Death Row

Chapter 2

“And what did you discover after you forced your way into the Faulkner home, Officer Marder?”

Marder spoke in calm, measured tones, trying to make his testimony flat and unemotional, when in reality it was anything but. “The first thing I noticed was the blood. Blood was everywhere. It looked more like a slaughterhouse than a suburban family residence.”

“And after that?”

Marder allowed himself only the slightest hesitation before answering. “Then I spotted the bodies.”

“They were all dead?”

“All eight of them. The parents, and the six children.”

“Even the baby?”

“Yes,” Marder whispered almost inaudibly. “Even the baby.”

Sitting at the defense table, Ben Kincaid carefully eyed his client, Ray Goldman. He made no visible reaction to the testimony, just as Ben had instructed him. Whether it was an expression of guilt or of outraged innocence, reactions from the defense table always troubled the jury. Ben hadn’t been sure whether Ray could keep himself calm through this brutal testimony, but so far, he had. Which was good. Because it was only going to get worse.

Assistant District Attorney Bullock paused, letting the horrific declarations from the witness stand seep into the consciousness of all those who could hear, including the jury, before he proceeded. “Was anyone left alive?”

“Only the fifteen-year-old girl, Erin Faulkner. The one who called us. She was in the passageway from the laundry room. She had crawled up from the basement. She was severely injured, but she was still alive. Barely.”

“What did you do next?”

“I called for medical attention for the girl.” Sergeant Marder was a trim man in his early thirties, one of the few men on earth, Ben thought, who actually looked good in a police uniform. Like all PD witnesses, he had been taught to keep his testimony brief and to the point, but Ben had a sense of hidden depths, a fire perhaps, that burned just below the surface. “She’d called the police, but hadn’t the strength, or the clarity of mind, to call for help for herself.”

Bullock was a tall, slightly balding man in his late forties. Ben had known him for years, since they had both worked at the state attorney general’s office. “Would you please describe her injuries?”

“She’d been beaten, stripped naked. Her left kneecap was dislocated and broken. And as you’ve already heard, she broke her own hand to escape from the handcuffs. She was in severe shock. So I called for an EMSA team and they took her down to St. Francis’s.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I conducted a closer inspection of the… remains. The corpses. It’s standard procedure in a homicide.”

“Of course. You did the right thing. Under extremely difficult circumstances.”

An improper comment, to be sure. But what was Ben going to do, object? The jury would crucify him. Years ago, when Bullock had been his mentor, he had told Ben: “When they put a hero on the stand, make sure you treat him with respect. Then rip him apart. But respectfully.”

“Could you tell the jury more about the condition of the bodies when you found them?” Bullock asked.

“Of course.” The casualness of Marder’s response didn’t fool anyone. This was a question he was dreading. “All eight of them were dead. With the two deceased females, there was evidence of sexual assault of… one kind or another. They were all in the living room, except that the baby was found in his crib in the nursery. And of course, Erin had been chained up in the basement.”

“Perhaps you should describe the victims for us one at a time, sir.”

Marder shifted his weight around in the chair. “The first corpse I inspected was the father, Frank Faulkner. His body was facedown, spread-eagled on a white plush rug in the center of the living room. His throat had been cut. But that was not the only injury he had suffered. He appeared to have been beaten. Quite severely. One of his legs had been broken. One of his arms had been dislocated and twisted around in an unnatural position. His shirt was off, and I could see bruises and lacerations on his chest. One of his nipples had been cut off. And his eyes-” For the first time, Officer Marder choked.

“You were saying?” Bullock prodded. “About his eyes?”

Marder swallowed, then licked his lips. “His eyes had been… removed.”

“Removed?”

“Cut out,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Right out of the sockets.”

“I… see.” Ben knew this gruesome detail was not news to Bullock-probably not to anyone in the packed courtroom. The details of this crime had held the Tulsa media in thrall-which was why the courtroom was SRO. Nonetheless, the testimony had a chilling effect on everyone within earshot. Even Judge Kearns looked shaken. And Kearns, an African-American who had been on the bench for almost forty years, was a hard man to shake. “Did you ever… locate the missing eyes?”

