Bloodsworth (15 page)

Appreciating what a critically important role the eyewitness identification testimony would play, Scheinin lobbied the public defender's office to approve his hiring a psychologist, an expert in the field of memory, perception, and recollection. The request was approved. Scheinin sought out and hired Robert Buckout from the Brooklyn College of New York. Buckout was the director of the Center for Responsive Psychology at Brooklyn College and had
coauthored books on witness psychology. He had also written frequently on the subject of eyewitness identification, suggestivity, and the potential fallacies inherent in lineup, photo array, and in-court identifications. Buckout was sent police reports, copies of the photo spread, the lineup, the composite sketch, and a description of the two boys and their respective identifications. Buckout conducted an analysis and was prepared to offer his expert opinions concerning the unreliability of the eyewitness identifications.

Having learned of Scheinin's intention to use Buckout, the prosecutors filed a motion asking the court to exclude his testimony. His opinions were not part of mainstream science, the prosecutors argued, and they would unfairly invade the province of the jury. Judge William Hinkel, who would preside over the case, reserved ruling. He would decide the issue only at the time Buckout was about to be called as a witness. The lawyers were skirmishing, battling over what evidence the jury would be permitted to consider. Kirk Bloodworth, unaware of the nuances of lawyering, sat locked up in an eight-by-ten-foot cell, trying to keep from slipping on his urine-wet floor, mired in a Kafkaesque nightmare and praying for his life.

I
N THE MONTHS
leading up to the trial, Kirk learned to cope—as much as a man can— with life in the detention center. One of the supervising guards was named Flaherty. He had tattoos up one arm, and Kirk learned he was a former marine. Kirk said “Semper fi” to him one day, and from then on Flaherty cut Kirk some slack. They chatted sometimes about life in the marines. Flaherty even relocated some of the prisoners who were constantly threatening or harassing Kirk. He gave Kirk hall duty—running errands, delivering messages—that gave him a break from the sickening claustrophobia of his cell. Flaherty kept a close eye on him, though. He knew Kirk was a big target.

Curtis would come every week to visit and drop off money for commissary. And Kirk's mother came occasionally. Wanda and Birdie came a few times to visit but not often. Kirk's cousins and some friends from Cambridge came to bolster him, but Kirk was embarrassed. He hated for people to see him there.

Scheinin and Henninger had met with him almost weekly since their representation started. They came less often after the new year. Kirk had trouble reaching them on the phone. He had to trust them, he kept telling himself. They were all he had.

When he visited in February, Scheinin was concerned about the tennis shoe the police had found at Dawn Gerald's—overly concerned, Kirk thought. The shoe belonged to one of her half brothers. It wasn't even his. He told his lawyer this. Scheinin, relying on what Capel had told him, still thought the shoe was Kirk's. To Kirk, Scheinin seemed preoccupied with this shoe business.

At his last visit just before the trial started, Scheinin brought his female investigator with him. They went over the trial strategy. Scheinin planned an aggressive cross-examination of the state's ID witnesses. He hoped to drive home the lack of hard, scientific evidence. He planned to call the alibi witnesses, the character witnesses, and his identification expert, then finish with Kirk telling his story.

They went over the questions he intended to ask Kirk. He told Kirk not to look the witnesses or the jurors in the eye during the trial. Best to avoid eye contact, he suggested, at least until Kirk took the stand to testify. He didn't want any of them thinking Kirk was trying to intimidate them. He instructed Kirk to avoid getting emotional. Toward the end of the meeting, he began pressing Kirk to tell him more of the truth. “Are you telling me everything?” Scheinin said. “It's of vital importance that you've told me the whole story. That you haven't left anything out.”

Kirk took this the wrong way. He lost it, flipped out, started shouting at his lawyer, called him a fucking idiot. “All this damn time, and now the day before we're going to court, and here you're telling me you don't believe me?” He was mystified, upset, and becoming only more lost in this crazy maze that seemed to offer no way out.

