If You Really Loved Me (57 page)

47

W
ednesday, June 6, was taken up with the ponderous, but necessary, debate between the prosecution, the defense, and Judge McCartin over jury instructions. David Brown asked to be excused from court during this part of his trial. He had apparently come to detest this courtroom, his uncomfortable and ultimately stationary chair, and the eyes that burned into his back from the gallery. The Bailey sisters and brothers were there, always watching. They did not wish him well.

Final arguments would not begin until Tuesday morning, June 12. For those caught up in the emotion of this trial, the week yawned ahead, empty. As in all trials that last for weeks, there was a sense of impending loss for the regulars in the gallery—for the jury too. This tight group would soon disband and scatter in all directions. A number of friendships had taken root and would continue, but they would never again be together in this particular fashion. Every day in Department 30 had promised drama and revelation.

The rest of life was never so dependably bizarre.

Jeoff Robinson ran marathons; even during the Brown trial, he ran the Long Beach Marathon on one blazing-hot, smoggy Sunday. He thought of quitting when he "hit the wall" after nineteen miles, his lungs burning from bad air and heat. But then, like most of those who fear stepping on cracks for fear of damage to their mothers' backs, he kept going—afraid of jinxing the trial's outcome. Irrational? Of course. Normal human superstition? Of course.

After half a hundred felony trials, Robinson might well have become blasé by now and overconfident. He never had. The Brown verdict mattered a great deal to him, and not simply because he liked to win. Keeping David Brown inside was, for Robinson, damage control. Like Jay Newell and Fred McLean, Robinson walked with a gnawing worry that something vital might have been overlooked, that some piddling legal nicety might rear its head and let David Arnold Brown go free.

Robinson could not let that happen. His final, most important task was before him now; in his closing arguments, he had to give the jury everything he and Newell and McLean had turned up in their long investigation. He had to tie all the major facts and the incidental—but meaningful —trivia into one blockbuster of a package that would leave no doubts at all in the jurors' minds.

The fact that Robinson had committed this case to automatic memory wasn't enough. Robinson now went into "heavy training" in these last days before the big fight.

The three protagonists for the State met on Thursday in a conference room deep in the belly of the Orange County Courthouse to go over the most salient prosecution points once again. Fortunately, Robinson was not a prima donna; he accepted advice and suggestions with grace. McLean and Newell laid out
their
perceptions of what had to be included in Robinson's closing arguments. Robinson jotted down notes in his jagged left-handed script. And then they listened as he argued—-not his own case—but the
defense's
case. Robinson tried to second-guess what Pohlson would say and be prepared to beat him to it, to defuse the defense's case before it happened.

For almost a day, the three men discussed "What if. . ." and "Hit that area hard..." and "Don't forget to include ..." And then Robinson holed up with his notes and his yellow legal pads. For days—and nights—he wrote and thought and rethought and rehearsed what he would say. He slept little. Four days to go.

* * *

The courtroom had been three-quarters empty for much of this long trial, but this morning, Tuesday, June 12, 1990, it was packed with spectators—courthouse employees, relatives of the attorneys, the curious drawn by increased media coverage, the media themselves, relatives of the defendant and the deceased.

Manuela Brown, David's mother, was in the fourth row behind the defense table. David's sister Susan was with her, and Manuela had also brought five-year-old Krystal. She was a chubby little girl in a ruffled, flowery dress and white Mary Jane shoes. She looked bewildered, and she was obviously there to point up what a fine family man her father was. It seemed a frail ploy, given the testimony of Cinnamon, his oldest daughter, and his complete denial of Heather, his youngest.

David Brown entered with the familiar clanking of chains. He wore a pink dress shirt and tie and gray polyester slacks. He turned around, spotted Krystal, and grinned and waved to her with his small star-shaped hand. She waved back; she plainly adored her daddy—just as Cinnamon had once adored him.

Whatever the verdict would be, it could not have been wise or sensitive to bring Krystal here on this day to hear words recalling her mother's violent death and words condemning her father. She had already lost enough.

It was 9:20
A.M
. and everything was ready—save for one alternate juror whose seat was empty. The trial had come this far, and everyone was nervous that the young woman was missing. Gail Carpenter was picking up her phone to call the tardy juror just as she scurried in at 9:23, complaining about the freeway gridlock. The jurors, who had sometimes worn shorts and sundresses on hot June days, had dressed more formally today.

Judge McCartin explained to the jury how they must listen to closing arguments. "Argument is not evidence, and the displays are not part of evidence, so don't expect to get them. Don't treat closing arguments as evidence. ... If the attorneys start to argue, rely on your own memory."

The courtroom was hushed as Jeoff Robinson rose to speak. He wore his "serious" navy-blue suit. "Good morning," he addressed the jury.

"Morning," they chorused. There was a pronounced air of expectancy. This was the Super Bowl part of the trial, and everyone knew it.

"I will speak twice . . . ," Robinson explained. "Because we have the burden of proof. . . The buck has to stop somewhere."

Robinson thanked the jury for their patience and attention and asked only that they
would
give him a verdict. "I don't care if it takes five minutes or five hours or five days—or
ten
days."

The jurors were so solemn, so absorbed, that Robinson caught them off guard when he grinned suddenly and said, "I'm only going to talk long enough until I've convinced you that I'm right. As I convince you, I'd ask you to raise your hands. When I've convinced you all, I'll stop talking."

The jurors and the gallery laughed, albeit nervously—the last laugh of the day. But the tension was eased.