“No. None of them.”

“None of them?” Bullock tilted his head sideways. “Were there… others?”

“All of the victims had suffered the same end, more or less. All of them had their eyes removed. And none of the eyes were ever found.”

“Even-?”

“Yes,” Marder said, and for the first time a note of anger, anger and perhaps something else, tinged his voice. “Even the baby.”

Ben and his client huddled in a corner of the corridor outside the courtroom, cradling paper cups in both hands, trying to use the heat of the coffee to warm themselves against the bitter cold that seemed to have enveloped the courthouse.

“So…” Ray said, as casually as possible, “you didn’t want to cross that guy?”

Ben shook his head. “You have a problem with that?”

Goldman was a handsome man in his early thirties, with a tanned face and strong features. Strands of gray already flecked his hair, but they only made his appearance more striking, giving him a sense of maturity that exceeded his chronological age. “I haven’t been to law school or anything, but I thought his detailed description of the crime scene was… damaging.”

“You were right.”

“Then why-”

“What would be the point? The man saw what he saw. It’s not as if he were lying.”

“But the jury will think-”

“The jury will think a lot worse if I spin around some poor schlep whose only crime was having the misfortune to be on duty the day the worst home invasion slash murder case in the history of Tulsa occurred. It’s not as if his testimony pointed to you, anyway. Everything he said was uncontested.”

“Then why did they spend so long on it?”

“Because Bullock knows that the more gruesome the crime-scene details, the more inclined the jury will be to convict.”

“Then why-”

Ben placed his hand on his client’s shoulder. “Ray, I promise you we will put on a defense. When the proper time comes. This just wasn’t it.”

Goldman nodded, but he didn’t seem much comforted by the counsel. His reserved, almost intellectual demeanor reminded Ben that this alleged multiple murderer was, after all, a scientist. “Ben… I know this is amateurish, and defense lawyers don’t like it, but-I didn’t do this. I’m not guilty.”

“Ray-”

“I know. It’s just-this crime is so… ghastly. I’m trying not to let it show, but it makes me sick to my stomach just to hear about it. I want you to know-I need to know that this isn’t just another job for you. I want you to know that I’m innocent.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ben said, not quite truthfully.

“I know. But I want you to know. I want you to want-”

“If you’re thinking I didn’t cross because I suspect you’re guilty and I want to send you up the river, forget it. I will fight for you. I will do anything the law allows to help you.”

“I know. But still, I-I-” He wiped his hand across his brow. “Oh, hell. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Ben smiled reassuringly, then crumpled his coffee cup and tossed it into the trash can. “Come on, Ray. We’ve got work to do.”

Ben suspected that the testimony from Detective Sergeant Murphy, the man who headed the investigation into the Faulkner family slayings, would be more damning. And he was right.

“Did you have any leads?” Bullock asked him, after several preliminary questions establishing his credentials and describing his examination of the crime scene.

“We were working on the presumption that the motive was money, and that the killer was either a psychopath or someone who knew Frank Faulkner personally. Or both. As you know, Faulkner was relatively wealthy, and there were signs that a robbery had taken place either before or after the murders. A safe in Faulkner’s bedroom had been jimmied open and everything inside had been removed.”

“So how did you proceed?”

“Given the familiarity the killer seemed to have with Faulkner’s home and schedule, I started by trying to learn who might’ve been at the victims’ home recently.”

“Were you able to do so?”

“Yes. I found a Filofax-that’s a pocket calendar-organizer-on Faulkner’s dresser. Inside, I found the names of three men who had been to his home during the previous week. One was a banker with whom he was negotiating a loan to buy a piece of real estate in south Tulsa. One was an insurance salesman who came out to investigate some hail damage to their chimney. And one was a fellow chemist he knew from his place of work.” He paused and glanced in the direction of the defense table. “That was Ray Goldman.”

“And did you then investigate the defendant?”

“I investigated all three of them. Goldman was the one that paid off.”

“How so?”

