It was a daunting picture.
"Mitch" Miller and Gail Carpenter only hinted at the arrival and departure times of the elusive jurors. They hadn't actually been deliberating all this time. Many had high school and college graduations to attend as June hit midstream; Judge McCartin allowed for that. How many actual hours had they deliberated? It might have been fifteen; it might have been many less. It was hard to figure for those outside the locked courtroom. The longer the jurors stayed out, the more semi-comforting explanations emerged.
Even so, a conviction began to seem unlikely.
A little before two, Jay Newell and Jeoff Robinson reluctantly left the courthouse and headed for the little shop where they routinely ate frozen yogurt instead of lunch. Yogurt they could get down. They were like nervous expectant fathers, however, gulping the stuff so fast that it hit their sinuses with a blast of pain.
Then they headed back toward the courthouse. As they circled the juniper island and walked past the reflecting pond, they caught the buzz of excitement, a palpable feeling.
"They've got a verdict," someone called, but Newell and Robinson figured it was a joke.
The buzz became a roar. Attorneys on the escalator coming down from the second-floor DA's office grinned and confirmed.
They had a verdict.
It was 2:45 P.M. on the longest Friday of 1990.
Department 30 was jam-packed with people, the first time it had been that full since jury selection. There were virtually every employee of the Orange County District Attorney's Office, a number of the Bailey siblings, the press and their microphones and cameras and notebooks. Everyone who had ever dropped in during the two-month trial seemed to be back; strange faces who had never been here before were there now.
All waited for the defendant. At 3:16 David Brown shed his chains and walked to his wooden chaih He was pale green and dewy with perspiration. In all of his life, he had never had to answer for even one sin.
Would he now?
As the jury filed in, they were all half-smiling. No one watching had the vaguest clue whether this was good or bad. Stephen M. Lopez was the jury foreman. He handed the verdict to Bailiff Miller, who passed it to Judge McCartin.
McCartin, the great poker face, read it silently.
David Brown appeared to be fascinated, curious—as if he too were only an enthralled spectator.
Gail Carpenter, McCartin's usually ebullient clerk, stood to read the verdict in her high, clear voice. "Count I... C-71791 —first-degree murder, a felony, to wit: violation of Section 187 of the Penal Code of the State of California, in that on or about March 19, 1985, in the County of Orange, State of California, the said defendant did willfully, unlawfully, and feloniously, and with malice aforethought, kill Linda Brown, a human being ...
"Guilty."
No one breathed. The verdict floated in the courtroom.
"Count II—in Orange County, California, the crime of felony, to wit: violation of Section 182.1/187, conspiracy to commit murder ... Guilty."
Whispers. One to go.
"... Special circumstances—that the aforesaid crimes were committed with the hope and expectation of financial gain ... Guilty."
David Arnold Brown had just been L-WOPPed. * * *
Judge McCartin set the sentencing date: August 22, at nine A.M. After so long, it was over so quickly.
David Brown did not change expression, but a red flush stained his face. He took a sip of water, then was led away by Bailiff "Mitch" Miller and Deputy Marshal Glenn Hoopingarner. As the verdict began to sink in, he shook his head in surprise. It wasn't supposed to be this way.
In the corridor outside Department 30, the pickings were ripe for the television and still cameras. The Bailey brothers and sisters came dangerously close to hysteria as they celebrated the verdict, sobbing and shouting, screaming out their victory.
Alan Bailey hyperventilated and sank to the floor, crying, "Guilty! Guilty! There's no way he'll get out of prison. He's evil to the core. At one time, I thought he was my best friend. I'm just glad he's away forever and ever and ever. He destroyed, he manipulated, but justice prevailed!"
Mary Bailey sobbed in her husband's arms, while Terry Blanchard, one of the jurors, stared, dumbfounded, at the bedlam.
Brenda Sands looked shyly into the television cameras. Did she think Cinnamon would be able to live a normal life now? She looked bewildered and murmured, "I don't know."
