“Please continue your cross-examination, Mr. Rudd,” Ponder says. With the assistance of a clerk, I unfold and mount a large diagram of the Renfro home, both first and second floors. I ask Sumerall, as the leader of this team, to enlighten us about how the eight men were selected. Why were they divided into two teams, one for the front door, one for the back? What was each man’s role? What weapons did each cop have? Who made the decision not to ring the doorbell, but instead just go crashing in? How were the doors opened? Who opened them? Who were the first cops in? Who shot Spike, and why?
Sumerall cannot, or will not, answer most of my questions, and before long he’s looking like an idiot. He was the commander, and proud of it, but on the stand he’s not sure of a lot of details. I hammer him for two hours and we take a break. Over a quick coffee, Doug tells me the jurors are skeptical and suspicious; a few seemed to be seething. “We got ’em,” he says, but I caution him. Two of the jurors in particular worry me because they have ties to the police department, according to my old pal Nate Spurio. We met last night for a drink and he says the cops are leaning on numbers four and seven. I’ll deal with it later.
I resist the urge to hound Sumerall for the entire day, something I do more often than I should. There is an art to cross-examination, and quitting while you’re ahead is part of the skill. I haven’t learned it yet because my instinct is to kick a brute like Sumerall repeatedly when he’s already down.
Doug says, wisely, “I think you’ve done enough with this witness.”
He’s right, so I tell the judge I’m finished with Sumerall. The next witness is Scott Keestler, the cop who got shot, apparently by Doug Renfro. Finney takes him first on direct and tries his best to evoke some sympathy. The truth is—and I have all the medical reports—the bullet wound to his neck was only slightly more serious than superficial. In combat, he would have been given a couple of Band-Aids and sent back to the front. But the prosecution needs to score here, and Keestler sounds like he took a bullet between the eyes. They drag this out far too long, and we finally break for lunch.
When we’re back in the courtroom, Finney says, “No more questions, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Rudd.”
At full volume, I pounce on Keestler with “Officer, did you murder Kitty Renfro?”
Talk about sucking the air out of a room. Finney stumbles to his feet, objecting. Judge Ponder says, “Mr. Rudd, if you—”
“We’re talking about murder here, Judge, aren’t we? Kitty Renfro was unarmed when someone shot and killed her in her own home. That’s murder.”
Finney says loudly, “It is not. We have a statute on this point. Peace officers are not liable—”
“Maybe not liable,” I interrupt. “But it’s still murder.” I wave my arms at the jury and demand, “What else do you call it?” Three or four actually nod affirmatively.
Judge Ponder says, “Please refrain from using the word ‘murder,’ Mr. Rudd.”
I take a deep breath; so does everyone else. Keestler looks like a man facing a firing squad. I return to the podium, stare at him, and say politely, “Peace Officer Keestler, on the night of this SWAT raid, what were you wearing?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What were you wearing, please? Tell the jury everything that was on your body.”
He swallows hard, then begins clicking off the armor, weaponry, and so on. It’s a long list. “Keep going,” I say. He finishes with “Boxer shorts, T-shirt, white athletic socks.”
“Thank you. Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain.”
I stare at him as though he’s a filthy liar, then I walk to the exhibit table and pick up a large color photograph of Keestler on a stretcher as he’s being rushed into the ER. His face is clearly visible. Since the photo has already been introduced into evidence, I hand it to Keestler and ask, “That you?”
He looks at it, confused, says, “That’s me.”
The judge allows me to pass the photo to the jurors. They take their time, absorb the image, then I take it back. “Now, Peace Officer Keestler, looking at you in this photograph, what is this black stuff you’re wearing on your face?”
He smiles, relieved. Aw shucks. “Oh that, that’s just black camouflage paint.”
“Also known as war paint?”
“I guess. It has several names.”
“What’s the purpose of war paint?”
“It’s for camouflage purposes.”
“So it’s pretty important, huh?”
“Sure is, yes.”
“It’s necessary to insure the safety of the men on the ground, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“How many of the eight peace officers in your SWAT team that night covered their faces with black war paint?”
“I didn’t count.”
“Did all of our peace officers wear black war paint that night?”
He knows the answer and he figures I do too. He says, “I’m really not sure.”
I walk to my table and pick up a thick deposition. I make sure he sees it. “Now, Peace Officer Keestler—”
Finney stands and says, “Now, Your Honor, I’ll object here. He keeps using the term ‘peace officer.’ I think that—”