"The primary question is," Robinson began,
"why
are we here? The answer is what I told you in my opening statement—I told you you were going to hear a modern-day tragedy, and [during this trial] you couldn't have heard a more atrocious set of facts that displays that this
is
a modern-day tragedy. . . . This can't happen, but it did. . . . This
isn't
a fantasy. . . . This man—at the end of the counsel's table, David Arnold Brown—in what the People will characterize as a very deviate and depraved manner, orchestrated the murder of his twenty-three-year-old wife—a woman he professed to
love. . . .
How more depraved an act is there than to take the life of the person that you
at least
espouse most to care for and trust ... to kill the one you've shared vows with ... to kill the one you've shared your most inner darkest secrets with? And probably the person who would be the least suspecting that you would do this. There probably can be no more serious breach of trust. There's probably a hierarchy of trust. You kill a stranger—an acquaintance—maybe a family member. But the
wife
—the person you hold all this commonality with? It is really significant, and that's why we're here.

"To further aggravate ... we have the fact that Mr. Brown enlisted and encouraged his own flesh and blood—a fourteen-year-old girl—Cinnamon. That was a fourteen-year-old child any way you want to look at it . . . who was corrupted and tainted and
twisted
by her father. ... Is it fair for this little girl to have been placed in the situation she was ... ?

". . . By his own admission, Mr. Brown's a coward. . . . There's no question that this man has others do his bidding because he is the
ultimate
coward. He's a person that wants, wants, wants, but he doesn't want to put himself on the line. As he says over and over, 'Leave
me
out of it.' Per his own words, he 'didn't have the stomach for it.'

"We further have that, in preparation for this atrocious act, Mr. Brown sweetened the pot a little bit . . . by overinsuring his beloved—the one he has said over and over he would rather die in her place. He overinsures her to the point that it makes the act well, well worth it. After that . . . Mr. Brown comes into a huge windfall. . . . There's no question but that Mr. Brown knew exactly what he was going to gain. . . .

"If that weren't enough—after collecting eight hundred and forty-two thousand dollars, we have another act by Mr. Brown. In the preparation of this murder—actually long before—Mr. Brown preyed upon a young, vulnerable girl from less than fortunate circumstances. Regardless of what you think of Patti Bailey, we all are the products of our environment. . . . Mr. Brown preyed upon . . . Patti Bailey. In preying upon her, he promised her a new life. . . . Mr. Brown knew about her problems with family members, with clothing. Money. Food. What kid wouldn't want out of that hell she was in—to come with Mr. Brown?

"She didn't grow up to be Shirley Temple. You saw her—almost 'zombielike,' but was that because she's just an innately cold person, or was that because she's not that far removed from the hold that's been placed on her for several years? Even adults can be brainwashed by other adults. Imagine what vulnerable children in the right situation would do—what can happen.

". . . Mr. Brown, for his own perverted and selfish indulgences, prepares Patti Bailey to the point that she views him as her sole sense of support. . . . She told you, 'He was my life support.' He was the cure-all for her . . . and Mr. Brown was very adept at insuring that he remained that way, by sequestering these girls. ... He gets her to the point where she is willing to take the life of her own flesh and blood—
her sister. "

The courtroom was silent except for Jeoff Robinson's voice. It was not that he had given the jurors new information; it was more that they were hearing a litany of "atrocious acts" so packed into the same time frame that they became more unthinkable.

During these long months, they had heard all the tapes, they had heard David Brown's voice cajoling, denying, explaining (although never from the witness stand), and they had seen the young girls that the DA was talking about. In the beginning of this trial, all of it was akin to viewing a television drama.

Now, it was real.

"After the murder," Robinson continued, "the atrocious acts don't stop. As time goes by, things seem to get worse and worse. We have Cinnamon Brown's own life jeopardized by her father. . . . What would have happened if Cinnamon didn't vomit? There's no question what would have happened. You would have had the perfect murder. You would have had the act you wanted done—the murder of your wife—you would have had her sister there in her place, someone still young enough to mold, not twenty-three and independent. You would have had a suicide note that would have extricated
you.
And then—if the stomach [Cinnamon's] doesn't vomit—you've got no witnesses.

"If that stomach doesn't vomit"—he nodded to the jury—
"you 're
driving your car or
you 're
at work [today] and I'm down in my office. We're not here. To think that a father could jeopardize his own flesh and blood in that fashion is scary. . . .

"Mr. Brown knew that his daughter might not live to tell about it. His other alternative was that if she did, she's prepared with a story. . . . This fourteen-year-old girl— because she loves her father so much—is prepared to go through with it. . . . The defense is going to tell you Mr. Brown hasn't done any of this—it's those girls—those 'crazy girls'; they've done this on their own. Well, if you're convinced that that's how it happened, then so be it. Walk him out of here."

Robinson reminded the jury that the thrust of this case came through most forcefully in the three-and-a-half-hour interview that David Brown had with Jay Newell and Fred McLean on the morning of his arrest on September 22, 1988. "After he lies for a couple of hours, the walls finally start tumbling in. He can only plug up so many holes, and finally, like water, the truth starts coming through. He kills himself. That videotape is his end. That's what this case is all about."

Robinson pointed out that Ventura was
not
a school; it was a prison. "Cinnamon Brown's been put on hold since she was fourteen. Mr. Brown's trying so hard to keep her incarcerated and keep himself out of it. How far can this guy go?

"This man doesn't have a conscience. None. This man is the typical sociopathic personality. All he thinks about is
me.
Everybody else in his life is just a pawn. He can justify whatever he does by always saying that
he's worth it."

A major factor in proving David Brown guilty of murder had been to establish his "consciousness of guilt." Was he, indeed, aware that
he
was guilty of murder in the death of his wife, even though he was miles away when the shots were fired? Robinson stressed that Brown's actions
after
the crime showed a great deal of conscious knowledge of his own guilt.