Jay Newell, as always, vanished down the back stairs before he could be caught in a camera lens.
But Jeoff Robinson explained to the press, "Had it not been for Jay Newell, we wouldn't be here. It was a case already closed, but this guy never gave up."
Sadly, this day of triumph was also a day of tragedy for Jay Newell; his father, "J. D.," had suddenly become critically ill and was dying. The man who would have been proudest of his son's finest hour would not live to share all the accolades.
Robinson had one task that came before all others. Ignoring clamoring reporters, he hurried to his office and placed a call to the Ventura School, asking to have Cinnamon Brown call him collect.
When the call came in, Robinson spoke earnestly into the phone. "Cinnamon, it's over. The jury found him guilty. I want you to remember that, starting right now, this is the first day of the rest of your life."
The David Brown jury, finally allowed to talk, explained that they had actually deliberated only a short time. "The. first afternoon, we elected our foreman—Steve Lopez," one juror recalled. "Our first vote was eight guilties and four undecided. On the second day, we watched the arrest tape; And on the third day, we watched more tape. We only deliberated seven hours. That tape convinced us—we watched David Brown completely turn around from what he said at the beginning of his interview with Newell."
One of the female jurors admitted that she had been shocked at the extent of the sexual perversion discussed: "I've never been exposed to anything like that." Another; more worldly, juror said, "Oral sex? I cannot imagine allowing that man to even touch my arm."
Several women jurors had caught David's easy explanation to Patti and Cinnamon (on the CYA tape) that fathers often had sex with their daughters—that it was no big deal. That did not make him guilty of murder, they stressed, but it demonstrated the way his mind worked and made it easier for them to see how he could manipulate the teenagers.
Their most believable witness? Unanimously—Richard Steinhart. "Richard Steinhart was a breath of fresh air," a heretofore shy woman juror exclaimed. "We had no trouble believing him. He had nothing to gain by lying—and nothing to lose."
Asked why they had smiled as they walked into the courtroom on that last day, several jurors said it had nothing to do with whether they had voted innocent or guilty. "We were surprised to see so many people out in the gallery—we had stage fright, and if we were smiling, it was because we were nervous!"
The phoenix remained inert in the ashes of his life. On Monday, July 23, David Brown pleaded guilty to charges that he conspired to have Jeoff Robinson, Jay Newell, and Patti Bailey murdered. Five lesser charges were dismissed. In essence, this was a plea bargain; Brown was given six years—to run concurrent with whatever sentence Judge McCartin would hand down on August 22.
Two years apiece for plotting to take three lives. It rankled those who cared about the would-be victims, but the time meant nothing. It might help to keep David Brown inside prison walls longer if he should ever come up for parole.
On July 18, Jay Newell interrupted his family's vacation trip, and Jeoff Robinson joined him in Sacramento. In an unusual move, the two appeared before the Juvenile Parole Board. They wanted the board to know that they were responsible for Cinnamon's recent reticence in talking about her offense. In order to convict David Brown, it had been necessary for Cinnamon to remain silent. Newell and Robinson asked that she not be penalized for this.
Cinnamon had already done more time than most juvenile homicide offenders. Given the revelation of her father's murder plans,
Newell and Robinson urged the board to consider Cinnamon's next appearance before the board— probably in early 1991 —in a favorable light.
There had been no deal at all. But both Robinson and Newell felt it was high time Cinnamon had someone on her side.
* * *
August 22 came and went without a sentence for Brown on the murder charges. The new sentencing date would be September 17. David Brown said that he would produce a number of letters on his behalf from huge corporations— even from the Pentagon. Letters that would support probation. None came.
Deputy Probation Officer Bruce B. Carel did, however, receive a number of letters condemning the convicted man, letters from Linda and Patti's sisters and brothers, from their mother. The messages were all full of regret and fear.
