Lawyers earn their living by the sweat of their tongues, and they don't mind hard work. (anon) Some legal pundits espouse the use of conversational tones when addressing Jurors. They recommend a friendly discussion approach while arguing points to the Trier of Fact. These Courthouse virtuosos suggest that the sophistication of contemporary Jurors makes Courtroom oratory passe. Excuse me! A PROSECUTOR has a sworn duty to proclaim the truth. Even the most casual Courtroom combatant knows that facts don't automatically prevail. Justice is often frustrated. Truth doesn't inexorably impose its will on a Jury. There is no magic charm-wand in the Courtroom. No vaccine for insulating undecided Jurors from the noxious effect of falsehood. No ambient conditioner to endow equivocal Juries with perfect discernment during their deliberations. The cause of Justice must be championed by PASSIONATE ADVOCACY. The People's Lawyer must prosecute aggressively but prudently, and he must speak dynamically. Truth is promulgated by evidence, proper instructions, perspiration, and eloquence! Manner of delivery is a matter of personal style to be sure, but it's also a matter of taking charge in the Courtroom.

By The Sweat Of My Tongue

Profiles In ProsecutionBy Mel Harmon

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Mel Harmon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6343-0

Contents

1—Vile Vengeance................................................12—Judicial Sleight of Hand......................................213—Mister Defendant Bye – Bye..............................454—Where Is the Promise..........................................595—Is There a Doctor in the House................................796—Advisory Not Given — Or Was It?.........................1057—What About Bob's Ladies?......................................1278—How Great the Grief a Little Fire Kindles.....................1659—Finding Humor in the Courtroom................................19110—Oh, It's A Real Dog..........................................22711—Prosecutorial Duty...........................................247

Chapter One

Something is different. A stiff breeze whips the mimosa trees. The moonless night is warm and creepy. The shrill wail of sirens relentless in the distance. Those on the street sense a palpable tension building, expanding – intensifying. Volatile flames lick hungrily at the somber darkness. A sinister bluish-orange glow hovers over west Las Vegas. Large chunks of city blocks on the westside are burning. Many firefighters and police hurriedly respond to crisis points.

It's an extraordinary event. Multiple fires have been deliberately combusted by citizens in response to the acquittal in California of three Simi Valley police officers on charges of viciously beating motorist Rodney King. Widespread rioting has triggered arson and looting. The aura the rioters have created reeks with a spirit of reckless retribution. It is an ill-begotten omen of lawlessness that does not bode well for the immediate future.

The frenzied protest of hooligans in west Las Vegas is the night's lead story, but about one mile away a vile subplot will bedevil the diminished resources of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department in this portentous gloom.

Perhaps, he is one among many. But within the borders of the city, on this 30th day of April, 1992, is a vain man with a bone to pick. He has a serious gripe. He carries within his heart a reservoir of bitter bile that infects his mind. He's been obsessed with a spirit of vengeance for months, and the poison spreads with the passing of each hour. He's been wronged by one he considered a friend. Seriously compromised. Threatened. And on horror's head horrors accumulate! What he now contemplates is horrible. Disgusting. Diabolic.

Yet, his bloody thoughts, with violence pace, malignant in his brain. He believes only cunning, cruel, complete revenge will swallow up his bloody torment. He's mistaken in his premise, of course. But how do we make sense out of nonsense? How are victims to be warned of impending catastrophe? How can one whose head is saturated with horror forgive the one who put the horror there?

* * *

There is no warning. It is a mission of stealth and subterfuge. The night continues to be enveloped by thick darkness. Natural cover for the perpetration of murderous mischief. A silver sliver of a moon will not rise until 2:19 am. By then the heinous deed is done. And the police have other fish to fry on the westside. They are preoccupied by a smokescreen of fire and rioting. The night seems ordained for perverted vindication.

