If You Really Loved Me (51 page)

42

A
parade of police witnesses took the stand first, consulting their notepads, although their memories of the early hours of March 19, 1985, were crystalline. This case had disturbed them from the beginning.

"Mr. Brown looked haggard," Officer Day testified, describing David's demeanor on the murder night. "Chainsmoking—his hands trembled lighting cigarettes. He looked older than he was. He was very lucid, but vague on specific times he was certain places. He broke into a sweat."

Day repeated what David had told him of his whereabouts at the time of the murder and what he had done after he returned home to find Patti Bailey near hysteria. "He said he saw Linda in an 'unusual' position—with her arm over the side of the bed, and she never lay like that." But David had told Day he was afraid to go into the master bedroom. He made sure Patti was okay, then called his father and told him that Cinnamon had killed Linda.

Gary Pohlson cross-examined Day briefly. "Where did you think Cinnamon would be?" he asked.

"The trailer is the only place I can think of."

Fred McLean followed Day to the witness stand, testifying in his laconic Kansas drawl. His memory of the green stucco house was photographic. He could close his eyes and see the .38 revolver lying on the shaggy yellow carpet of the master bedroom.

Robinson asked McLean to describe how he found Cinnamon.

"Mr. Brown said he believed Cinnamon was maybe at her mother's or at a friend's. I went back out to the backyard, even though the other officers had searched and found no one. The area behind the garage is not visible from the back door. You have to go back there."

Robinson introduced photographs of two red doghouses; the floor of the larger one was covered with vomit.

"Why did you go back there?"

"It was the only possible place where the suspect might be. There were three small, excited dogs in the kennel area. I realized they weren't dangerous, so I went in. I looked into the door of the large doghouse and saw a crouched figure. I called, 'Cinnamon?' Her answer was unintelligible. I put my hand in and said, 'Come out.' "

"Did she?"

"She did. She was not really coherent. She was sluggish and clutching a cardboard note—she was covered with vomit."

"What did the note say?"

"'Dear God'"—McLean's voice softened as he remembered—"'Dear God, please forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt her.' "

On cross-examination, Pohlson asked if the empty medicine vials were fingerprinted.

"No. I had already handled them getting them to the hospital. The glass was fingerprinted."

But the prints wouldn't really have mattered; all the suspects
lived
in the house.

"Call Cinnamon Brown!"

This was the prosecution witness that those watching had been waiting to see and hear. A few days before, Jay Newell and Fred McLean had driven Cinnamon and Patti Bailey down from Ventura and lodged them in separate wings under tight security in Juvenile Hall. "We didn't dare risk their safety by putting them into the county jail," Newell explained. "David might have found a way to get to them before they testified."

All eyes fixed on the door to the left of Judge McCartin.

Newell and McLean led Cinnamon Brown to the witness stand. She was small, still only a shade over five feet tall, a girl-woman who had become quite beautiful in her years of captivity. Her now-blond hair was thick and wavy and tumbled in shiny twists to her waist. She wore very little makeup, and her dress was pale peach and high necked. She wore cream-colored pumps with high heels.

Cinnamon looked at Jeoff Robinson and pursed her lips nervously. She did not glance toward the defense table. Her father focused on the table in front of him. The gallery would learn to gauge his emotional responses chiefly by the tinge of scarlet that occasionally crept up his neck, or— when he was intensely disturbed—by the lack of any color at all. Then, even his ears were stark white.

Robinson stood far back from his witness, but his body language was sheltering. He was going to have to pull Cinnamon along through hell now—hoping it would somehow save her from worse battering when she was cross-examined.

"Cinnamon, did you ever tell some lies before you came into court? Did you tell lies on the subject of Linda's death?"

"Yes."

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"Cinnamon, did you tell more than ten lies?"

"No." Cinnamon Brown's voice was childlike and very faint.

"Are you going to lie today?"

"No."

"Objection!"

Robinson and Pohlson approached the bench, conferred with Judge McCartin, and appeared to have come to some kind of agreement.

"Where do you live?"

"Ventura School."

"Is that a prison?"

"Yes."

"How long have you lived there?"

"Four and a half years."

"Why are you living in a prison?"

"Because I killed Linda."

There it was. Robinson had gone to the heart of what the jury was surely wondering. If Cinnamon had lied in the past, she had admitted it. She admitted the biggest lie of all—that she lied about killing Linda.

"Who was Linda?"

"My stepmom."

"Cinnamon, let's go back to March of 1985. Remember the night the crime occurred?"

"Yes."

"Who was living at the house?"

"Me, Linda, my father, Patti, Krystal—my little sister."

"How old was Krystal?"

"I'm not sure. She was an infant. Small."

"Cinnamon, how was it that Patti Bailey was living at your home?"

"I think it was because their house wasn't suitable,—so she came to live with us. I'm not sure. . . ."

"Cinnamon, going back six or seven months before, was it the same group living in your house?"

"Yes."

". . . Did you overhear something between Patti Bailey and your dad?"

Over objections, she was allowed to answer only "Yes, I did."

"On March nineteenth, 1985, were you suffering mental problems?.

"No."

"Were you suicidal?"

"No."

"Do you know what being depressed means?"

"Yes."

"Were
you depressed?"

"No."

Cinnamon's answers came in monosyllables. She offered nothing more. It didn't matter. Robinson would gradually draw the true story from her. There was no hurry. He occasionally used vocabulary that was common to most, but a shade beyond what Cinnamon was familiar with. The technique enhanced the picture of a fourteen-year-old girl still caught in time.

