Written in Blood (20 page)

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Authors: Diane Fanning

BOOK: Written in Blood
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Elizabeth Ratliff's body was back in Bay City, re-interred at her husband's side in the Cedarvale Cemetery by the time the doctors microscopically examined sections of the brain.
The conclusion in the autopsy report was unequivocal. Dr. Gleckman wrote that the injuries were inconsistent with a fall and not consistent with a natural disease process. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. The manner of death was homicide.
Margaret Blair needed to talk to Liz's friends in Germany. She located Amybeth Berner, who provided names and numbers of others. Margaret urged Amybeth to contact Investigator Holland. Soon after that call, Amybeth heard from Barbara Malagnino. “What kind of bloody mess have we gotten ourselves into?” Barbara asked.
“We knew this was going to come back at some point,” Amybeth said. “We knew it wasn't finished.”
Defense Attorney David Rudolf demanded that the results of the autopsy be sealed. The media screamed in outrage. The decision, though, was in the hands of Judge Orlando Hudson. He sealed the records until and unless the evidence was introduced into court.
A hearing was held to determine if the Elizabeth Ratliff evidence and the evidence of Michael Peterson's bisexuality were to be allowed in the trial. Initially, the judge ordered it to be a closed hearing. The media screamed again, this time using a legal expert on constitutional law to argue their right to be present.
The judge relented. And in that hearing, he also reversed his earlier decision and allowed the results of the autopsy to be released to the public. Motions arguing against the admissibility of evidence submitted by the defense that month bore a whiff of desperation. Not content to make a simple argument about his client's innocence in the death of Liz Ratliff, they pointed the finger of responsibility at someone else.
The document accused Barbara O'Hara Malagnino of being a prime suspect if Mrs. Ratliff was murdered. This reckless statement overlooked the fact that there was no evidence, suspicion or motive connecting Barbara to Liz's death.
Barbara was outraged at the allegation, but felt she knew the reason for it. The summer before, Rudolf paid a visit to her in Germany, believing that Barbara would make a good defense witness. After returning to the States, he sent her a letter asking her for an affidavit. He
enclosed columns from
The Herald-Sun
written by Tom Gasparoli and told her how awful Gasparoli was. Barbara did not respond because she thought Rudolf would send her an affidavit to sign. Now, Barbara thought, he wanted to scare her out of coming to Durham to testify for the other side.
But Barbara had no desire to speak for
either
side. All she wanted to do was tell the truth—she owed that much to Liz.
The district attorney would not make a commitment one way or another on the possibility that he would introduce the Elizabeth Ratliff autopsy or the testimony about Michael's sexual lifestyle into trial. Because of his equivocation, the judge delayed any ruling on the admissibility of it.
In response to the media clamor over the autopsy report, Margaret Ratliff spoke to Sonya Pfeiffer at WTVD. “I know Dad is innocent. He didn't kill either one of my mothers. It's just ridiculous.” She added, “I can't believe any jury will convict my dad after all the evidence is laid out. There's just no way.”
District Attorney Jim Hardin was ready for battle. His character and determination were forged and hardened in the crucible of childhood tragedy. Jimmy—as he was known to family and friends—was the oldest son of Jim and Carolyn Hardin. The couple met at Duke, which the older Jim Hardin attended on a football scholarship. They married after graduation—Jim with a degree in Engineering, Carolyn with an Education degree. Carolyn taught third grade for one year and then quit to start a family. They had four children in the span of four years—Jimmy, David, Mary Elizabeth and Carol.
In 1971, when Jimmy was 12 years old, the family lived out in the country on a farm filled with ponies for the children and Thoroughbred horses for breeding. In the middle of the night, a fire broke out in the Hardin home. Carolyn and Jim tried to open their bedroom door to get to their children, but fire and smoke drove them back. They jumped out the window and tried to get to the children from outside. Again their efforts met with failure.
Jimmy tied his bedsheets together and lowered himself out of his room and joined his frantic parents. In the barn, the horses, panicked by the smell of smoke, screamed and kicked the sides of their stalls. David, Mary Elizabeth and Carol did not find their way out of the home. And no one could get in to them in time. They died in the fire that night—their deaths scarring and strengthening the sorrow-filled survivors.
As if he felt compelled to fulfill the hopes and dreams his parents had for all four children, Jimmy was driven to achieve. The bonds of shared tragedy knitted the three remaining members of this family together in a way nothing else could.
He graduated from Duke in 1979 and after a year's hiatus, he continued his education at Mercer University School of Law in Macon, Georgia. In his first year, he met Lori Thomas, a senior at Macon's Wesleyan College from Annapolis, Maryland. They were married in Jim's last year of law school.
He went into private practice as a defense attorney when he graduated. He was not well suited for this work. If he believed his client to be guilty, he lost sleep at night worrying about the ramifications of what he had done.