There are six persons inside 532 Wardelle Street, Apartment D. It's almost midnight – the ominous witching hour. Though it's not the sorcery of witches that is imminent. The black specter of murder approaches. A car pulls up and parks. Two men with loaded firearms are inside. Both dressed in dark clothes. They linger in the car reviewing their modus operandi.

Mousey gets out, shrouded in the darkness. Quietly, fatefully he climbs the stairs and knocks. There's a brief pause. He is known by those inside. Or is he?

Lacy opens the door and goes to the bedroom. Mousey enters. He carries a concealed .357 magnum and a malevolent heart. Stuart and James are in the front room – apprehensive. There's small talk. They ask why he's dressed in dark clothes. He offers a flippant response. They sit down. More relaxed. Less vigilant. Disarmed by Mousey's manner and charming banter. Small errors in judgment can have calamitous consequence.

A few minutes later, Mousey excuses himself to go spit. It's a ruse. He unlocks the dead bolt and goes to the balcony briefly. When he returns he does not reset the dead bolt. Sadly, his treachery is unnoticed.

There's more conversation. Mousey stands up and goes to the window. He parts the drapes and looks outside. His actions are a sign of readiness. A green light. It's a go! The lights of the car blink menacingly. Message received!

Double R exits the vehicle. On horror's head horrors accumulate. He is strapped with a 9-millimeter – and by bloody thoughts that violently pace malignant in his brain. He is known by one who is inside. Or is he – really?

Step–by– step with measured stealth, Double R climbs the stairway to deliberate–murderous–mayhem. Death is at the door of apartment D. He enters unimpeded. His 9-millimeter in hand.

Stuart and James are blind sided. They say indignantly, "What is this?" Stuart reaches for his heat, but the intruders have the drop on those inside. The element of surprise is decisive. Stuart is told to take his cap off. He wants to keep it on, but the vicious intruders are insistent. He reluctantly removes his cap as his life passes in a kaleidoscopic flash before his eyes. He is literally staring into the gun barrel. A .357 magnum bullet crashes into his head, leaving a jagged wound of entry just above his left eyebrow. He was eighteen.

James is ordered to take his cap off. He pleads for his life. He says, "I won't tell." His appeal is denied. It falls on unhearing ears. The perpetrators aren't into listening. Dead men don't tell tales. He's told, in so many words, "No offense, buddy. But it's got to happen. Take your hat off." And he's shot in the back of the head by a projectile from the .357 magnum. He was nineteen.

A cassette player is playing. The volume of the music is jacked up – loud.

Things happen quickly. Mousey and Double R go to the back bedroom. Lacy is cowering on the bed. Terrified. Trapped. Sorry. Lamenting that she unlocked the door and let Mousey come in. Lamenting that she's here. Lamenting that she can't make herself invisible. Her distraught, imploring eyes beg for a reprieve.

To no avail. The hearts of the intruders are implacable. They relentlessly pursue their foul mission. Dead men don't tell tales – nor do dead women. They place a pillow over those desperate eyes. Double R callously discharges three 9-millimeter bullets into her writhing body. One round enters her upper right chest. The other two penetrate her upper right arm. Then also enter the right chest. She was twenty six.

It is time for deadly retribution. Bloody mayhem goes into the bathroom. Shannon is in the shower. She's the target. Helpless. Exposed. Frantic. There's an emotional melt-down. She acknowledges her transgression, and apologizes to Double R for betrayal. She'll make it up to him somehow. She begs to be spared. Don't kill me. Let me live. Please!

But the die is cast. She's made her choices. There is no pardon. No forgiveness. Only sadistic malice. On horror's head horrors accumulate. What happens in the bathroom is a venting of horror. It is vile vengeance.

"No beast is more savage than man when possessed with power answerable to his rage." (Plutarch, Lives. Cicero, p.1054)

That would be two men in this instance. Partners in an unholy alliance. The deck is stacked. The playing field, the killing room actually, is not level. It is two versus one. Two strong men versus one weak woman in a shower. Two strong men with guns versus one woman without a gun. All she's got is a bar of soap, a wash rag, and tears for self defense. Poor – poor – Shannon. Naked. Vulnerable. She has no chance!