“I found the defendant walking home from work. Apparently he lived about a mile from the plant, and it was his habit to walk to and from. I stopped him, searched him. That was when I found-”

“Objection, your honor. I renew my pretrial motion to suppress.” If Ben could prevent the jury from learning the officer found a handgun when he searched Ray, it would be a big break for the defense. Of course his motion was denied, but when his turn came, Ben made that the main focus of his cross.

“Did you have a warrant to conduct a personal search?” Ben asked.

“You know I didn’t.” In the short time it took Ben to approach the stand, Murphy’s demeanor had been transformed. Where once had sat the compliant, terse, unemotional witness, now was the antagonistic, argumentative paladin for truth, justice, and the American way. “Probable cause for the search was based on his violation of Oklahoma ’s laws on open containers. Misdemeanor in my presence. Clear basis for arrest, then search.”

Ben knew the story, having reviewed the officer’s statement so many times he could recite it from memory, but he wanted to make sure the jury was with him before he proceeded. “Would you explain that, please?”

“As I drove past the witness, I saw that he was drinking a beer. Out of a can. A Bud Light, to be specific.”

“You saw the can?”

“I saw the top part of it. It was wrapped up in a paper bag. Common practice for people drinking in violation of the liquor laws.”

“But you could see enough to tell it was an alcoholic beverage?”

“Definitely. And as you know, counselor, you can’t walk down the streets carrying an open container with an alcoholic beverage. That’s against the law. So I parked my car and ran after him.”

“And when you caught up to him, was he in fact carrying a beer?”

“No, not then. He must’ve ditched it somewhere. Probably saw me coming and tossed it over a fence or down a gutter.”

“But you searched him anyway.”

“Of course. The man broke the law. Standard procedure.”

“Were there any other witnesses to this alleged offense?”

“No, I was working alone.”

“Did you ever find the alleged beer can?”

“I can’t say that I ever looked. After the search, I had better things to do.”

No doubt. Ironically, unlike carrying an open beer can, carrying a concealed weapon was not illegal in Oklahoma, so long as the gun was registered. And since all of the Faulkners were killed by a knife, the gun did not immediately link Goldman to the crime. But the assailant had used a gun to corral and control the family, and Frank Faulkner had a wound on his head that could have been caused by the butt of a gun. It was hardly proof positive, but it was the best piece of physical evidence the prosecution had. If Ben could get Judge Kearns to suppress it, it could dramatically alter the course of the trial.

“Pardon me for saying so, Officer Murphy,” Ben continued, “but I’m having a hard time understanding how you could see a man on the street from a distance, while in a moving car, at the end of the day after the sun has begun to set, see only the top part of the can, and still know immediately that it was a beer.”

“Chalk it up to experience. I’ve been on the police force for almost twenty years.”

“Which is what inclines me to think that perhaps you followed my client, searched him illegally, then concocted this story about the beer to justify the search.”

“Your honor, I protest!” DA Bullock shot to his feet, a look of outrage plastered across his face. “Counsel is desperately trying to create some impropriety where none exists. I find this grossly offensive. And I deeply resent the suggestion that this state’s sworn and trusted law enforcement officers might engage in improper practices.”

“If that’s an objection,” Judge Kearns said, “it’s sustained.” Ben suspected that Kearns, being an African-American in his sixties living in the Southwest, was probably less outraged than Bullock by the suggestion that a law enforcement officer might do something improper.

“Tell me,” Ben said, taking a step closer, “how far away from my client were you when you first spotted the beer?”

Murphy shrugged. “About twenty feet. Maybe a little more.”

“And you had no problem identifying the can he held as a beer?”

“None at all.”

“Fine.” Ben reached into the pocket of his suit coat and withdrew a large tape measure. “Twenty feet it is.” Good thing they were in the large courtroom. Ben hooked the tape measure to the rail in front of the witness stand and started reeling the tape backward.

Murphy watched, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows. “What’s that for?”

“Sorry,” Ben said. “I’m the one who gets to ask the questions.” He continued pulling the tape backward, taking his own sweet time about it. Let Murphy sweat awhile, Ben thought. Let the jury get interested. They’ve been sitting in those chairs all day. They must be ready for something a little more lively.

