Chapter 42
Jack was back in Judge Garrison’s courtroom on Monday morning. Elliott was beside him, shackled and wearing his inmate jumpsuit.
The prosecutor’s scarf was a matching shade of “prison orange,” as if to send a message that jail was exactly where the defendant
would remain. The hearing had been scheduled as an “emergency,” on Jack’s request, but the judge seemed skeptical from the
outset.
“Mr. Swyteck, I fail to see how a renewed request for release on bail is an ‘emergency.’ Frankly, it strikes me as nothing
more than a second bite at the apple.”
The prosecutor seemed tempted to add an “amen,” but it was Jack’s motion, and the defense spoke first.
“Judge, my client was assaulted in his jail cell for the second time since this court remanded him to pretrial detention.
That’s the emergency.”
“Inability to get along with one’s cellmates is not grounds for pretrial release.”
“No, Your Honor, it’s not. But release on bail is appropriate even in a murder case where the discovery of new evidence brings
the defendant’s guilt into serious question.”
“What’s your new evidence?”
Jack took a minute to bring the judge up to date on the latest developments, including the recovery of Helena’s handgun in
the Pollards’ yard. Then he made his point.
“As the court is aware from the previous hearing, the prosecution’s theory is that my client shot Owen Pollard with a handgun and then tried to make it look like suicide. The speculation is that a twenty-two-caliber bullet ricocheted off his head and came to rest in their sheepdog’s thick coat.”
“Excuse me,” said the prosecutor, rising. “Our ballistics expert was not engaging in ‘speculation.’ Based on sound scientific testing, Officer Gupta demonstrated that the bullet struck Mr. Pollard’s skull with the same kinetic
force as a hammer to the head—not enough to kill him instantly, but enough to prove fatal sometime after he dialed 911. If
our expert is less than a hundred percent certain, it’s only because the defendant blasted half of the victim’s head off with
a shotgun trying to make his death look like suicide.”
“We can address those matters of proof at trial,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, what is the ‘new evidence’ of the defendant’s
innocence to support his pretrial release on bail?”
“Fingerprints,” said Jack. “If my client is the killer, his fingerprints should be on the handgun that was recently recovered
from the crime scene. They’re not.”
The prosecutor returned to her feet. “Judge, that’s flat-out misleading. Our forensic analyst identified several prints belonging
to the owner of the gun, Helena Pollard. But there is also a print that could not be identified. That extraneous print could
belong to the defendant.”
“Except that it doesn’t belong to the defendant,” said Jack. “My fingerprint expert completed her examination over the weekend.
She agrees that the unidentified print is not of sufficient quality to establish a match in the FBI database. However, it
is clear enough to determine that it does not belong to Helena Pollard or to my client.”
“Then whose print is it?” asked the judge.
“The defense can prove that it belongs to the victim’s business partner, C. J. Vandermeer.”
“This is ridiculous!” said the prosecutor. “Judge, if I was willing to write a big enough check, I could find a hired gun
to testify that the unidentifiable print belongs to the victim’s dog. That is not ‘new evidence’ of the defendant’s innocence.”
“I tend to agree,” said the judge. “This isn’t a trial, Mr. Swyteck, but you need to do better than an expert report if you
expect this court to reverse its decision on bail.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Jack. “I subpoenaed a witness for this morning’s hearing, and he’s waiting outside the courtroom.
At this time, I’d like to call C. J. Vandermeer to the stand.”
“I have to object,” said the prosecutor.
“On what grounds?”
“Undue surprise.”
“Better to be surprised now than at trial,” said the judge.
The prosecutor dug in. “Judge, the proffered evidence proves nothing. It would certainly be evidence of the defendant’s guilt
if his fingerprints were found on the gun. But the absence of his print doesn’t prove anything, except that he was careful
enough not to leave a print.”
“Fair point,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, what’s your response?”
Jack didn’t want to promise too much—Vandermeer was a loose cannon—but the judge needed to hear more.
“Mr. Vandermeer will testify that he gave the gun in question to Helena Pollard because she was afraid of her husband and
needed protection from him.”
