Written in Blood (23 page)
Authors: Diane Fanning
The rest of the morning of July 24 and all of that afternoon was filled with the testimony of ID Tech Eric Campen. He exuded self-confidence on the stand. His pleasant demeanor and frequent eye contact with the jurors built a high level of rapport.
The district attorney, using his own witness, laid the foundation for evidence and established the chain of custody of numerous pieces of evidence just as he had done with Dan George. The monotonous process crawled along until they reached State's Exhibit 12, the substance Campen removed from an indentation on a lower step.
In front of the jury box, Campen opened the envelope, unsealed and uncapped a small plastic container to reveal the contentsâbut there was nothing there. The witness stammered, insisting that there was a silver-colored object in there when it was sent to the state lab for analysis. But now nothing was there. Hardin was stunned. Both men knew that the missing sample had been transformed into a weapon for the defense. And they knew Rudolf and Maher would use it.
On cross-examination, Rudolf first questioned
Campen about the photos of the laundry room that were stills taken from the videotape. He attempted to force Campen to admit that it was a mistake or an oversight not to take those shots with a regular camera. Campen dodged that inference every time it was made.
Campen about the photos of the laundry room that were stills taken from the videotape. He attempted to force Campen to admit that it was a mistake or an oversight not to take those shots with a regular camera. Campen dodged that inference every time it was made.
Rudolf moved on to questions about luminol spraying and attacked Campen's knowledge base, experience and credibility. Throughout, the sharp edges of sarcasm and exasperation scratched across Rudolf's voice. His raised eyebrows and pursed lips telegraphed disdain. On Court TV, experts were amazed. They told their viewers that, in many courtrooms, an attorney could be sanctioned or fined for emotive facial displays, but Hudson allowed it all to slide.
As he was questioned, Campen's eyes focused on Rudolf, his brow furrowed in serious concentration. But when answering, the corners of his mouth made a subtle upturn and the light of amusement sparkled in his eyes as he sent knowing looks in the direction of the jury.
Then Rudolf went in for the kill over the missing piece of evidence. “Remember before, when you took out that little container that had that little particle?”
“Yes, sir.”
Holding the round, squat cylinder in his hand, Rudolf pantomimed the actions as he asked about them. “And you cut it open, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you explained how you had sealed it up in there, right?”
“Yes.”
“[ â¦] And then when you opened it, there was nothing there.”
“There were a couple of small, tiny specks in there, but not the same item I placed in there,” Campen answered.
“And do you know where it is?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Do you know why it wasn't in there?”
“No, sir. When I sealed up that item,” Campen explained, “that item was submitted to the state lab for analysis and they analyzed the item that was in there. There have been many people who handled that item. Your staff ⦔
“Excuse me,” Rudolf interrupted.
“I guessâI'm assuring your staff has looked at all the evidence.”
“My staff?”
“Yes.”
With a face screwed up in a tight grimace that looked as if he were in physical pain, Rudolf asked, “You're assuming
my staff
looked at that evidence?”
my staff
looked at that evidence?”
“You looked at that evidence at police headquarters on occasions.”
“You know who was there when we looked at it? Do you know if we opened that particular container?”
In contrast to Rudolf, Campen's expression was as peaceful as a cat stretched out in the sun. “I just said, I know you have looked at the items of evidence. Whether or not you opened the packages, I have no idea.”
Campen fielded the questions well, but the impression left was clearâthe state had misplaced a piece of evidence. It may have been the most powerful point for Rudolf to conclude his cross with, but he pressed on. He asked questions about bloody towels,
contamination and Campen's responsibilities at the scene.
contamination and Campen's responsibilities at the scene.
Next, the jurors heard the testimony of three officers about procedures at the scene and at the jail when Peterson was arrested. Then a special agent with the SBI took the stand. Most of her testimony was a mundane recital of her analysis of the fingerprints from evidence taken at the scene. But then she dropped a bombshell. She showed the jury the clear mark of a footprint on Kathleen's sweatpants. And she added that the foot impression was consistent with the design, elements, size, and wear pattern of Michael Peterson's shoe.
Serologist Suzi Barker was the last person to testify on July 29. She went through the items she tested and the results on the testing for blood and semen. Her long brown hair with sweeping bangs framed a pair of lively brown eyes and a winning smile. It was apparent that she had captivated the jury. When David Rudolf cross-examined her, it seemed as if she had him under her spell, too. The questioning seemed more like a flirtation than an inquisition.
After her testimony, an agent testified about DNA evidence and a hair analyst presented evidence that the hairs clutched in Kathleen's hands and from the steps were forcibly removed from her head.
Over renewed objections from the defense, forensic meteorologist William Haggard got to say his piece at last on August 6. He testified that on December 9, 2001, it was simply too cool outside for Michael Peterson to relax by the pool in shorts and a tee shirtâthe temperature was between 51 and 55 degrees.
Then, Dr. Kenneth Snell of the North Carolina
Medical Examiner's Office described his observations at the scene and at the autopsy. His facial expression was relaxed and his manner was focused, reflecting an innate honesty and intelligence. But the dark look in his eyes spoke of a man who spent too much time in the company of death.
Medical Examiner's Office described his observations at the scene and at the autopsy. His facial expression was relaxed and his manner was focused, reflecting an innate honesty and intelligence. But the dark look in his eyes spoke of a man who spent too much time in the company of death.
The next day, Judge Hudson delivered that long-awaited decision about the admissibility of the pornography and homosexual email as evidence in the trial. He first addressed the defense. “Mr. Maher, I agree with the state's presentation. The court is going to find this evidence proffered by the state is relevant. It goes to the issue of motive. It also goes to attack the idyllic marriage that the defendant has set forth through his counsel in his opening statement.”
