At one thirty, Dallas arrived back at the criminal courts building for Jeff Waite’s argument to suppress evidence. There was a massive press presence outside, with news vans and camera lights and scurrying talking heads holding microphones.
Dallas got in, feeling sick. But she refused to let it show. She walked inside without a word to the screaming press or to anyone else and found refuge in the elevator.
Jeff Waite was already in the courtroom, sitting at the counsel table, going over notes. The friendly bailiff showed her to her reserved seat. As he did he wagged a finger at some reporters. The warning was clear.
Keep away from her unless she talks to you first.
Seated, Dallas took a moment to pray. She found herself praying for wisdom, which surprised her. Why wasn’t she praying for Ron’s outright release?
Ron was led in by a deputy. He looked pale. And thinner. He gave Dallas a cursory glance before sitting down next to
Jeff.
At one thirty-five, Judge Bartells entered the courtroom and
called the case.
“Mr. Waite, you may address the court on your motion to
suppress.”
Jeff stood up and went to the lawyer’s podium. Without notes.
“It’s really quite simple, Your Honor. Deputy Barnes testified that
he arrived at the Star Motel without probable cause to search. All
he had was a 911 dispatch.”
“Which certainly gives a reasonable suspicion to investigate.” “Investigate, yes. Break into a motel room, no.”
“But it was the motel manager who let him in.”
“That is irrelevant, Your Honor. It’s true that Mr. Franze is a
private citizen, and normally a citizen does not trigger the Fourth
Amendment. But it does trigger when the citizen is working at the
behest of law enforcement. It was at the request of Deputy Barnes
that Mr. Franze unlocked the motel room door. As you know, Your
Honor, a motel room is as protected as any residence, which means
the police must have a search warrant before they can enter. And
Deputy Barnes did not have a search warrant.”
“What about exigent circumstances? Didn’t Deputy Barnes have
reason to believe a victim of a crime might be inside room 105?” “To qualify under the exigency exception, there must be a factual basis for that belief. Which brings us back to the uncorroborated tip of an anonymous informer.”
“That would be Mr. Knudsen,” Judge Bartells said. “Not
anonymous.”
“For the purposes of this preliminary hearing, Judge, he is. He
was not called. We don’t even know if he exists. All we have is Mr.
Franze’s testimony about him. And Mr. Franze’s recollection about
a hearsay statement from this Mr. Knudsen that there was trouble
in room 105. Even that is not enough to establish a factual basis.
All we have is a hearsay report that there was some screaming going
on in room 105. But that screaming may have been in the nature
of a loud argument, or it may have been in the nature of screaming
in ecstasy.”
“Ecstasy?”
“We don’t know. All we have is an opinion that was phoned in.
No case has ever allowed that to be the basis of a warrantless entry,
Your Honor.”
“What about the DNA evidence?” the judge asked. “That would
have been discovered during the autopsy, no matter when the body
was found, or by whom.”
“But my client would not have been in custody as a suspect. The
connection was only made because of the illegal entry and the subsequent evidence that was gathered as a result. This, Your Honor, is
the fruit of the poisonous tree. It must be suppressed.” The judge paused, thinking about it, and Dallas felt a tenuous
reed of hope spring up in her. Could it really be possible? Suppress
the evidence? She’d seen Court TV a few times. Didn’t suppressing evidence mean the case was tossed out? Over? That Ron would
walk out of the courtroom a free man?
She looked at the prosecutor again and saw him sit up straight
in his chair. Jeff’s sword had drawn blood.
“Mr. Freton,” the judge said, “do you have a response?” Freton stood and buttoned his coat, as if formally rising to lead
a flag salute at a chamber of commerce luncheon.
“I must say I admire Mr. Waite’s creativity. But I must also
remind the court of the notice requirements. Our office received
no notice of these grounds.”
“And I would remind my colleague,” Jeff said, “that it was evidence adduced on the stand, from his own witness, that gives rise to
these grounds. Where there is a warrantless entry, it is the burden
of the prosecution to prove an exception.”
The judge put up his hand, then lowered it slowly like a sage. “I
believe Mr. Waite has the right to make his motion. What have you
got to say on the merits?”