The prosecutor clearly didn’t like what she’d just heard, which prompted the predictable response. “Judge, the State of Florida
strongly objects.”
“Hold that thought, Ms. Weller. Please, Mr. Swyteck, tell me more.”
Jack felt the momentum shifting. “Helena Pollard’s fear of her husband gave her motive to want him dead. Perhaps she acted
in self-defense. Perhaps not. Either way, the prosecution’s theory appears to be that it was my client, not Helena Pollard,
who shot the victim with Mrs. Pollard’s handgun. But there’s no explanation of how my client supposedly got his hands on that
gun in the first place. There’s no fingerprint to show that he ever touched the gun. If Mr. Vandermeer is allowed to testify, the court will see that this case is full of holes and that Mr. Stafford
should be released on bail today.”
“Judge, our case is strong,” said the prosecutor. “Austen Pollard testified that Elliott Stafford was at the Pollard house right before the murder. What was the defendant doing there? Selling vacuum cleaners, door-to-door? This is a murder case. The court correctly denied bail.”
The judge breathed a weary sigh, then spoke. “The objection is overruled. I won’t deny the defense an opportunity to present
testimony from a witness who has obeyed a subpoena and is waiting right outside this courtroom. Bring in Mr. Vandermeer.”
The deputy stepped out. A moment later, the double doors opened at the back of the courtroom, and CJ entered. Jack felt a
glimmer of hope, until the witness started down the center aisle. CJ was dressed like a revolutionary, sporting the same uniform
he’d worn on the morning Jack had met him on the street, when tear gas and pepper spray had sent CJ and his band of demonstrators
running for cover in Bayfront Park. The doors opened again, and in walked a long line of CJ’s followers. There were at least
two dozen, all dressed the same: black sweatpants, black hoodies, black running shoes.
CJ passed through the swinging gate, approached the witness stand, and stopped. The bailiff asked him to raise his right hand.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“No.”
Judge Garrison did a double take. “Excuse me, Mr. Vandermeer? Did I hear you correctly? Did you say no?”
CJ looked up defiantly at the judge. “That’s exactly what I said. I refuse to testify.”
Jack had expected CJ to be less forthcoming in court than he had been in their conversation in his home. But Jack needed his
testimony, and this game-playing would only destroy his credibility. Jack had to shut it down.
“Your Honor, I believe what Mr. Vandermeer is trying to say is that he is invoking his Fifth Amendment right.”
The judge was not amused. “Is that true, Mr. Vandermeer? Are you refusing to testify based on your Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination?”
CJ scoffed. “I refuse to participate in a kangaroo court proceeding that makes a mockery of the word justice.”
Judge Garrison’s face reddened. “Mr. Vandermeer, you are edging dangerously close to contempt of court.”
“How could any reasonable human being feel anything less than contempt toward this court?”
The judge seemed ready to explode, then checked his anger. “Mr. Vandermeer, are you represented by counsel today? I’m giving
you fair warning: If this keeps up, you are going to need a lawyer.”
“A lawyer,” he said, scoffing. “The rich man’s privilege. If I was like most people who get chewed up every day by this system, I’d
get ten minutes in the hallway with a public defender who has hundreds of other cases, who barely has time to explain the
deal the prosecutor is offering me, much less defend me. If I was like most people in this system, I’d barely understand what
my lawyer was saying because of my substance abuse, mental health problems, or functional illiteracy. If I was like most people,
my lawyer would have no idea what I want, feel, or think. Which is all fine with you pricks in the black robes. My constitutional
right to counsel doesn’t even guarantee that the shit my lawyer tells me is accurate.”
“That’s quite enough!” said the judge angrily.
CJ’s gaze suddenly landed on Jack.
“Hell, the Constitution doesn’t even require my lawyer and me to have an actual conversation, does it, Swyteck?”
The judge raised his gavel. “One more word, and this court will hold you in contempt.”
“I stand with you, Elliott!” he shouted. “I invoke silence to fight a system that serves the rich and silences the poor! I
support your speech strike. I take the Fifth!”