Ben stopped when he was exactly twenty feet away from the stand. He addressed his client. “Ray, would you come here, please? And bring that box on the floor.”

Bullock slowly rose. “Your honor, I object. I don’t know what Mr. Kincaid is trying to pull-”

“Well, if you’ll sit patiently for a minute,” Judge Kearns said, interrupting, “you might figure it out.”

Ouch. That put Bullock back in his seat in a hurry. Ben positioned Ray at the twenty-foot mark, then turned away from the front of the courtroom and opened the box. He removed a can wrapped up in a paper bag so that only the top showed, then handed it to Ray.

“Sergeant Murphy,” Ben announced, “I have re-created the scene just as you described it. The same man, the same distance, another can partially concealed by a paper bag-with just as much showing at the top as you say was visible when you spotted Ray on the street. The only real difference is that the lighting in here is much better than it would have been on the streets at six-thirty in the evening, and you’re not in a moving car, so you’ll be able to take a much more careful sustained look.”

Bullock saw what was coming and did his best to stop it. “Your honor, again I object. This re-creation has not been staged under controlled circumstances-”

“I’ll allow it,” Kearns replied.

“Furthermore, the jury could be unduly influenced by a test that in no way indicates what happened on the evening of-”

“I’ll allow it,” Kearns repeated, a bit more forcefully this time. “Mr. Kincaid, you may proceed.”

“Thank you, your honor.” He returned his attention to the witness. “My question is pretty simple, Sergeant Murphy. What is Ray holding in his hand?”

Murphy sat silently, not saying anything. He made a few furtive glances in the direction of the prosecution table, but Bullock couldn’t help him now.

“I’m waiting for an answer, Officer. What is Ray holding?”

Murphy continued to stare at the defendant intently, but he did not respond.

“He’s the same distance away from you that he was on the night you searched him, Sergeant. Maybe even closer. Surely if you could tell what he was holding then, you could do so now.” Ben paused. “If you could tell what he was holding then.”

Murphy still did not answer.

“Okay, I’ll make it easier for you. Consider it a yes-or-no question. Is he holding a beer? Or any other alcoholic beverage that would give you a legal right to search? Please bring your twenty years of experience to bear and give the jury an answer.”

Murphy stood up and continued to stare at the bag in Ray Goldman’s hand. Ben could easily imagine the thought process running through his brain. It had to be tempting to take a guess. After all, he had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. He could say it was a beer, just like before (and Ben hoped he would, because it was actually a can of Pepsi One). But if Murphy got it wrong, it would be a disaster for the prosecution. Ultimately, he decided to play it safe-and to answer the question honestly.

“I can’t tell,” he said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Ben said. “What was that?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Is it a beer? Or just soda pop?”

“I can’t tell.”

Ben turned toward the jury, a look of amazement on his face. “Officer Murphy, has anything happened to your eyesight between the day of the search and the present day?”

“No.”

“Has there been some profound diminution of your mental or physical faculties?”

Murphy pursed his lips. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Is there any reason to believe your powers of perception have been reduced since the time of the search?”

“No.”

“No, I thought not.” Ben approached the bench. “Your honor, this was an illegal search, without probable cause. I move that the search and all evidence collected as a result be suppressed.”

Kearns didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

“Your honor!” Bullock raced to the front. “This little courtroom prank has no bearing-”

“Don’t bother, Mr. Bullock.”

“But this witness is an honest, truthful servant of-”

“Mr. Bullock!” Kearns aimed his gavel in the direction of his nose. “Throughout my career as a judge, I have always shown a great deal of respect to the representatives of the district attorney’s office. But if you press me on this, that could change.” He slammed down his gavel. “Let’s take a recess.”

For the first time since the trial began, Ben did not have to push his way through a mob of reporters to get out of the courtroom. He assumed they were all huddled around their cell phones, calling in this surprising development.

Ray was on the other side of the hallway, joyously embracing his girlfriend, Carrie. She was a secretary he’d met at the chemical plant where they both worked. Ray was passionately in love-for the first time in his life, he said-and they had been planning to marry. Before this disaster descended upon them. Carrie had been supremely patient throughout the protracted pretrial ordeal-but Ben knew that wouldn’t last forever.

