Reviving Ghosts of Christmas Past

by Vanessa Leggett

South Pittsburg, Tenn.—After dark, the hush of Christmas night had fallen over Main Street. Most of the 2,400 citizens were gathered in the warmth of their homes, surrounded by family and the tranquility of the season, not knowing that armed men were squaring off downtown.

At 9:00, shotgun blasts shattered the silent night. Within minutes, several men lay lifeless or bleeding to death on the street. Police never responded. They couldn't. The principal members of city and county law enforcement were dead or wounded that Christmas Day in 1927—shot by each other.

The Christmas Day Massacre story made the New York Times, which headlined a "Street Battle of City and County Police," declaring that "virtually all local law enforcement officers [there were] dead or disabled."

Six of community's finest were killed: the Chief of Police; the Sheriff; a deputy; the City Marshal; the Night Marshal (a former Sheriff); and a special policeman. Several others were injured. According to the Times, none of their service revolvers had been discharged. Each had carried a shotgun.

When I ran across this story, two questions stood out in my mind. The obvious question was: How could this have happened? How could those who are expected to keep the peace and to protect the public violate their sworn duties in such an unthinkable way and on what should be the most peaceful day of the year? Christmas—on a Sunday, no less.

Members of law enforcement consider themselves part of a brotherhood. Yet here was mass fratricide on an incomprehensible scale. In fact, actual brothers in this Cumberland Mountain community had been at war with each other. The Times wrote that "brother was arrayed against brother in the fatal feud":

Thomas Connor, a deputy sheriff and brother of Police Chief [James] Connor, whose account furnished the only known coherent story of events leading to the shooting, said that city officers had drawn pistols on him in an encounter earlier in the evening and that the fight began when Sheriff Wash Coppinger and several deputies later sought to arrest members of the opposing group for displaying their weapons threateningly.

Why had the city officers menaced the county deputy with guns? The conflict was not born that night. This was not a Southern Christmas brawl that developed out of a lethal mix of Jack Daniels and testosterone. The tragic event was the culmination of an industrial strike that had been brewing tension in the town for a year. A local stove manufacturing plant that employed 75% of South Pittsburg's population was attempting to dissolve its unions.

As happens in disputes that polarize communities, law enforcement became involved. In this case, the two major agencies took opposing sides. The Marion County Sheriff and his men supported the union strikers, while the South Pittsburg City Marshals and his deputies backed the stove company and attempted to break up the strike. The County union sympathizers believed their efforts were being undermined by City lawmen. The Sheriff's men accused them of helping special policemen who had been assigned to guard locations.

News accounts reported that the officers involved in the shooting were accompanied by civilians—from both factions of the strike—bringing the total number in gun battle to around twenty.

After some cursory research, I was never able to fully answer that first question: How could peace officers have resorted to murder, the most violent crime of all? Which brings me to the second question, which is less obvious but, to me at least, more bothersome: Why wasn't there more information?

And what ever happened to law and order in South Pittsburg? The only resolution I could glean was that the National Guard had been summoned to restore order. And the slain Sheriff's son assumed the top lawman's post, but not without resistance. The City Administration was set on ousting the Sheriff's family from county authority. The City unsuccessfully supported one of the few surviving officers of the South Pittsburg Police Force. The Attorney General was supposed to investigate, but I could not find any follow-up to this announcement in the New York Times: "An investigation has been started by Attorney General Tom Stewart, who said today that a hearing probably would be called soon to fix responsibility for the fray."

Among the four New York Times pieces I located, one story acknowledged that details of the shooting were "meager." That was reported two days after the police massacre. Eighty-one years later, information is still scant. The South Pittsburg Historic Preservation Society has archived one local story. Usually local papers have the most in-depth information. But aside from a basic summary of events, all the South Pittsburg Hustler had to report 10 days following the shooting was that "no investigation has been made of the horrible tragedy."

A story appeared in the Nashville Banner and likely other papers as well, but none of the stories I read revealed any meaningful details. I could not find a single quote from a witness, and there were survivors and bystanders, according to the Times, which noted that "[s]pectators held back for fear the firing might be resumed." (The shootout took place next to a hotel, whose guests might have been roused by the gunfire.)

Any substantive fact-gathering efforts or accounts of the incident have been recent. Perhaps the most comprehensive account is a scholarly article in the Tennessee Historical Quarterly co-authored by two professors from Middle Tennessee State University in 2004. Researchers at MTSU have been trying to recreate events surrounding the shooting. According to a news story highlighting their work, they consider the Christmas Day Massacre "an important milestone in what happened to unions in the south." (See the video clip below for a documentary encapsulating their research.) In 2005, the South Pittsburg Historic Preservation Society sponsored a presentation on the "Infamous South Pittsburg Shootout," which was attended by the fallen Sheriff's granddaughter and other descendants of those who lost their lives in the gunfight. The co-authors of the scholarly article, professors who spoke at the event, are still looking for information, as is the Society.

Why was there so little contemporary reporting? I believe one factor might be the shroud of secrecy that surrounds investigations into members of law enforcement. There's a reason it's called Internal Affairs. But in a case of such historical import, I don't believe officers' affairs should be kept internal. The public deserves to know exactly what led to the fatal feud that claimed so many lives. The survivors should have that knowledge available.

I don't blame the police. The fault lies with the press. Even if a collective perhaps subconsciously selective amnesia gripped South Pittsburg in the days after the shootout, reporters should have stayed with the story, continued to dig, and to update the public.

Journalists and authors delve into the minds of killers, dissecting their psyches and revealing their personal histories. Why does there seem to be a reluctance to examine that backgrounds of killers who happen to carry badges? Especially, as in this case, those who murder their own?