Pohlson studied the witness carefully. If he was going to free
his
client, he would have to lean hard on Cinnamon and on Patti.

"Cinnamon, how old were you in 1985?" Robinson continued.

"Fourteen."

"How old are you today?"

"Nineteen."

"Six or seven months before March nineteenth, did you get along with your dad—did you love your dad?"

"Yes."

"Did you love Linda?"

"Yes."

"Did you have problems with her?"

"Everyday—typical problems—like doing the dishes, cleaning the doghouse."

"Did you hate her?"

"No."

In response to Robinson's questions, Cinnamon described the odd household that existed in 1985. She got along with everyone; she thought of Patti Bailey as a sister. Yes, they argued, but they loved each other. They fought over silly things such as who was going to sit in the front seat. Patti was sixteen, almost seventeen. Cinnamon had only argued with her father about typical things—"Like, 'Cinny, go wash the car,' and I didn't want to."

Cinnamon's answers came so softly that it was difficult to evaluate her emotions, but she looked desperately uncomfortable as she discussed getting along with her father. Tears filled her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.

"Do you feel bad talking about your dad?"

She wiped her eyes. "Yes." Cinnamon bowed her head like a penitent. She was such a small figure sitting in the witness box, no bigger than a twelve-year-old.

"Cinnamon," Robinson asked gently, "do you still love your dad?"

"Yes "

Her answer was much more terrible to hear than if she had said, "No." Cinnamon accepted a tissue, but declined a break. She would continue.

Robinson changed the topic. Cinnamon said she didn't
like
CYA, but she had gotten used to it. Of course she would like to be free someday.

"Cinnamon, simply because you want to get out of prison, are you making things up about your dad?"

"No—if I wanted—"

Pohlson objected, and Judge McCartin struck everything after "no."

"Cinnamon," Robinson asked once more—so that there would be no question. "Did you do the killing?"

"Yeah . . . yes."

Under further questioning, Cinnamon told the jury about the terror she felt as she was drawn into the plans to kill her stepmother. She had been repeatedly told by both David and Patti that Linda and Alan were planning to take over David's business—Data Recovery—and they were going to kill him to do it. "He said we have to get rid of her. He could move away or he would kill himself before he'd let her kill him. He would leave. I said, 'Why don't you divorce her?' and he said it wouldn't work. . . ."

"What was your feeling when your dad told you he would have to leave you guys?"

"I was scared . . . crying."

"Did you believe him?"

"Yes."

She had believed it all. Over and over, her father had said, "Get rid of Linda ... we have to kill her." She had heard it so many times on so many different drives that she could no longer remember how many. It was always her father, Patti, and herself. Linda was never around when they discussed the predicament they were in, and how to solve it.

At this fragile moment, the door of the courtroom opened, and unbelievably, unthinkably, a class of a hundred or more junior high school students filed in noisily. They were on a field trip. Cinnamon, stricken, stared past Robinson at the sea of young faces.

Robinson and Pohlson both approached the bench. Surely, the students should not stay. They were very young, and this trip was only a lark for them. Their chairs creaked and their feet sounded like thunder at this tense moment.

Despite Robinson's urgent request, Judge McCartin shook his head. This was a public courtroom. The students could stay. As they realized what they were listening to, even the fourteen-year-olds in the group became quiet. Did they know they were listening to a young woman who was
their
age when she committed the crime of murder?

The questioning continued, and Cinnamon's voice was so faint that even the judge next to her could not hear her. McCartin startled her when he said gruffly, "Put the mike on the witness."

"Cinnamon, do you recall specific occasions . . . discussions?"

"Yes . . . several ... on the beach, my father told me to go down the beach. When I got back, we left. The topic came up of what was to be done to Linda."

"What was to be done?"

"Ways to kill her . . ."

Yes, she remembered some of the ways. They could shoot Linda or electrocute her in the bathtub. Cinnamon thought that was her idea.

"Were you serious?"

"Yes."

"Why did you
seriously
suggest a way to kill Linda?"

"Because I wanted her dead. I didn't want to lose my father."

". . . Did your dad suggest
who,
if anybody, should do it?"

"Yes ... he said one of us girls would have to do it. He didn't have the stomach to do it."

". . . Did he ever complain about a weak stomach before?"

"He was always sick."

Robinson pelted his witness with questions. He knew Pohlson would do the same tomorrow or the next day on cross-examination. He had to get all the truth out of Cinnamon
now.
Yes, David told them repeatedly that she should do it, that one of the girls had to. Cinnamon began to sob again. "I was willing to do it because I loved him, and I didn't want to lose him."

Listening intently, Pohlson was poised. He objected to what he construed to be leading questions from Robinson. Robinson was trying to show that there was no benefit at all for Cinnamon in Linda's death, but he could not phrase a question that pleased either Pohlson or Judge McCartin.

After three objections, McCartin bristled and growled at Robinson, "You want to be sworn—take the stand? No more argument. No more leading questions!"

Finally, Robinson got a full question out. "On your own, did you ever plan to do something to Linda?"

"No."

The death plan had evolved from a constant drumming in of the principles of family and staying together and most of all,
love.
Unless Linda died, all of those things would be lost.

"He said, 'If you loved me, you would do this for me.' "

With all the scheming and talking and plotting and persuasion, it always came down to
love.
Always. Once the murder script was in motion, someone would have to perform. And it was Cinnamon who was selected.

"Did your dad ever say, 'Cinnamon, don't do it?' "

She shook her head slightly. "He said, 'If you love me, you'll do it. If you don't, I'll have to go away.' I felt guilty."