That seemed to throw Freton a curve. He bent down to confer
with his colleague, a woman in a dark burgundy suit. She was the
one doing most of the talking. She flipped through a book on the
table and pointed to something.
The prosecutor addressed the judge. “Your Honor, there is the
question of standing. It was not the defendant’s motel room. The defendant was not present when the search occurred. The Fourth Amendment is personal, Your Honor, and the moving party must have a proprietary interest in the place searched. The defendant
does not have this. No standing, no motion.”
Dallas was not following all the words. It was a legal fight. But
Jefferson Waite did not look fazed.
Jeff said, “Your Honor, it is the prosecution’s theory that my
client was having an affair with the victim. If that is so, he was in
that motel room as an invited guest. The Supreme Court, in
Olson
,
held that an invited guest has standing to challenge the search of a
premises.”
Now there was a long pause from the judge. He was thinking
about it. Dallas felt her heartbeat quicken.
She also felt something strange and disturbing. It was about
Ron. His betrayal was heavy upon her. She wanted to ask the judge
to stop the proceedings before he granted the motion. Stop so she
could go over to Ron while he was still in custody and make sure
he was feeling the torment and consequences of his actions. Look
in his eyes, maybe, and see if they still held love for her, any at all.
Because if they didn’t . . . what would she do?
The judge said, “I have considered your points and authorities,
Mr. Waite. Your motion asserts that the defendant has standing
because of his status as an invited guest, based on an assertion that
he was having an affair with the victim. But the People have not
made that essential to their case. I don’t know of any case that
holds the defense can base a motion on a theory yet to be made by
the prosecution. In view of that, the court denies the motion to
suppress.”
Even though Jeff had prepared her for this, Dallas still felt the
defeat personally, almost as if she herself were on trial. Maybe she
was. Certainly in the court of public opinion her every move was
being monitored.
“I further find that the People have presented sufficient evidence to bind the defendant, Ronald Hamilton, over for trial. Shall
we set a trial date, gentlemen?”
Got them to get me a Bible. At first my guy, my keeper, my chief jailer — Deputy Dawg, I call him; his name is Daugherty — said I couldn’t have one. I reminded him of my rights under the US Constitution and that this was a very public case and it would not be good press if this ever got out.
King James. Hadn’t cracked one of those in years.
I opened to the passage I wanted to read. Revelation 3. I scanned
down until I found the key word,
Laodiceans
, and read:
And unto the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write; These things saith the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the beginning of the creation of God; I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot; I would thou wert cold or hot.
So, then, because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth.
Because thou sayest, I am rich, and increased with goods, and have need of nothing, and knowest not that thou art wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked,
I counsel thee to buy of me gold tried in the fire, that thou mayest be rich; and white raiment, that thou mayest be clothed, and that the shame of thy nakedness do not appear; and anoint thine eyes with eyesalve, that thou mayest see.
As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten; be zealous, therefore, and repent.
Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.
I tried to remember what my prof said about this passage in Bible college. Revelation was always a mystery to me, and I never got heavy into prophecy and end-times stuff. All I remembered was that lukewarm was something not to be. Being spewed out of Christ’s mouth was not a good prospect.
I have grown lukewarm over the years of my success.
Was it even success at all?
I had a church of eight thousand. In the eyes of my peers and the
I.
The word that crept into the center of my unspoken vocabulary. How did it happen? How did I drift away?
Questions. More questions.
Who was my interrogator, the toilet-paper prophet?
Once again he had graciously come to the house to talk to her. It was the day after the decision to send Ron to trial, so there was a fresh media encampment out on the street. That was another reason she was grateful for Jeff’s presence. Someone to run interference.
“It’s going to be Ron’s call,” Jeff said, “but we’re family here. I want you to know everything, because you may need to help Ron make the decision.”
“What decision?”
“Whether to plead guilty.”
“But he’s not.” Dallas searched his eyes. “Is he?”
“I can only tell you what the evidence is. You heard it. You know
what we’re up against. They’ve got Ron caught in a lie, and they’ve got the forensic evidence to prove he had sexual relations with the victim. It’s what the prosecutors call a slam dunk.”