After a year, District Attorney Ron Stephens offered him a job as an assistant district attorney and he accepted the position with great relief. The focus of Hardin's work was as a drug prosecutor. He took to this endeavor with intense fervor—riding out with the police on raids to round up dealers. When his boss took a judgeship, Governor James B. Hunt appointed Hardin to finish Stephens' term.
In his first election in 1994, Hardin faced stiff opposition. Support of defense attorneys and the African-American community put him on top. In 1998, he faced no opposition in his re-election. He won his third race in September 2002, besting opponent Mark Simeon. Hardin had a clear understanding of his responsibility. “Using the law to find the truth is our mandate. I believe that to my core,” he told
Herald-Sun
columnist Tom Gasparoli.
Jim Hardin was not content with success in one arena; he also was a member of the Army Reserve. One weekend a month was dedicated to serving his country. He had risen to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel a year before jury selection began. The specter of a possible call to active duty haunted the pre-trial preparations. After all, he was overdue—he had not been called up since the Persian Gulf War.
Now Hardin faced another trial by fire. Although this one was merely figurative, it would prove just as intense.
Hardin's partner before the bench was Assistant D.A. Freda Black, a graduate of Campbell University School of Law in the village of Buies Creek, less than an hour from Durham. After law school, she went into private practice as the only female defense attorney in Lumberton, North Carolina. In her court-appointed cases, she defended everything from worthless checks to first-degree murder—even two capital murder cases in her three years there.
Black moved to Durham to work in the public defender's office as chief assistant, then switched to the Durham County District Attorney's Office in 1991. Her experience in domestic violence homicides and successful record in prosecuting first-degree murder cases made her addition to the prosecution team a foregone conclusion.
Some said Freda Black had a natural persuasive ability. Others said that she was a drama queen. One thing was certain, she threw herself into her cases with a passion that resonated in the Southern soul, but often was mocked by Yankee-based media outlets. Black and Hardin were
backed in the Peterson case by the ever-present David Saacks, a veteran litigator from Texas.
On May 5, 124 citizens of Durham County—nearly double the usual number—filed into the courthouse as potential jurors. Jury selection was expected to last two weeks, with the trial beginning on May 19. However, it was May 20 before the first juror was empanelled. The selection of twelve jurors and four alternates was finally complete on June 23.
Assistant District Attorneys Freda Black and David Saacks traveled to Germany with Investigator Art Holland to meet with German authorities, visit Liz's home in Gräfenhausen and interview potential witnesses. They asked to review police records and collided with a serious obstacle. Such a request required the approval of the Minister of Justice. In addition, German prosecutors wanted assurances that Peterson would not be charged with Elizabeth Ratliff's murder in the United States and that he would not be subject to the death penalty on the other charge.
Opening arguments were scheduled to begin on July 1, 2003. Satellite TV trucks circled the courthouse like a high-tech wagon train. Court TV erected cameras in the courtroom, where they would broadcast the trial live for its duration.
The Big Top was erected. The circus was about to begin. Two disparate definitions of justice would reside on opposite sides of the courtroom. Only one would prevail.
“This is an adversary system. There can't be but so much love here.”
—Judge Orlando Hudson, September 2003
Durham, North Carolina, was a blue-collar city with a population of 227,000. Despite the presence of Duke University and its world-acclaimed medical research facilities, tobacco was the king in this town.
Durham got the nickname “Bull City” when the Blackwell Tobacco Company introduced their bull's head logo on their “Bull” Durham products. That logo was the most famous one in the world at the end of the nineteenth century. Its pervasiveness spawned additions to the American vernacular like “bullpen” and “shooting the bull.”
The discovery of brightleaf tobacco, and the subsequent industriousness of Washington Duke and his family to capitalize on it, led to the birth of one of the world's largest corporations, consisting of companies like American Tobacco, Liggett & Myers and R. J. Reynolds. This industrial development drew more manufacturers to the central North Carolina town. The first factory to produce denim was here at one time, as well as the largest hosiery maker in the world.
The courthouse nestled in the heart of the Downtown Durham Historical District. Beyond the flashy cluster of
the media, the backdrop of downtown Durham looked abandoned. Across the street, a monument to the Confederate dead stood proud and defiant in front of the old courthouse. In the basement, a cafeteria fed bland but decent food to many of the participants in the trial.
A couple of blocks away, a shabby storefront on Parrish Street housed Ron's Foods, where the tangy taste of genuine North Carolina barbecue sandwiches was the highlight of the menu. For caffeine addicts, it was a long walk to the Blue Coffee Company—but fueled by a lust for lattes, it was a trip many in the courtroom made multiple times each day. It was also a spot where they could order lunches of sandwiches and salads—an alternative a bit more upscale than the nearby hot dogs and barbecue.