Not far away, Ben noticed a teenage girl staring at Ray and Carrie. She had short black hair and was leaning on a cane. Ben didn’t have to ask who she was; he’d interviewed her beforehand and had seen her sitting in the courtroom gallery every day since the trial began. She was Erin Faulkner, the girl who’d miraculously managed to escape being chained up in the basement. The only survivor of the Faulkner family.

Ben assumed she was less than delighted about the elimination of key evidence against the man accused of sadistically killing her entire family. But the look in her eyes at that moment, as she gazed at Ray, puzzled him. Was she suppressing the bitterness and hatred she must feel toward him? Ben scrutinized her face more carefully. There was definitely something going on in her head. But what was it?

She turned and, all at once, their eyes locked. Ben felt an icy twinge at his spine. He quickly averted his eyes and, without even thinking about it, wrapped his arms around himself. Defending murder cases was one thing. But this he did not need.

“Sudden chill?”

To his relief, Ben saw his legal assistant, Christina McCall, standing beside him. She was wearing purple-tinted glasses, a waist-length jacket with a fake fur collar, a short, psychedelic orange skirt, and high hip boots.

“Just in from the Sonny and Cher concert?” Ben asked.

“No. Just in from the clerk’s office, where they’re all abuzz about how you knocked Bullock’s feet out from under him.”

“I did my best.”

“You did better than that. One good cross and-voilà! The prosecution case is dead in the water.”

“I never make predictions. It isn’t over till it’s over.”

“So true. And so originally put, too.” She gave him a gentle jab on the shoulder. “Way to go, slugger. You hit a home run.”

Ben shivered. “I always love your sports analogies.”

She fluffed her long strawberry-blonde hair back over her shoulder. “So who does the prosecution have left?”

“Only the complainant. Erin Faulkner.”

“Tough witness to cross. But she didn’t really see much, did she? How much damage can she do?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said, and reluctantly he let his eyes return to the fifteen-year-old girl who would now walk with a cane for the rest of her life. “I just don’t know.”

“We’re winning, right?” Ray said as he reclaimed his chair at the defense table beside Ben. He kissed Carrie again, squeezed her hand, then let her return to her own seat in the gallery.

Ben wouldn’t play. “I never make predictions.”

“I respect that.” He paused. “But we are winning, aren’t we?”

“Ray-”

“Carrie thinks we’re winning. I realize she’s not impartial. But she thinks you tore the prosecutor’s heart right out of his chest.”

Ben tried to resist the mental image. “The last witness went… very well for us. I agree. But anything can happen. Juries are unpredictable.”

Ray faced the front of the courtroom. “You’re right. Of course you are. That’s fine.” He glanced almost impishly at Ben out of the corners of his eyes. “But we are winning. Aren’t we?”

Ben gave him a small smile. “I hope so.”

Packed as it was, the entire courtroom fell silent as Erin Faulkner hobbled to the witness stand. Ben knew her left leg had been so severely damaged in the assault that for months she had not been able to walk at all, and even now could only do so with supreme effort. Her struggle to cross the courtroom underscored the inherent drama that her presence, and her testimony, would lend the proceedings.

Slowly, painfully, she led the jury through her first-person account of the night of horror. She told them how she and her mother and siblings had returned home to find a brute in a ski mask torturing her father. How he had held them all at gunpoint, had beaten and abused and cut them, one after the other. How she had watched helplessly as her family was brutalized. And finally, how he had broken her leg and knocked her out.

The account of her time locked in the basement was perhaps even more riveting. The story of a fifteen-year-old girl, naked, disoriented, suffering from a broken leg, nonetheless mustering the presence of mind and the courage to break her own thumb in order to escape was a resounding testament to the indomitability of the human spirit. Ben knew she was making a profound impression on the jury.

At last she reached the end of the tale, how she fought her way out of the cellar and up the stairs only to be greeted by a bloody tableau worse than anything Edgar Allan Poe ever dreamed about: her entire family dead, butchered-with their eyes cut out of their skulls.