These ghosts of Christmas past deserve to have their stories told. If you have information on the Christmas Day Massacre of 1927, please contact the South Pittsburg Historic Preservation Society at information@historicsouthpittsburgtn.org

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What Ever Happened to Jane?

by Vanessa Leggett

Last fall, I wrote about a writer friend of mine who'd found herself in a moral quandary. The subject of her first true-crime book was on trial for murder. Again. My friend's publisher wanted her to attend the second murder trial for an updated version of her book. That was all well and good—until my friend learned she would not be able to cover the proceedings. She had been named as a witness.

So that we're all on the same page, we'll revisit my first story, "Jane's Affliction," and then I'll fill you in on what happened with my friend:

Meet Jane

I have this friend. We'll call her Jane. She's a journalist and true-crime author. For reasons that will shortly become evident, Jane would prefer to remain anonymous. Actually, she'd rather be forgotten altogether, and by one person in particular: a prosecutor who recently tagged her.

See Jane Subpoenaed

I learned of Jane's predicament by e-mail. In my Inbox was a message with the subject line "Whoa! What does this mean?":

I just got my mail out of the box and found a big package from the [redacted] DA's Office. In it was the transcript of my interview with [the Defendant] and a note that said here are copies of your reports and transcripts of your involvement in the [redacted] case. . . . What does this mean? Is this a hint that I'm going to be called to testify?

It was more than a hint, she soon discovered, when the subpoena arrived. Prosecutors wanted Jane to testify in a capital murder trial in California.

During Jane's research ten years ago, she'd interviewed the man who would go on trial for his life a second time—not for the murder Jane wrote about, but for another killing. In the 2007 capital murder trial, the prosecution wanted Jane's testimony to show a consistent modus operandi in the separate slayings.

Problem was, this writer did not want to testify. The issue was not over a breach of journalism ethics; Jane never promised this particular source confidentiality. In fact, what she learned during her interview had already been published in Jane's book.

For Jane, the sticking point was that the prosecution stated its intent to seek the death penalty. Jane is against capital punishment.

See Jane on the Fence

Jane sought my advice because she remembered a subpoena I received in a murder case. I was practically in tears when I discussed my situation with her. So when Jane e-mailed me, she expected I would empathize. And I did, to a degree.

But my dilemma had been different from Jane's. My concern was with protecting my sources. Jane is bound to protect a core belief. And she is tormented by the thought of violating it:

The more I think about it the more uncomfortable I am. They're going for the death penalty. And I'm just not sure I can help put someone to death, even if he is a murderer. . . .

See Jane Suffer Subpoena Syndrome

Something about reading an official document that "commands" you to do something you consider fundamentally wrong messes with your mind. Reason tends to leave as abruptly as the subpoena arrives.

I suspected that Jane, a best-selling author with many years on me in the business, was suffering from something that afflicted me early in my writing career: subpoena syndrome.

I tried to break things down into terms she could live with. I reminded Jane that this type of proceeding, a capital case, contains two trials: In the first, called the "guilt/innocence phase," a defendant's culpability is determined, and if found guilty, the accused is convicted. In the second stage, known as the "punishment phase," a penalty is assessed.

Jane was told she would testify as part of the case in chief, not during the stage in which the death penalty is considered. This meant that Jane's testimony should have no bearing on whatever penalty was decided. Even if she were to testify during the punishment phase, the decision as to whether the man will live or die would not be left to Jane.

In my reply, I tried to ease Jane's conscience: "You need to put the death penalty out of your mind. Prosecutors may seek it, but it's up to the jury to choose death as a punishment."

The way I saw it, the decision would be out of her hands. But Jane could see nothing but blood on her hands if she testified.

See Jane Take a Stand(?)

Taking the stand at any stage of a trial where execution is an option, Jane reasoned, amounts to helping the prosecution put a man to death:

[I]n my heart, mind, in every limb of my body and soul, I think the death penalty is wrong, utterly wrong. So how can I grease the wheels to it? . . . Beyond my moral and ethical beliefs, I also disagree with their death penalty decision because it gives [the Defendant] what he wants. And it seems to me that to [him] the greater punishment, the more horrible punishment, would be life in prison since that's the very thing he did not want.

Jane never expressed doubt about the man's guilt. What she's uncertain of is her ability to testify, if doing so might result in the state taking a man's life. But if she refused, Jane could wind up in a jail cell for contempt of court.

See Jane ______________

So what did Jane do? . . . It's not a secret anymore, nor is the identity of my friend, Suzy Spencer. Today, her publisher re-released her first book, WASTED, and you can read all about the capital murder trial that Suzy was caught up in.

An Austin Chronicle reviewer called the book "everything a true crime book should be: lean, fierce, and unsparing." The story is riveting. From the back cover:

In 1995, Austin, Texas was rocked by the brutal murder of a lesbian princess named Regina Hartwell. Even though Regina's body was burned beyond recognition, within days police had two suspects. One was the beautiful ex-cheerleader who was the object of Regina's desire. The other was a man who would take the fall for murder. . . . In this new edition of her bestselling book "Wasted", true crime master Suzy Spencer chronicles a fatal love triangle—and lives driven out of control by sexual desire, drugs, and shocking childhood demons. Four years after Regina Hartwell's murder, a new charge was brought against one of her suspected killers. Now, Suzy Spencer adds a new chapter to "Wasted"—detailing a killer gone wild, a nerve wracking legal standoff, the shocking twists that would take place in a second, explosive trial. . . .

Long story short, Suzy did not dodge the trial. She flew to California, not in compliance with the prosecution's subpoena, but at the request of the defense. Her presence meant she would have been available for questioning by either side, though she might have refused to answer for the State. She did not end up testifying at all. Court was canceled that day—in part, Suzy explained, because Justin didn't want any witnesses testifying on his behalf for fear it would ruin his chance of receiving the death penalty.

In the end, Justin Thomas was convicted and sentenced to death. Without putting Suzy on the stand, the State opted to use a portion of the transcript from her taped interview, which was introduced in the punishment phase. As it turned out, Justin's own words netted him a death sentence.