“He didn’t kill her. I know he didn’t.”
“All that matters is what the jury will be allowed to hear, Dallas. No one will care what we think about Ron. If I had something, anything I could put on in Ron’s favor, I would. Stegman, my investigator, tracked down this guy Knudsen and interviewed him. He’s not going to be of any help. He didn’t see anything, only heard some voices he can’t identify.”
“So we’re just throwing in the towel?”
Jeff shook his head. “If you and Ron want to go to trial, I will do everything in my power to create a reasonable doubt about every aspect of the prosecutor’s case. That’s my job. But it’s also my professional obligation to inform you of what we’re up against and what the options are.”
“Are there any good options?”
“If Ron pleads to second-degree murder, he’ll be looking at fifteen to life, but with the possibility of parole. To be quite frank, this victim does not appear likely to have anyone who will appear at a parole hearing to argue against Ron’s release.”
“That we know of.”
“This isn’t one of those cases where a nice girl from some wellto-do home in a nice neighborhood gets brutally murdered and someone from the family shows up every time there’s a hearing.”
“That sounds harsh.”
“I’m just giving you the reality. You need that. Now, if Ron elects to go to trial and is convicted, he’s going to get the max. He’ll die in prison.”
She tried to let that picture pass over her, but it stayed. “How long do we have to make a decision?” she asked.
“All the way up to trial. Stegman and I will keep looking around for something, but this case seems pretty straightforward.”
“Except for the fact that Ron didn’t do it.” Her voice was louder than she’d expected.
Jeff folded his hands together as if trying to be patient. “If we could find some exculpatory evidence, pointing toward innocence, we’d have something to hang a trial on.”
“Then we have to find it,” Dallas said. “Oh, one other thing. Jared was picked up for drunk driving.”
Jeff nodded, almost as if he’d expected the news. “Did you get an appearance date?”
“Next month.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Jeff, I can’t ask — ”
“I’ll handle it, Dallas. Let’s wait and see what the arrest report says. Meanwhile, is there anything else I can do for you?”
She folded her arms. “Reverse time?”
“Hey, there are some things even lawyers can’t do.”
Dallas tried to smile.
“One more thing,” Jeff said. “Ron doesn’t want bail.”
“What?”
“I tried to talk him into it, but he said he absolutely doesn’t want me to move for bail. That means I can’t.”
“Did he say why?”
Jeff shook his head. “I have a feeling he wants to punish himself. If you can talk him into reconsidering, I’ve got a bail motion all ready.”
But Dallas wondered if she wanted to talk him out of it after all. Maybe some jail time was just what Ron needed to get his life straight.
Sunday morning Dallas shook Jared awake at seven-thirty. “We’re going to church,” she said.
He grumbled something vaguely negative.
“Rise and shine. Cara’s meeting us.”
“Mom, I said — ”
“I know what you said.” She drew the covers halfway off him. He
was facedown. She saw the vile tattoo. “We are going to the house of the Lord together, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.” He turned his face toward her. “I’m not seven, Mom.”
“Listen to me, Jared. I don’t care how old you are or how old I am, or what’s happened to you in the past. All I know is that we need to go worship God and that’s what we’re going to do, and I have access to ice water and I will use it. Don’t think I won’t, because I’m not completely rational at the moment, if you get my drift.”
An hour later, Dallas and Jared were on their way to Hillside.
This was her first Sunday back since Ron’s arrest.
It felt a little like coming home, and a little like stepping into the spotlight on a bare stage. There were plenty of well-wishers and hugs, and double the number of curious, probing eyes.
She didn’t blame Jared for standing off to the side, leafing through the visitor pamphlets with his head down. At least Cara joined him there, looking protective.
When the worship band started in, they made it to a row in the back. A few more hellos and hugs and even a hand or two for Jared.
Who did not sing any of the worship songs.
At least he’s here. At least he came. Witness to his spirit, Lord.
The order of worship was the same as always, with a beautiful solo by Priscilla Potts, who was a member of Hillside and a recording artist.