Читать книгу Vengeance - Zachary Lazar - Страница 12

4

I eventually saw a photograph of Damien Martin, the murder victim, about a month later, when I went with Deborah to the Old Records Office of the Jefferson Parish Clerk of Courts. I’d been spending a lot of time there reading Kendrick’s case file—“pressing the button,” as Simeon had said, driven on by some demon. At the Old Records Office, there turned out to be almost thirty photographs of Damien Martin, glossy 8-by-10 color prints, kept in a manila envelope in a cardboard box amid shelves and shelves of other evidence from other investigations. The photos were presented to us at a table by a sheriff’s deputy, who sat there silently as Deborah and I looked at them under fluorescent lights. There was a large blowup of Damien Martin’s bare foot on a backdrop of blue vinyl, the skin wrinkled and sere, a tag bearing his name and address and case number strung from the big toe. There was a gruesome picture of Martin’s head resting on a blood-soaked cloth laid atop a plastic sheet, a stream of blood issuing from his nostrils, his eyes blurry slits, maroon-colored spatters on his cheeks and nose. There were more than a dozen close-ups of the bullet wounds to his forehead, temple, and ear (small round seeping holes), and close-ups of the tattoos on his forearms (the name Katy, a cross surmounted by four stars). There were pictures of him sprawled dead on a table in the coroner’s office, still in a black Karl Kani T-shirt and black jeans, and there were pictures of his body in those same clothes on the linoleum floor in the kitchen at Athena Street, lying beside a bucket of joint compound and a mop in a plastic pail. There was a picture of Martin still alive, his two young daughters sitting on his lap, white ribbons in their hair, Martin in a gray sweater and an Adidas cap, his daughters in matching sweatshirts with giraffes on them, both smiling, one with a mix of missing teeth, baby teeth, and adult teeth, the younger one with almost no teeth yet at all. The deputy pulled more objects out of the cardboard box. There was a smaller manila envelope, this one containing the bullet fragments retrieved from the scene. He handed the envelope to me—I could feel the metal bundled tightly inside the thick paper—before I could think to refuse. He pulled out Martin’s black bucket hat, kept as evidence because it had a bullet hole in it where the crown met the brim, the edges of the tear stained brown as if singed. In the stack of photographs, I now saw, were several pictures of the hat resting on the kitchen floor, a yellow plastic marker labeled “P” framing the perforation. I thought of the smiling faces of Damien Martin’s daughters in the family portrait. They would be adolescents now, and likely had no idea that these artifacts of their father even existed.

There was no reason to do this work other than the need to do it, out of some untenable faith in your own way of seeing. Over the course of several days, I’d read through more than six hundred pages of court documents that detailed Kendrick’s case, and I had been faced once again with the idea that he might simply be lying, that I had made a naïve mistake. That was why I’d asked the staff at the Old Records Office if I could get a transcript of the four taped statements he had made to the police. It turned out that I could not only get a transcript but could actually listen to the tapes themselves, the sound of the exact words in Kendrick’s own voice. That was why Deborah and I were there. I’d wanted her to come because I wanted to see how she, an outsider, would interpret what we heard. I wanted to know if the part of me that still believed Kendrick might be innocent was simply deluded.

The deputy finally located the tapes in the box of evidence. I had the transcript before me, which I tried to place so that both Deborah and I could see it. The deputy loaded the first of four mini-cassettes into a small black dictation recorder, and I took out my notebook and pen and we began.

This is a taped statement of Kendrick Donovan King, K-I-N-G. Black male, date of birth 9/20/82, currently residing 700 Avenue F, Westwego, his mother’s residence. Statement is being taken on August 30, 2003, at approximately 6:14 by Detective Ray Lagarde of Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office Homicide Division in reference to item F-94857-02.

lagarde: Mr. King, uh, is it not in fact true that, oh, maybe twenty minutes ago, sometime before 6:00 p.m. on this date, you called the detective bureau, looking for me?

king: Yes.

lagarde: Okay, and what caused you to do that?

king: Well, because my mother had called me and told me that two detectives had come by the house. She said you gave her your card, so I called you right away.

lagarde: And so, after a brief conversation, we came back here into this interview room.

king: Yes, sir.

lagarde: And I said that this was in regard to Damien Martin, who had been murdered the week before.

king: Yes.

lagarde: And I asked you if you knew him.

king. Yes.

lagarde: And you indicated that you did know him.

king: Yes.

lagarde: And I asked you if you had been around the building at all on the day of the murder, in the morning hours, in particular, on the day in question. If, you know, you could account for your whereabouts, during those morning hours. And what did you say?

king: No, I wasn’t there during the morning hours.

lagarde. Okay. That’s right. You indicated that you were not there in the morning hours.

king: That’s right.

lagarde: And when you first told me that, only then did I start filling out this form I’m showing you now, entitled Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office Rights of Arrestee or Suspect.

king: Yes. That’s correct.

