Finney may not have his heart in this case, but he’s not about to roll over. There are too many people watching, too much at stake. Now that the opening bell has sounded, the game is on. And the game is not about justice; from this point forward it’s all about winning. He does a fair job of describing the dangers of police work, especially in this day and age of assault weapons, sophisticated criminals, drug gangs, and terrorists. Today’s policemen are often targets, victims of extremely violent thugs who have no respect for authority. There’s a war out there, a war on drugs, a war on terror, a war on pretty much everything, and our brave law enforcement officers have every right to arm themselves to the hilt. That’s why the smart people we elect to make our laws decided six years ago to make it a crime for a person, yes even a homeowner, to fire upon our police when they are simply doing their jobs. That’s why Doug Renfro is guilty as a matter of law. He fired upon our police, and he wounded Officer Scott Keestler, a veteran who was just doing his job.
Finney is striking the right chords and scoring some points here. A couple of the jurors glance disapprovingly at my client. After all, he did shoot a cop. But Finney is careful. The facts are not in his favor, regardless of what the law says. He is concise, to the point, and sits down after only ten minutes. A record for a prosecutor.
Judge Ponder says, “Mr. Rudd, for the defense.”
As a criminal defense lawyer, I rarely have the facts in my favor. But when I do, I find it impossible to be subtle. Hit ’em fast and hard, and watch them scramble. I have believed since day one that I can win this case with the opening statement. I toss my legal pad on the podium and look at the jurors. Eye contact with every one of them.
I begin, “First they shot his dog Spike, a twelve-year-old yellow Lab who was fast asleep on his bed in the kitchen. What did Spike do to deserve getting killed? Nothing, he was just in the right place at the wrong time. Why would they kill Spike? They will attempt to answer this question with one of their standard lies. They will tell you that Spike threatened them, same as every other dog they kill when they invade private homes in the middle of the night. In the last five years, ladies and gentlemen, our gallant SWAT boys have killed at least thirty innocent dogs in this city, from old mutts to young puppies, all of whom were just minding their own business.”
Behind me, Chuck Finney stands and says, “Objection, Your Honor. Relevancy. Not sure why the other SWAT maneuvers are relevant to this case.”
I turn to the judge, and before he can rule I say, “Oh, it’s relevant, Your Honor. Let’s allow the jury to hear exactly how these raids go down. We will prove that these cops are trigger-happy and ready to shoot anything that moves.”
Judge Ponder raises a hand and says, “That’s enough, Mr. Rudd. I’ll overrule the objection. It’s just an opening statement and not evidence.”
True, but the jurors have already heard me. I return to them and say, “Spike didn’t have a chance. The SWAT team kicked in the front and back doors simultaneously, and eight heavily armed warrior cops raced into the Renfro home. By the time Spike could get to his feet and bark he was dead, blown away by three bullets from a semiautomatic handgun, the same kind used by Army Rangers. And the killing had just begun.”
I pause and look at the jurors, some of whom are no doubt more distressed over the dead dog than anything else that happened that night.
“Eight cops, eight SWAT team members, all equipped with more gear and armor than any American soldier who fought in Vietnam or World War II. Bulletproof vests, night-vision goggles, highly sophisticated weapons, even black face paint to add a little drama. But why? Why were they there?” I’m pacing now, back and forth in front of the jury box. I glance at the spectators, the place is packed, and I see the chief of police in the front row, hating me. Their usual routine in any case involving the police is to line up about two dozen uniformed cops on the front rows, where they sit with folded arms and glare at the jurors. Judge Ponder, though, would have none of it. I filed a motion to keep cops in uniforms out of the courtroom, and he agreed. The eight SWAT boys are being kept in witness rooms and missing the fun.
