I ask Ruskin about the other arrests. Were SWAT teams used to serve warrants? Were there home invasions at three in the morning? Did anyone else lose a dog? Did you send in the tanks? Halfway through my cross-examination, I force him to admit what the world has known for months: They got the wrong house. His reluctance to admit it, though, damages his credibility.
In two hours I reduce Ruskin to a babbling fool, one who can’t wait to get off the witness stand.
I am often a sanctimonious asshole when my clients are dead guilty. Give me an innocent man, though, and I reek of arrogance and superiority. I realize this and struggle mightily to give the impression, to the jury anyway, that I am actually likeable. I don’t really care if they hate me, as long as they don’t hate my client. But when representing a saint like Doug Renfro, it’s imperative that I come across as zealous, but not offensive. Incredulous at the injustice, but also trustworthy.
Their next witness is Chip Sumerall, the leader of the invasion, a lieutenant on the force. He’s brought in from a witness room and sworn to tell the truth. As always, he’s wearing his uniform with as many patches and medals as possible. Full uniform and regalia and finery, but minus his service revolver and handcuffs. He’s a cocky ass with a strut, thick arms, and a crew cut. We had words during his deposition and I glare at him as if he’s already lying. Finney walks him through their narrative. They dwell on his extensive training and experience, his glorious record. They walk methodically through the time line of the Renfro episode. He passes the buck as best he can, saying more than once that he was just following orders.
I get a sense the entire courtroom is waiting for me to annihilate him on cross, and I struggle to control myself. I begin by commenting on his uniform, how nice and professional it is. How often does he wear it? What do some of the medals signify? Then I ask him to describe the uniform he was wearing the night he kicked in the door of the Renfro home. Layer by layer, article by article, weapon by weapon, from his steel-toed jackboots to his panzer-style combat helmet, we go through every bit of it. I ask him about his submachine gun, a Heckler & Koch MP5, designed for close combat and the finest in the world, he says proudly. I ask him if he used it that night and he says he did. I grill him on whether he fired the shots that killed Kitty Renfro, and he claims he doesn’t know. It was dark and things happened fast. Bullets were flying; the police were “taking fire.”
As I walk around the courtroom, I glance at Doug. His face is in his hands as he relives the nightmare. I glance at the jurors; some are in disbelief.
“You say it was dark, Officer. But you were outfitted with night-vision glasses, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” He’s been well coached and keeps his answers as short as possible.
“And these are designed to allow officers to see in the dark, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then why couldn’t you see in the dark?”
The answer is obvious; he squirms a bit, but he’s a tough one. He tries to evade with “Well, again, it all happened so fast. Before I could focus, shots were fired and we just responded.”
“And you couldn’t see Kitty Renfro at the end of the hallway, thirty feet away, in her white pajamas?”
“I didn’t see her, no.”
I badger him relentlessly on what he saw or should have seen. When I’ve scored every point possible on this, I jump back to the issue of police procedure. Who authorized the SWAT mission? Who was in the room when the decision was made? Did he or anyone else have the common sense to say perhaps such a mission was not necessary? Why did you wait until three in the morning to go in, when it was dark? What led you to believe Doug Renfro was such a dangerous man? He starts to crack, to lose his cool. He looks to Finney for help but there’s nothing he can do. He glances at the jury and sees nothing but suspicion.
I grind away and expose the idiocy of their procedures. We talk about their training and their equipment. I even manage to bring the tank into the proceedings, and Judge Ponder allows me to show the jury an enlarged photo of it.
The real fun begins when I’m allowed to explore other botched raids. Sumerall has been suspended on two prior occasions for excessive force, and I walk him through those episodes. At times his face gets red. At other times he’s sweating. Finally, at 6:00 p.m., after Sumerall has spent four grueling hours on the stand, Judge Ponder asks me if I’m almost finished.
“No, sir, just getting started,” I say, real chipper, glaring at Sumerall. I’m so pumped I could go until midnight.
“Very well, then, we’ll stand in recess until nine in the morning.”
At nine sharp on Friday morning, the jurors are led in and welcomed by Judge Ponder. Officer Sumerall is called and takes the stand again. Some of his cockiness is gone, but not all of it.
