COMING FOR AMERICA 2

The definitive confession frightened the wits out of me because he had also said psychos are charming social chameleons who could blend in to get close to you. It was the final wake-up call that caused me to start scooting away from him, slowly but surely. Then, he proceeded to drop another bit of information that began to throw my theory into the wind.

“For every murdered victim, he performed a postmortem examination. He identified the cause, the method, the weapon, and everything there was to know that enabled the police to catch the killer. My dad used to say that even after explaining the time of death using a rectal thermometer, a competent medical examiner knows a psycho with a good lawyer can use the stated time of death to exonerate a suspect by throwing doubt in the mind of the jury.”

“Is that so?” I managed to ask.

“Yes, under intense defense lawyer questioning, even the best-educated, experienced professional but unprepared witness can look like an idiot in front of the jury when the lawyer homes in and capitalizes on the littlest missed detail to sow the tiniest doubt. Since the standard of conviction for capital murder requires no iota of doubt, the likely result will be that the worst criminal will beat a murder case.”

My face gave off the vibes of someone who didn’t believe it and needed more convincing. It set him off to assert, “The likelihood of this happening is real because, unfortunately, in America, the accused need not prove he did not kill.”

Now worried and confused, I tried to play along to buy time and understand where this was going. “Why not? He is the one charged with a heinous crime.”

He went on, “Because no matter what the circumstances or the barbarity of the homicide, our justice system depends on giving people charged with such horrendous crimes a hundred percent benefit of the doubt.”

“I don’t get it,” I grumbled with uncertainty.

He raised his palm to signal for desired patience and went on, “That is not all. Even if, during the police interrogation, the killer confesses to the killing, leads them to where he threw the bloody weapon or buried the body, no judge will accept the admission because what he revealed is a tainted statement given without a lawyer present. This misstep alone will cause the conviction to be overturned on appeal if he is found guilty. The law specifically directs that he must be informed of his civil liberties.”

“What liberties?”

My dorm mate simply said, “Miranda rights.”

I knew of at least two girls on campus who went by the name Miranda, and I thought there was another famous Miranda who wrote about civil liberties in America.

“Why did Miranda write?” “What do you mean?”

“You just said Miranda writes,” I reminded him.

The gent had been around me long enough to quickly infer my unfamiliarity with American lingo. “No, I mean Miranda rights as given in the Fifth Amendment of our Constitution.”

“I don’t get it.”

He smiled at my discernible gullibility and let me know, “It’s a warning given to criminal suspects in police custody informing them of their constitutional right to have a lawyer present when being questioned by the police, and also the right to refuse to answer any questions and remain silent to avoid incriminating themselves.”

Having come from a country where the police will arrest a suspect based on an allegation, put him in custody, and then start looking for witnesses and evidence during the day and come in at night to torture him until they extract a confession, I shook my head slowly and then asked, “What will happen to him?”

“Nothing.”

His response was mind-boggling. “Nothing?”

“Yes, nothing. Invoking this right works quite well for any criminal because most of them know people send themselves to jail just by opening their mouths. So, they plead the Fifth. Once the suspect pleads the Fifth, it’s over. Case closed.”

“You mean he walks away without being held responsible?”

“No, I mean no more questions can be asked by the police or in court.”

The moment he revealed this part of the equation, America was starting to look like the perfect country to commit a capital offense, I thought out loud enough for him to overhear me rumbling.

“I still can’t believe someone can commit murder, refuse to answer questions from the police and even the courts, and nothing happens to him.”

His contention was instantly palpable with a shake of his head, prompting him to raise his adamant hand. “Hold it right there. Nobody knows if he has committed the crime he is being accused of. That is why he is just a suspect; whatever they say about him is just allegations. This alone gives him the constitutional right to refuse to answer any questions, end of story.”

The whole concept of the absolute right to remain silent and not risk triggering a beating from the police or asking for a lawyer when the hotheaded crime fighters were asking questions didn’t make any sense. I came from a place where the right to a lawyer is non-existent, if not laughable. In fact, the arrested suspect will be questioned and re-questioned until he breaks down and gives them a clue about who did it because criminals know about other criminals.

When the real criminal is found or arrested, no lawsuit is threatened, nor is an apology given. The closest act of regret from the cops is a drop of water to rinse his wounds and bloody mouth that they beat up before he is released and warned not to wander about behaving, acting, or dressed like a criminal or living in an area known to be inhabited by criminals.

