particular night in question.

“After this case, you did just like you did in April of 2001. You ran, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” came Bart’s response.

“Are you a coward?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you owning up to every responsible party in this?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I am.”

“Is it your fault?”

“It’s one hundred percent my fault,” Bart owned up.

“And do you really want to give this jury any excuse for your conduct?”

“No, sir. I do not.”

McDonald seemed to be heading toward the point that everyone in the courtroom wanted to know more than anything—why did he do it? “Can you actually explain your conduct to us? Can you answer the question ‘Why?’”

Unfortunately, Bart’s response was less than forthcoming, but not unexpected.

“No, sir,” he replied simply. “I’ve come up with a lot of reasons for how I got to where I was going, but they do not explain it.”

McDonald then wanted to make sure that Bart understood that his admissions of guilt basically eliminated any chance he might have had to appeal a sentence of the death penalty. This led to an objection by Fred Felcman, who insisted that a defendant cannot plead guilty during the punishment phase and have his attorney tell the jury that his client has no grounds for appeal.

McDonald moved on once again, trying to ascertain the reason for the defendant’s actions. “Bart, you had everything going for you—loving parents, a good possibility for an education. What was it that caused you to go into this abyss?”

Again, it seemed as if a collective motion forward was made by nearly everyone in the gallery so as to get closer or to more clearly hear this all-important answer.

Bart was calm. He seemed in his element, having people hang on his every word. “I know, looking back on it now, I always felt that, whatever love they [his family] sent me was conditional on a standard that I just never felt I could reach.”

He was just getting warmed up.

“I know that’s not the way it was. I don’t put any responsibility on them for that,” he declared in reference to his parents. “That was my misperception of the way things were, but that’s really how I felt about everyone. My friends, my girlfriend, I just always felt like they loved the person that I could become if I tried really hard, and not the person I was.”

“But who were you?” McDonald queried.

“I don’t know,” Bart answered, slowly shaking his head. “I tried to figure that out for a long time. The more I tried different things, the more lost I felt.”