After Suzy's legal battles with this book and with BREAKING POINT, on the Andrea Yates case, she considers the 10th anniversary edition of WASTED her "good-bye" to true crime. Her entry into true crime—hitting the New York Times best-seller list with her first book—was as unconventional as her exit. The "true crime master" has converted to sex book mistress, working on a memoir of sex in America for Berkley. Few would blame her for trading Draconian courtrooms for Hedonism resorts.

As for Justin Thomas, he is now #G11032 at San Quentin State Prison, home of Scott Peterson and Richard Ramirez. Like most prisoners of California's Death Row, Justin will probably die waiting to be executed (assuming the current moratorium is lifted). If so, his "death sentence" will have been converted into what he feared more: the rest of his life in prison, with little hope of his suffering cut short.

That statistics indicate Justin Thomas will not be executed at all should bring Suzy some measure of relief. But not enough to stay in true crime.

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Road to Perfection - Broadway Gives Its Regards to Paul Newman

by Vanessa Leggett

New York — October 3, 2008. That's the night that the lights went out on Broadway. Last Friday, marquees in the theater district dimmed to honor the passing of a star who lit up stages there for half a century.

The haunting yet beautiful visual moment of silence reminded me of a scene from Paul Newman's final role on the big screen.

In 2002, Newman portrayed fictional godfather John Rooney in Road to Perdition, a film based on a graphic crime novel set in Depression-era Chicago. Newman's co-star was Tom Hanks, who played Michael Sullivan, Irish crime boss Rooney's "Angel of Death"—a hit man who also did jobs for Al Capone.

Witness to Murder

To set the stage for that late scene in the film, I must say a word about the conflict that sets the story in motion. The hit man's son, Michael Sullivan, Jr., 12, witnesses one of his father's business associates commit murder during a rough up at a warehouse. The boy was spotted by the executioner, Connor Rooney, the Mafia boss's loose-cannon son, played by Daniel Craig.

"Did you see everything?" Michael Sullivan asks his boy, who nods.

Conner asks Sullivan, "Can he keep a secret?"

"He's my son," says Sullivan.

That's not good enough for Connor, who takes it upon himself to eliminate Sullivan and the boy. But when Connor arrives at the Sullivan residence to take care of business, neither target is home. A frustrated Connor guns down Sullivan's wife and the couple's other son.

Michael Sullivan sets out to exact revenge. This leaves the avenger and Newman's character in direct conflict, each facing impossible choices:

Sullivan knows that his surviving child's life will remain in jeopardy if he does not execute the man who meant to kill them—even if that man happens to be the son of his boss.

And John Rooney's son expects him to eliminate Sullivan, who will surely kill Connor for shooting his wife and child. "You gotta take him now," Connor pleads to his father.

Choosing between the life of a valued hit man or his son may not seem like much of a conflict for John Rooney. But Sullivan, who never had a father of his own, has been more like a son to Rooney than Connor, who is as much of an albatross to his father as Sullivan is a prize.

Connor showed bitterness and jealousy toward Sullivan long before he or Michael Jr. posed any problem for the family. That resentment was stoked just prior to the warehouse execution, when John Rooney ordered his son to "take Michael" along, presumably to avoid unnecessary violence. Sullivan was a judicious hit man. So when Sullivan's son was an eye-witness to Rooney's son committing murder, Connor could not resist the opportunity to take out his only rival for his father's affection.

In the Name of the Father

For Sullivan, getting rid of Connor meant he would also have to kill his father. The crime boss had his son under protection, watched by armed men 24/7. As long as John Rooney was alive, his son could not be killed. The catch was this: No one in Rooney's family wanted Connor to succeed his father. With the crime boss dead, those men would turn the other way for an outsider to take out a childish tyrant waiting to fill his father's shoes. Thus the film's tagline: "Every son holds the future for his father." (Newman's character at right, reacting to his son's news that Sullivan's wife and child had been hit.)

Michael Sullivan first tried to gain access to Connor through his father. When John Rooney said that was something he could never do, Sullivan knew he would have to execute the head of the Rooney crime family, a man heavily guarded. And so the stage is set for the godfather's death.

The dimming of the lights on Broadway to mark Newman's death reminded me of the muting of gunfire in the death scene of Newman's character in his final feature film. Befitting an exit of a star like Newman, the scene is, in my opinion, one of the most elegant portrayals of mass violence in the history of American cinema. Never has an assassination in a hail of gunfire taken on such an operatic quality—largely because until the scene's climax, gunfire is never heard.

A Beautiful Death Scene

The surreal street scene is muted by rain and populated with black-silhouetted mobsters carrying umbrellas à la Magritte. From the soundtrack we are entranced by a gorgeous score from classical composer Thomas Newman. (No relation to Paul Newman—but from a rich pool of musical talent—Thomas Newman is also known for the moving soundtracks to The Shawshank Redemption, American Beauty and Six Feet Under's opening credit sequence.)

As the wing-tipped mobsters take their places on the rain-slicked street, the scene turns when the crime boss realizes his driver is not standing with umbrella at an open car door. In the driver's seat, Rooney sees his chauffeur, who appears to be sleeping until Rooney tries the door, and the driver slumps to the steering wheel.

Umbrellas twirl as mobsters pivot, searching for the source. In short order, men collapse around the crime boss, unable to see where the fusillade is coming from. As the ballistics ballet plays out, piano keys echo the tinkling rain as one by one, Rooney's men go down in sync with the sound of descending notes. There is no visible bloodshed.

In the distance, we see the lightning flash of the muzzle from an automatic weapon we know is held by Sullivan, who, after killing everyone but Rooney, emerges from the darkness to do what must be done: kill a man who might as well be his father.

At the end of the scene, Rooney turns to face his executioner. Any Mafia crime boss knows the odds on how he'll die. The question he's plagued by his entire life is—Who will do it? . . . The Law? . . . Family? . . . Foe? . . .

Rooney knew who held the submachine gun the moment he saw one of his bodyguards get hit. In his final moments on screen, facing a man who has been like a son, Newman delivers his last line in cinema: "I'm glad it's you."