Back in the courthouse, lunch was served in District Attorney Jim Hardin's office. His mother, Carolyn Hardin, brought in a meal for the prosecution team and witnesses every day. In no time, her menu was a daily feature of the coverage on Court TV.
In the courtroom itself, a long pew-like bench stretched behind the defense and prosecution desks. The prosecution table was stacked with papers and exhibits. The defense table was piled high with computer equipment and gadgets manned by disbarred attorney Guy Seaberg.
Behind that bench were rows of red theater seats—a comfort appreciated by those who filled the courtroom. The middle seat of the first two rows was designated as a press seat to form a line of embarkation between the two sides. Two rows of pure press followed, and the remaining seats were open to spectators.
A frenzy of activity erupted early in the courtroom, as cameramen taped down electrical cords, attorneys organized their materials and court personnel made last-minute preparations. A pall of silence descended when Judge Orlando Hudson entered and the deputy called the court to order. The trial of
State of North Carolina vs. Michael Iver Peterson
had begun.
Jim Hardin approached the podium and faced the jury. His soft Carolina drawl demanded edge-of-the-seat attention. “I anticipate you must be asking yourself, ‘Regardless of how much I know about this case, what is it really about?' From a legal perspective, it is very well defined. We talked about that in our selection process with you. The sides are diametrically opposed. The defendant says that Kathleen Peterson's death was caused by a tragic, accidental fall down stairs in their home. And we say, on the other hand, that she died a horrible, painful death at the hands of her husband, Michael Peterson.”
Hardin walked up to the juror rail and held up a photograph of a living, vibrant, smiling Kathleen Peterson. “You can see from this photograph—you can feel from this photograph—that she is a very genteel, warm person. It does not take much time to see that, from just viewing one photograph, but there it is.”
The next photo the prosecutor presented to the jury was one of Kathleen Peterson bloodied and sprawled on the back stairway of her home. “Now, on December ninth, 2001, at 2:48, when EMS personnel first arrive, [ …] they see Kathleen Peterson in a completely different
way. They see her lying at the bottom of her steps, just as you see in this photograph.”
Hardin then showed the jurors a photo taken at the medical examiner's office. He walked the length of the jury box with this gruesome image of Kathleen lying on a steel gurney. “This is where the rubber meets the road, ladies and gentlemen.
“They,” he said, pointing to the defense table, “say it was an accident that was caused by a couple of falls in that stairwell, and we say it's not. We say it's murder, and you will have to decide that. They say this is three or four lacerations. We say it's at least seven, and you're going to have to be the judge of it.”
Hardin picked up an oblong package covered in brown butcher block paper and unraveled the covering as he spoke. The jury was captivated—all eyes entranced by the mysterious item in his hands. The crinkling of the paper crackled through his words.
Inside was Candace Zamperini's blowpoke. Harden told the jurors it was just like the one Kathleen's sister gave to several family members. The one she gave to Kathleen was missing.
“This is not the actual weapon. [ …] But the primary mechanism is something like this. It is hollow. It is light. It's easily used, and we will contend to you that this, or something like this, is the article that was used to inflict these wounds.”
Hardin paused as the jurors contemplated the viciouslooking hook on the end of the blowpoke.
“[T]his case is about pretense and appearances. It's about things not being as they seem. As this case begins to unfold, you see the grandeur of the Petersons'
ten-thousand-square-foot mansion that is located in a very affluent area of Durham. You will see the appearance of a storybook marriage between a couple who had a blended family that appears to have it all.
“In particular, you will hear about what some have described as the success of Michael Peterson as a writer and columnist. You will also hear about Kathleen's success as a Nortel manager, as a patron of the arts, and as the quintessential hostess for all occasions. And doesn't she look like it?” Once again, Hardin drew the jurors' attention to the victim's smiling face. “She looks like a very loving, warm person—the quintessential lady, genteel, exactly what you want your daughter to be.
“From all the appearances, this was a perfect family. But as the old saying goes, appearances can be very deceiving. [ …] Like a storm cloud, many pressurized conditions in the Peterson house began to converge, and on December ninth, 2001, they erupted.”
Across the courtroom, Michael Peterson slouched in his chair with the disinterested attention of someone viewing the proceedings for their educational value only.
Hardin highlighted the dependence of the family on Kathleen's salary and benefits because Michael had made no income as a writer since 1999. Even with her salary, the family was living on credit and now her employment was in jeopardy because of Nortel's deteriorating financial condition.
“Kathleen and Michael both knew that the loss of Kathleen's job and the loss of her salary and benefits would have a devastating effect on an already difficult financial situation.”
