Lawyers earn their living by the sweat of their tongues, and they don't mind hard work. (anon) Some legal pundits espouse the use of conversational tones when addressing Jurors. They recommend a friendly discussion approach while arguing points to the Trier of Fact. These Courthouse virtuosos suggest that the sophistication of contemporary Jurors makes Courtroom oratory passe. Excuse me! A PROSECUTOR has a sworn duty to proclaim the truth. Even the most casual Courtroom combatant knows that facts don't automatically prevail. Justice is often frustrated. Truth doesn't inexorably impose its will on a Jury. There is no magic charm-wand in the Courtroom. No vaccine for insulating undecided Jurors from the noxious effect of falsehood. No ambient conditioner to endow equivocal Juries with perfect discernment during their deliberations. The cause of Justice must be championed by PASSIONATE ADVOCACY. The People's Lawyer must prosecute aggressively but prudently, and he must speak dynamically. Truth is promulgated by evidence, proper instructions, perspiration, and eloquence! Manner of delivery is a matter of personal style to be sure, but it's also a matter of taking charge in the Courtroom.

By The Sweat Of My Tongue

Profiles In ProsecutionBy Mel Harmon

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Mel Harmon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6343-0

Contents

1—Vile Vengeance................................................12—Judicial Sleight of Hand......................................213—Mister Defendant Bye – Bye..............................454—Where Is the Promise..........................................595—Is There a Doctor in the House................................796—Advisory Not Given — Or Was It?.........................1057—What About Bob's Ladies?......................................1278—How Great the Grief a Little Fire Kindles.....................1659—Finding Humor in the Courtroom................................19110—Oh, It's A Real Dog..........................................22711—Prosecutorial Duty...........................................247

Chapter One

Something is different. A stiff breeze whips the mimosa trees. The moonless night is warm and creepy. The shrill wail of sirens relentless in the distance. Those on the street sense a palpable tension building, expanding – intensifying. Volatile flames lick hungrily at the somber darkness. A sinister bluish-orange glow hovers over west Las Vegas. Large chunks of city blocks on the westside are burning. Many firefighters and police hurriedly respond to crisis points.

It's an extraordinary event. Multiple fires have been deliberately combusted by citizens in response to the acquittal in California of three Simi Valley police officers on charges of viciously beating motorist Rodney King. Widespread rioting has triggered arson and looting. The aura the rioters have created reeks with a spirit of reckless retribution. It is an ill-begotten omen of lawlessness that does not bode well for the immediate future.

The frenzied protest of hooligans in west Las Vegas is the night's lead story, but about one mile away a vile subplot will bedevil the diminished resources of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department in this portentous gloom.

Perhaps, he is one among many. But within the borders of the city, on this 30th day of April, 1992, is a vain man with a bone to pick. He has a serious gripe. He carries within his heart a reservoir of bitter bile that infects his mind. He's been obsessed with a spirit of vengeance for months, and the poison spreads with the passing of each hour. He's been wronged by one he considered a friend. Seriously compromised. Threatened. And on horror's head horrors accumulate! What he now contemplates is horrible. Disgusting. Diabolic.

Yet, his bloody thoughts, with violence pace, malignant in his brain. He believes only cunning, cruel, complete revenge will swallow up his bloody torment. He's mistaken in his premise, of course. But how do we make sense out of nonsense? How are victims to be warned of impending catastrophe? How can one whose head is saturated with horror forgive the one who put the horror there?

* * *

There is no warning. It is a mission of stealth and subterfuge. The night continues to be enveloped by thick darkness. Natural cover for the perpetration of murderous mischief. A silver sliver of a moon will not rise until 2:19 am. By then the heinous deed is done. And the police have other fish to fry on the westside. They are preoccupied by a smokescreen of fire and rioting. The night seems ordained for perverted vindication.

There are six persons inside 532 Wardelle Street, Apartment D. It's almost midnight – the ominous witching hour. Though it's not the sorcery of witches that is imminent. The black specter of murder approaches. A car pulls up and parks. Two men with loaded firearms are inside. Both dressed in dark clothes. They linger in the car reviewing their modus operandi.

Mousey gets out, shrouded in the darkness. Quietly, fatefully he climbs the stairs and knocks. There's a brief pause. He is known by those inside. Or is he?

Lacy opens the door and goes to the bedroom. Mousey enters. He carries a concealed .357 magnum and a malevolent heart. Stuart and James are in the front room – apprehensive. There's small talk. They ask why he's dressed in dark clothes. He offers a flippant response. They sit down. More relaxed. Less vigilant. Disarmed by Mousey's manner and charming banter. Small errors in judgment can have calamitous consequence.

A few minutes later, Mousey excuses himself to go spit. It's a ruse. He unlocks the dead bolt and goes to the balcony briefly. When he returns he does not reset the dead bolt. Sadly, his treachery is unnoticed.

There's more conversation. Mousey stands up and goes to the window. He parts the drapes and looks outside. His actions are a sign of readiness. A green light. It's a go! The lights of the car blink menacingly. Message received!

Double R exits the vehicle. On horror's head horrors accumulate. He is strapped with a 9-millimeter – and by bloody thoughts that violently pace malignant in his brain. He is known by one who is inside. Or is he – really?

Step–by– step with measured stealth, Double R climbs the stairway to deliberate–murderous–mayhem. Death is at the door of apartment D. He enters unimpeded. His 9-millimeter in hand.

Stuart and James are blind sided. They say indignantly, "What is this?" Stuart reaches for his heat, but the intruders have the drop on those inside. The element of surprise is decisive. Stuart is told to take his cap off. He wants to keep it on, but the vicious intruders are insistent. He reluctantly removes his cap as his life passes in a kaleidoscopic flash before his eyes. He is literally staring into the gun barrel. A .357 magnum bullet crashes into his head, leaving a jagged wound of entry just above his left eyebrow. He was eighteen.

James is ordered to take his cap off. He pleads for his life. He says, "I won't tell." His appeal is denied. It falls on unhearing ears. The perpetrators aren't into listening. Dead men don't tell tales. He's told, in so many words, "No offense, buddy. But it's got to happen. Take your hat off." And he's shot in the back of the head by a projectile from the .357 magnum. He was nineteen.

A cassette player is playing. The volume of the music is jacked up – loud.

Things happen quickly. Mousey and Double R go to the back bedroom. Lacy is cowering on the bed. Terrified. Trapped. Sorry. Lamenting that she unlocked the door and let Mousey come in. Lamenting that she's here. Lamenting that she can't make herself invisible. Her distraught, imploring eyes beg for a reprieve.

To no avail. The hearts of the intruders are implacable. They relentlessly pursue their foul mission. Dead men don't tell tales – nor do dead women. They place a pillow over those desperate eyes. Double R callously discharges three 9-millimeter bullets into her writhing body. One round enters her upper right chest. The other two penetrate her upper right arm. Then also enter the right chest. She was twenty six.

It is time for deadly retribution. Bloody mayhem goes into the bathroom. Shannon is in the shower. She's the target. Helpless. Exposed. Frantic. There's an emotional melt-down. She acknowledges her transgression, and apologizes to Double R for betrayal. She'll make it up to him somehow. She begs to be spared. Don't kill me. Let me live. Please!

But the die is cast. She's made her choices. There is no pardon. No forgiveness....