The Dreams of Ada (35 page)

Tricia looked down at the scrubbed faces of the kids. She was feeling better about Rhonda. She had talked to Rhonda’s teacher about the coming ordeal; the teacher had warned the sixth-grade class: no one was to say a word to Rhonda about her uncle, about the trial; if they did, they would be punished severely. Thus far, all the kids had been obeying.

In the living room, beneath the large painting of Jesus, Bud and Miz Ward talked quietly about the case. Bud said a large part of him still believed Denice Haraway was alive; that she had run off, taken a new identity, was living somewhere far away, in Pennsylvania, or West Virginia, or California. Not that she would willfully let someone be tried for her murder, he said. But that she was unaware of what was going on in Ada. He raised what he said was a “weird” question: what would happen if Tommy was convicted, and then, just as the gavel rang out, Denice Haraway walked into the courtroom? He wondered what the legal situation would be then.

Miz Ward agreed with Bud. She said she, too, still felt Denice Haraway was alive; that she had run away with someone, for some reason.

The kids were safely asleep. Tricia returned to the living room. She sat down heavily, tiredly, easing the weight of her large belly. She was due November 5; she was hoping the emotions of the trial would not be too much of a strain on the infant inside her.

Only a few days earlier, when the woman with “information” had called Don Wyatt, Tricia had hoped it was Denice Haraway. But now she said no, that after all she had heard about the Haraway girl, she didn’t think she would run away like that; the greater part of her now felt Denice Haraway was dead.

12

TRIAL BY JURY

A
t 6:07 in the still-dark morning of September 9, the first train whistle of the day wailed across Ada—at first, from a distance, mournfully; and then, as the train drew closer, maniacally. It was heard by many of those involved in the Haraway case as they lay in their beds, awakened early by adrenaline rush.

Detective Captain Dennis Smith was out and about soon after, with his wife, tossing the day’s copies of the
Daily Oklahoman
onto the lawns of subscribers. Many of those involved in the trial due to begin that morning were startled as they unfolded the paper and read the front-page headline sprawled across four columns:

CUSTOMERS FIND
BODY OF CLERK

Their astonishment was only momentary, however. The headline had nothing to do with the Haraway case. It referred to the robbery-murder of a male convenience store clerk in Oklahoma City the night before.

At 8
A.M
., District Attorney Bill Peterson was already in his office, alone, behind a locked door. Even at that early hour the air was warm and moist; the heat wave was continuing, and the courthouse air conditioning had not yet taken effect. The district attorney removed the jacket of his suit. He sat in the large swivel chair behind his desk, leaned back, gazed abstractedly at the walls, on his face a look of contemplation. His hand idly toyed with the wide end of the striped tie that rested on his belly.

Across the street from the courthouse was the office of the local gas company; beside it, a large dirt parking lot. Slowly the lot began to fill with cars, station wagons, pickups, as the people who had been called for jury duty this day arrived from their homes in Ada, or from the smaller towns of Pontotoc County: Roff, Stonewall, Tupelo, Francis, Byng…They walked across Thirteenth Street, alone or in clusters, entered the courthouse through the double glass doors, passed the D.A.’s office on the left, the sheriff’s office on the right; passed vending machines displaying wrapped candy bars, bags of chips, passed soft drink machines, to the stairs; found their way by prior knowledge, or by asking, or by following the stream of people, to the third floor. There, outside the larger courtroom, a rectangular table had been set up; behind it sat court clerks. A single line formed at the table, crossed the third-floor hall, wound down the stairs as the prospective jurors gave their names to the clerks, who had to find them on a list that was seven legal sheets long. Signatures were then scrawled beside typed names, typed numbers. As each prospective juror signed in, he or she was given a temporary badge, and shown the way into the courtroom, through a small outer office to the left of the central doors. The main doors were locked, would be kept locked throughout the trial, for tighter security. The prospective jurors were not searched, but several sheriff’s deputies stood in the corridor, others near the entrance, watching.

Slowly the entire spectator section in the courtroom was filled with prospective jurors, including the front row, normally reserved for the press, when there was any press. Additional chairs were carried in by bailiffs and placed along the side walls. When all were seated, there were eighty-three prospective jurors, from whom twelve, and two alternates, would be chosen.