T
HE POLICE INVESTIGATE
the crime, narrow the suspects, gather the evidence, and arrest the assailant. Typically, in a capital case their work and conclusions are reviewed by the prosecuting authority, in this case the Office of the State's Attorney for Baltimore County. The prosecutors then take over, interviewing witnesses, preparing the evidence for trial, planning the strategies necessary to win before a jury. Sandra A. O'Connor—not to be confused with Sandra Day O'Connor, the Supreme Court justice—was the state's attorney for Baltimore County. A Republican, O'Connor was first elected to the position in 1974. Prior to that, she'd worked as a prosecutor in Baltimore City for eight years. O'Connor's policy was to seek the death penalty in every first-degree homicide case that qualified under state law. She'd make an exception only when the victim's family opposed it or when the only evidence of guilt was the testimony of a codefendant. Prosecutors in other jurisdictions in Maryland took a different view. In neighboring Balitmore City, for instance, the lead prosecutor used more discretion. The death penalty there was rarely invoked. O'Connor preferred the consistency resulting from her approach. She removed any randomness from the decision process. No
one could accuse her of racially biased prosecutions where the death penalty was concerned. Every defendant meeting the criteria faced a death sentence. She was a tough prosecutor.

O'Connor had assigned one of her most capable trial assistants to convict Bloodsworth, Robert Lazzaro, and Lazzaro had handpicked his trial assistant, Ann Brobst. Lazzaro was impressive, a man with a presence in the courtroom. He had graduated first in his class in the evening division of Baltimore University Law School and had been hired by O'Connor, rising quickly in the ranks and earning the reputation of a superb trial lawyer. He'd already tried two death penalty cases and not only won them both but obtained death sentences in both. He was two for two.

He'd also had some experience with FBI profiles. Lazzaro had attended a seminar at the FBI training center at Quantico conducted by two experienced profilers, who taught by going over past cases in which skillful profiles had led to the solving of some horrendous crimes. Lazzaro had been very impressed. He'd become a believer in psychological profiles.

Tall, handsome, dark haired, and sporting a trim mustache, Lazzaro seemed to own the courtroom. His suits were dark, conservative, and impeccably tailored. His shirts were starched, his shoes shined. He was always dressed to the nines, in glaring contrast to Scheinin. Lazzaro's delivery was always articulate, self-assured, smooth as ice. He was likable, the classic icon of authority. The jury took to him immediately.

Brobst, the junior of the two, was a short, thin woman, blond, stern, and formal, with blue eyes that to Kirk were cast-iron cold. She wore stiff dress suits to court. She was all business. Throughout the trial and often during recess, she bore her eyes into Kirk with a ferocity that shook him. She'd stare at him with malice in her eyes, like he was some beast, like she wanted to burn a hole right through him, until he had to look away.

Sandra O'Connor had sent a strong team. She did not like to lose. Her office had no intention of losing this one.

The trial of the case was assigned to veteran Judge William Hinkel of the Baltimore County Circuit Court. Judge Hinkel was a tall and imposing man. Standing at six feet two inches and weighing two hundred pounds, in his dark robes he reminded Kirk of an imperious and frightening version of Ichabod Crane. His head was mostly bald, and he wore a well-trimmed Van Dyke beard. Hinkel was known as a trial machine. He moved things fast and rarely recessed. Only reluctantly would he take a bathroom break. It quickly became evident that he was tough as an old farmer. Kirk had heard he was hard on criminal defendants, and Hinkel did nothing to dispel this notion. The way Kirk saw it, he ruled consistently for the state. Often during the trial, he'd put his hands behind his head and turn his chair away from the proceedings toward the wall, as though he'd already heard enough, as though he'd already made up his mind.

On February 25, 1985, Kirk was brought from the county detention center to the county courthouse to begin a trial that might lead to his execution. He was scared and felt totally outgunned. He tried to think of God, of his mother and her faith. He was caught in a strong tide, he knew, and could only pray that the truth would be seen, that the jurors would discern who he really was, that the system would work for him.

Baltimore County's courthouse is an imposing rectangular structure built from blocks of gray granite. Out front, a large circular fountain shoots up a constant spray of water. Speckled cobblestones surround the fountain. To the side of the building, a large stone memorial honors members of the Baltimore County Police Department killed in action. Shackled with handcuffs, leg irons, and a waist chain, Kirk was brought in through a private entrance on the side opposite the memorial, prodded along by the sheriffs
who guarded him. Once inside, he was led through a tunnel to a bull pen in the back of the sheriff's department. There he changed into a set of street clothes his father had brought for him. When Judge Hinkel was ready for him, he was escorted upstairs to the holding cell behind Hinkel's courtroom.