This gives Sullivan the courage to open fire, shattering the strange tranquility of the silent street massacre with a blast of bullets to ensure swift, painless death—effectively drowning out the conflict Hanks' character is feeling. The wordless interval between Newman's last line and his assassin's gunfire holds the scene's most poignant moment. In the audience's mind, and no doubt Sullivan's, was Rooney's recent observation: "This is the life we chose—the life we lead—and there is only one guarantee: None of us will see Heaven."

Final Curtain

It's no secret that Paul Newman did not want to be remembered for his acting roles. But his role as Godfather in Road to Perdition—his last appearance on the silver screen—is one I'll never forget.

When Newman's many roles in life ended on September 26, the world lost a star of a human being. But because of the life he chose to lead, the heavens are now one star brighter. He will always be remembered through those whose lives Mr. Newman improved. And thanks to the magic of cinema, Paul Newman lives on—even when the lights go out.

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The O.J. Simpson Trial - Disorder in the Court

by Katherine Scardino

I have been watching CNN's live coverage of the O. J. Simpson trial and I am amazed at a few issues. First of all, this judge is worse than Judge Ito. And she is female, which is more distressing for me, as a woman who relishes seeing and knowing successful women who have made it in a man’s world.

I can only imagine what this jury is thinking about this entire fiasco. . . . Speaking of the jury—it is composed of 9 women and 3 men, all white. During jury selection, the defense objected to the State’s exclusion of all blacks, but the judge ruled that the State had made a racially neutral explanation for such exclusion, and overruled the defense objection.

This judge is not very “judicial.” She is having a hard time controlling Simpson's defense lawyer, Yale Galanter. I have been watching his demeanor with this judge, and he is not letting her intimidate him at all. I like that. There is a fine line between standing your ground and facing the “chief” in the courtroom in situations where you believe you are procedurally correct and putting your tail between your legs and sitting down and “obeying” orders, like a good little pup. That fine line could result in the defense attorney being held in contempt of court and possibly jailed. One of our cohorts in Women in Crime Ink, Vanessa Leggett, is well aware of this possibility after she refused to divulge the source of her information about a case, and consequently spent several months in the Federal Detention Center in Houston, Texas. I admire her for that. Not many people will stand up to a judge.

But, getting back to the subject . . . the State's first witness was Bruce Fromong, the sports memorabilia dealer O. J. is accused of robbing. Fromong testified that money was not an objective of this sordid incident. But then under cross examination, Mr. Galanter and the defense attorney for co-defendant C. J. Stewart, got Fromong to admit that he had threatened to call “First Edition” and had demanded a large sum of money. I could not tell for certain, but I believe that he did receive a sum of cash for a copy of the audiotapes. This witness looks sleazy, unethical and the perfect idiot who could be convinced by the State or by a conniving cop to tape some stupid deal like this one and make it look like O. J. Simpson was committing an aggravated robbery.

Yesterday, the lead detective was on the stand. I watched his testimony for a while and it was obvious to me that when he was being questioned by the defense attorneys, he was slow to respond, did not answer the question asked, and attempted to avoid answering questions. But, when the State’s attorney asked him questions, he sat up in his chair, responded properly, looked at the jury, and was generally a responsive, interesting witness.

This has happened to me on many occasions, and I can tell you, it is very frustrating. Sometimes, I just want to jump up out of my chair and run to the desultory detective or cop and shake him! This detective did not even run a background check on the complainants. If he had, it was apparent from the line of questioning that he would have found criminal backgrounds. Nor did this detective ask for any proof that the property that O. J. Simpson was attempting to get back belonged to these complainants. He did not ask for any receipts or any evidence at all that they, in fact, did “own” this property which obviously belonged to Simpson.

Anyway, it is interesting. I’ll keep watching. . . .

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Freedom Behind Bars

by Vanessa Leggett

We all remember where we were on 9/11. I’ve often wished I could forget. I was in jail—Day 53 of an open-ended incarceration. That summer, a federal judge had found me in contempt of court for my refusal to give a grand jury confidential source material gathered for a book. Surrendering my research would have meant burning sources. I could not do it. And so the judge ordered me jailed for as long as the grand jury was in session. That turned into a 168-day stay at the Federal Detention Center in downtown Houston. When I rejoined society a few months after September eleventh, we were a nation at war and the world I had known was not the same place.

The morning the world changed, I was in my cell, nursing a cold and reading Omerta by Mario Puzo. It was my third day back in general population after a night in solitary. I had made the mistake of questioning the enforceability of a jail policy. Guards made sure I understood what enforcement was all about. The Bureau of Prisons calls segregation blocks the Special Housing Unit, or "SHU" (pronounced shew), fedspeak for what inmates know as "The Hole."

The day I emerged from The Hole was the freest I’d felt during my incarceration. A night in solitary showed me that I'd taken for granted simple freedoms allowed the general population in jail.

For example, outside of SHU, I was free to roam the common area during designated hours. From the dayroom and library, I had several windows with views to the streets below. I considered this privilege a kind of glass-partition visitation with the outside world.

Every day until 9/11, I had watched Houstonians talk on their cell phones, check their watches and PDAs, and sip coffee from Starbucks. (I could spot the cardboard-sleeved cups from blocks away.) By day's end on 9/11, there was little sign of life in downtown Houston, the fourth largest city in the nation.

Another window to the world unavailable to those in solitary was the television. The morning of 9/11, a fellow inmate summoned me to the lower recreation room minutes before the second jet hit the World Trade Center. The north tower was smoking from the impact of the first aircraft. We watched in stunned silence.

Later, I held hands with a group of women in a circle as a chaplain led us in prayer. I remember the inmate to my right squeezing my hand and not letting go immediately. Her home was in another country.