"Please make the sentence where he can never get out and do harm to anyone else—because I believe if he gets out, he will,"
"He messed up so many people's lives, all for his own selfish reasons. ... I feel he should never be able to see the light of day or night."
"This kind of person doesn't belong out with the human race, where he may do this again to someone else's family."
"What he has done is just plain sick and I don't feel there is enough punishment too hard for him, and I hope he has to do some of the suffering the family has done over the past five years."
There were highly literate letters and near-illiterate letters, but the message was all the same. Lock him up forever, and then watch him closely.
Newell added his own warning. "I feel David A, Brown should not only remain in prison for the rest of his natural life, but that it should not be forgotten that he will use and manipulate whoever he can to do his bidding. He should be closely monitored."
On September 17, 1990, the major players gathered for the last time in Judge Donald McCartin's courtroom. Everything was the same; only the jury box was empty— although several of the jurors sat in the gallery now to watch David Brown's sentencing.
Brown wore a huge neck brace. One explanation said he had fallen in the shower; another that he had fallen out of his bunk. The neck brace was possibly only a last bid for sympathy. Since Judge McCartin had suffered continual severe neck and back pain throughout the trial, Brown's ploy was so ill advised as to be utterly stupid—if it was a ploy.
McCartin gazed down at the man convicted in his courtroom three months earlier, and the television cameras caught his image. He had refused to set aside the special •circumstances, feeling that the excessive insurance on Linda Brown's life was certainly an equal motive in her killing. "I won't strike that.
"... This started out as a death-penalty case," McCartin said, moving into the most serious conviction. He looked directly at David Brown for the first time. "Somewhere it was struck. .. . Maybe because you had no prior record."
McCartin spoke to Pohlson and Schwartzberg. "If this had gone to the jury as a death-penalty case, I'd have no problem sentencing your client to either life without possibility of parole or to death. I drove Mr. Robinson into the ground on this one, and Mr. Pohlson is one of the best—if not the best [criminal defense attorney]."
McCartin took a deep breath and turned again to David Brown.
"The trouble is, Mr. Brown—you're a scary person. ... 1 have some concerns for my own safety. You don't look like Charlie Manson—he's crazy to look at, but you look a lot saner than your own defense attorney—but look what you did from jail. Look what you did to your own children, to your sister-in-law. It's scary to think you can manipulate people and do all this and not bat an eye. Even Charlie Manson didn't use family. . . . You're a master manipulator. I think the circumstances of this case are unbelievable. . . . You [seem to] have a pleasant personality, but you had no concern for your daughter, for your sister-in-law, for your wife. If Cinnamon had gone under, you would have walked away."
"Mr. Brown, you make Charlie Manson look like a piker."
With that said, Judge Donald McCartin sentenced David
Arnold Brown to life without possibility of parole and added a $10,000 fine. "With six years to run concurrent already on case C-80475."
The brace hid David's neck, but the tips of his ears were blanched white. Whatever he had expected, it was not this. He twisted in the wind while McCartin lambasted him with words.
David Arnold Brown had been in custody over seven hundred days, and he would get credit for that. Probation was denied. He had sixty days to file an appeal.
"Do you have any questions, Mr. Brown?" McCartin asked.
Mr. Brown did not, but he complained to his guards on the way out of the courtroom that the judge had had no reason to be so mean about it all. "He didn't have to say that about Manson."
On September 20, 1990,1 went to see David Brown. With the gracious help of Judge Donald McCartin, Gail Carpenter, and "Mitch" Miller, I was armed with a piece of paper that entitled me to one official visit. David's parents still visited faithfully, and he didn't want to miss a regular visit—but my "official" status allowed me to visit David once during any time he agreed to see me and to stay as long as I wanted.
The street scene outside the Orange County Jail looked like a small-scale fiesta. Vendors sold fast food and watermelon to visitors. Inside, there was no sense of fun. It has always saddened me to see jail visitors waiting to see someone they love. The waiting room of the IRC was vast and furnished with bright-turquoise molded couches and chairs—"Barbie" furniture, blocklike and legless; it wasn't very comfortable, but appeared totally indestructible.
