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CHAPTER 1
The north wind was blistering cold in late January. James Fields had been on the road for two days, without sleep, from Minneapolis to Oklahoma City, having hitchhiked several rides. When he entered the Oklahoma City area, the driver let him out in an area of highway construction, where traffic was slowed.
James was freezing, wearing only a light jacket, and had less than five dollars in his pocket. At about five o'clock, just before the sun was setting, a middle-aged man named Bostwick pulled alongside James, who eagerly accepted his offer of a ride. When Bostwick asked where he was headed, James told him he wasn't sure, but he readily welcomed Bostwick's invitation to be his guest at a local hamburger joint.
With a full stomach from a giant cheeseburger, salty fries, and a chocolate malt and with tired limbs and sore feet, James accepted Bostwick's offer of a bed at his place. They reached an apartment complex on the near north side of Oklahoma City and entered a modest, clean, two-bedroom apartment with a jack-and-jill bath, a living room, and a kitchen. As they walked through the kitchen, Bostwick offered James a beer, but he declined, opting for a soda instead.
After several days of hitchhiking, James was eager to have a shower and wash his hair. Bostwick showed James where the bathroom was and offered toiletries. He pulled a towel from the cabinet and set it on a bench near the wash basin. Then he led the way to the bedroom and showed James where he could sleep.
Feeling much better after a shower but still exhausted, James padded into the living room to relax on the sofa and watch TV, but he kept dozing off. Bostwick soon approached James and tried to come on to him. When James told him he didn't do that, Bostwick didn't put up a fight. He simply backed off. He soon excused himself and exited to the bedroom where he fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning, after James washed his face and combed his hair, he entered the living room, only to find Bostwick on the floor, apparently dead.
James kneeled and bent over to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing. A knock at the door suddenly sent him backpedaling on the floor, using his feet and hands until the wall prevented him from moving any farther. The wall didn't prevent him from shaking, however. After the initial shaking subsided, he remained still for several minutes until the knocking ceased. James panicked and didn't know what to do, so he dragged the dead Bostwick into the bedroom and stuffed him in the closet, piling some quilts on top of him.
* * *
With no more than a phone call and a letter of introduction from the defense attorney for her new case, middle-aged Wanda Draper walked the short distance from the parking lot across the street to the jail, a white, six-story, impressive edifice. The ample windows, neatly spaced in horizontal bands, contained panes resembling water shimmering in the sunlight. Even though she had driven by this building many times, she had never taken close notice of the architectural features, like those above the fourth story. Windows with stone rosettes encircled the building like a flapper's headband. The building presented a modest display of art deco design. Built in the 1930s as part of Oklahoma City's Civic Center, this structure had received the short end of the stick and ultimately became the home of the courtrooms with the penthouse floor serving as the county jail. However, the building remained standing, hanging on to its last shred of dignity.
Wanda exited the elevator and entered the top floor. The scent of male testosterone descended upon her with the force of a tsunami. It hung in the air and seemed to be imbedded in the old, peeling paint. She tried to ignore the decrepit staleness that assailed her nostrils and eyes as she approached the jail clerk. Wanda introduced herself to the salt-and-pepper-haired officer, asking to see James Fields. She needed a contact visit and presented her identification as she smiled at the middle-aged employee.
The guard responded skeptically, "Ma'am, this guy's a murderer, and you really wanna sit in the same room with him?" He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, trying to determine if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Wanda was dressed in a tailored blue suit. Her unclasped jacket displayed a cream, silk crepe button-down blouse. From her neatly styled blond hair to her patent leather black heels, she looked like she was about to enter into a high-profile meeting — not an interview with an alleged killer housed in a small, dingy jail cell.
"I have to have a private contact visit," she insisted.
"Sorry. We can't expose you to this danger," the officer responded, matter-of-factly leaning back to add emphasis.
Wanda, undeterred, calmly handed him a letter and respectfully pointed out, "As you can see, I'll be working with the defense team on his case."
"Well," he retorted, surprised by Wanda's polite insistence, "only way you're gettin' that visit is if we chain him to a bench out here in the hall."
She glanced behind to see an old church pew just opposite the guard station. "No, I have to have a private room," she said with determination. "You can watch through the window, but I must have confidentiality and the ability to speak candidly with the defendant." The guard, with a slight sigh of resignation, directed her to take a seat on the pew to wait.
