Love Her To Death (35 page)

A hired gun, some might call NMS. Yet NMS’s reputation is stellar. The work the lab does is some of the most high-tech DNA testing available. Its record is untarnished. You want clean results—either positive or negative (NMS has no stake in the results)—without any
muddiness and suspicion of tainting or unreliability, you call on NMS.

“They can do some serious testing,” Neff explained, “like linking DNA to a family line.”

He’s talking about a Y chromosome test. Whereas most DNA tests might come in at, say, 1 in 250 million, 1 in 1 billion, NMS can say,
No, it
had
to come from this family line of donors.
They can exclude everyone else in the world from a sample, but the donor.

“Fresh scratches on Mike’s face, his DNA under Jan’s nails,” Neff said. “Come on, all these little pieces were beginning to line up.”

Jan and Michael wrestled. Jan scratched him, perhaps knowing that DNA underneath her nails would convict the guy, had she died.

There was no doubt about it in Neff’s mind: Jan had fought for her life, scratching her husband in the face with that hand of hers that had only three fingernails and a thumbnail.

What’s more, there was no question about the source of the DNA, which meant that Angie Funk could be completely excluded as a donor.

62

It was near two-thirty in the morning on March 27, 2009.

“… I think it’s time,” Angie Funk said over the phone.

Angie’s friend was half asleep when she picked up. It was so early in the morning. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Angie said sarcastically, “this is a test run!”

Angie’s friend arrived at the house moments later, packed Angie up, and drove her to the hospital.

For support, seeing that Randall Funk obviously wanted no part of this special moment, Angie’s mother met her at the hospital. Throughout the early morning, the labor progressed “a little bit.” But by one-thirty that afternoon, after “being on Pitocin for maybe ten minutes,” Angie said later, “I pushed for three minutes, and it was over.”

There he was, a healthy boy, whom Angie promptly named Matthew Francis Alan Rudy. “It didn’t take him long,” she said later. “… It was a nice time. It really was. I was glad that my mom got to see a grandchild born. She’s never seen that…. It was a very easy labor.”

The name Francis was given to Matthew in honor of Francis Tobias, Roseboro’s “best friend”; Alan after Michael Roseboro’s middle name; Rudy is Angie’s
maiden name; and Matthew (“a gift from God”) was chosen from the Bible.

Not long after the baby was born—two hours, to be exact—a few cc’s of blood were drawn from him in front of Detective Larry Martin so they could complete the paternity test full circle. In response to this, to Martin’s surprise, Angie was “pleasant,” courteous, and more than willing to help any way she could.

As Angie recuperated from her delivery, bonding with her newborn, the dad was in Lancaster County Prison awaiting word on when his trial was going to commence. Michael was becoming antsy and impatient. He wanted out of jail. He had been locked up now for almost eight months and would have to settle for photographs of a child he could not hold, smell, touch, or play with. Word from Allan Sodomsky of what the boy looked like would have to suffice for the moment. Roseboro had called Angie repeatedly from prison. She had picked up the phone once. He heard her answer: “Hello? Hello?” She could not hear him and hung up. At the time, unless you had an account set up with the prison calling system, and had reserve funds in that account, you could not accept calls from an inmate. But then a few weeks after the baby was born, the prison changed its policy. So Roseboro, providing he had money in his commissary account to cover the call, could call anyone on his list.

At some point after the baby was born, the LCDA’s Office received a “tip” from someone that Angie and Michael were communicating via their attorneys. Craig Stedman phoned Angie’s attorney and asked her about it.

“Letters …,” she admitted. Wasn’t many. Just one time.

Apparently, according to a stipulation (Roseboro later signed) that outlined the breach of policy, a
member or members
of Allan Sodomsky’s law firm had
surreptitiously passed letters between Angela Funk and Michael Roseboro during legal visits
with Roseboro at the Lancaster County Prison. Someone from Sodomsky’s office had taken a letter (or letters) from Michael written to Angie and handed them off to her attorney, who subsequently called Angie and read the letters to her over the phone.

