are people gonna think other than that you and”—he looked at his notebook—“this Hanks guy went a little bit further with the bat a few blocks over. Same time, same neighborhood, same weapon. You said yourself you were so tweaked out you can’t even remember what happened. How can you be sure you didn’t do it, Todd?”
They went back and forth like that as the minutes, and then the hour, passed. Mike resorted to all the standard interrogation techniques. He covered the tabletop with pictures of Percy, alive and dead. He continually mentioned the witnesses at the apartment, implying that they’d seen more than they had. He suggested that Corbett could reduce his liability if Percy had provoked him in some way, or if Hanks had been the instigator, or if the meth made him do it.
I was growing tired. More important, I was becoming convinced that Mike was wasting his time; Corbett wasn’t going to budge. Even Mike looked like he needed a break, which surely meant Corbett needed one too.
But then the dynamic of the conversation shifted.
“So do I need a lawyer or something?” Corbett asked.
Mike slid a piece of paper on the table in front of him toward our viewing window with his fingertips. He was making sure Chuck and I knew that Corbett had already signed a waiver of his Miranda rights. Believe it or not, once that’s done, only a crystal-clear request for counsel suffices to invoke a defendant’s rights. Corbett’s weak-willed question would be seen as an “ambiguous” reference to counsel that Mike was free to ignore, no different legally from a statement about a baseball game.
“That’s entirely up to you. You know your rights. But I can tell you one thing, though: a lawyer? He’s gonna tell you to clam up and go to trial. And that decision right there would leave you facing capital murder charges. You know what that means, right?”
Corbett shrugged his shoulders.
“That means the State goes for the death penalty, Todd. And once that lawyer of yours tucks you away in a cell tonight to wait for a trial—months down the road—you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna go to Trevor’s house and have a talk with him, just like this one. And he might not call that lawyer, you see? He might decide to say you were the one who did the whole thing. After all, you’re the one with the bat in the pictures, right? Then it’s you looking at the needle, and him looking at a plea bargain.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” I said to Chuck.
“He’s got the waiver, Sam. And I didn’t hear the kid say he wanted a lawyer.”
“He can still claim his statements are involuntary. A waiver isn’t consent to coercion.” And Oregon judges were especially uncomfortable when the threat of lethal injection was thrown around the interrogation room.
“Mike knows what he’s doing,” Chuck said, “and we need that confession.”
I knew Matt was on his mind. Despite his alibi, the cop husband of the victim’s girlfriend would be a natural target for the defense at trial—unless, of course, the defendant confessed now. Jurors convict defendants who confess. And defendants don’t go to trial when they know a jury will convict.
I looked at him uncertainly. “It’s fine,” he assured me.
Todd Corbett didn’t think so. “They’re gonna kill me? You got to be kidding me. I’ve told you everything I know. And I’m getting tired, man, and I gotta use the can. I want my ticket, and then I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you to the men’s room, Todd, that’s not a problem. I’ll walk you down there myself just as soon as you explain to me which of you used the bat. It’s only the one with the bat who faces the needle.”
“OK, this is getting ridiculous,” I said. Chuck tried to reach for my hand as it reached toward the glass, but he was too late. The rap of my knuckles two times against the window made Corbett hop in his seat, but Calabrese only blinked.
“Oh, boy, Todd, now
They went back and forth like that as the minutes, and then the hour, passed. Mike resorted to all the standard interrogation techniques. He covered the tabletop with pictures of Percy, alive and dead. He continually mentioned the witnesses at the apartment, implying that they’d seen more than they had. He suggested that Corbett could reduce his liability if Percy had provoked him in some way, or if Hanks had been the instigator, or if the meth made him do it.
I was growing tired. More important, I was becoming convinced that Mike was wasting his time; Corbett wasn’t going to budge. Even Mike looked like he needed a break, which surely meant Corbett needed one too.
But then the dynamic of the conversation shifted.
“So do I need a lawyer or something?” Corbett asked.
Mike slid a piece of paper on the table in front of him toward our viewing window with his fingertips. He was making sure Chuck and I knew that Corbett had already signed a waiver of his Miranda rights. Believe it or not, once that’s done, only a crystal-clear request for counsel suffices to invoke a defendant’s rights. Corbett’s weak-willed question would be seen as an “ambiguous” reference to counsel that Mike was free to ignore, no different legally from a statement about a baseball game.
“That’s entirely up to you. You know your rights. But I can tell you one thing, though: a lawyer? He’s gonna tell you to clam up and go to trial. And that decision right there would leave you facing capital murder charges. You know what that means, right?”
Corbett shrugged his shoulders.
“That means the State goes for the death penalty, Todd. And once that lawyer of yours tucks you away in a cell tonight to wait for a trial—months down the road—you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna go to Trevor’s house and have a talk with him, just like this one. And he might not call that lawyer, you see? He might decide to say you were the one who did the whole thing. After all, you’re the one with the bat in the pictures, right? Then it’s you looking at the needle, and him looking at a plea bargain.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” I said to Chuck.
“He’s got the waiver, Sam. And I didn’t hear the kid say he wanted a lawyer.”
“He can still claim his statements are involuntary. A waiver isn’t consent to coercion.” And Oregon judges were especially uncomfortable when the threat of lethal injection was thrown around the interrogation room.
“Mike knows what he’s doing,” Chuck said, “and we need that confession.”
I knew Matt was on his mind. Despite his alibi, the cop husband of the victim’s girlfriend would be a natural target for the defense at trial—unless, of course, the defendant confessed now. Jurors convict defendants who confess. And defendants don’t go to trial when they know a jury will convict.
I looked at him uncertainly. “It’s fine,” he assured me.
Todd Corbett didn’t think so. “They’re gonna kill me? You got to be kidding me. I’ve told you everything I know. And I’m getting tired, man, and I gotta use the can. I want my ticket, and then I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you to the men’s room, Todd, that’s not a problem. I’ll walk you down there myself just as soon as you explain to me which of you used the bat. It’s only the one with the bat who faces the needle.”
“OK, this is getting ridiculous,” I said. Chuck tried to reach for my hand as it reached toward the glass, but he was too late. The rap of my knuckles two times against the window made Corbett hop in his seat, but Calabrese only blinked.
“Oh, boy, Todd, now
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