Marovich is seen talking, but the voice heard is mine: “The District Attorney is in the middle of perhaps the strongest political challenge he has faced since his first, and unsuccessful, run for public office in 1979.” Marovich is replaced by a full-face shot of George Schwartz.
I continue: “George Schwartz has been an investigator with the district attorney’s office for twelve years. According to Schwartz, he was asked by the district attorney to tail one of the original detectives assigned to the Conklin case. Again, according to Schwartz, the surveillance was ordered after the detective attempted to make telephone contact with his former partner on the case. Mr. Schwartz rear-ended the detective’s private automobile, and angrily confronted him.”
The still shots I had taken of George Schwartz in South Pasadena begin to move through their sequence: Schwartz turning, his face ugly and contorted as he runs at Mike, assaults Mike from the rear. I stopped before Mike stepped aside and let Schwartz fall. I had also cropped the handcuffs until the last frame, when Schwartz was being put into a South Pasadena police car. His Toyota’s dented front bumper is clear in the foreground. In sum, it is a wonderfully damning three seconds.
Fade to Jennifer Miller taking her turn in center screen, my voice: “The defense attorney for Charles Conklin works for a major Los Angeles law firm, the same law firm that employed Baron Marovich before his election to public office.”
The foursome in the top corner begins to move, Leroy Burgess begins to speak, but the larger part of the screen is still Jennifer Miller. Burgess says, in his resonant baritone: “Mr. Marovich listened to us, understood the implications of our findings right away. He has such confidence that the original investigation was tainted that he persuaded one of the city’s big-dollar law firms to represent Charles Conklin on a pro bono basis. Without charging a fee, Jennifer Miller will lead the defense.”
The foursome freezes. Split the screen again, Jennifer moves left, my voiceover as Jerry Kelsey fills screen right. “Retired Detective Jerry Kelsey has been accused by the district attorney of coercing the young witnesses to lie in order to gain a conviction of Conklin.” Pull back, spread the screen so that the original full photograph is seen. Clearly Jerry Kelsey, framed in his trailer window, is looking at Jennifer Miller standing in his front yard.
“When this reporter tried to speak with Detective Kelsey at his home, attorney for the defense Miller arrived. She was identified as the ‘advisor’ for Detective Kelsey. Charges of gross ethics violation have been filed against Miller. To this date, no one outside the district attorney’s circle has successfully questioned Detective Kelsey.
“There were two witnesses to the killing,” I say. Wyatt Johnson’s bloody body in black and white replaces Kelsey and Miller. “In 1979 LaShonda DeBevis was ten years old when she came upon this scene. Hanna Rhodes was eleven. According to the district attorney, both witnesses have recently recanted their original testimony and signed new affidavits, denying that they identified Charles Conklin as the man they saw at the crime scene. The affidavits are unavailable. And so are the witnesses.
“Since Friday, no one, neither co-workers nor close friends, has heard from LaShonda DeBevis.
“Hanna Rhodes, the second witness.” Juxtaposed next to Johnson’s corpse, Hanna’s shrouded body, her own stream of blood blending with his in the middle of the screen. “Monday night, Hanna Rhodes was gunned down just blocks from the service station where this case began fifteen years ago. Since her release from prison Friday, where she was alleged to have retracted her identification of Conklin, Rhodes had been hiding out in a Hickory Street rock house in Southeast Los Angeles. She told friends someone was after her.
“Charles Conklin, the center of this controversy, has remained silent to this point. Who is he?” Bring up Charles Conklin’s booking photographs, three of them, each clearly labeled, from three different police departments: Los Angeles, Compton, the county sheriff. His rap sheet fades through the photographs. Slow scan down the rap sheet, slow enough to read rape, crime against child, burglary, pandering, murder.
After the gray and white of the computer printout, a flash of color that is James Shabazz. I am only visible as a blue sleeve beside him. My voiceover: “James Shabazz was a sometime foster father to Charles Conklin.”
On the tape, I asked him, “You saw something redeemable in Charles?”
“Charles?” Shabazz was thoughtful here, appearing careful before he spoke. For reasons of time, I edited out a few seconds of his answer. “Your question, did I see something worth redeeming in him? All of Allah’s children can find redemption. But a boy who would put a bullet in the back of a man’s head to steal his car for an hour’s ride, who would take his own girl child into his carnal bed, a boy like that was beyond my power to help.”
Fade James. The foursome in the top corner again comes to life. Leroy Burgess takes his turn center screen. He is leaving the network studio with a garment bag over his shoulder and his empty toupee head held in front of him like a torch. He’s smiling self-consciously for the camera, hurrying, head down as if he’s been caught doing something naughty. I ask in voiceover, “Why has Charles Conklin’s case suddenly appeared in the media?”
As Burgess in the center of the screen begins to jog, wearing his clerical collar, Burgess up in the comer speaks. “Let me clear up one misconception here. I’m not a priest or an ordained minister of any kind. I never said I was. Sure, I wear a clerical collar. That collar opens a lot of doors to me that wouldn’t normally open for a private eye.”
He opens the door of his rental Cadillac and gets in. His voice says, “I’m not a flim-flam man. Leroy Burgess is not getting rich off the misfortune of others. My organization, Pastoral Crusade, is completely nonprofit.”
As Burgess drives away, sunlight glints off the shiny Cadillac. Fade to black.
It takes a while to describe action that in fact occupied exactly, and only, sixty seconds.
LaShonda applauded.
I stood up and bowed. “Okay, LaShonda, it’s your turn. You ready to do an interview for me?”
“All right.” She ducked her head shyly. “What are you going to ask?”
“First, did you recant your identification of Charles Conklin?”
She shook her head. “All I did was, I said I never actually saw him pull the trigger. But that’s what I said in court all those years ago. I heard the shots. I saw Pinkie run out of the restroom. I saw the dead man’s feet sticking out of the rest-room and his blood running into the driveway. After that, all I saw was nothing until I got to James’s house.”
I said, “You didn’t see anyone else?”
“Only Hanna.”
“Were you bribed by the police?”
“I was very young,” she said. “As I remember, the officer told my mother there was a reward for catching the man who killed the other officer. He said if my testimony helped convict Pinkie, I might get enough from the reward to buy a new bike. I don’t know if that’s offering a bribe or not.”
“Who made the offer?” I asked.
“The tall one.”
I looked at Guido. “Mike?”
Guido stood up and stretched. “Better record her. Want me to see if there’s studio time available?”
I said, “No. Let’s keep this just us.”
While Guido fussed with lights and LaShonda checked her makeup, I paged Mike.
I went over to a locked cupboard, took out a handycam, put in a fresh tape. Then, with the camera running, I asked, “What did you see on the night of November 6, 1979?”