CJ’s followers applauded from the gallery, hooting and hollering their support.
“Order!” the judge shouted.
CJ leapt to his feet, pumping his fist in the air, leading a chant: “Fifth Strike! Fifth Strike! Fifth Strike!”
The crack of the gavel was like a jackhammer. “Mr. Vandermeer, you are in contempt! Deputies, take the witness downstairs
for booking. The prisoner is hereby remanded to the Turner-Guilford-Knight Correctional Center until further order of this
court.”
“Fifth Strike! Fifth Strike!” the crowd continued.
A pair of uniformed officers came forward. CJ was handcuffed and escorted to the side exit, where the prisoners-only elevator
would take him down to the intake center.
“Fifth Strike!”
“Order!” the judge shouted, adding a final and deafening crack of the gavel. “If any of you minions in the gallery would like
to join Mr. Vandermeer, all it takes is one more peep.”
Silence fell over the courtroom. Jack returned to his chair beside his client and whispered, “Did you have anything to do
with this?”
Elliott, as usual, had nothing to say to him.
The judge cleared his throat loudly. “Mr. Swyteck, unless you have another witness, I am prepared to deny your motion for
reconsideration and return Mr. Stafford to custody pending trial.”
Jack glanced at the prosecutor, who was beyond smug. She appeared to be on the verge of a belly laugh. As Jack rose to address
the court, he wanted nothing more than to turn the tables.
“Your Honor, the defense requests a recess until tomorrow morning. I wish to re-call Helena Pollard to the witness stand.”
The prosecutor rose. “Judge, Ms. Pollard has already testified in this matter. This is becoming repetitive to the point of
abuse.”
“Yes, Mr. Swyteck. Why are we replowing old ground?”
“Your Honor, the last time Mrs. Pollard was in this courtroom, she failed to mention that C. J. Vandermeer gave her a gun. She never mentioned that her gun curiously went missing on the day of her husband’s death.
She never explained how this gun came to be buried in her yard.
The law requires this court to release my client on bail unless the evidence establishes a ‘strong presumption of guilt.’ The court should hear Ms. Pollard’s answers to these questions and then make that determination. ”
“Judge, the defense has already wasted enough of this court’s time with C. J. Vandermeer.”
“Today was no waste of time,” said Jack. “Your Honor, ask yourself this question: If C. J. Vandermeer offered you a reconstructed
pistol with no serial number on it, would you take it? Would you carry it with you at all times as a concealed weapon? Would
you ‘forget’ to tell the police and this court that your gun suddenly went missing on the night of your husband’s violent
death? Judge, it’s time for some answers.”
“Your Honor, enough is enough,” said the prosecutor.
Judge Garrison closed his eyes and massaged between his eyebrows, as if a massive headache were coming.
“This case is troubling on so many levels,” the judge said, thinking aloud.
Jack couldn’t read the judicial tea leaves. He might only dig himself into a deeper hole by speaking, but he felt the need
to explain.
“Your Honor, I want you to know that this was not a choreographed stunt. I had no idea the witness was going to dress the
way he did or show such disrespect for the court.”
Finally, the judge opened his eyes, and he looked straight at Jack.
“Mr. Swyteck, I’m the oldest judge in Miami. I knew your father long before he was Governor Harry Swyteck. Knew him before
you were even born. Knew your mother too, God rest her soul. I don’t know you, but I know this much about you: It isn’t in your DNA to do something this stupid on purpose.”
“Thank you,” said Jack. I think.
“Let me say this,” the judge continued. “If that lunatic was Mr. Pollard’s business partner, then by all means, I want to hear more from the widow.
This hearing shall resume tomorrow morning.
Mr. Swyteck, we will begin with your examination of Helena Pollard.
Ms. Weller, you may cross-examine. We are in recess until nine a.m.”
The crack of the gavel was like a pistol shot in the night. Jack and his client rose on the bailiff’s command.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Jack said quietly, speaking more to himself than his client, expecting nothing but Elliott’s
silence in return.