The district attorney placed a box of books on the prosecution table. The defense team—Don Wyatt, Leo Austin, George Butner—huddled in a rear office they would use during the trial. Judge Ronald Jones, the presiding judge of the county—the one who had withdrawn from the case—entered the courtroom, and spoke to the assembled citizens about doing their public duty. Originally there had been a panel of 225 people who had been called for jury duty this day, he told them. More than 70 had been excused because they were physically unable to serve; some had been excused because they were convicted felons, others for other reasons. Now it was down to the people in front of him. He told them that those chosen as jurors would receive $12.50 a day. The jury would not be sequestered, he said—at least not at the start of the trial. He stated their goal in a single sentence: “We are seeking the truth as it is found to be established by competent evidence.”

Then he left the courtroom.

On the lawn between the courthouse and the jail, two stories below, there were, somewhat unexpectedly, no spectators gathered, no gawkers, and no lines of deputies to keep them away. The door to the jail opened from the inside. Tommy Ward and Karl Fontenot were escorted out into the morning air. Ward was wearing a dark blue suit, a light blue dress shirt, a tie, all courtesy of his brother-in-law, Bud; Fontenot was wearing the rust-colored corduroy suit and the pale striped shirt that Miz Ward had bought at the Salvation Army; and a tie. Both were wearing handcuffs. Four uniformed sheriff’s deputies walked with them the forty-three steps from jail to courthouse, a deputy on each side of each suspect, holding lightly to their upper arms. The sun shone brightly. The pecan tree beneath which they passed was in leafy bloom.

In the first-floor corridor the small retinue waited for the elevator. On the third floor, in the small outer office, out of sight of the prospective jurors, the handcuffs were removed. A moment later, at 9:52
A.M
., Tommy Ward and Karl Fontenot walked into the crowded courtroom, to go on trial for their lives.

They sat at the defense table, facing the front, their backs to the prospective jurors. Don Wyatt, Leo Austin, George Butner joined them at the table. At the prosecution table to the right sat Bill Peterson, Chris Ross, Gary Rogers. From a rear entryway that led to the judge’s chambers, the court reporter, a well-groomed young woman named Dawn DeVoe, entered, took her place at her machine at the far side of the bench. A moment later all in the courtroom stood at the bailiff’s command as Judge Donald Powers entered and climbed to the bench, looking courtly in his black robe, with his wavy white hair, his rimless eyeglasses that were round at the bottom, flat on top.

“You may be seated,” the judge said.

All sat.

The trial in the Haraway case was under way, thirty-nine days short of a year after the suspects were arrested, sixteen months and twelve days after Donna Denice Haraway disappeared without a trace.

DAY ONE

In brief opening remarks, the judge explained to the panel the procedure to be used in selecting the jury: each side would be allowed nine peremptory challenges, with which they could dismiss jurors without stating a reason; the number of dismissals for cause would be unlimited.

The court clerk, seated to the judge’s left, reached into a box, pulling out tags. One by one she read out a number, a name. One by one the people whose names were called edged their way out from among the crowded benches, walked through the low swinging half door held open by the bailiff, took their places in the jury box, across the courtroom from the judge, to the left of the defendants. A few of those called winced as they heard their names, their faces clearly showing that they did not want to serve. Some strode forward purposefully, with an aura of grim satisfaction. Most tried to remain expressionless. As the jury box filled, the attorneys on both sides watched intently. It was an axiom of trial law: often the case is decided by who winds up in the jury box.

When all twelve of the brown swivel chairs were filled, Judge Powers told them of the case: the State of Oklahoma versus Thomas Jesse Ward and Karl Allen Fontenot; the defendants accused of robbing, kidnapping, and murdering Donna Denice Haraway. He then asked if any of them had read of or heard of the case.

All twelve raised their hands.

The judge told them to think about whether, based on what they had read or heard, they had formed an opinion. He said they had formed an opinion if, in their minds, they knew, “I’m not starting out even right now.”

There was laughter in much of the courtroom.

The judge said he would read a list of names: of the principals in the case, the attorneys, and all the witnesses that would be called by the state. They were to think about whether they knew any of these people, had had any dealings with any of them. He would not name the defense witnesses, he said, because the defense, under the law, did not have to make that public. He read the list. Then, one by one, beginning with the first seat in the jury box, he questioned the panel about whether they knew any of the names he had read, about whether they had formed an opinion in the case that they could not set aside.

