Until the Final Verdict (27 page)

K
EEFE STOOD AND POINTED
at McCaskill and Griffith.

“In my chambers. Now.”

He sat behind his desk and glared at the two attorneys. “What the hell do you think you're doing, Griffith?”

Griffith handed Keefe a document.

“What's this?”

“DOJ takes blood and saliva samples from inmates convicted of violent crimes, profiles them, and stores them in the DOJ Convicted Felon DNA Database in Berkeley. DNA profiles extracted from crime scene evidence are compared to profiles in the databank.”

“Tell me something I don't already know.”

“Yesterday, scientists matched DNA from the
semen collected on the anal swabs during Judge Tucker's autopsy to the DNA profile of escaped inmate Eduardo Berroa. The Court may recall that Judge Tucker sentenced Berroa to state prison. I'm requesting permission to publish this report to the jury before I conclude direct examination of Randall.”

Keefe loosened his tie, leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, and ran his fingers through his hair. A deep sob racked his body but Griffith and McCaskill pretended not to notice.

“That report can't come in,” McCaskill protested. “It's inadmissible hearsay.”

Keefe started to answer, but the words caught in his throat. He gathered himself for a moment and wiped his eyes. “He's right, Griffith. If you want it admitted, give me a relevant exception to the hearsay rule.”

Griffith handed Keefe another document. “Affidavit from the custodian of records at the DNA lab in Berkeley. The report's admissible under the Business Records Exception, Judge.”

“I agree.” Keefe nodded. “The report goes to the jury. Now give me five minutes alone.”

Griffith poked McCaskill and jerked his thumb toward the door.

Keefe slid the knot up on his tie and smoothed his hair. “Roger?”

“Sir?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“If you hadn't found the flight attendant, and followed the lead to Randall, I'd never know who raped and murdered Jemima.”

“Just defending my client.”

“I know, but still—”

“And you'd still be suspected of murdering her, polygraph or no polygraph,” McCaskill interjected.

“Get out of here, McCaskill!”

“Y
OU
'
RE STILL UNDER OATH
, Mr. Randall,” Keefe admonished.

“Okay.”

“Very well.” He turned to the defense table. “Proceed, Mr. Griffith.”

Griffith leaned close to Kathryn, squeezed her hand, patted her on the shoulder, then walked to the podium.

“Mr. Randall, your parole was revoked because you created a disturbance on an airplane. Was that while you were a passenger aboard British Airways Flight 287, from London to San Francisco, last January fifteenth?”

“Yeah, I was hired to be on that plane.”

“Hired to do what?”

“A job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Stir up a ruckus while the stewardess was serving drinks, 'bout an hour before gettin' to Frisco.”

“How much were you paid?”

“Twenty thousand bucks.”

“Cash?”

“I don't take American Express.”

Randall glanced at Keefe and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, it slipped.”

Keefe pointed his finger and frowned, but a tiny grin broke through.

“Why were you paid to create a disturbance?”

“To divert attention.”

“From whom?”

“The guy they”—he pointed at Kathryn, then Granz—“had with 'em.”

Griffith approached Randall and showed him a glossy eight-by-ten, black-and-white photo.

“Is this the guy?”

“That's him.”

“Request this photograph of Robert Simmons be marked defense exhibit next in order.”

“So ordered,” Keefe ruled.

“What else were you paid to do?”

“Get them”—he pointed again—“away from the guy, Simmons, for a few minutes.”

“Away from District Attorney Mackay and Sheriff Granz?”

“That's right.”

“Did you know Robert Simmons?”

“No, but I seen pictures of him.”

“Where?”

“Soledad.”

“When?”

“Before I got paroled, and again just before that flight.”

“Who showed you photos of Robert Simmons?”

“My roomie.”

“ ‘Roomie' means your cell mate at Soledad?”

“That's what it means.”

“What was his name?”

“Berroa.”

“Eduardo Berroa?”

“In the slammer, we called him the Messcan Chihuahua. His real name was 'Duardo.”

Griffith showed Randall a photograph of Eduardo Berroa. “Is this him?”

“Yep.”

“Who paid you to divert attention and lure District Attorney Mackay and Sheriff Granz away from Robert Simmons on that flight from Spain to the United States?”

“Berroa.”

“How did you know what flight Sheriff Granz, Robert Simmons, and my client would be on?”

Randall shrugged. “Berroa paid an ex-con to track Simmons down, e-mailed her with his whereabouts, then me and him went to Spain and waited. We was only two steps behind them the whole time they was in Spain. I dropped a few bucks on a ticket agent to find out what flight they was on back to the States, and we bought two tickets for the same flight.”

“Did Berroa tell you why he was paying you to do this?”

