The Guardians(53)
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“Proceed.”
Benderschmidt continues with his criticism of Norwood’s misguided testimony. It was not based on science, because Norwood did not understand the science behind blood spatter. Benderschmidt uses the word “irresponsible” several times to describe what Norwood told the jury. It was irresponsible to suggest the killer held the flashlight with one hand as he fired the 12-gauge shotgun with the other. There was no proof of this. No proof of where Keith was sitting or standing when he was shot. No proof of where the killer was. It was irresponsible to say that the specks were actually blood, given the small amount present. It was irresponsible to even use the flashlight, because it was not taken from the crime scene.
After an hour, Judge Plank is exhausted and needs a break. It’s not clear if he is actually sleepy though he does seem to glaze over. Frankie quietly moves to the back row and sits next to the aisle. As the recess is called, and Plank disappears, the spectators rise and leave the courtroom. As they do, Frankie catches all of them on video.
After a smoke and a pee and probably a quick nap, Judge Plank reluctantly returns for more and Benderschmidt gets back on the stand. During his evaluation, he began to doubt whether the back spatter, the alleged bloody specks on the lens, was really blown backward and away from the victim. Using a diagram of Russo’s office and other photos from the scene, Benderschmidt testifies that based on the location of the door and the likely position of the gunman, and based on the location of Keith’s body and the enormous amount of blood and matter on the walls and shelves behind it, it appears unlikely that the impact of the two shotgun blasts would have blown blood toward the killer. To buttress this opinion, Benderschmidt produces some photos of other crime scenes involving 12-gauge shotgun victims.
It’s gory stuff, and after a few minutes His Honor has had enough. “Let’s move on, Ms. Gross. I’m not sure photos from other crimes are beneficial here.”
He’s probably right. On cross-examination, Carmen Hidalgo goes through the motions and scores only when she gets Benderschmidt to admit that bloodstain experts often disagree, as do all experts.
As the witness leaves the stand, Judge Plank looks at his watch as if he’s had a long, hard morning, and he says, “Let’s break for lunch. Back at two, and hopefully you will have something new, Ms. Gross.” He raps his gavel and disappears, and I suspect he has already reached his conclusion.
In Florida, as in almost all states, post-conviction relief is considered only when new evidence is found. Not better evidence. Not more credible evidence. Quincy’s jury heard from Norwood, an alleged expert on bloodstains, and though his qualifications and his opinions were viciously attacked by young Tyler Townsend, the jury unanimously believed him.
With Kyle Benderschmidt and Tobias Black, our second bloodstain expert, we are in effect presenting evidence that is only better—but not new. Judge Plank’s comment is quite revealing.
As the man in the nice suit and the man in the black denim shirt leave the courthouse, separately, they are being watched. We hired two private detectives to help monitor things. Frankie has already briefed them and is talking on the phone. Vicki is sitting in one of only two diners close to the courthouse, waiting. I go to the other diner and sit at the counter. Frankie emerges from the courthouse and walks to his car in a nearby parking lot. Mr. Nice Suit gets into a slick black Mercedes sedan with Florida tags. Mr. Black Denim gets into a green BMW with Florida tags. They leave downtown two minutes apart and both pull into the parking lot at a shopping center on the main highway. Black Denim gets into the Mercedes and away they go, leaving bright red flags everywhere. Sloppy.
When I get word, I hustle over to the other diner where Vicki is camped out in a booth with an untouched order of fries in a basket. She’s on the phone to Frankie. The Mercedes is headed south on Highway 19 and our tail has eased in behind it. Our man calls back with the tag number, and Vicki goes to work. We order iced tea and salads. Frankie arrives a few minutes later.
We have seen the enemy.
The Mercedes is registered to a Mr. Nash Cooley, of Miami. Vicki e-mails this info to Mazy at home and both women are burning up their keyboards. Within minutes we know that Cooley is a partner in a firm that specializes in criminal defense. I call two lawyers I know in Miami. Susan Ashley Gross, who’s eating a sandwich in the courtroom, calls her contacts. Mazy calls a lawyer she knows in Miami. Vicki pecks away. Frankie enjoys his tuna melt and fries.
Cooley and Black Denim park at a fast-food place in the town of Eustis, population 18,000 and twenty minutes away. What is obvious becomes even more so. The two men eased into town to watch the hearing, did not want to be seen together or recognized in any way, and sneaked off for a bite. As they dine, our tail exchanges cars with his colleague. When Cooley leaves Eustis and heads our way, he is being followed at a distance by another car.
Cooley is a partner in a twelve-member firm with a long history of representing drug dealers. Not surprisingly, it is a low-profile firm with a sparse website. They don’t advertise because they don’t need to. Cooley is fifty-two, law school at Miami, a clean record with no bar complaints. His photo online needs to be updated because he appears at least ten years younger, but this is not unusual. After our first cursory round of research, we find only one interesting story about the firm. In 1991, the guy who founded the firm was found dead in his pool with his throat slashed. The murder remains unsolved. Probably just another disgruntled client.