Like so many things that happened between Angie and Michael, Angie had a hard time recalling the content of the letters, when asked about them later. She couldn’t even remember if there were “two or three,” she said in court. The substance, she added, “mostly was, he didn’t do it, and it was basically about my son. That was basically it.”

“He didn’t do it.”

Michael Roseboro had wanted to clarify his innocence with Angie.

Angie sent a response back to Michael through her attorney. A note, she called it, along with a photograph of their son, Matthew.

Please don’t call me anymore
was all that was in the brief missive, she claimed.
I don’t think it’s a good idea.

It wouldn’t look good, the two of them communicating. When asked why she thought this, Angie failed to come up with a reason beyond, “I mean, it could hurt me. It could hurt him. It could hurt everybody. I just didn’t think it was a good idea…. I mean, I am assuming he was told he wasn’t supposed to call me, so I just didn’t think it was a good idea. I don’t know. I cannot really give you a good reason. I just didn’t think it was a good idea.”

This sort of note passing between inmates and their lovers happens all too often—and granted, both parties think no harm can come in exchanging a few letters that they know will remain private. But prison policy specifies that prison officials have a right to intercede—and read Michael Roseboro’s mail, as they did any other inmate’s—looking for threats, escape plans, and additional criminal activity.

“Obviously,” Craig Stedman said later, “the main concern for us was that Angie was being told what to say (and perhaps not to say) by the defendant.”

Michael Roseboro was a manipulator. There was a homicide trial forthcoming. The things Michael told potential witnesses could be important to the prosecution and have an impact on its case. Passing letters was not only in violation of prison policy (which runs on an honor code between the warden and defense attorneys coming in to speak with clients), but could be detrimental to the outcome of the trial.

Which was maybe exactly what Michael Roseboro had intended.

63

It was April 14, 2009, just about two-thirty in the afternoon, not a month after Angie Funk had given birth to Matthew. Falling back into his obsessive nature, Michael Roseboro had made forty-five “attempts” to call Angie since he’d been incarcerated. Each had been met with a dial tone.

Today, however, Michael had solved his communications problems.

“Hey!” Roseboro said. He sounded excited.
‡

“Hey!” Angie answered, laughing nervously. The call had taken her, Angie said later, “totally off … guard.”

“Oh, my God, it’s good to hear your voice,” Roseboro said. There were noises (yelling) echoing in the background. Some shuffling around. Roseboro was calling Angie from prison, but it sounded like a gymnasium.

“It’s good to hear yours, too,” she said. Angie had an anxious giddiness in her tone. There was a subtle sarcasm in her voice that seemed to say it was her duty to accept the call, not that her heart was into it.

“Ah, how you doin,’ baby?” Roseboro said next.

“I’m doing good. How ‘bout you?”

“I’ve been a lot better. But it’s a lot better now.”

“Good. Good.”

“How’s everything goin’?”

“It’s goin’ all right. It’s tough, but it’s goin’ okay.” Seemed like Angie didn’t know what to say. They knew the conversation was being recorded.

“How’s Matthew doin’?”

“He’s doin’ wonderful. He’s a great baby.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t name him ‘Zebulon,’” Roseboro said, then let out a breathy laugh.

That comment sparked an animated giggle from Angie. “Really?”

“I’m serious!”

Laughing loudly now, she answered, “No….”

Zebulon was a name they had clearly talked or joked about at some point.

“Aw, come on,” Roseboro said, “he was one of the strongest tribes of Israel.”

“Yeah … but, you know …”

“I’m teasin’ with you,” Roseboro admitted, talking over Angie’s laughter. “I like the name, but ‘Matthew’ is much better.”

Avoiding what mattered in the arena of their relationship seemed to dominate the first minute of the conversation. Listening to this banter and laughter between them, you’d never know one was facing a murder rap, and the other had just given birth to his love child and was about to become the center of a scandalous, high-profile homicide trial. They had this bond between them now that would be there forever. There was no way for Angie of breaking completely away. She was tied to this man now by the hip, which was—some sources claimed—what she had wanted from day one.