I did not need to speak her language to understand. Each of us wanted to connect with family, with those we loved, and with the people who loved us, to make sure they were safe, and to tell them we were okay. But visitation would be out of the question. For security, the entire detention center went into lockdown mode. My world shrunk to the size of my cell.

I've often thought of how my day on 9/11 would have been no different from my day on the tenth had I remained in solitary confinement. I would not have had access to television. Guards who checked on me would have had no obligation to tell me America was under attack. For my own safety, jail staff might have been ordered not to inform segregated inmates of the national disaster; it didn't take much to lose it in solitary.

Though I was in jail, separated from the world, at least I had been released from The Hole, and was able to see, however horrific, history unfold in real time. My only conduit to the outside world that day was the TV screen, which gave me a sense of connection to other Americans.

That connection was broken once the detention center went into lockdown. All I knew of what was going on in the world was what I had seen through the celluloid window that day: The World Trade Center, our twin trophies of commerce, had disintegrated. Our seat of military might, the Pentagon, had been hit. And another aircraft appeared to have been headed for the Capitol. When I saw members of Congress join hands and sing "God Bless America,” I must admit I feared the end was near.

It wasn't. My incarceration felt like it would never come to an end . . . but it did, eventually, when the grand jury disbanded in early January. For months I'd lived under fluorescent lights, without a single trip outside. As I emerged from the jail, the transition felt as disorienting as walking out of a matinée.

Over the next few weeks, I saw evidence of how the world had changed: metal detectors and pat-downs, building barricades, Middle Eastern cabbies whose well-worn taxis sported crisp, new American flags. Fear was everywhere.

It did not take long for me to realize I was about as free as I had been when I rejoined general population from solitary. Though I was part of the free world again, among my fellow Americans, none of us was truly free. Not like we used to be.

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Once Upon A Crime . . .

by Vanessa Leggett

This month is the 39th anniversary of the Manson slayings. When Helter Skelter was published in 1974, I was one of countless children entering grade school—as the child of Roman Polanski would have been, had his pregnant wife Sharon Tate not been murdered.

I was not old enough to read Helter Skelter during its first print run. In fact, I have no actual recollection of that crime or of any others detailed in true-crime books that inspired me. What I can recall are three of my favorite opening paragraphs from classics in the genre:

"During the night, an early spring rain washed the city and now, at dawn, the air was sweet and heavy. Remnants of fog still held to the pavements of Houston, rolling across the streets like cobweb tumbleweeds, and the windshields of early commuters were misted and dangerous. The morning seemed sad, of little promise." (Thomas Thompson, Blood and Money)

"The Village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call 'out there.' Some seventy miles east of the Colorado border, the countryside, with its hard blue skies and desert-clear air, has an atmosphere that is rather more Far West than Middle West. The local accent is barbed with a prairie twang, a ranch-hand nasalness, and the men, many of them, wear narrow frontier trousers, Stetsons, and high-heeled boots with pointed toes. The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them." (Truman Capote, In Cold Blood)

And, finally, the night that hatred painted the “love house” at 10050 Cielo Drive:

"It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon." (Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry, Helter Skelter)

Each of these haunting openings taught me something about setting. The first two could have come from any novel. Okay, not any novel. The point is that the first paragraphs of Blood and Money and In Cold Blood were written in the style of fiction. What made the opening of Helter Skelter most chilling was its skillful blend of fact and imagination.

A maniac bent on murder would not likely remember—much less describe—the sound of "ice rattling in cocktail shakers." The magic of this opening lies in the promise of the pages to follow: "one of the killers would later say . . ." And so we turn the page.

Since I read that book, whenever I hear the music of a martini mixer on a summer evening, I don't think of the drink. I remember Helter Skelter and that unquiet night on August 8, 1969.

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Unreasonable Doubt?

by Vanessa Leggett

What's a juror supposed to do when common sense says a defendant is guilty, but the law says the prosecution has not proved its case? Before a defendant is brought to trial, the case against him is usually solid enough to secure a conviction. By the time a verdict is read, both sides are primed to hear one word: GUILTY. The evidence should be developed and presented in such a way that even the rare defendant who is actually innocent is mentally prepared to hear that word. That’s why all but the jurors are stunned whenever the verdict read is “Not Guilty.”

I've seen it happen in a Texas courtroom. I'll never forget the experience. My legs went noodly on me. So did the defendant’s, apparently; his attorneys seemed to hold him up. You don't have to be a witness or on trial for your life to appreciate the dramatic effect of those two little words. If you're at least 20, you remember your reaction to the televised verdict in "The Trial of the Century," the O. J. Simpson case. Whether you believed he was guilty or not, your jaw likely dropped. You can see in this video clip an expression of initial disbelief from Simpson himself, who took a moment to absorb the words he had just heard.

I was reminded of this feeling last night. While working on a blog I intended to post on suspected wife killer Drew Peterson, I heard a broadcast announcement that made me change my blog topic:

"We have breaking news to report to you," a talk-radio host announced. "Believe it or not, a jury in St. Paul, Minnesota found Aaron Foster NOT GUILTY for the murder of Barbara Winn. Twenty-seven years after the family fought for justice . . . a murderer, in their mind, Aaron Foster, walked free. . . . A shocking verdict for court watchers."
To my surprise, it was a shocking verdict to me, though I had only a passing knowledge of the case—woman says Get out of my life to abusive partner, who, rather than comply, takes her life. The setup was as familiar as the Simpson and Peterson cases. As was that queasy feeling in my gut that comes when I sense a miscarriage of justice.
Listening to the broadcast announcement of a not-guilty verdict from the other side of the country, I could only imagine the reaction of the victim's family, her children, and others present in the courtroom. No one knows the shock of hearing "Not Guilty" better than surviving family members. They'll tell you the effect is at once as dizzying and as sobering as a slap across the face.

Everyone who witnesses such a verdict is affected on some level. In the Minnesota courtroom, the words "not guilty" created chaos. The FOX affiliate in St. Paul reported that "the verdict left many people in the courtroom upset, swearing and crying." Family members shouted, "Oh my God. Oh my God." Another news source said that several jurors sobbed.

