Steve Martini - Double Tap

In the front row, just beyond the rail behind the prosecution table, is an elderly woman. It is Madelyn Chapman’s mother. Sitting next to her is the victim’s younger sister. They put the visual hex on me as I assemble the documents from my briefcase on the table.

Two rows behind them, Nathan sidles toward one of the center seats as some young kid gets up to give him his chair. The kid heads for the door. Nathan is using a legislative intern to hold his seat. Knowing Nathan, he’ll probably have one sleeping outside on the sidewalk tonight, holding his place in line for tomorrow.

I take my seat and open the folder with a fresh notepad inside. Trying a case can be an exercise in writer’s cramp as you catch all the details so that you don’t miss anything on cross-examination.

Harry leans away from Jamie and the computer and across the open chair that has been left vacant between us for Emiliano.

“As you can see, they’ve already started constructing the gallows,” says Harry. He nods toward the planks spanning the space in front of the jury box.

I give him a resigned look. “It’s what we expected.”

“Yeah, but it’s not nearly as menacing when it’s just a mental image in your mind.”

A second later the door leading to the holding cells opens and the prosecution team enters the courtroom. They are led by Mike Argust, the lead homicide detective in Chapman’s case. Argust is a twenty-eight-year veteran assigned to the case the night of the murder. Unless Ruiz testifies, Argust, who is the state’s representative in the case, is the only other witness allowed inside the courtroom during the trial unless they are on the stand. Witnesses on both the prosecution and defense lists have been excluded by the judge following a stipulation by Templeton and myself. Potential witnesses have been instructed not to discuss their testimony with anyone except the lawyers and representatives for the prosecution and defense, and then only if the witnesses choose to talk with them. We are still awaiting a decision from the court on Sims’s appeal concerning Gilcrest’s ruling on evidence from Isotenics. No doubt, whatever happens, if Sims loses he will take the appeal to the state supreme court, if for no other reason than to stall for more time.

I tried to coax an affidavit out of Nathan Kwan regarding the telephone conversation between Klepp and whoever was on the other end of the line during Nathan’s meeting out at Isotenics. A declaration under penalty of perjury might be enough to convince the judge to allow me to question Klepp more thoroughly. But Nathan declined. He said he couldn’t get publicly involved, especially now, being new to Congress. It could blow up in his face. I understood. Bringing information and delivering it to me was one thing. Getting his name in the press and involved in the case on the wrong side was another.

Argust takes the seat in the middle at the prosecution table, counterpart to Ruiz. The computer tech, an expert who performs visualization duties in most of their heavier cases, is at the far end. Templeton takes the chair nearest me and climbs onto the box that is already assembled on top of the seat waiting for him.

A few moments later a burly guard from the sheriff’s jail unit opens the holding cell door once more. He is followed by a second guard. They take their time, checking the courtroom, making eye contact with each of the guards stationed at the back of the courtroom and along the side aisles. When they are satisfied, one of them turns and offers the come-hither sign, the signal for the guards inside to bring him out. Emiliano walks through the open door followed by two more guards. Harry and I both stand as they usher him toward our table. The choreography here is like a polka. Ruiz could turn in any direction and instantly be dancing with a uniformed guard. They surround him. I have demanded on several occasions that none of this be played out in front of the jury and that the guards melt into the walls before they bring the jury panel in. If they fail in any way, I will document each instance on the record as grounds for appeal. A show of law enforcement on this order can pollute a jury faster than anything said at trial. It sends a less-than-subtle signal that, not only does the state view the defendant as a stone-cold killer, but that an overwhelming show of force is needed to prevent him from escaping and killing again, and to protect the jury itself. If jurors begin to fear for their own safety, your case is over.

Ruiz is clean shaven; his hair, a little longer than when we first met, is neatly combed. He is dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and solid burgundy tie. The suit is a bit baggy on his body since he could not be fitted for it. Janice, my secretary, selected Emiliano’s attire off the rack from a men’s shop a few blocks from the office. The shoes, buffed-up cordovans, are stiff as boards, right out of the box, making Ruiz’s stride as he enters the courtroom a little stilted. They have to steady him to keep him from stepping on the feet of the guards.

Ruiz seems surprised, somewhat taken back by the size of the crowd in the courtroom, even though Harry and I have told him to expect this. He is looking out at them over the railing with an expression approaching mystification as they lead him toward the table. The guards wait until he finds his seat and takes it, hovering over him for a few seconds, checking things out before they back off. They finally leave us and take up positions at the sides and back of the courtroom. Two of the guards station themselves down the darkened corridor along the side of the raised bench leading to the judge’s chambers in the back.

None of the guards or bailiffs carry firearms, only pepper spray and collapsible metal batons that, if used with enough force, can shatter a clavicle or fracture a skull. Whether the judge will be packing when he takes the bench, no one knows. In this state there have been enough violent confrontations in courtrooms-including a judge in Marin County who was taken hostage, then shot and killed outside the courthouse-that some judges have been known to carry loaded, concealed handguns under their robes.

Ruiz leans toward me and speaks almost without moving his lips: “Quite a crowd.” He is breathing heavily. I suspect it is the largest group of people he has ever seen assembled in one place for any event in which he was the center of attention. Fighting a battle and staying alive is one thing; dealing with a crowd where everyone in the courtroom is looking at him as if he is some caged beast is another.

A few seconds later I hear Gilcrest whisper “Excuse me” down the darkened corridor. The judge is telling the guards to get out of his way so he can clear the hallway and mount the bench.

“Excuse me, Your Honor.”

“All rise,” says the bailiff in a booming voice, and instantly everyone in the courtroom is on their feet. The judge quickly climbs the three steps and takes his seat. He opens the file in front of him on the bench. “You may be seated,” he says. It takes a couple of seconds for the noise of shuffling feet and cushioned behinds to die down. “The clerk will call the case.”

“ People of the State of California versus Emiliano Ruiz . Case number. .”

We have already waived a reading of the charges, so, with the preliminaries done, Gilcrest cuts to the chase. He looks out at the audience, a squinting stare that could freeze ice. “Before we get started, I’m going to lay down some ground rules for the people in the audience,” he says. “I don’t want to hear any talking, shouting, hooting, clapping, or laughing from anybody out there. I don’t want to see anybody reading newspapers or books in my courtroom. You want to do that, you go to the library. I don’t want to hear any comments or see any signs being held up for the jury or anybody else to read. If I see any of this, you will be removed from the courtroom. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.