After they discussed the child’s name, Roseboro said, “I wish I could have been there.”

“My mom was there,” Angie said. She sounded comforted by the thought.

“Was she?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s your family doing with everything?” Roseboro asked, finally getting into the context of the storm swirling around them.

“Um …,” Angie said slowly, thinking about her answer, “they’re handling it. Um, um, it’s not necessarily all with what happened. It’s—it’s what people are saying about me and stuff. So—”

“I know,” Roseboro chimed in, cutting her off.

“Yeah, so. I hope to
God
you don’t believe a lot of that stuff that’s said.”

“I feel the same way.”

“There are some really awful people out there.”

“I know … and I know what Allan’s been telling me what Stedman’s been feeding you,” Roseboro said. “And it’s just, I don’t—I don’t believe anything I have heard, so it’s just …” Roseboro stopped himself, took a deep breath.

This comment was puzzling to the LCDA’s Office when they later sat and listened to the recording. At the time of the call, the ECTPD and Stedman’s office had no substantive contact with Angie, and hadn’t for months. In fact, they had limited contact with Angie after the preliminary hearing; and all of those meetings took place with Angie’s attorney present. Why was Roseboro suggesting that they were “feeding” Angie anything, when they weren’t even talking to her?

Angie made no comment on the subject, but picked up the dialogue along the same lines, saying, “Well, you know, it’s people who’s claiming that … well, it’s people that’s—quote, unquote—
family,
that I really don’t even know that somehow just turned really ugly.”

“I know.”

Angie was perhaps referring to two locally run Internet
sites that had been publishing some not so nice things about her, on top of a few rumors and speculative pieces of information, supplied by, Angie insinuated, a family member or two. Beyond the sometimes disparaging content on the sites (in fact, some of the reporting turned out later to be accurate), it was the comments that browsers were leaving, calling Angie any number of insulting and gross indignities. Readers could leave any type of comments they chose, sometimes defaming Angie’s character and reputation without explanation or proof. It exposed one of the problems of the Internet: there’s no buffer zone, no editor, no legal read (vetting), before things are slapped up on a site for the world to read. Angie had her lawyer send a letter to one of the sites and an e-mail to the other—and the letter and e-mail, of course, were promptly published in their entirety online. Part of the letter said that the site had
been spreading untrue and malicious information both verbally and over the Internet about
Angie. And if the “activity” wasn’t immediately stopped,
legal action may be taken against you.

It continued, however.

“Well, I gave them a good reason to hate me, though,” Angie said to Roseboro, talking about that “family member” who had turned on her and the malicious things being spread via the Internet, “because I had my attorney … telling them to shut up.”

Roseboro changed the subject and asked Angie about her girls.

“The girls absolutely love him,” she said of baby Matthew.

“Good.”

She said she had given her lawyer some photographs for Roseboro to see, adding that the child was a “spitting image” of his father.

They chitchatted some more about how good it was to hear each other’s voices; and how Roseboro was able to call her now without any complications from the
phone company or prison, finishing one statement with a question, “Is it a problem if I call you?”

“No,” Angie said, “but you know it’s recorded, and I don’t want anybody to—”

“Oh, no….”

“You know?”

“No. I understand.”

“But I don’t want them to,” Angie said, and it sounded as though she meant it, “you know, have anything.”

“Oh, no….”

Roseboro talked again about how he wished he could have been there for the birth. To which, Angie started to say, “I wish you could have, too….”

Then Roseboro said, “I just don’t want you to give up on us.” Over the loudspeaker in the background, a guard gave instructions or called out to someone. It was loud and overpowering.

“Don’t be what?” Angie asked, maybe startled by this statement, confused by it, or unable to hear it.

“I don’t want you to give up on us.”

“Oh! I haven’t.” It came out sounding nonplussed.

“Because I won’t.” It seemed that Roseboro’s voice had changed. He sounded serious.

“Good …,” Angie said.

“Because I totally plan on being out of here in August.”

To this, Angie laughed at first; then, “Let’s hope so.”

August was about the time his trial would be over. It was slated to begin in July.