A Single Shot

The first fact I heard—that 39-year-old Barbara Winn had been shot in the chest—had my mind leaning in the direction that the gunshot wound was not self-inflicted. Might seem like jumping the gun, if you'll pardon the pun, but I will explain.

When I taught a course in Homicide Investigation for the Criminal Justice Center at the University of Houston-Downtown, we covered the basics of distinguishing a homicide from a suicide. Cadets are given various handouts (illustrated, incidentally, by the same talented man who designed Women in Crime Ink's Justitia logo—Rex White, Director of the CJC's Police Academy). As I recall, one sketch depicted a woman shot twice in the chest. The caption read: Homicide or Suicide?

Well, the number of shots alone pretty much answers the question. Most people who shoot themselves wouldn’t have the strength to discharge a firearm more than once, even if the first shot was a miss. Still, if the drawing had shown only one gunshot wound, but in the chest, like Barbara Winn's fatal injury, I would still lean toward homicide. Women, vain creatures that we are, rarely mar our faces or breasts.

Too Many Bruises

Barbara's body had been marred before she was shot. She had numerous bruises, some fresh, which prosecutors suggested had been inflicted during the struggle that led to the shooting. Aaron Foster (pictured to right of Barbara) had a pattern of domestic violence with women. His relationship with Barbara had grown increasingly violent, according to the "Justice for Barbara" Web site. Finally, she asked him to move out, told him the relationship was over.

"I'm not your girlfriend anymore,” Barbara wrote to him in a letter. “I will not be abused. I am tired of the bruises. I am somebody and don't have to be treated like a nobody. Strike three you're out."

After Barbara broke up with Aaron, she joined friends and family for a night out. She returned home just after midnight on May 8, 1981. Aaron had not moved out. He was waiting for her.

Later, two of her three children were awakened by a "loud fight." Both heard the gunshot. One son, then 12, testified that he heard his mother utter her last words: "Oh Bubbie, that hurt. . . ." (Aaron Foster's nickname was "Bubbie.") Reading that quote broke my heart. It's so sad, so real, you can almost hear her voice weakened by disbelief.

The boys said they ran to their mother's room just as Bubbie was rushing out. The children found Mama propped in a corner with a hole in her chest. The boys watched their mother die, powerless to keep her alive.

Though Barbara's sons told authorities they saw Aaron Foster running from their mother's room, Aaron's story to police was that at the time of the shooting, he had been downstairs packing his belongings into his car. He admitted he "heard a gunshot." But he said that he'd arrived in the bedroom to find her near death.

According to Aaron's statement to police, Barbara said, "I shot myself. . . . Get rid of the gun." That does not sound real at all. Why would she say, "I shot myself"? . . . Just in case Aaron was wondering who had used his gun to shoot his ex-girlfriend? (The same woman who'd put her feelings about him in writing: "Strike three you're out.") The simplest explanation for what he described as her dying declaration—"I shot myself"—was that he was attempting to clear himself by claiming her death was a suicide.
And he didn't stop there. Looks like he had to create a reason for fleeing with the weapon, so he told police that as Barbara bled to death she supposedly said, "Get rid of the gun."
So that's all it was, Aaron Foster would have us believe—just an unlucky guy trying to fulfill an ex's last request. . . . Come on. A woman is dying, so instead of calling for help, he runs to hide the gun? And what possible reason would Barbara have to tell him to dispose of the weapon? Think about it: Why would a woman who had fatally injured herself be concerned with police finding the weapon she'd used? There is no law against a person taking his or her own life. It's a practical matter. A dead person cannot be prosecuted.

The manner of Barbara’s death was listed as “undetermined,” a finding that did not change for more than a quarter century. Time was not on the side of the State. Over the years, ballistics evidence was misplaced. Surviving family members, understandably, lost hope.

Not Enough Evidence

Law enforcement, as Kelly Siegler noted in yesterday’s post, is routinely frustrated by prosecutors who won’t file charges against suspects who seem guilty to the public. The Barbara Winn case is an instructive example. In a televised press conference last year, the sheriff accused the county prosecutor of “dragging his feet.” Standing with Barbara’s family, he said, “We are befuddled as to why they haven't pressed [charges]. It's either lack of competency, lack of caring, lack of making it a priority . . ."

It had seemed that way until 2006, when a contentious sheriff's election caused prosecutors to lower the bar, indicting Aaron Foster for third-degree murder. According to Minnesota statutes, if Foster, "without intent to effect the death of any person, [did] cause[] the death of another by perpetrating an act eminently dangerous to others and evincing a depraved mind, without regard for human life, [he] is guilty of murder in the third degree."

By charging Foster with third-degree murder, prosecutors had hoped to show that even if Aaron did not mean to murder her, Barbara's death had been brought about during the course of an assault that culminated in a gunshot, killing her. That the manner of her death remained undetermined would not matter with third-degree murder, which can be unintentional or accidental.

The elements of the crime seem to have been satisfied. Barbara had fresh bruises and the couple's scuffle in the bedroom had been heard by the boys (pictured above with sister and mother Barbara). Those facts alone constitute evidence of assault, and exhibiting a deadly weapon (his gun) qualifies as "an act eminently dangerous to others," namely Barbara. An armed man assaulting a defenseless woman seems evidence enough of a "depraved mind." And the essential element, that she died, was indisputable. That's all the jury should need: evidence of a fight and a dead body.

Other circumstantial evidence that was not admitted would have been compelling. She was leaving him, had ordered him out. But the defense was able to suppress her Dear John letter and other evidence taken without a proper search warrant. Nor did the jury hear testimony of Aaron's pattern of violence with other women.

Should prosecutors have waited for more evidence before indicting? Apparently, the county attorney decided it was now or never. Twenty-seven years is a long time, and in all likelihood, prosecutors did not expect evidence would get any better.

