Steve Martini - Double Tap

The reason is no doubt lost in the dark recesses of my childhood, but looking at these pictures in the solitary hours of the night there is a palpable sense of fear. It emanates from somewhere deep in my core, ominous and cold, as if I am being paralyzed. There is a feeling that I am locked in battle with dark forces, held in a death embrace by the demon, scrapping, tearing, pulling hair at the edge of the pit for the damned who are about to be lost. Somehow this ordeal has become the battle I could never wage as a child. I cannot explain it, but Emiliano has become the proxy, the surrogate, that somehow has me struggling for the redemption of Evo’s soul.

This morning Harry and I dodge a projectile the size of a cannonball. Judge Samuel Gilcrest is up on the bench, peering down at the five lawyers assembled at the other counsel table. In flowing black robes, his narrow, crooked nose and hairless dome shining under the beams from the courtroom’s overhead canister lights, Gilcrest resembles a wingless bald eagle about to hop down from its perch to eat its prey.

Gilcrest has decided that there will be no cameras in the courtroom for Ruiz’s trial.

Harry is leaning back in the chair next to me at the defense table, taking a deep breath, psychically hyperventilating.

Templeton has given up the prosecution table temporarily to the legal brain trust for the media, lawyers representing three of the national television cable franchises. They may be arguing lofty First Amendment issues, but the bottom line is dollars. The trial of Emiliano Ruiz-the man accused of killing Madelyn Chapman in what is now being called the “Double Tap” Murder-is worth tens of millions in ad revenue if they can get it on live TV. What is driving the story in terms of news value is not only the lurid details that have slipped out-the fact that Chapman was part of the international superwealthy and is believed to have been having an affair with the defendant-but the fact that her company was up to its eyebrows in IFS and the seething controversy in Congress over government intrusion and individual privacy.

They try to haggle with the judge.

“You’ve heard my ruling. The answer is no.” Gilcrest’s tone climbs a couple of decibels in volume, not quite angry but getting there.

The only thing that didn’t come up during more than an hour of pitched argument is the eight-ton elephant, the psychic presence of Larry Templeton. The cute little man has his feet propped up on top of his briefcase, which he has set on the floor in front of his chair to use like a footstool. Templeton has the fingers of both hands laced together and braced behind his head, his elbows spread as he leans back, enjoying the argument. His head is a full four inches below the top of the chair’s backrest. It is just this kind of lovable, take-me-home-and-squeeze-me image in front of the jury that has Harry and me worried.

Gilcrest is in his mid-sixties. With narrow, slumping shoulders, his slender six-foot-four-inch frame drips folds of black polyester as his robe fans out from his skinny neck and disappears behind the top of the bench. Everything about the man is sharp, from the angle of his nose to the high, prominent cheekbones set like boulders under eyes that are sunk so deep in the man’s skull that any color from the pupils is lost in shadow.

“Mr. Templeton, if you could join us, take your seat so we can move on to the other items.” The judge motions with a hand and a nod toward his bailiff, sign language to clear the courtroom now that the issue of cameras is behind us. Next up are motions on pretrial evidentiary items. These are closed to the public, though ultimate rulings and their significance are sure to seep onto the front pages of the newspapers and the minute-by-minute cable TV accounts of the trial.

Noise and commotion as foot traffic heads for the exit. The mob is out of their seats, milling toward the double doors at the back of the courtroom.

At the other counsel table the lawyers juggle loose papers and grab their briefcases, one of them holding a pen in his teeth, his half-open briefcase in one hand and papers in the other. Templeton lifts his feet off his briefcase and up onto the seat to avoid getting trampled. He arches his eyebrows and smiles at me, a portrait in miniature: Escaping the Exiting Horde . Harry is right. Templeton is going to kill us in front of the jury.

“Next item is the videotape?” says Gilcrest.

“I believe so, Your Honor.” Harry fingers through the folder to find our notes.

Templeton lugs his briefcase forward. Lifting it shoulder high, he pushes it up onto the table. He is joined by Mike Argust, one of the lead detectives in Homicide and the man who headed up the investigation of Chapman’s murder. He will be state’s representative for “the People,” entitled to sit in the courtroom and listen to all the testimony even though he is a witness and will be called to the stand. Argust’s name had been conspicuous in the papers before the court issued its gag order silencing both sides on the case. The detective’s face and image are still highly visible in file footage whenever Chapman’s murder pops up on the televised news.

“Your Honor, if we could have some help with the seat assist.”

Gilcrest is reading, trying to get a head start on the next motion. He looks up abstractedly from the file, as if encountering a man from Mars. “What? Oh, yeah, of course. Jerry!”

He calls to his bailiff, who is just locking up the back doors. Jerry turns toward the bench.

“Chair,” says Gilcrest. The judge, who has resumed reading the file, gestures absently with his hand toward Templeton. More sign language. This is understood in all the criminal courts where Templeton does business.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” The bailiff hooks his keys onto his belt and hustles back toward the judge’s chambers. A couple of seconds later he emerges carrying a dark square object like a box with rounded corners.

The county has designed a special fixture for the cushioned tilting armchairs used by the lawyers at counsel table. This device, made of wood, padded, and covered with dark fabric, fits inside the arms of the chair and lifts Templeton to a height so that he is seated on a level playing field with everyone else. The bailiff installs the thing and Templeton scrambles up into the chair like a truck driver climbing into the cab of an eighteen-wheeler.

“On this issue I don’t know that I’m gonna take a lot of time,” says Gilcrest. “I have looked at the tape and, except for a case I once heard involving prurient interest and socially redeeming values in the realm of porn, I have to admit it is pretty graphic.” The judge is talking about the videotape from the camera in Chapman’s office that caught her and Ruiz in half dress, going at it on the couch. “Of course, I can’t verify that they consummated the act,” says Gilcrest, “but a jury can come to its own conclusion, I suppose.”

“That’s the point, Your Honor.” I’m on my feet, the only advantage I have over Templeton, at least in front of the judge. “The tape proves only that they engaged in a single indiscreet act,” I say.

“I’m inclined to lean toward Mr. Madriani’s argument,” says the judge.

“Surprise me, Your Honor.” Templeton is smiling up at him from the other table, still pulling papers from his briefcase, not missing a beat. “The video speaks for itself. It is the best evidence of the relationship between the defendant and the victim. The state believes that that relationship was at the heart of this crime: that it is the reason the defendant killed the victim. The tape is vital. And it is corroborative of other evidence pointing to this relationship.”