Their antipathy and their numbers and their bullets make them superior. These factors endow the assailants with the power of life and death. No beast is more savage than two enraged men possessed with the might and means and mentality to impose mortality's ultimate judgment.

They want to torture her. Make her suffer. Inflict pain for sport. They want her to die slowly. Knowing that she is dying as the pain consumes her being. A side of Shannon's head is pistol whipped. She sustains blunt laceration of the left temporal area and blunt force injury with ragged margins in front of the left ear. She is shot in the breast and in her hands. The assailants try to shoot her fingers off. A number of fingers are severely damaged.

Shannon screams and struggles, but there is no respite. Each firearm is used. Both men fire random rounds into her body. Multiple bullets pierce and graze her head, face, neck, breast, shoulder, forearm, hands, and fingers. There are eight points of entry, though some may be reentries. There are broad areas of gunpowder tattooing of the right thigh and lower leg.

Vengeance is mine say the home invaders. Pain, suffering, despair, and death – to the snitch bitch! They're devoured by rage. There is no empathy for Shannon. It's as though they've just butchered a sow in a slaughterhouse. She was twenty four. The deed is done. They leave. Fleeing into the still moonless night.

* * *

But there is an intriguing circumstance. Is it an oversight? Did the sense of rage distort their thinking? Did they leave so hastily they left behind unfinished business? What is to be made of this?

Remarkably. Illogically, perhaps. Two little ones have survived the blood bath. They are Annie, who has just turned four, and eighteen month old Frankie. He sleeps through the debacle, but she witnesses a gruesome, despicable, real-life nightmare. All of it! She sees unabated cruelty inflicted in a way that no child should ever have to experience. She isn't shot, but she's the fifth victim in a very real sense.

Scared – shaking, pint-sized Annie runs to C, the other upstairs apartment, and begins banging on the door. She's afraid the bad guys will come back at any moment and get her too. There are four adults in C.

They've heard noises they believe are gunshots. They've called next door. No one answers, but the music is abruptly turned up loud. Understandably, they're jittery. Now, they hear nonstop pounding on their door. They hesitate. Alarmed. They hear a shrill little voice. "It's Annie. Let me in."

The door is opened, and Annie rushes inside like a little brown whirlwind. She exclaims, "They're all dead. They're all dead. They came and they shot them all dead ... Uncle Ray – Ray came in, and they shot them all dead ... They shot ... [Shannon] in the bathtub."

Annie testifies at trial that "Little Ray and Scary Eyes came upstairs. I do not know his name. His eyes are scary. Both of them had black guns like cops have. They shot ... [Stuart and James] in the front room. They shot ... [Lacy] in the bedroom. Scary Eyes and Ray went to the bathroom to kill ... [Shannon]."

Annie and her mother live at the crime scene. Her mother leaves to launder clothes prior to the murders. Mousey is also known as Ray. Annie is acquainted with him. Earlier he lived in the apartment for several weeks. They became friendly then. She calls him Little Ray or Uncle Ray. They've gone to the store together for ice cream and outside to play.

So, does this fact explain the survival of little Annie? Perhaps. It's been said that honor exists even among thieves. Does compassion exist even among stone-cold murderers? Possibly, when the issue involves little children. It's one thing to send a hail of bullets into the body of a police informant, and to preempt any likelihood of eyewitness evidence, from three adults present at the scene, by systematic execution to seal their lips. But it's something qualitatively different to take out little kids.

Human beings are complex creatures. They don't necessarily fit into some preconceived framework. I'm guessing, in this particular instance, that Annie's friendship with Mousey did save her. Frankie is asleep and he's only a baby. We don't know if the assailants even realized he was there. But assuming they did, he is obviously not a threat. He's much too young – and asleep.