Yes, it's true that there is no statute of limitation on murder. But there is a Constitutional limitation on how many times any state can try someone for the same crime. The State of Minnesota had one shot. The government missed. Maybe prosecutors had rolled the dice, taking the "he might beat the rap" tack—prepared to be pacified by taking Foster on the hellacious ride of a murder trial.

This jury's verdict showed that the county prosecutor had not been "dragging his feet," as the sheriff charged. Nor was the State's reluctance to go to trial a sign of incompetence, indifference, or failure to make this case a priority. If prosecutors lacked anything, it was admissible evidence sufficient to convict.

With the trial behind, two things appear clear: The defendant's rights were protected, but justice seems to have been undermined. I believe in safeguarding our civil rights. Yet I also believe in securing justice for victims. One should not have to come at the expense of the other.

Fewer Solutions

So what is a juror supposed to do when guilt is obvious but the evidence is insufficient to convict? Follow the law, as each man and woman on a jury panel must—however onerous and uncomfortable that can sometimes be . . . their internal conflict evident when jurors, as in the Foster case, must read their verdict and weep.

And what are victims supposed to do when they feel justice has not been served? Make their voices heard. Use the power of the pen (or the Internet) to send a message to those who can make a difference. Victims can also write to the jury, as did the family of Barbara Winn, in a letter that states in the opening paragraph, "We are not angry with you, the jurors. . . ."

Members of the jury actually posted written responses. Most agreed with this juror's statement: "[W]e couldn't prove guilt by the information we had at the time." Another juror's comment captured the essence of the conflict: "If you had looked over at the jury box as the verdict was read you would have seen many of us in tears because we so badly wanted to put it to rest. I am sorry for the way it ended but we had to follow the law and not our hearts."

Just Enough Courage

It's sad that after high-profile not-guilty verdicts, the public accuses juries of lacking common sense. I say such juries possess an abundance of courage, sending a message to prosecutors: Don't ask us to find someone guilty unless you plan to put on enough evidence to convict. In more acquittals than not, a jury's doubt was not unreasonable. What might have been unreasonable was the prosecution's decision to put the defendant on trial without having a strong case or a compelling argument.

When a case is weak or a prosecution is made in bad faith, the Constitution is there to shield the individual whose life and/or liberty is at stake. It might not seem right or fair that criminals are sometimes insulated from accountability by laws that occasionally leave victims hanging.

The truth is, the Bill of Rights isn't reserved for the accused. Law-abiding folks can take advantage of other entitlements. Barbara Winn's family members have exercised their First Amendment right to free speech. A scrolling marquee on Justice for Barbara reads: "AARON FOSTER IS A MURDERER." Can they say that? I think so. A defense to accusations can be found in more civil statutes than in criminal courtrooms: Truth.

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The Body of Evidence Tells the Story

by Vanessa Leggett

We have all seen this face. The image is of little Madeleine McCann, the British toddler who disappeared while on a family vacation a year ago last month. What we haven't seen, and, in all likelihood, never will, is the body of Madeleine McCann.

Without a body, I doubt we will ever know for sure why she disappeared without a trace the night of May 3, 2007. I believe an autopsy of Madeleine's body could tell us exactly what happened. And that is why, I propose, her body had to be concealed at all costs, including a family's usual need to hold a funeral to memorialize the life of a loved one who has passed.

Let me state right off that I do not think that Madeleine's parents intentionally caused the death of their child. If they're guilty of anything, I believe it is of placing too much trust in what some charge were unorthodox methods of parenting. More on this shortly.

I should also make clear that I have not followed this case as well as I'm guessing most of our readers have, so I might very well have some of my facts wrong. (Readers, I'm counting on you to set me straight in the comments section to this post.) Further, "my theory" might be nothing new. I hadn't given any serious thought to this case until last week, when Portuguese police announced they are considering filing child neglect charges against Kate and Gerry McCann (pictured right) in relation to Madeleine's disappearance.

Childcare: Careless Death, Careful Cover-up

I never believed that the little girl's parents meant to cause Madeleine's death. From my passing understanding of facts that have emerged over the past year, I formed the opinion that Madeleine's death was a case of simple negligence by parents who should have hired a sitter.

The parameters of the current investigation are considerably broader than child neglect. According to a recent ruling released by the Evora Supreme Court of Justice in Portimao, the McCanns will be investigated for abduction, homicide, exposure or abandonment of a child, and concealment of a corpse.

In response to the court's pronouncement, the McCanns, through a spokesman, "vigorously denied neglecting Madeleine, but were pleased abduction was being investigated."

This remark did not surprise me. From the beginning, the McCanns have claimed their daughter was abducted. Any energy and expense in that direction would be eagerly embraced by them. Personally, I believe the McCanns have led the public on a global goose chase. The natural question is Why?

To Sleep, Perchance to Die

Which leads to my theory of the case, a conclusion that hinges on early reports that, to my knowledge, have not been proved or disproved. But they are allegations that, if true, could explain what happened to Madeleine. I believe that the McCanns—both doctors—drugged their children. The specific allegations are that Madeleine died from an overdose of sleeping pills her parents had given her before they met adult friends for dinner, only 50 to 100 yards from where the McCann children were sleeping.

On the whole, the McCanns were probably excellent parents. It's not outside the realm of possibility that they were over-protective parents who, to safeguard against potential abuses, would rather give their children sleeping pills than entrust their care to anyone but themselves. If the kids were asleep, they might have (erroneously) reasoned, no sitter would be necessary, especially when Mom and Dad were close enough to check on them, as appears to have been the case that fateful night.

Still, it seems to me that even if the McCanns had checked on their children, unless the doctor-parents took vital signs each time they popped in, it might not have been apparent that their child had stopped breathing. We see what we want to see. If they did in fact drug their children, they surely thought they were administering safe dosages. I don't believe they would have had any reason, or, after x glasses of wine with dinner, inclination to closely examine their children. That is, perhaps, until it was time to kiss them goodnight at whatever hour the parents returned from their engagement.