Forty-five minutes later, Wanda still sat completely erect, trying to compact herself as much as possible so as to minimize exposure to whatever film thoroughly coated the pew. She watched the guard go about his duties and the other jail staff and employees move in and about the halls and the little office. So this is our tax dollars at work, she thought, more than once as she glanced at her watch. As she shook her head and wondered, How do I get myself in these fixes?, she also remembered the first time she was called as an expert witness.
* * *
"Dr. Draper, I understand you're experienced in child development?" inquired a rather young male voice with a hint of a Wisconsin accent. After a brief pause, he hastily added, "Name's Harrison Johns, by the way. I'm an investigator."
Wanda confirmed his query as she jotted down his name on a note pad on her office desk.
"Have you ever testified in court? Capital penalty cases?" Harrison continued briskly.
"No, I haven't done any testifying." Wanda, intrigued by this individual and his line of questioning, patiently waited for the punchline.
The long pause of hesitation continued on the other end of the line. Wanda was certain Harrison was wrestling with trying to figure out the best place to pick up on a story with someone who just walked in three-quarters of the way through. "I'm on a case ... a murder case."
"Yes?" Wanda said in a nonjudgmental tone.
"It's being tried, now. Two children, ages four and six, watched their father shoot and kill their mother." Harrison drew a sharp breath before continuing, "We're looking for a behavioral specialist to testify as an expert in the penalty stage — that would be next week. Can you help us?" A tinge of desperation broke the hardened investigator façade his voice had projected earlier.
Wanda was surprised. She had never before considered such work. "What would you want me to discuss exactly?" she asked cautiously, interested as she started fidgeting with the pencil in her hand and doodling on the note pad.
"What, if any, impact this act will have on the children if their father gets the death penalty. You came highly recommended." Harrison poured on a little honey.
Seeing their father kill their mother? How could they not be affected? reeled through her mind. However, she was unsure how to respond. While her knowledge of court proceedings extended only to fiction and news clips, she understood the gravity and implications of such a request.
Harrison, afraid of losing his best lead, added, "Dr. Draper, we're desperate." To Wanda, his sincerity seemed genuine.
"Let me call you back tomorrow," Wanda said politely. After clearing her throat she admitted, "I need to give this some thought." Harrison thanked her for her time and left his contact information.
The receiver rested in its cradle for only a few seconds before she snatched it up again and dialed a lawyer colleague she greatly respected. He warned Wanda of her vulnerability and pointed out her inexperience with the judicial system. In between her daily duties and responsibilities, she contacted several other colleagues to obtain their opinions of the situation. The responses from the psychologists and psychiatrists were in concurrence with her friend: Stay. Away. From. The. Courtroom.
The next morning, Wanda was preparing her day's agenda. Top of the list was to call Harrison Johns with her response. She reached into her purse where she had previously tucked his number. Her hand instead pulled out a card featuring a pitiful child.
The only semblance of childlike joy and exuberance was in the blue-colorized ribbon that adorned the little girl's hair in the otherwise black-and-white photograph. Her body was small and frail, uncharacteristic of an eight-year-old. Her eyes had no brilliancy, not a spark of childlike mischief or fun. Her lips did not try to restrain a smile, laughing at some private joke between her and this wonderful world. Her body lacked the vitality, the ever-readiness to dash into a sprint, turn a cartwheel, or dance a special jig. Instead, the malnourished limbs were etched with lines of misplaced anger and scarred in hues of black and blue from being unloved. No, this was not a little girl who stood at attention, waiting for the next frivolity. This child cowered next to the severely ornamented chair from the Victorian era, bracing for impact. The vacant, fearful eyes of this ghost of a young girl seemed to echo, "What will become of me?"
Wanda flipped the card over:
The black and white photograph captures the image of little Mary Ellen Wilson, an orphan who was sent to be raised by foster parents in 1874's New York, in the harshest conditions of Hell's Kitchen. This little forlorn girl unfortunately became the first child in the United States to be rescued from her abusive living conditions. It is unfortunate because prior to 1874, there were no laws definitively protecting children and no organizations established to watch over children. Mary Ellen's rescue was facilitated by a missionary worker, Etta Agnell Wheeler, who after numerous pleas to legal counselors was turned away because there were no laws protecting children. Wheeler, desperately determined for a means to litigate the case in order to rescue this little girl, turned to an animal cruelty organization.
A sad thing that children were worth no more than animals. We together must protect our most precious resources. Join us as we take this month to remember all the children who, like little Mary Ellen Wilson, are waiting for rescue. Join our Blue Ribbon Campaign to prevent child abuse.