“After the police arrived,” she said, in a quiet but steady voice, “they called the ambulance. I passed out soon after that and didn’t wake up until three days later in the hospital.”

“I see.” With a solemn expression, DA Bullock closed his trial notebook. “Miss Faulkner, I know this will be painful for you, but I am required by the court to ask. Do you have any knowledge regarding the identity of the man who invaded your home? Who killed your parents and your six siblings?”

“I do. I know who it was.”

Bullock paused. Ben felt his pulse quicken. “And what is the basis for your identification?”

“I was there. I saw him.”

“Wasn’t he wearing a mask?”

“He was. But I could still see his eyes, his lips. I have a very good memory.”

“And is that the basis for your identification of the killer?”

“Not entirely, no. The main basis I have is… his voice.”

Ben sat up straight. He hadn’t heard anything about this before.

“You heard his voice?” Bullock asked.

“Of course. Repeatedly. At length. It’s a very distinctive voice.”

“And you remember it?”

“How could I forget?” Erin leaned forward, gripping the rail. “This is the man who slapped me across the face and said-I apologize for the language, but this is what he said-‘I’ll get to you later, you little cunt.’ This is the man who hit me, groped me, all the while calling me names and making disgusting remarks. ‘I’ve got something that’ll cool you off but good, you li’l bitch.’ That’s what he said. ‘I’ll hurt you till you scream for me to stop. But I won’t stop.’ That’s what he said when he pressed his knife against my throat. When he broke my kneecap.” She lowered her head. “You don’t forget something like that.”

Ben swore silently. He’d been planning to cross on her identification of a man who was wearing a ski mask the whole time she saw him. But this voice angle complicated matters-because it made her ID seem so much more credible.

“When did you have an opportunity to make a formal identification?” Bullock asked her.

“About a week after the incident. The police prepared a lineup. There were six different men. They had them all step forward and say the same thing-about how he was going to cool me off.”

“And were you able to make an identification?”

“I was. Almost immediately.” She folded her hands and sat up straight. For a young woman who had been through as much as she had, she was remarkably composed. “I thought it was him as soon as I saw him. But after I heard the voice, I was absolutely certain.” She raised her hand and pointed. “The man who killed my family is sitting right over there, at the defense table. Raymond Goldman.”

The stir in the courtroom was audible. Judge Kearns rapped his gavel several times to quiet the gallery.

“Are you certain about this?”

“Absolutely. Without a doubt.” She turned and looked directly at the jury. “Please listen to me. I know what I saw. And heard. I remember what happened. Much as I’d like to forget it, I will never be able to.” She paused. “Raymond Goldman was the killer. There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever.”

Ben rose slowly. “Your honor… I think she’s answered the question.”

Erin continued unabated. “I’ve lost my home, my family,” she said, and all at once her voice began to crack. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ve lost everything I ever had. All I have left is my faith. My faith that you will do the right thing. That you will not let my family die unavenged.”

“I object,” Ben said, loud and forcefully. “This is grossly improper.”

“Sustained,” Kearns ruled. He pounded his gavel. “The witness will be silent and wait for a question.”

Erin ignored him. She rose to her feet, wiping the tears from her face. “Please. Please!” She reached out toward the jury, pleading with them, begging them.

“Bailiff!” Judge Kearns gestured toward the witness stand. “Mr. Bullock, take control of your witness!” He slammed his gavel. “The jury will disregard the last remarks from the witness. And we will take a fifteen-minute break. At the end of that time, I expect the witness to be prepared to follow the instructions of the court.”

Kearns was doing his best to sound harsh, but Ben knew his heart wasn’t in it. How could anyone help but empathize with a girl who had lost every member of her family? As he looked at the jurors, as he stared into their eyes, he knew that they had been as moved-and influenced-by her testimony as he had been. As everyone had been.

Beside him, Ray sat silently, not saying anything, not asking the obvious question. And Ben was grateful for that. Because he still didn’t like to make predictions. But whether he did or he didn’t, he knew with absolute certainty that the trial had just taken a dramatic-and irrevocable-turn. And not for the better.