Finney wants no part of Doug Renfro. He attempts to prove that Doug deliberately fired upon the police, but Doug crushes him by saying over and over, “I didn’t know they were cops. I thought they were criminals breaking into my house.”
I call no other witnesses. I don’t need them.
Finney walks through a halfhearted closing argument, during which he refuses to make eye contact with any of the jurors. When it’s my turn, I recap the important facts and manage to control myself. It would be easy to flay the cops, to engage in unbridled overkill, but the jury has had enough.
Judge Ponder instructs the jurors as to the applicable law, then says it’s time for them to retire and deliberate. But no one moves. What happens next borders on historic.
Juror number six is a man named Willie Grant. Slowly, he stands and says, “Judge, I’ve been elected as the foreman of this jury, and I have a question.”
The judge, a jurist of great composure, is startled and looks wildly at Finney and me. The courtroom is again perfectly silent. Me, I’m not breathing. His Honor says, “Well, I’m not sure at this point. I have instructed the jury to retire and begin deliberations.” The jurors have not moved.
Mr. Grant says, “We don’t need to deliberate, Your Honor. We know what we’re going to do.”
“But I have repeatedly warned you against discussing the case,” Ponder says sternly.
Unfazed, Mr. Grant replies, “We haven’t discussed the case, but we have a verdict. There’s nothing to discuss or deliberate. My question is, why is Mr. Renfro on trial and not the cops who killed his wife?”
There is an instant wave of gasping and chattering throughout the courtroom. Judge Ponder attempts to regain control by clearing his throat loudly and asking, “Is your verdict unanimous?”
“Damned right it is. We find Mr. Renfro not guilty, and we think these cops should be charged with murder.”
“I’m going to ask the jurors to raise your hands if you agree with the not-guilty verdict.”
Twelve hands shoot into the air.
I put my arm around Doug Renfro as he breaks down again.
I often disappear after a big trial, especially one that gets front-page coverage and plenty of airtime. It’s not that I don’t love the attention. I’m a lawyer; it’s in my genes. But in the Renfro trial I humiliated the police department, embarrassed some cops, some really tough guys who are not accustomed to answering for their misdeeds. As they say, “The streets are hot right now,” and it’s time for a break. I load some clothes into the van, along with my golf clubs, some paperbacks, and half a case of small-batch bourbon, and ease out of town the day after the verdict. The weather is raw and windy, too cold for golf, so I head south like countless other snowbirds in search of the sun. I have learned through my meandering travels that almost every small town with a population above ten thousand has a public golf course. These are usually packed on weekends but not too crowded during the week. I play my way south, hitting at least one course per day, sometimes two, playing alone with no caddie and no scorecard, paying cash for inexpensive motel rooms, eating little, and sipping bourbon late at night while I read the latest James Lee Burke or Michael Connelly. If I had a pile of money, I could spend the rest of my life doing this.
But I don’t, so I eventually return to the City, where my notoriety instantly catches up to me.
About a year ago, a young woman named Jiliana Kemp was abducted as she was leaving a hospital after visiting a friend. Her car was found untouched on the third floor of a parking garage next to the hospital. Surveillance cameras caught her walking toward her car but lost her as she stepped out of range. The footage from all fourteen cameras was analyzed. It captured the license plates of every vehicle coming and going for a twenty-four-hour period, and revealed only one significant clue. An hour after Jiliana was seen walking to her car, a blue Ford SUV left the parking deck. The driver was a white male wearing a baseball cap and glasses. The SUV had stolen license plates from Iowa. During the night, the attendants saw nothing suspicious, and the one who took the ticket from the white male did not remember him. Forty vehicles had passed through the exit gate in the hour preceding the SUV’s departure.
Detectives scoured every inch of the garage and found nothing. Her abductor made no demand for ransom. The search went from frantic to futile. An initial reward of $100,000 provoked no response. Two weeks later, the blue SUV was found abandoned in a state park a hundred miles away. It had been stolen a month earlier in Texas. Its license plates were from Pennsylvania, stolen of course.
The abductor was playing games. He had wiped the SUV clean; no prints, no hairs, no blood, nothing. His range, along with his planning, terrified the investigators. They were not chasing an ordinary criminal.