If Madeleine's death was in fact caused by accidental overdose, the most likely scenario is that the McCanns did not know Madeleine was dead until they returned from dinner to retire for the night. As overwhelming and gut-wrenching as finding a dead child would be to most parents, as much as time might have stood still, those parents would have had to do some quick thinking to avoid further catastrophe to their family.

Given their medical backgrounds, the McCanns would had to have feared that in a case of drug overdose, a toxicology screen would reveal substances in their daughter's system. If the couple wasn't able to produce a babysitter (who could have served as the scapegoat for drugging their daughter), then consequences were certain: Kate and Gerry McCann would at the very least be charged with child neglect for abandoning their children as well as child endangerment and whatever other charges could arise from giving a child drugs.

That this revelation would irreparably damage their reputations as parents would have been bad enough. What put them over the edge, I think, was the threat to their livelihood. If exposed for giving their child drugs that led to her death, the Mcanns risked the revocation of their medical licenses.

Even if they admitted they drugged Madeleine and convinced everyone that their daughter's death was a tragic accident, they would be held to a higher standard of care than average parents. Pharmacological babysitting might have worked for them without complication in the past. But, as physicians, they should have known the risks inherent in administering drugs to a child.

If they could no longer practice medicine, they might have thought, then how could they support their other children? And what if criminal convictions led to jail time? The McCanns currently face a sentence of up to ten years if found guilty of child neglect. They would have risked that and, quite likely, additional time for other charges a year ago. Their 18-month-old twins could have been orphaned during their most critical years of development.

Kate and Gerry McCann could not reverse what happened to Madeleine. But upon finding her dead, they could still make choices they felt were in the best interest of their surviving children.

If She Dies Before She Wakes . . .

As horrific and incomprehensible as it might seem to anyone not in that same circumstance at that moment, the only way to avoid further tragedy, in their minds, was to make sure the body was never found.

Without a body, no toxicology. Without toxicology reports indicating the presence of drugs, no charges. I believe the McCanns quickly made the decision to conceal their child's body, in a place known only to the parents. A private burial for family.

A body is not necessary to prove neglect. But to prove that the child was drugged, police would need considerably more evidence than what has been made public. An admission from either parent is not likely.

Even an admission won't cinch a case of criminally negligent homicide. I'm thinking of another disappearance in which drugs might have played a role in a death that I'm inclined to think was accidental.

Death and the Maidens

The month of May was also the anniversary of the disappearance of Natalee Holloway, the 18-year-old student who never returned from a senior trip to Aruba. Officials did not gather enough evidence to charge Joran van der Sloot with Natalee's death. It was apparently because Joran thought he was off the hook for murder that he made incriminating statements to a Dutch reporter, who videotaped the conversation. Naturally, Joran has recanted those statements, maintaining he was only saying what he thought the journalist wanted to hear. That's his story now. When talking to the reporter on tape, Joran said, "I'm being honest with you."

Aside from Joran's denials, the reliability of his statements was further compromised by the fact that Joran was under the influence of marijuana when he confessed that Natalee had died in his presence. Joran reportedly used drugs regularly.

While Joran has been vilified in the press, I do not believe, based on his recorded statements, that he intentionally brought about Natalee's death. I am convinced he gave her drugs, with or without her consent, and that, similar to the McCanns, Joran knew that her body would tell the tale of drug use—drugs that likely contributed to her death, drugs that could be linked to him. To avoid responsibility, Joran decided her body had to disappear. In his taped confession he told the reporter "they'll never find" Natalee.

"I know what happened to that girl,'' Joran continued, adding that he was "just incredibly lucky that she's never been found. Because if they found that girl, I'd be in deep shit."

On tape, Joran described a romantic encounter with Natalee (pictured right) on the beach. At some point, he said, she lost consciousness, probably from whatever drug/s she had ingested.

"Suddenly, she wasn't moving anymore," he said. "I tried to shake her. . . . I was shaking the bitch. I was like, 'What is wrong with you, man?' I almost wanted to cry. . . . Why does this shit have to happen to me?"

If these statements are true, Joran did not intentionally cause the death of Natalee. But a compelling case of criminally negligent homicide could be made, especially if Natalee had been alive when her body was thrown into the ocean, as some have speculated.

Joran went on to say that, in a panic, he phoned a trusted friend. "And I told him, 'Well, this is what happened. Come, come, come help me. And please don't call the police.' "

Not only did Joran fail to seek emergency attention—he admitted he specifically asked someone else to keep authorities in the dark. Joran enlisted the help of his friend to dispose of Natalee's body.

Joran told the journalist that it was a relief to tell someone what happened to Natalee that night. "I'm putting it away and for me," he said, "it's finished. Case closed."

Not so fast. Based on those tapes, authorities have reopened the investigation. Although Joran said he had no trouble sleeping the night that Natalee died, odds are he isn't sleeping as easily since police have turned up the heat.

Disturbed Sleep

If my theory about the McCanns has any merit, they could be equally restless now that the investigation has shifted directions. After Madeleine's disappearance last year, there were numerous reports that Kate McCann was able to sleep "just five days" following her daughter's disappearance.

The implication was not that Kate McCann had been up for four nights straight before the poor woman finally collapsed from exhaustion. The subtext was that because Kate knew what had happened to her daughter, she was not kept awake by the twin torments of parents of missing children: the "agony of the unknown" and the hope that at any moment the child would return.

Of course, Madeleine returning is as unlikely as it is that murder charges will ever be filed against her parents. And there is little hope that Natalee Holloway's body will ever be recovered. Whether Madeleine or Natalee were actually murdered will probably remain a mystery.

As WCI Cold Case Detective Connie Park shared in her post on Monday: "You must consider the body as evidence—the one piece of evidence you discover which will ultimately help you solve the murder investigation." Without those bodies of evidence, we cannot expect real answers about how they met their deaths.

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