Each time Kirk was brought into that courtroom over the next two weeks, he felt disoriented. He felt he was coming in through the wrong door. The courtroom, like the building around it, was rectangular. The walls were wooden, with rows of wooden benches for spectators. They were filled every day. On the floor, a cranberry-colored carpet ran the length of the room back to a set of double oak doors. The jury box was off to the side of the witness chair. The judge's bench was polished teak and elevated above everything else. Behind the judge's bench, hanging on the wall in large display, was the circular Great Seal of Maryland.

On February 25, the first day of trial, Judge Hinkel disposed of most of the pretrial motions. There was no jury. The lawyers kept arguing. Kirk had no idea what was happening. Hinkel finally adjourned, having scheduled voir dire—jury selection— to begin on March 1. Kirk was led back into the holding cell. He felt left out, in the dark, bewildered by most of what was happening.

I
N
M
ARYLAND, WHEN
the state is seeking the death penalty, it is entitled to what is known as a death-qualified jury. During the jury selection process, in addition to being asked the standard questions—whether they know about the crime, know any of the participants, have worked as police officers, have ever been arrested—prospective jurors are asked whether any hold strong opinions about the death penalty. Jurors who respond that they don't believe in the death penalty or would not impose it are stricken. Only those willing to impose the death penalty, if justified by the facts, are left on the prospective panel.

Defense lawyers have contended that those who are opposed to the death penalty are also those who are most likely to have an open mind, to accept the presumption of innocence, to give a criminal defendant a fair shake, to actually apply the reasonable doubt standard. Removing such people from a prospective panel unfairly favors a hangman's jury, they've argued. The courts have disagreed.

Regarding jury selection, Scheinin had filed a motion asking for individual voir dire of each juror on all questions. He also had filed a motion asking for additional peremptory challenges or strikes. Under the law, he had no absolute right to either. Judge Hinkel had the discretion to grant these requests, but he denied both motions. Many of the prospective panel members had heard about the crime, but it took Judge Hinkel little time to cull out those who'd already formed opinions. Once that was done, Hinkel was quick to select a death-qualified jury of eight women and four men. He went through the entire voir dire and picked a jury before the luncheon recess. Opening statements were scheduled to begin that afternoon.

Curtis had visited his son the night before. He promised Kirk that he would be there every day. He was in a panic mode now for his boy. He believed in his innocence, he told him. He wouldn't give up on him. Not ever. Father and son sat, separated by the Plexiglass screen, unable to touch, and wept together.

Following the lunch recess, when he was led into the courtroom, Kirk couldn't believe the crowd. There was standing room only. Sheriffs, reporters, sketch artists, the family and friends of the victim, and people from Fontana Village had all packed their way in. Kirk craned his neck to find his parents and saw them in the back. Jeanette seemed small and frail. She waved meekly and Curtis nodded. Kirk saw two of his cousins. There weren't any other friendly faces.

After some brief remarks to the jury, Judge Hinkel called for opening statements. Bob Lazzaro slowly rose and then paused. He
knew how to create a dramatic effect. He first thanked the jurors for their service and then he began. His opening told a story: the story of what happened at Fontana Village on July 25. He spoke of Dawn Hamilton, who she was, how she'd gone missing, and the frantic efforts of Elinor Helmick to find her. He described how Chris Shipley and Jackie Poling had been fishing and caught a turtle, and how they'd waved over a stranger to proudly show him what they'd caught. Lazzaro described how the two boys had spoken to the stranger at length and seen him clearly before he took Dawn into the woods. He somberly told of the police search and of their gruesome discovery: the death and mutilation of this little girl. Lazzaro went through the identification procedures and stressed how certain these boys were that Bloodsworth was the man they'd seen. He mentioned the state's other identification witnesses. He hinted at Bloodsworth's bizarre behavior following July 25, how he'd feigned an illness and abruptly fled the area. He softly recounted the incriminating statements Bloodsworth made in Cambridge. Lazzaro deftly handled the circumstantial nature of the evidence. Trial evidence was like a puzzle, he said. The jury would have to put the pieces together. The picture, once complete, would convincingly show that Kirk Bloodsworth was Dawn Hamilton's killer.