Witness to a Trial (2 page)

The fourth witness was a ballistics expert, name of Montgomery, from the state crime lab. He took the stand in a nice suit and dark tie and impressed everyone with his credentials. Four bullets were removed from the crime scene: two from the head of Son Razko, one from the head of Eileen Mace, and one from the mattress. That fourth one had entered her skull an inch above her right eyebrow, passed all the way through her brain, and made a ghastly exit wound that was about three inches in diameter. State's Exhibits 8, 9, 10, and 11 were enlarged photos of the bullets. In technical terms Montgomery explained that the recovery of the bullets immediately revealed the make and model of the weapon; in this case, a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver. With a large diagram, and acting much like the learned professor, he explained that as each bullet is fired it twists as it goes through the barrel, known in the business as “rifling.” This leaves microscopic marks and grooves on the bullet and allows an expert such as himself to determine which gun fired which bullet. He had no doubt that the weapon recovered from Junior's truck fired the four bullets. State's Exhibits 12, 13, 14, and 15 were the actual bullets themselves.

The prosecutor handed Montgomery four spent cartridges. The expert told the jury that the four were recovered from the bedroom. Whoever fired them was in too big a hurry to collect them. Using a comparison microscope, he was able to determine that the four cartridges were fired from the same Smith & Wesson.

Much of his testimony was technical, and while at first interesting, it soon became tiresome. He was the expert. If he said the bullets came from the gun in Junior's truck, who could dispute him?

State's Exhibits 16, 17, 18, and 19 were the spent cartridges.

The defense lawyer's cross-examination of Montgomery was on the soft side. What could he really do? It was obvious what had happened in the bedroom.

The Defense Lawyer.
His name was Larry Swoboda, age thirty-one, an aspiring criminal defense lawyer from Panama City.

Brunswick County had a public defender, a rather useless stiff who'd begged off, claiming some vague conflict of interest. The truth was he'd never touched a capital case and wanted to quit the job anyway. Judge McDover knew he was too inexperienced and appointed Swoboda, who initially had wanted the case. However, not long after he got it, he realized he was in way over his head.

Like all criminal defense lawyers, Swoboda had already learned that almost all of his clients claimed to be innocent. Junior was no exception. Since their first meeting in jail, Junior had vehemently protested the charges. He was being framed in a perfect setup. He loved his wife, had never been unfaithful, and Son Razko was his friend. He had been making deliveries at the time they were murdered. He did not own a gun and had not fired one in over twenty years. After fifteen months of listening to Junior, Swoboda finally believed him.

The fifth witness was also from the state crime lab. Dr. Unger was a pathologist whose task was to describe, in horrifically gory detail, the damage inflicted by the four bullets. He had a stack of color photographs, State's Exhibits 20 through 29, of Son Razko and Eileen Mace on the slab as he picked and probed through their brains, tracing the paths of the projectiles and describing the damage.

Swoboda objected again and again, claiming the testimony and exhibits were overkill and grossly prejudicial. Her Honor felt otherwise, and for three hours the jurors squirmed as Dr. Unger went about his business. He produced large diagrams, Exhibits 30 through 33, of the precise routes the bullets had taken. And he wrapped up his testimony nicely with the opinion that all four were fired from a handgun at close range.

On cross-examination, Swoboda scored no points. It was, after all, rather obvious how the two victims had died. What real difference did it make if the killer was firing from five feet away or from six inches?

Frustrated, Swoboda tossed his legal pad on the defense table and fell into his chair. He then made the mistake of looking at the jurors, almost all of whom were glaring at either him or his client. After three days of trial, it was obvious to him, and to every other person in the courtroom, that things were not going well for the defense.

The Jury.
Nine whites, three blacks, no Native Americans. Equal split on gender. All registered voters of Bay County, next door to Brunswick. Three with college degrees, two without jobs, average age of fifty-two, so a fair amount of gray hair. Conservative, middle class, Protestant for the most part, and weary of crime and the senseless violence wrecking the stability of our society. During the selection process, all twelve claimed to have no problem with the death penalty.