But little Annie? She borderline. Bright. Alert. Articulate. Awake. A vivacious little eyeball witness. Potential trouble for the conspirators, rationally speaking. But suppose logic isn't the sole criterion.

I don't subscribe to blanket condemnation. I'm not fond of generalization. I don't often see things in black and white. I like to give credit where credit is due. The better practice is to concentrate on the specific evidence and reasonable inferences of each case.

The circumstances in the case at bar suggest that a measurable spark of redemption exists in Mousey and Double R. A sense of tender protectiveness toward a child is not a small matter. It's a major incongruity conceived within the madness of multiple murders.

Mousey likes Annie. She is his friend. They've gone to the store together. They've licked ice cream cones and played games together. They'd bonded. She calls him Uncle Ray. I believe he's unwilling to break that bond, and he persuades Double R to go along.

They've probably lived to regret their grant of amnesty to Annie. But for a few moments during this dark, malevolent night, when the beast within them is savage and their smoking guns are an awesome power answerable to their rage, there is a glimmer of light – of humanity in them. Mousy and Scary Eyes are compassionate to a child. They allow her to live – to breathe – to play – to chatter – and to remember the awful night when two murderers chose not to kill her. Their Prosecutor, as a barrister and as member of the human race, thanks them for their kindness.

Annie is now twenty! Still rejoicing in the privilege of being alive.

* * *

"Yesterday, This Day's Madness did prepare; To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair ..." (Edward Fitzgerald, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam of Naishapur)

What is the motive? Why did Double R and Mousey want to kill Shannon? The madness and despair of April 30, 1992 is decreed almost seventeen months into yesterday.

Cocaine is a lie. It promises Paradise. It produces Hell. The Devil is a white demon inside a plastic bag.

Cocaine's lie seduces Double R and Mousey. They become drug trafficking business associates and friends. Shannon is part of the drug subculture and is familiar with both men. Double R considers her a close friend and confidante.

But she is arrested on theft-related offenses, and agrees to become a police informant to work off her charges. Not an unusual arrangement for a person with her connections. Though it is an extremely risky enterprise.

Shannon contacts her friend Double R. Desperate people engage in desperate and imprudent acts. They agree to a three ounce cocaine buy at a prearranged time and place a short distance from her residence. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to appreciate the absurdity of this operation. Police surveillance is dutifully established.

Double R arrives at the rendevous point in a 1982 Cadillac on December 6, 1990 at 8:00 p.m. He's approached by Shannon who briefly gets into the car. She verifies his possession of cocaine. Signals to police that Double R is the person in the Cadillac and that cocaine is present inside the vehicle. Then she runs straight to her residence. I'll repeat that. Before God, the police, Double R, and the whole neighborhood – Shannon sets up her friend on a drug bust and runs straight home.

Police immediately converge upon Double R, and block his escape. He is ordered out of the vehicle at gunpoint. While he exits his Cadillac the three plastic baggies of cocaine, he'd intended to sell to Shannon, fall to the ground near his feet. The baggies are in plain view of law enforcement and are impounded as evidence. During an inventory search police find secret compartments within the vehicle interior. Solenoid-activated partitions are discovered in backseat areas on both driver and passenger sides. One and a half kilos of cocaine and $29,982.00 are found inside the concealed compartments. Double R's car is impounded. He is arrested for trafficking in a controlled substance.

The offense is punishable with a mandatory minimum sentence of twenty five years without possibility of parole and a maximum sentence of life in prison and a fine of $500,000.00.

It's enough to make a struggling drug dealer's blood boil – or turn ice cold, as the case may be. Shannon's complicity in the drug bust is easily deduced by Double R and his associates from the inception of the trafficking offense. Subsequent legal posturing leaves no doubt about the police informant's identity. Shannon's name is formally disclosed as the informant pursuant to defense motion in December 1991.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from By The Sweat Of My Tongueby Mel Harmon Copyright © 2010 by Mel Harmon. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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