I remember in those villages where there were recurring cases of cattle rustling, major crimes, or tribal clashes. The government would send in truckloads of the dreaded and specially trained General Service Unit (GSU) in the wee hours of the night. The ruthless men who boasted about their invented acronym FFU in Swahili—Fanya Fujo Uone, meaning “cause any trouble and see what happens”—would cordon off the area with roadblocks, ensuring nobody leaves. Once all escape routes are sealed, they would start pulling people from their homes, house to house, beating the hell out of them.

The severe beatings were meant to teach them not to allow criminals to live among them or to be scared enough to quickly report any criminal activities or risk another trip back for more beatings. If the crimes or tribal clashes did not stop and they returned another time, they would be more brutal because the community hadn’t learned a lesson from the previous flogging and pounding. In American terms, it would be like police in riot gear surrounding the ghetto in the middle of the night, going from house to house, apartment to apartment, pulling all residents from their homes and beating them up because they failed to flush out or report those who were causing high rates of violence, drugs, and crime in their neighborhood.

Given these flashbacks, I wasn’t convinced because I had never heard of anyone refusing to answer questions from the police unless they were guilty or wanted more trouble than they could handle. Lucas expounded further, as if he had recognized what was going on in my doubtful mind.

“Unless he admits he understands his Miranda rights but chooses to voluntarily and knowingly relinquish them by signing a waiver in front of a camera, a lawyer must be present when he is being questioned. Even if the suspect can’t afford legal services, the government will provide him with a lawyer known as the public defender. The assigned legal representative will likely instruct him to keep quiet and let the police and prosecutor do all the work to prove their case. When the suspect goes on trial, the state will likely buy him a nice outfit so the jury can look at the monstrous killer and say he doesn’t look like a bad guy. He is either misunderstood or has a flaw of character; many human beings have mental imperfections.”

I grumbled helplessly, “This is unbelievable.”

“Yes, unbelievable, because even if the perpetrator foregoes all his Miranda rights and shows them the weapon, the prosecutor has to prove it was in his hand at the time of the murder. Even if they prove it was in his hand, they have to prove the killer intended to end a human life. Even if all elements of the crime are provable, the prosecutor has to convince laymen and women called the jury beyond any reasonable doubt.”

My profound curiosity loomed large. “What does that mean?”

“It means all the facts that establish guilt have been proven. In other words, there is no other reasonable explanation that can come from the evidence that every member of the jury needs to be convinced to vote and convict unanimously.”

As if he had figured out what I was thinking, he knitted his brow before voicing the next thought. “But get this: given the overwhelming evidence, it is usually not hard to pinpoint who the killer is. The problem is proving it without any doubt. Forthwith, the defense lawyers know all they need is to convince one of the jury members to vote not guilty, and the whole case goes up in flames. So, they will move smoke and mirrors, throwing mud at witnesses and evidence until some stick and sow doubt that wasn’t there in the minds of the jury. That is all it takes for the accused to be set free.”

“This doesn’t make any sense at all,” I griped.

“Welcome to America, where we cater more to the killers than their victims.” “Really? I cannot believe this.”

“Believe it or not, gone are the days when prosecutors would confront the unsuspecting killer in court with a murder weapon bearing his fingerprints and DNA or bring in a last-minute surprise eyewitness who saw him. Suppose during the investigations the suspect’s weapon or new evidence is found. In that case, the defense attorney must be informed and be able to access everything for their own analysis in preparation for the trial.”

The information he imparted led me to conclude, “From the way it sounds, it looks like the American justice system shortchanges the silenced victim at every conceivable corner.”

Lucas nodded his concurrence and carried on, “That is why convicting the suspect in a murder case gets complicated for the prosecutor: the evidence that proves the accused is innocent must be given to the defense, and the evidence that shows the gravity of the heinous crime cannot be shown during the trial.”

He lost me. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Okay, let me break it down. The prosecution must turn over all evidence to the accused’s lawyer, including exculpatory evidence.”

“Excul…. What evidence?”

“Exculpatory evidence is evidence that is favorable to the defendant in a criminal trial that exonerates or tends to absolve the defendant from guilt. For example, surveillance video or forensic evidence, such as a different set of fingerprints or the unexplained presence of DNA at a murder scene or on the victim’s body.” He saw the whole picture was confusing me and didn’t bother to explain further when he asked, “Have you ever heard of the term the prejudicial value of the evidence that will outweigh its probative value?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It is the kind of evidence that must be excluded from the trial.”

It didn’t make sense to me, and I queried, “I thought that is what a trial is about, where all evidence is laid out in an open court.”

“Some, but not all of it.”

“Like what evidence could possibly be hidden?”

“The kind of evidence that will taint the jury’s mind to the extent they will just want to convict the accused and put him away right away, without further consideration.”

“Like what evidence?”