They had been warned by the judge against discussing the case until their final deliberations, but such precautions were usually ignored. During lunch breaks and long gaps in the trial when the lawyers were back in chambers haggling over fine points in the law, the jurors were whispering. Some of the men in particular were intrigued by what Junior would say, if in fact he testified. Catch your wife in bed with another man, and a friend at that, and a violent reaction might be understandable. A good butt-kicking, maybe some broken bones. Junior certainly looked like the type who could draw blood with his hands, especially in a rage. But two bullets to each head? It seemed so cold-blooded.

The women had heard enough. They might forgive a shot or two to wound the man, but the killing of Eileen was simply too much.

The sixth witness was Louise Razko, wife of the murder victim.

With the State's case clicking right along and finding little resistance from the defense, the prosecutor made the mistake of attempting to arouse some emotion. This is common in murder cases—bring in someone close to the victim, someone who'll weep in front of the jurors and give them even more reason to convict. Such testimony has no probative value, but judges always allow it.

Judge McDover certainly allowed it. Anything the State wanted.

The problem was obvious and somehow the prosecutor missed the obvious. Could he really expect Louise to cry and carry on when her husband had been caught with another woman, and one she knew well? Was Louise saddened by his death, or was she secretly pleased that his treachery had been discovered?

Fortunately, at least for the State, Louise was the emotional type and began crying shortly after taking the oath. Between sobs, she managed to complete a few sentences and went on about what a good man Son had been, a great father, and, yes, a good husband. She missed him so, as did her kids.

Swoboda objected by asking why any of this was relevant. McDover overruled him.

He had no questions for her on cross. She was led away in tears. Most of the jurors, though, seemed skeptical. Were some of those tears actually tears of joy because her two-timing husband had been caught? It was hard to tell. Most observers questioned the move by the prosecutor, but there was no real damage to the State's case.

The Prosecutor.
His first name was Wagner, an extremely odd choice by his mother, but then it was her maiden name and she thought it fit him nicely, at least in the hospital. By the age of ten, though, he hated it for many reasons and chopped it in half. He'd gone by Wag for the past thirty years. Wag Dunlap. The voters seemed to like the oddness of his name.

Wag was thrilled to be on the hunt for his first death verdict. At the time Florida had three hundred men on death row and not a single one had been sent there by Wag. At the annual prosecutors' conference down in Miami he often felt, well, inadequate. The heavy hitters were chosen to speak at seminars and share trial tactics, but not Wag. He had no medals on his chest, nothing to brag about over drinks. Sure, he had his share of convictions and had successfully prosecuted two other murderers, but only for run-of-the-mill killings. Nothing even close to a capital case. Junior Mace would put him on the map.

And what a beautiful set of facts he'd been handed! A tawdry affair. Junior, a good man, deceived by his friend Son, who'd been sneaking in the back door for how long? Caught in the act, a fit of rage, two cold-blooded killings, and a defendant who refused to avail himself of the defense of “irresistible impulse.” Florida law had long since recognized such a defense, and Junior could certainly avoid the death penalty and perhaps a long sentence if he would just admit that he'd acted out of temporary insanity and done what a lot of faithful husbands would have done. Junior, though, was steadfast in his denials.

So, why take the wallet? Why turn a horrible crime into something even worse? Murder alone does not trigger a capital case. Murder plus something else is needed—robbery, rape, kidnapping, killing a cop or a child—the list was long. Why turn into a thief after just becoming a murderer? There would never be an explanation, because Junior denied everything.

He caught them, killed them, took the wallet, and drove to a bar where he got drunk and passed out. They found the murder weapon, minus four bullets out of six, and the wallet in his truck. The facts lined up beautifully. The case was open and shut.

Wag, though, like most prosecutors, couldn't resist the temptation to pile on. Why settle for less when there's more to offer?

The seventh witness was Todd Short, the first of two jailhouse snitches. At the young age of twenty-four, he had already put together an impressive rap sheet, mostly for drug offenses. Following Wag's firm instructions, he wore a shirt with long sleeves and a high collar to cover up as many tattoos as possible. He also had a fresh haircut and wore glasses he didn't need because, in Wag's opinion, they made him appear slightly more intelligent. With Short, intelligence was a relative matter.