Mothers and fathers and children and babies and pregnant teenagers and friends and baby-sitters either crowded into line to talk to the desk officers or perched fretfully on the unyielding plastic blocks. Jail visitors get little respect, and they always seem burdened with worry and anxiety.
My piece of paper carried little weight with the desk officers, and I languished with the rest of the visitors. Finally, at length, I was directed to an elevator that went to J Module. I walked down a long, long windowless hall. It could have been a cattle ramp—if it had not been for the surveillance cameras mounted high on the corners. There was not a soul in sight. The hall smelled like a zoo, a smell that blossomed as I walked farther down toward the visitors' cubicles.
I had interviewed so many prisoners in so many jails and prisons, but I had never shaken the claustrophobic feeling that now gripped me as I moved farther and farther into the bowels of a custodial facility.
I had been given number nine. Cubicles one and nine were reserved for attorneys, the clergy, and other official visitors. They were more than cubicles; they were little rooms with doors that closed, with pale-yellow cinder-block walls and one little steel jump seat in front of a glass partition.
The air was hot and still, fetid.
David Brown, wearing a voluminous mustard-colored jumpsuit, sat down on the other side of the glass and picked up his phone receiver. How strange it was to look at the front of him when I had spent the spring looking at the back of his head!
At first glance, David's eyes were dark; on closer perusal, they were silver, hazel, gray, and yet none of these; they reflected light like a pool with many-colored leaves adrift. He rarely blinked. His acne-scarred face was a mask. He was wary of me, so cautious that he had no spontaneity. He had apparently recovered from his neck injury; the collar he wore in court three days before was gone.
I asked if I might tape our conversation, and he refused. He had been badly burned by hidden tapes; he apparently didn't realize that a tape made in full view would only substantiate what he said to me. No matter. 1 had taken notes for years. Fingers before ears. Where I came from, tape recorders were not allowed in courtrooms or jails, and I had a permanent callus on one finger from clutching a pen through scores of interviews and trials.
David Brown had things to get off his chest. He would, of course, appeal. "They're scared to death of me, you know— afraid I'll kill the judge. I think McCartin was just making a show at sentencing. He pounded on his che
st like Tarzan so he can go home and tell his wife. I found him totally unprofessional."
Brown wanted to know where I stood on Jeoff Robinson —did I not agree that he was a "dishonest man, a manipulator," who was given to temper tantrums?
At the risk of alienating my subject, I shook my head.
"No," I murmured. "I found him very competent. He's charismatic in the courtroom."
Brown disagreed. He viewed Jeoff Robinson—and Jay Newell—as men with overweening political ambitions. "They are dishonest men. Robinson's manipulative. I have always tried to do right by people." He mentioned other interests—newspaper sales, for instance—that were profiting from his own misfortune. He hastened to explain, however, that he was not unused to media coverage. "I was famous before Linda was murdered."
Once again he listed his credits, the lives he had saved, the corporations that would have perished without him. He told me about his fame, his money, the MGM fire, the Pentagon connection, the "towering inferno" Los Angeles bank fire. "I've been in almost every magazine you can name. Robinson can bring down a millionaire and he gets people's attention." David assured me he didn't need all this notoriety. Fame had courted him on his own merits. He was after all "Mr. Coca-Cola," and the man who had extricated the Challenger secrets.
I commented that he had been lucky to be in the right place at the right time in the booming world of computers. He corrected me. "I like to think it was my skill and intelligence."
David assured me that he had made a fortune, although he had always been unusually fair in billing his clients. He explained his modest billing approach. "I recovered data for one bank that located three hundred and eighty million dollars for them! If I charged even one percent of what I saved them, I'd have got more than three million dollars."
He smiled slightly, enjoying the tease. "Maybe I did. But I always kept a low profile. I didn't pay taxes on it—if I got it."