The jury would now be exposed to photographs more sexually explicit than some of them had ever seen.
Computer experts educated the jury about the specifics of Michael Peterson's computer. They introduced the exchange of emails between Peterson and pornographic film producer Dirk Yates about his homosexual Web site. They pointed to the lack of any literary work or book proposal in progress, even though the defense contended that all the pornographic material on the computer was there for the purpose of research for a book.
They detailed the hundreds of files deleted from the computer between December 8 and December 12, and a long list of pornographic Web sites accessed on that
computer. Most of the sites had homoerotic names, but a few indicated that the focus was on sexual activity with teenagers below the age of consent.
computer. Most of the sites had homoerotic names, but a few indicated that the focus was on sexual activity with teenagers below the age of consent.
The jury had a lot to contemplate over the weekend. And a big question loomed for Mondayâwould Brad, the male escort, testify or would he take the Fifth?
The courtroom audience was eager for some titillation on Monday, August 11. The judge had denied the request from Brad's attorney Thomas Loflin to conceal his client's real identity. But Loflin was successful in obtaining immunity from state prosecution for his client.
Brent Wolgammott, aka Brad, was born in a small town in Indiana to a Southern Baptist minister and his wife, who worked as a secretary in an automobile plant. He disclosed his homosexuality to his parents when he was 17, but he never told them about his escort work.
Before court was in session, Brent was in the district attorney's office with Freda Black looking at the evidence photos of himself. When they flipped to a back view of his naked body, Brent said, “I wish my ass still looked like that.”
Freda did not know where to begin to respond to that remark. He then expressed concern about the photographs becoming public documents. Freda couldn't figure that one outâhe had these photos splashed over the Internet for the world to see and now he worried that people will see them?
Looking at his naked front view, Brent said, “It's a good thing I'm well hung.”
“I wouldn't go so far as to say that,” Freda quipped.
“You don't think so?” a distressed Brent asked.
Freda just stared at him. She couldn't believe she was having this conversation.
Brent took the stand with self-assurance. His blonde brush cut and lantern jaw labeled him military as well as a uniform could have. A half-formed smirk was constant on his full, sensuous lips. With little provocation, that smart-aleck look would transform into a warm, wide grin.
Freda Black smiled and laughed a lot during the cross-examination of this witnessâsometimes from amusement and at other times from embarrassment. “What types of services did you perform?” she asked.
“Oh, wow, that's pretty broad,” Brent replied. “Basically it's companionship for other males of legal age.”
“All right. Did that involve sexual activity?”
“Sometimes it does.”
Black used the witness to introduce photographs and reviews from the Web site as well as emails and phone call records from Michael Peterson. “During your conversations with Mr. Peterson,” she asked, “did you all actually even discuss a price for your services?”
“I believe we did.”
“And what was the price that you quoted him?”
“I believe that it was one hundred-fifty dollars per hour.”
She asked him about Michael Peterson's positive comments about Kathleen and about the setting of the date for their rendezvous. Then she asked, “Tell us, please, did you all actually discuss what you were going to do when you were to get together on September fifth, 2001?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And what were you all planning on doing?”
“Having sex.”
On cross-examination, Rudolf asked, “Was that an unusual occurrence for you to have or plan to have sexual relations with married men?”
“To the contrary, I mean, married men are in the majority of most the clients I saw when I was an escort,” Brent said.
“With regard to the kinds of men that you tended to have escort relationships with, can you give us some indication of their professions, for example?”
“Sure. Usually they are professionals because my fees were so high. I saw doctors, attorneys. One judge.”
The courtroom erupted into boisterous laughter.
With exquisite comic timing, Judge Hudson allowed a perfect pause before he said, “It was not this judge.”
The audience roared in appreciation.
Rudolf followed up with: “I think we can stipulate to that.”
The defense attorney established that Brent did not have a personal relationship with Michael Peterson and that he did not have sex with him. Then he asked, “Do you know anything about the death of Kathleen Peterson?”
“I know diddly. Diddly,” he said with a laugh and a smug expression.
Judge Hudson put him in his place. “I take it that means nothing?”
Brent straightened up at his command and said, “I know nothing. Zip.”
Brent Wolgamott was dismissed. Courtroom observers shook their heads in disbelief. They had anticipated a serious person involved in a provocative profession. Instead, they got a refugee from a comedy skit who seemed to have no sense of the gravity of the situation.
When the next witness took the stand, he wiped away all lingering amusement from the spectators' faces. The SBI forensic chemist was all business as he told the jury about his analysis of Michael Peterson's khaki shorts. He found eight defined spots of blood deposited on the inside of the right leg. This spatter was consistent with that on the test shorts created when a blood source was straddled and impacted with a blunt object. His testimony invoked an image of a bloodied Peterson looming over the body of his wife.
A downtown Durham power outage prevented court from beginning until noon on the next day of the trial. When it did, it moved at the speed of cold molasses. The courtroom sat in a whispered, shuffling impersonation of silence for more than an hour while the jury reviewed the photographs and documents submitted into evidence. The judge's eyes hung heavy as he fought off the desire to lapse into catnap. At moments, it appeared as if he might lose the battle.
When Agent Duane Deaver of the State Bureau of Investigation hopped into the hot seat, the jury got its exercise. Deaver was to testify as an expert on the meaning of the blood spatter in the stairwell. The judge
sent the jurors in and out of the deliberation room as the defense turned cartwheels to have Deaver disqualified.
sent the jurors in and out of the deliberation room as the defense turned cartwheels to have Deaver disqualified.
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