As if on a mission to find the truth, he and Wag plunged head-on into Short's criminal past and the boy freely admitted to three earlier arrests and two felony convictions. He had served five years in jail before straightening out his life. Now sober and God-fearing, he wanted to do what was right.

His story was that he had been in the Brunswick County jail awaiting trial when Junior arrived. They were cellmates for only a few days before being separated. He had liked Junior and, having nothing else to do, they'd talked a lot. Junior was devastated by his wife's betrayal and that of his close friend, but he had no remorse for what he did. Didn't he do what any man would have done? Junior said he had been suspicious and stopped by the house mid-afternoon as he was making deliveries. When he saw Son's truck in his driveway, he knew it was trouble. Junior eased through the back door and walked into the den and heard noises from the bedroom. They had the place to themselves and were making no effort to be quiet. He grabbed a pistol from a drawer and kicked open the bedroom door. The sight of them all wrapped together made him crazy. Son yelled something stupid like “Wait, you don't understand,” and was scrambling off the bed when Junior shot him twice. Eileen was screaming like an idiot and wouldn't shut up, so he shot her too. He stood there for a long time, staring at their naked bodies as they bled and died and he didn't care. He finally left and just drove around, trying to settle his nerves and not knowing what to do. The kids would be coming home from school. He should probably call the sheriff and get an ambulance out there. Somebody else would clean up the mess. He stopped at a bar for a couple of drinks to clear his head, and he just kept drinking.

Junior listened stoically, shaking his head slightly at Short and his lies. At one point he leaned over to Swoboda and whispered, “I don't think I've ever seen him before.”

Short stayed on script and was convincing. He had spent hours rehearsing his testimony with Wag and his assistants, had even sat in this very chair over the weekend with the courtroom doors locked and lawyers yelling questions at him. When Wag finally sat down and Swoboda rose for his cross-examination, Short took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay cool. He knew every question that was coming.

Swoboda hammered away at his criminal record, his time behind bars, his addictions. The pending charges against him had dragged on for almost fifteen months now. Was that because the prosecutor was waiting to see how he performed at trial?

No, of course not. Short wasn't sure what was causing the delay. Sometimes the system just gets clogged up. Plus, Short was in the process of drying out and that took time. A successful recovery might positively impact his sentence.

Had Short been promised anything in return for his testimony? Leniency? Money?

Of course not. Short was telling the truth, so help him God. He was eager to serve his time and get on with his life, a changed man.

Had Short testified before and ratted on a cellmate?

No, never.

Actually, it was Short's third trip to the witness stand, but his career as a serial snitch had not been discovered by Swoboda. The case had consumed the lawyer's life for the past fifteen months and he was tired of it. The paltry fees paid by the State would cover only a fraction of his time.

The Brother.
Wilton Mace sat in the front row, as close to his brother as possible. Behind him were a few members of their tribe, almost all related to the Mace family. Across the aisle, and across the deep divide that had splintered the Tappacola, sat the friends and relatives of Son Razko. There were other divisions and factions and most of the tribe stayed away.

Their tensions were of little concern to Wilton. As the brother of an innocent man, his role was simply one of support. There was nothing else he could do, nothing but sit there day after day bewildered at the travesty and the lies. He knew the truth: that his brother and Eileen were as happily married as any couple could be under their circumstances; that she was not one to fool around; that Son Razko was a good man who was devoted to Louise and their children; that Junior would go to his grave grieving the loss of his wife and friend; that the murders were carefully staged by criminals hell-bent on building a casino on Tappacola land. Standing in their way, though, were Son Razko and Junior Mace.

But Son and Eileen had not been murdered by one of their own. The Tappacola were perfectly willing to hold grudges, but they did not kill each other. No, the killers were from the outside, and they had pulled off what was becoming, day by day, the perfect crime.

The white man's notions of justice were baffling. How can they allow a self-confessed and self-serving criminal like Todd Short to put his hand on their Bible, swear to God to tell the truth, and then spin such fantastic lies? What system of justice allows a seasoned convict to repeat statements he swears he heard in a jail cell the year before?

Wilton watched the faces of the jurors. Not only did they believe Short, they
wanted
to believe.