Wanda's resolution was strengthened at that moment. When Harrison answered, she replied without hesitation, "Mr. Johns, I will testify." As she ended the call, she contemplated, Early childhood experiences ... they do impact one's life in the present and in the future.
* * *
In between surreptitious glances at her timepiece and observing the jail comings and goings from the corner of her eye, Wanda wondered what this man, or really kid, named James would be like. She reflected, He's so young to be charged with such a crime! Only twenty years old! Will he even talk with me? Can I trust what he says? She had no preliminary information on him. She hadn't even been given a sheet of paper describing his physical features. Her mind turned to the courtroom. As she was thinking what would eventually happen with James's case after this interview, she couldn't help but remember her first courtroom appearance several months before.
* * *
She entered that huge Oklahoma courthouse in early 1989, knowing slightly more about the judiciary proceedings than she had previously but still knowing nothing about testifying in court. She did learn that the judicial process was divided into two stages: first stage, or guilt/innocence, and second stage, or penalty/sentencing. As Harrison had informed her, she would be called on behalf of the defense to offer testimony in second stage about how the children of the killer would be affected. She would offer her expert opinion in child development to afford the jury consideration of this man standing trial for having killed his wife in the presence of their children.
The judge's bench was at the west end, flanked by the witness box to the judge's right and the jury box to the judge's left. The court reporter's desk was near the witness box. Two large mahogany tables in front of the judge's bench were placed parallel to the twenty-some-odd rows of wooden pews of the audience gallery. A prominent wooden lectern stood directly facing the judge's bench. A twenty-eight-inch mahogany partition separated the spectators from the court. Several 1950s art nouveau lamps, made of pressed metal squares with relief design, hung from the ceiling. Wanda reflected on how the pews, facing the judge's platform, and the partition that separated the laymen from the judicial representatives reminded her of a temple. The thought struck her more than once: No wonder so many judges come to consider themselves as gods. All that's missing is a place to offer sacrifices.
After being sworn in and asked the initial questions about her credentials and experience with children and families, Wanda was certified as an expert witness.
The defense attorney, whom she had met only hours before, cut to the heart of the matter, "Would you please comment on how the children will be affected if their father is sentenced to death?"
"The children, having witnessed this atrocious act and losing their mother in this manner, will require long-term therapy and a lot of emotional support from family, friends, church, and others. If the father is put to death, the children will have no way to resolve this issue with him or within their own minds and hearts," Wanda succinctly answered the question.
"Objection!" cried out the prosecuting attorney as he jumped to his feet. The face of Tom Roberts, known as "Cowboy Tom" for not only roping calves in the fields but for also roping defendants in the court, was blood red. He looked every bit the cowboy lawman, from his crisp, white shirt crowned with his trademark western bolo tie down to his polished-to-a-shiny-black leather boots. He was a man who believed in the law of the land. And this cowboy had just been brought to the beginning stages of apoplexy by outrage. Mr. Roberts did not want the jury to hear what Wanda had to say.
Wanda, in turn, was completely overwhelmed by such a violent display of anger. She did not know what was happening. She had never seen anything like this. This was not the civilized and decorous behavior she expected of the American legal profession. Thoughts of having somehow made a mistake or overstepped some unknown boundaries raced through her mind. Yet, her face was expressionless.
The judge cleared the jury from the courtroom. "Cowboy Tom" believed that something in Wanda's testimony was inadmissible and therefore not relevant for the jury. What was so grievous to "Cowboy Tom" was not clearly apparent to the defense nor the judge. However, this was the man who believed in putting to death anyone who, in his opinion, threatened the greater good; he saw it as a necessary sacrifice. After Wanda was questioned further, there was a brief recess. The jury then returned, and her testimony resumed. Though her knees were shaking, relief washed over her when she finally stepped down from the witness stand.
The next day, the attorney called to thank Wanda for her testimony. Still recovering from the jarring experience, she was still somewhat mystified about the previous day's proceedings. The attorney assured her she did an excellent job and provided compelling testimony. However, Wanda wasn't pleased with her testimony. In her mind, it was weak for one principle reason. She had neither interviewed the defendant nor the children. While she was able to comment and opine how children, generally, are affected developmentally after such traumatic events, she did not like to deal in generalities. As she replaced the phone's receiver, she thought, Development is so much more dynamic and influential. It sculpts perspectives and relationships, defining life's possibility as a success or a tragedy.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Witness"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Wanda Draper, Ph.D..
Excerpted by permission of Morgan James Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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