“Look, they’re going to dig and dig hard. Whatever privacy you think you had, you can forget. They’ll go back to your schooling. Back to your training. Your marriage, your divorce, your relationships. They’ll go back to what happened to your son. They’ll turn every stone and turn it again. You want to answer for everything you’ve ever done? We can’t look good, doing that. We can’t look good to anybody at this point, Terry, we can only look bad. You’re on the defensive. When we get you out of here we go on the offensive. That’s why you’ve got me. Use me. I’ll tell the media what they need to know, when they need to know it. Right now, you’re going to have to endure all the assumptions people might make. That’s your part of our deal here. It’s hard and I know it’s hard. But fuck ’em for now, Terry. That’s how you’ve got to think. I’ve got a good team of investigators and we can get you out of this. I know a photographic examiner who can analyze those photos — Will Fortune — he’s ex-FBI and he’s the best there is. I’ve talked to him. He’ll cost you a hundred and fifty an hour, plus a hundred an hour to travel. Your time will come. Be patient.”
“I have to say something.”
“You are. Tomorrow you’re going to tell the world you’re not guilty.”
I was arraigned in Superior Court 8, the Honorable Lewis Sewell presiding. Sewell is generally considered to be an old-time conservative, tough on crime, efficient in his courtroom. I had testified before him several times, and always liked the economy of his proceedings. He was a prosecutor’s judge. Now I dreaded him.
The county courtrooms are large, modern and somewhat sterile. They hint of bureaucratic dispatch rather than the halls-of-justice drama you find in older, more seasoned ones. The room was jammed. The back part was irate citizens, all eager to see with their own eyes the cunning pervert once entrusted with the protection of their children. There was a bristling phalanx of reporters in the front rows, at least four sketch artists set up to capture me for their newspapers and networks. I immediately realized the wisdom of Loren’s refusing to let me talk to the media right then. Those people were there to crucify me, pure and simple, just like Donna had said. There were no cameras in Sewell’s court, for which I was profoundly grateful. I recognized people from the Times and Register, OC Weekly, KFWB and KNX radio and a rather beautiful reporter for CNB, Donna Mason. She looked up from the ranks as I was led in. Her pencil was poised over a reporter’s notebook and the look on her face was unrevealing. She looked at me without any visible trace of personal interest, which sent my guts into a free fall. But, under the circumstances, what else could she do?
I sat beside Loren in my street clothes, which he was kind enough to have sent in earlier that morning. He explained that the street clothes were a risky move: he wanted the court to see me at my nominal best, but he didn’t want Sewell to think I assumed I’d be walking into the late April sunshine of Orange County in a matter of minutes. I had shaved and combed my hair, which was still wet from the dribble of water from my protective custody faucet.
He slipped the Times and Register morning editions onto the table before me and I scanned the headlines, both quite large:
and
“This is hard to look at,” I whispered to Loren.
“That’s just the breeze,” he said. “Here’s the wind.”
He slid the papers back into his briefcase, then set down our copy of the complaint. I read through the list of witnesses to be called against me:
Joe Reilly, Director, Orange County Sheriff Department Forensic Laboratory
Karl Neelson, Deputy Director, Orange County Sheriff Department Forensic Laboratory
Margo Fixx, Assistant Director, Orange County Sheriff Department Forensic Laboratory
Lieutenant Jordan Ishmael, Orange County Sheriff Department
Deputy Alonzo Arriaga
Deputy Edward Reston
Deputy Frances White
Timothy Monaghan, Special Agent F.B.I., Washington, D.C.
Laurie Mize, Special Agent F.B.L, Washington, D.C
Alton Allen Sharpe
Caryn Lynn Sharpe
Linda Elizabeth Sharpe
Melinda Ellen Vickers
Penelope Anne Ishmael
I think my breath was short by then.
I know it was by the time I read the items listed in search warrants for my home and workplace:
Hair specimen
Fiber specimen, clothing, carpet
Soils specimen
Floorboard fiber specimen, vehicle(s)
Shirt, plaid flannel
Shirt, plaid cotton (blue)
Shirt, white cotton T
Pants, cotton twill (beige)
Pants, cotton denim (blue)
Socks, blend (navy)
Socks, cotton (white)
Shoes, leather chukka (suede)
I entered the haze again. Still within it, I looked behind me to see Donna Mason — and a million other faces — sizing my neck for the guillotine. Jordan Ishmael stood beside her with a fawning smile on his GQ face. Rick Zant was chatting with the KFWB and KNX reporters. Inside my ears there was a roar, then a silence, then the roar again.
I looked back down at the complaint.
The voice of the docket clerk rang out as Judge Sewell entered his courtroom and took his seat behind the bench. I stood on invisible legs and watched with fogged, uncertain eyes.
A moment later the clerk spoke again:
“Criminal Case 97-1103.”
I walked to the podium, Loren on my right. I was dimly aware of our path converging with that of Rick Zant and Victoria Espinoza, a young deputy prosecutor. We met, loosely, in front of the bench. When I looked up at the Honorable Lewis Sewell, he was already looking down at me, with an oddly dispassionate expression. He nodded and said hello, Terry. I said hello, Your Honor, back. When I looked over at Zant, he caught my gaze with a piercingly anonymous stare, then smiled up at the judge.
“Counsel,” said Sewell, “please identify yourselves for the record.”
Zant took a half step to the side and said, in his sonorous courtroom voice, “Your Honor, Richard Zant for the People of the State. With me is Victoria Espinoza, deputy district attorney.”
Loren said, rather quietly, “Loren Runnels for the defendant, Terry Naughton, Your Honor. We request leave, Your Honor, to file our appearance.”
Sewell allowed the motion, which legally confirmed Loren as my counsel.
Loren took a small step forward and away from me. I felt like I’d been left in a dumpster by my mother.
His voice was a little louder, then, with a suggestion of controlled authority in it.
“Your Honor, the defendant is before you now. We acknowledge receipt of a copy of the complaint, and waive a formal reading at this time. On behalf of Mr. Naughton, Your Honor, we ask you to enter a plea of not guilty to the charges.”