The level of Hardin's voice rose and indignation etched around its edges. “But Mike Peterson, the creative thinker, the writer of fiction, was able to figure out a perfect solution. That solution was to make it appear as though Kathleen accidentally fell down her steps and died. And, like magic, no more money problems. Like magic, Mike Peterson goes from a point where they are going to have to sell assets and live on credit to survive to, all of a sudden, with her death, has one point eight million dollars in his hand. That's a lot of money. That solves a lot of problems. What a wonderful solution. There's only one catch: He's got to kill Kathleen Peterson to get that one point eight million. But Mike Peterson, with that money, was going to be able to pull himself out of the financial fire he had built for himself. Kathleen's death, accidental death, would then have allowed him to continue to live the affluent privileged life to which he had become accustomed even though he had no job.”
Hardin told the jurors that when Peterson placed that 9-1-1 call, he gambled that the police were as dumb as he always claimed. He urged them to listen carefully to that tape and hear how evasive and deceptive Peterson was.
The prosecutor's tone softened as he talked about the thoughts of one of the first responders to the scene. “There's blood on Kathleen, under Kathleen, beside Kathleen. It's all dry. So he says when he gets there, he sees all this dry blood, and based on that assessment of Kathleen, and based on the observations that he makes of the area, he concludes that she's been dead for some time. He can't say exactly how long, but she's been dead for some time.”
Hardin summarized for the jury the list of witnesses that he would call and the evidence they would present. “This is not a case of the battle of the experts. This is a case about your exercise of your good reason and your common sense. And it's going to be a battle against what this defendant contends happened, what he wanted it to appear as having happened.”
He picked up Kathleen's photograph and walked toward the jury box. “Up to this point, we have talked a lot about Mike Peterson, but when you really get down to it, it's about Kathleen. About Kathleen.”
He reminded the jurors that it was their responsibility to determine the truth and asked them to return a verdict of guilty to the charge of first-degree murder.
After a ten-minute break in the courtroom proceedings, David Rudolf began his opening statements without a word. He pressed a button and the voices of dispatcher Mary Allen and Michael Peterson filled the courtroom. The recording of the 9-1-1 call etched pain across the faces of Margaret and Martha Ratliff. Todd Peterson sat with a steel jaw and inscrutable eyes. Michael Peterson cried as he listened. But at the front of the courtroom, Rudolf listened with dramatic intent—his stance and expression filled with the anticipatory glee of a producer the night his play opens on Broadway.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, was the voice of Michael Peterson right after he found Kathleen Peterson at the foot of the stairs. I want to take you back with me before that terrible night, before that terrible phone call.”
Rudolf sketched out the beginning of Michael and
Kathleen's relationship. Then with unfathomed insensitivity, he read a 1999 letter from Caitlin—a letter praising the man whom she now believed killed her mother.
He told the jury that the Saturday before Thanksgiving, Kathleen's co-worker Donna Clement said that Michael and Kathleen were “very affectionate and in tune with each other.”
Behind the defense table, Michael Peterson's lips moved when Rudolf read that line as if he had memorized it.
“If the prosecution is correct, how do you go from soulmate and lover to cold-blooded killer? The answer is very simple: You don't. Nothing was different that weekend.”
Rudolf painted a portrait of a normal weekend in the Peterson home, enlivened by Christmas shopping, a holiday party, a romantic movie and big news about Michael's movie deal.
He spoke of Kathleen's intoxication that night she died, though in far more delicate terms than her own stepson, who referred to her as a weekend drunk in a media interview. He told the jury about her headaches and dizziness. He promised them that they would hear testimony from friends and from her doctor about her medical condition.
He described Michael's discovery of his wife at the foot of the stairs and his calls to 9-1-1. “Now, they went there, and initially it was treated as an accident because that's what they initially thought it was. [ …] And so Todd Peterson was allowed to go up to Kathleen's body and hold her in his arms and get blood on his clothing.
And Michael Peterson was allowed to go up to Kathleen. In fact, he had to be physically pulled off of her.”
Rudolf then alleged that if this accident had occurred in any other household, it would have been treated like an accident to this day. It was not, in this case, because of the bias of the Durham Police Department toward Michael Peterson. As a columnist for
The Herald-Sun,
Peterson's criticism of the police department was unflinching.
“And so, for the Durham police investigators who arrived at that scene, it wasn't very hard for them to look at the blood and assume the worst about Michael Peterson. And it was based on that altered and contaminated scene and blood evidence that they decided the death was suspicious.”
He accused the police department of tunnel vision—of looking for evidence that supported their view and ignoring anything that did not.
“What our experts will testify, in short, is, the lacerations on her scalp are much more consistent with a fall than with a beating. And that's confirmed by the lack of certain injuries. I mean, can you imagine,” he said, shaking his head as he approached the prosecution table, picked up the blowpoke and checked its heft in his hand, “someone beating somebody over the head?” He hauled back his arm to its full reach and slammed it forward. “Whacking them as hard as they can? I mean, you don't whack someone like this when you are trying to kill them.” He scratched the air with puny swings.

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