“Pictures of the slashed throat, charred remains, severed limbs, or the smashed head of the dead victim.” My stunned mind was still running in circles when he summarized, “Basically, if any of the exculpatory evidence is not shown to the defense and if evidence that prejudices the jury’s mind is presented during the trial, the occurrence of either of these two instances will violate the accused’s right to a fair trial, and the case will likely be dismissed on appeal, which is also an automatic right that is guaranteed by our constitution.”

After hearing about all the eye-popping intrigues, I started to think how murder, the most heinous and irreversible crime committed against another human being in America, sounded like just another game of musical chairs in the best judicial system in the world. With that thought, I started to shake my head wordlessly just as he divulged, “It gets worse.”

“How far worse?”

“Once they have the suspect weapon or any other evidence analyzed, the perpetrator’s lawyer only needs to create a small seed of doubt in the mind of one member of the jury panel, and the accused will be home scot-free, looking to kill again. This is usually made very easy, especially when the suspect has his alibi that…..”

Rebuke came right away: “It’s a travesty for you to think it’s only a Muslim who commits such a horrible crime.”

Caught off guard by my implication, he queried, “What do you mean?”

“You just said when a suspect has his protective Allah by and from what I know, Allah is God among Muslims.”

“No, no, no, alibi in America, spelled a-l-i-b-i, is a legal phrase that refers to a claim or piece of evidence that proves the accused was elsewhere at the time the crime was committed.” I was digesting this newest terminology when he carried on. “That is why even after calculating the time of death, which can easily be contested or manipulated by an alibi to plant a seed of doubt in the minds of the jury, my dad went further to correlate the same reading with other airtight methods that can be used to support the time of death.”

“Like what?”

“The fluid in the victim’s eyes—I mean the potassium level in the eyes and also the core temperature of the liver, all of which can be used to offer irrefutable proof that pinpoints the precise time of death that could be tied to the suspect’s whereabouts.”

Finally, I exhaled and asked, “You mean your dad is a pathologist—I mean, a coroner, medical examiner?”

“Not anymore,” he revealed, dipping his head dejectedly. “How come?”

“He was struck and killed by a drunk driver after dropping me off at football practice.”

Before I could recover from this traumatizing disclosure, his tone became extremely desolate, but the utter grimness betrayed his anger. “I will never touch, watch, or play football again.”

This resolve deflated all his strength, and his voice sounded haunted and subdued, almost down to a whisper. I had to make a great effort to hear him as he labored to continue along his grief-stricken memory lane.

“I used to watch forensic television shows with him nearly every night when he wasn’t called out to a crime scene. We would compete in assessing what caused the actual death and what kind of DNA could be harvested at the scene to catch and convict the killer. During his investigations, Dad strongly relied on DNA evidence rather than eyewitness evidence.”

“I thought an eyewitness was best because they can confidently identify the suspect and confirm that they saw the perpetrator committing the crime.”

“Not so fast. To begin with, every person that you are in contact with leaves a piece of irrefutable DNA on you. Since DNA can be used to identify the suspect accurately, no killer can deny they had close contact with the victim. Besides that, eyewitnesses are not reliable. They can lie, be mistaken, manipulated, threatened, suffer faulty memory, misconceive, be drugged, be drunk, die, or just disappear. But DNA will permanently speak for itself for decades to come, even if the crime becomes a cold case.”

Knowing that cold is a low temperature in the atmosphere, I questioned, “How can a case get cold?” “A cold case is an unsolved investigation of a crime that remains open pending the discovery of new evidence, usually a match with available DNA. Dad said in the future, DNA science will reveal a person’s height, weight, temperament, and even distant relatives.”

He swallowed hard and continued, “I wanted to follow in his footsteps in forensics, even went as far as assisting in investigating and studying his cases with him, but I changed my mind.”

The nagging prickles of suspicion I had toward him were slowly draining away and being replaced by sympathy.

I asked tenderly, “Why did you change your mind?”

“Because when I visited dad to get a clear picture of the real work he did, I realized that as a medical examiner, you work in a windowless basement room surrounded by soapstone sinks to wash the body parts of the deceased.”

“That is a tough one,” I admitted.

He added, “You’ve got to be the type of person who can emotionally disconnect yourself from your grisly work.”

“Why is that?”

“You have to look at a dead body not as a human being but more as a puzzle begging for answers, and your job is to sort out the cause of its death to a plausible conclusion that will withstand the strictest scrutiny from a defense lawyer. You’ve got to find out what happened: who did what, why, when, how, and where? You have to thoroughly collocate answers in a gruesome but respectful manner that usually involves opening up the chest by cutting it with an electric saw, examining the contents, putting them back, and sewing them up carefully..”