As we listened, Martin’s bucket hat, the envelope containing the bullet fragments, and the photographs of the crime scene were still on the table. I noticed that Deborah and I weren’t looking at them. We were looking at the mini-cassette player, which sat at the center of everything with a strange, almost necromantic aura, transmitting these captured voices from ten years ago. Lagarde was reading Kendrick his Miranda rights now. It would have been the second time that evening that he had done so. He pointed out that Kendrick had already waived these rights and already initialed and signed a form to that effect. In less than half an hour, in other words, Kendrick had gone from being a potential witness to being a suspect. On the tape now, Kendrick agreed once again to the terms Lagarde repeated to him. I understand what my rights are. I’m willing to make a statement and answer questions. I do not want a lawyer at this time. I understand and know what I’m doing.

They resumed the narrative, Kendrick saying again that he wasn’t at Martin’s apartment building during the morning hours, that he was at his girlfriend Janelle Bryers’s house, nine miles away. Janelle had taken their daughter, Aysha, to day care that morning, then gone to work, leaving him alone all day in Janelle’s trailer house.

lagarde: And had anyone seen you between the time Janelle left for work that morning and when she returned home that night? Can anybody account for your whereabouts that day?

There was silence, then Lagarde reminded Kendrick that he was being recorded, and Kendrick began a blurry recollection of waking up that morning and calling a friend from Janelle’s home phone. Lagarde listened—patient, not accusatory, just someone who wanted to get this task taken care of as quickly and efficiently as possible. He asked again if anyone had seen Kendrick, rather than just speaking to him on the phone, and Kendrick said, no, no one had actually seen him that day, not until Janelle came home a little after six o’clock. He had not gone anywhere else that day? No. He had stayed inside the trailer the whole time?

king: Yes.

lagarde: All day long. Okay.

king: Until six fifteen. Six thirty.

lagarde: Okay. Six fifteen. Six thirty. And where did you go then?

king: I went to Athena Street.

Athena Street was the location of Damien Martin’s apartment building. Kendrick’s responses so far had been confident, eager, like someone answering quiz questions with impatient mastery, but now he began to rush, his voice deeper and louder.

lagarde: You went to Athena Street?

king: Yes.

lagarde: You left your girlfriend’s and the first place that you went was Athena Street.

king: Yes.

lagarde: And why was that?

king: I sometimes go to Athena to see friends.

lagarde: Friends?

king: Yes.

lagarde: Okay. And who in particular were you going to see that night?

king: Normal times, I had pulled into the second driveway. No . . . you see, Athena. I always pull up there and, you know, just stand outside and holler to whoever it is to come outside.

lagarde: So on the day of the murder, you weren’t going there to see anyone in particular? You just happened to go there?

king: Yes.

lagarde. Okay. Uh, but that’s when you discovered there’d been a shooting. A shooting involving Damien Martin?

king: I seen Antoinette. She said Damien got shot. You know what I’m saying? He got shot! He got shot! I was coming out the car and I seen her. He got shot, you know? That’s why I had walked through the police tape. I wasn’t thinking. I saw Antoinette and I just walked through it.

lagarde: Now, who is Antoinette?

king: Antoinette. She live next door to Damien.

lagarde: Okay.

king: She said he got shot. He got shot. She walking up the street and I said, “Y’all, you know, where y’all was at? Y’all didn’t see nothing?” She say, “Oh, we ain’t even . . .” She said, “We ain’t even . . . we was inside the apartment.” She said they was inside, in the apartment next door, and all they heard was cabinets slamming. I said, “What? What you mean? Cabinets slamming?”

lagarde: They, we. Who? Who else was with Antoinette?

king: Her boyfriend.

lagarde: Do you know her boyfriend’s name?

king: Yes. His name is Lawrence.

lagarde: Do you know his last name?

king: No.

lagarde: Can you describe him for me?

king: Short. Maybe five foot eight. Light skin, reddish hair.

lagarde: How is he built?

king: Heavy. Heavy build. Got a . . . got a gunshot wound in his left leg.

lagarde: That’s right. Okay, that’s—that’s a pretty accurate description of the person we’re talking about. Let me ask you this, Kendrick. In all fairness before, I indicated to you that, you know, that several people had said you were on the grounds, uh, at Athena Street, at the time or around the time of the murder.

king: Uh, huh.

lagarde: Is there any truth to that?

king: No. No truth at all.

lagarde: No truth at all.

king: No. No, sir.

lagarde: Okay. Had you ever been in Damien Martin’s apartment before?

king: Yes. About two months ago.

lagarde: And what was the purpose of that visit?

king: Uh, Jodi. His baby mama, Jodi, has a little girl. Damien and Jodi has a baby, a little girl, and I wanted to see this little girl, ’cause my little girl is . . . like a few months older. And Jodi said her little girl ain’t talking yet. She asked me if it was a problem. Because my little girl, she . . . she ain’t talk till late, like she past two before she really start talking. So I said, no, I’ll come and see her. So that’s why I had come by there.

lagarde: To see Jodi’s baby?

king: Yes.

lagarde: Okay . . . I just want to ask you. Were you aware of any illegal activity, any narcotics or anything, emanating from that apartment on Athena Street?

king: No.

lagarde: You understand that’s not the point of my investigation?

king: Yes, sir.

lagarde: You understand that I’m a homicide detective. I’m simply interested in the murder of Damien Martin and not in any illegal activity that may have gone on prior to the murder.

king: I understand.

lagarde: Your answer would still be the same.

king: Yes.