Panelist one was excused, for having an opinion; so were panelists two and three; panelist four was excused because a nephew was married to Melva Ward.

Number five said that although he had heard of the case, he knew nothing about it. “I don’t take the local paper or watch the local station,” he said. “I have a satellite.”

There was laughter again. He was allowed to remain, for now.

Panelist six had an opinion. Number seven knew Betty Haraway, Steve Haraway’s mother. Number eight knew some of the witnesses.

On and on it went, through the morning. There was a recess for lunch. Then it continued through the long afternoon. As each panelist was dismissed for cause, the clerk reached into her box, pulled out another number, another name. Another member of the panel moved from the thinning crowd in the spectator section into the jury box: often to leave soon after, excused for cause, for having an opinion. But as the day wore on, more and more said they did not have an opinion; or that if they did, they could set it aside, and weigh only the evidence in the case as it would be presented in the courtroom.

One woman said that Tricia Wolf, Tommy Ward’s sister, shopped in the store where she worked. Don Wyatt stood and said the woman would be called as a witness; she was excused. Another said she thought she had gone to grade school with Tommy Ward, but she had no opinion; she was allowed to remain, for the time being.

A man named Keith Hildreth said he was the personnel manager at the Evergreen feed mill, and that he knew Tommy Ward’s brother-in-law Bud Wolf. The judge asked whether, because of this acquaintance, if Bud Wolf were called as a witness, the juror would give more or less credence to what Bud Wolf said than to the word of other witnesses.

“I would give his word more credence,” Hildreth said.

He was excused for cause. The judge explained to the others that if he asked that question of them, he wanted to know if they would give more or less credence to a witness—but they should not say if it was more or less.

Laughter punctuated the growing weariness.

More were called; more were dismissed. Evening was approaching. The judge recessed the case till 9
A.M
. He warned the panelists, on their honor, not to read or watch news reports of the proceedings; not to discuss the case with anyone, not even their spouses.

The remaining panelists filed out, quietly.

That night, many of the participants relaxed in front of their television sets. It was the start of
Monday Night Football,
and the Dallas Cowboys were playing; Ada, only 180 miles from Dallas, was Cowboy country. A few attended a benefit concert for Valley View Hospital given by country singer Hoyt Axton, whose brother, John, lived in Ada; the singer was a frequent visitor.

In the morning they were back.

DAY TWO

The questioning of the panel resumed.

Tommy Ward was wearing Bud’s three-piece beige suit. Karl Fontenot was wearing the dark blue suit that Tommy had worn the day before.

A panelist said Dennis Smith was investigating a crime in which her husband had been victimized; she was excused. Another had pending business with the D.A.’s office; she was excused. A third was close to Odell Titsworth’s family; she was excused.

There were seats available now in the spectator section; the press, allowed to stand the day before, reclaimed the front row. There were seven news reporters present: Dorothy Hogue of the Ada
News
, others from the local TV and radio stations, from the
Daily Oklahoman
and the Tulsa
World
; by happenstance, all seven were female.

Miz Ward, Melvin, Joel, Kay, Joice sat behind them. During a recess, Joel told Don Wyatt that one woman on the panel, Mary Floyd, stern-looking, gray-haired, used to be a teacher at Latta Elementary School, and that she had disliked Tommy when he was little. Wyatt pondered the information; he was hoping to keep Mary Floyd on the jury. Her daughter was going to be a witness for the defense. He told the family this; they left it up to him.

After the recess the defense attorneys used a number of their peremptory challenges; Wyatt let Mary Floyd remain.

He had, in his mind, no profile of the jurors he wanted; he went by his gut reactions. His belief about the jury was, “When it’s right, you’ll know it.”

At the prosecution table, Bill Peterson would be satisfied with “upstanding citizens, with a stake in society.”

The questioning continued. Every panelist was asked, by the judge or by Peterson, whether, if there should be a conviction in the case, they would have any problem imposing the death penalty, which the jury would have to decide. Of more than sixty-five panelists questioned, only one, a slight, gray-haired woman, said she would have a problem.