McCaskill stood. “Objection, calls for hearsay.”

“Overruled, it comes in as a declaration against interest. Continue, Mr. Griffith.”

“He told me him and Simmons was tight once, but Simmons fucked—'scuse me, messed up his life, that it was Simmons' fault he was in the joint.”

“Did Berroa tell you he planned to murder Simmons while you created a disturbance?”

“No way, man!” Randall's eyes widened and he glanced wildly at Keefe, then shook his head emphatically. “Just paid me to cause a ruckus. I didn't know nothin' 'bout no murder.”

McCaskill stood again, and shook his head in disgust. “Judge, this jury can't be expected to believe Randall
isn't
an accomplice to murder.”

Keefe crooked his finger at both attorneys. “Approach.”

“Griffith?” he prompted.

“The accomplice rule precludes a conviction on the testimony of an accomplice unless it's corroborated by other evidence that connects a defendant with commission of the offense. Here, the killer is Berroa, not my client. The accomplice rule doesn't apply.”

Keefe thought for a moment. “He's right, McCaskill. Step back.”

Griffith walked close to the witness stand. “To your knowledge, did Eduardo Berroa possess a supply of digitalis?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“Berroa had me bust into the morgue. Wasn't a problem, ain't no lock on the door. Waited till it was empty one night, rode the elevator down, walked in like I owned the place, grabbed the stuff and split.”

“Did Berroa tell you why he wanted the digitalis?”

“Nope. I figured he had a bad ticker.”

McCaskill stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Again, we can't be expected to believe he didn't know what the digitalis was going to be used for.”

“I've already ruled on this,” Keefe said without hesitation. “So sit down. Proceed, Mr. Griffith.”

“Mr. Randall, why should the jury believe you? You could have made all this up to get out of prison. For all we know, you murdered Robert Simmons.”

“I'm a thief, not a killer.”

“You knifed a man in a bar fight.”

“He started it.”

“How do we know Eduardo Berroa was on that flight?”

“Check the passenger list. He was next to me, in seat thirty-eight-A.”

“Under his own name?”

“No, Fernando Villanuevo. Check it out.”

“I did.” Griffith handed a paper to Keefe and a copy to McCaskill.

“A certified passenger manifest for January fifteenth British Airways Flight 287,” he explained. “It shows the passenger in seat thirty-eight-A was Fernando Villanuevo. Request this document be marked defense exhibit next in order.”

“So ordered. Continue, Mr. Griffith.”

“What else can you tell the jury that will prove to
them that what you say today is the truth, Mr. Randall?”

“Eduardo Berroa murdered Judge Tucker.”

A loud, collective roar arose in the courtroom, which Keefe silenced with his gavel, then he directed Griffith to go on.

“Do you know when?”

“The day after Berroa 'scaped from Soledad. Early in January. Friday night.”

“Could it have been Friday, January eleventh?”

“Sounds right.”

“Do you know
where
Berroa murdered Judge Tucker?”

“In her chambers, here in this building.”

“Did Berroa tell you
how
he murdered her?”

“Slit her throat with a scalpel he stole from the prison infirmary before he 'scaped.”

Keefe squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his fists.

Griffith waited for Keefe to recover, then continued. “Did Berroa tell you whether or not he raped Judge Tucker before he killed her?”

“He raped her all right, prison style.”

“By ‘prison style' you mean he raped her anally?”

“Right. The little spic—'scuse me, Judge, Berroa was a whore—lots a'guys had him in the slammer. Wanted her to know what it felt like.”

Griffith picked up the DNA report. “At this time, Your Honor, I wish to publish this report to the jury.”

When he finished, he turned back to Randall. “One final question. Did Eduardo Berroa tell you
why
he murdered Judge Tucker?”

McCaskill started to object, but Keefe silenced him with a glare.

“To get even with her for sending him to prison.”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Griffith said. “At this time the defense requests that the Court order the entry of a judgment of acquittal of murder because the evidence is insufficient to sustain a conviction on appeal.”

Keefe rotated his chair toward the prosecution. “Mr. McCaskill, I'll hear argument now.”

“If you believe Mr. Randall, that Eduardo Berroa, not the defendant, murdered Doctor Simmons, then it is unreasonable to believe that Mr. Randall is himself not liable for prosecution of Doctor Simmons as an accomplice to murder.”

McCaskill glanced at Mackay and as quickly turned away. “An acquittal pursuant to Penal Code Section 1118.1 cannot be granted based on the testimony of an accomplice unless his testimony is corroborated by such other evidence as tends to connect Eduardo Berroa to the murder of Doctor Simmons.”

“Mr. Griffith, I'm afraid McCaskill is right. Let's recess till tomorrow to see if you can find us some corroboration.”