It felt odd to talk in front of the deputy across the table from us, and Deborah and I didn’t say anything after this first tape ended. We just waited as he rewound the cassette and put in the next one, after confirming we were ready for it. The next tape began the same way the first had, with Kendrick’s name, race, date of birth, address. The date, though, had changed. It was 3:40 the next morning. More than nine hours had passed. There was nothing in Kendrick’s voice that suggested abuse or duress, but he had been in the interview room all that time and the story he recounted now—calmly, pliantly, in the same tone as before—was entirely different. He said now that he had in fact been at Athena Street during the morning hours. He said that he and a man named Lawrence and a woman named Antoinette had decided to rob Damien Martin—they did this because they needed heroin. Kendrick and Lawrence went over to Martin’s apartment, and when Lawrence ordered Kendrick to lock the door, things escalated. Kendrick went upstairs to search the rooms for money or drugs. While he was upstairs, he heard the first gunshot and turned back.

king: He was on his knees, with his hands in the air. Pleading. Begging for his life.

lagarde: And then the other shots came.

king: He slumped down after that. I mean, he was out.

lagarde: And what did you do at that point?

king: I was just standing there. I was in shock. I was looking at Damien and Lawrence says, “Move, move. What you standing around for?” He opened the door. He went busting out through the door and I followed him.

lagarde: And what happened when you saw Antoinette?

king: Lawrence told her what happened. He said, “I shot Damien.” Antoinette, she said, “What? Why you shot Damien?” He said, “’Cause he seen my face.”

lagarde: Okay.

king: Lawrence, he sat down, it was like he was in shock. You know what I mean? He was like fuck it, I shot him. And Antoinette, she was scared. We was both scared, nervous. I just drove them where they wanted to go. They went inside his auntie’s house. (Sobbing.) He took him a bath. And I left. And I came back later. Later that night.

lagarde: When the police were there?

king: Yeah. About six thirty.

lagarde: To the scene of the crime.

king: Yeah.

He was having trouble talking now, his speech broken by low moans. When the tape finished, the deputy explained that in an interrogation room the microphone is often affixed to the wall almost at the level of the table, much lower than you would expect, because when a suspect confesses, he’s often bent over, speaking almost inaudibly. This was how Kendrick sounded toward the end of his interrogation. There were four tapes altogether, the last two very short. By the end, we’d been in the room with the deputy for about forty minutes, and Deborah and I still hadn’t really talked.

lagarde: Okay. Is everything you’ve told me true and correct to the best of your knowledge?

king: Yes, sir.

lagarde: Okay. And how do you feel you’ve been treated by me tonight, Kendrick?

king: Fairly. Fair.

lagarde: Let me ask you one last question. Why did you want to participate in a crime like this?

king: I was sick. I needed to get high. We was going to hit a lick.

lagarde: Hit a lick?

king: Hoping to find drugs, money, whatever. I needed to get high. It’s why I come back later that evening, because I still needed to get high.

From my reading of his case file, I knew a lot more about Kendrick’s past than Deborah did. She had simply heard the four taped statements we’d just listened to. His defense at his trial was that the last three tapes were just a series of lies he’d recited under coercion from the police. I looked over at Deborah now and saw that she was focused not on what we’d just heard but on one of the photographs of Damien Martin. It was the one of Martin with his two daughters sitting on his knee, smiling at the person taking the picture—perhaps their mother, Jodi—in their matching sweatshirts with the giraffes on them. I looked at the picture and realized, again, how my focus on Kendrick had distorted my view of what had happened. It made me hesitant to ask Deborah what I had brought her there to ask her.

“He was desperate,” she said, when I finally did.

I had believed he had nothing to do with the murder at all. When he first told me his story, I’d formed an impression of Kafkaesque randomness—why had the police even considered him a suspect?—and this impression had affected everything about my conversation with Sonia, I saw now. I didn’t want to believe what I’d just heard Kendrick say on the last three tapes, but it didn’t “sound” coerced, or like a lie. It hadn’t sounded that way to Deborah, either. But what he’d said amounted to a confession of second-degree murder—in legal terms, in Louisiana, where just being present made him a participant—whether I agreed with that or not.

I tried to contact Kendrick’s lawyer a few days later. I tried to contact the detective Ray Lagarde, who had interrogated him, and who no longer worked for the Jefferson Parish Sherriff’s Office. I called and e-mailed them both, but as I expected, neither would talk to me.

I saw within myself a kind of ignorance that grew deeper the more I looked at it. I kept trying to understand what had happened in Kendrick’s life. I kept trying to imagine it. All this started more than four years ago.