Seven Diamonds and a Monkey

By KALANE RAPOSA and MARK B. DAVIS

On any given morning more than a dozen gun towers eerily protrude through the dense blanket of fog at the waters edge. Lurking beneath the fog is a hulking monstrosity of concrete and steel designed to house Californias most dangerous criminals. Like the sign upon entering Dantes Inferno: Abandon all hope ye who enter here, San Quentin State Prison is a landscape of horror both harsh and stark. Its mere existence speaks in direct testimony to Californias urban decay.

Originally constructed from the hull of a ship in 1852, San Quentin is Californias oldest state prison. It is nestled in the lush greenery of Marin County, just twelve miles north of San Francisco across the expanse of the historic Golden Gate Bridge. With a half-dozen sleepy little towns tucked away at the base of Mt. Tamalpais, Marin seems as unlikely a place as any to build what has become one of the most notorious prisons in the United States. By 1980, San Quentins population had exploded to three thousand while the institution itself had expanded across four hundred acres.

During its heyday in the 1970s, San Quentin was a Level 4 maximum-security prison. Widely regarded as gladiator school, it was the most violent prison in the country. Housing over two hundred inmates on its infamous death row, the institution boasted four hundred and sixty assaults while its murder toll soared to a staggering, and unprecedented sixty-one.

For most men at San Quentin, November 8, 1980, was just another day. It was not, however, for Mark Cauchi. Nor was it for James Dance. One of them was going to die that day, and both men knew it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781468568813

KALANE RAPOSA

Mark Davis was a public defender in Marin County, California for 25 years. He is now retired and living in Florida. During his illustrious career he tried a variety of interesting cases. This book is about his most memorable case which he tried very early in his career. It was his first murder case - a killing which occurred in San Quentin the notorious state prison which happens to be in the jurisdiction of Marin County. In order to help me with this task, I hired Kalane Raposa who was doing life on the “installment plan,” a 16 year stretch. He was actually at San Quentin during part of his time in prison, so he had real knowledge of the situation there. He is very experienced and an excellent author.

Book preview

Seven Diamonds

and a Monkey

BY

MARK B. DAVIS

AND

KALANE RAPOSA

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AuthorHouse™ LLC

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012, 2014 by Mark B. Davis All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/14/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4685-6882-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-6881-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012905169

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dialogue and events have been recreated from memory, collected data, court records, and in some cases compressed to convey the substance of what was said or what occurred.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE: THREE KILLERS

1. Prelude To A Kill

2. Welcome To The Machine

3. The Murder Of Marilyn Cauchi

4. The Widening Gyre

PART TWO: TWO DEFENSES

5. Earning My Stripes

6. The Crime Scene

7. The Criminalist And The Coroner

8. Held To Answer

9. Preparing For Trial

PART THREE: ONE VERDICT

10. Judge And Jury

11. The Prosecution

12. Another Knife To The Neck

13. A Nice Day For A Walk

14. Seven Diamonds & A Monkey

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

SAN QUENTIN STATE PRISON, 1980

On any given morning more than a dozen gun towers eerily protrude through the dense blanket of fog at the water’s edge. Lurking beneath the fog is a hulking monstrosity of concrete and steel designed to house California’s most dangerous criminals. Like the sign upon entering Dante’s Inferno: Abandon all hope ye who enter here, San Quentin State Prison is a landscape of horror both harsh and stark. Its mere existence speaks in direct testimony to California’s urban decay.

Originally constructed from the hull of a ship in 1852, San Quentin is California’s oldest state prison. It is nestled in the lush greenery of Marin County, just twelve miles north of San Francisco across the expanse of the historic Golden Gate Bridge. With a half-dozen sleepy little towns tucked away at the base of Mt. Tamalpais, Marin seems as unlikely a place as any to build what has become one of the most notorious prisons in the United States. By 1980, San Quentin’s population had exploded to three thousand while the institution itself had expanded across four hundred acres.

During its heyday in the 1970’s, San Quentin was a Level 4 maximum-security prison. Widely regarded as gladiator school, it was the most violent prison in the country. Housing over two hundred inmates on its infamous death row, the institution boasted four hundred and sixty assaults while its murder toll soared to a staggering, and unprecedented sixty-one.

For most men at San Quentin, November 8, 1980, was just another day. It was not, however, for Mark Cauchi. Nor was it for James Dance. One of them was going to die that day, and both men knew it.

PART ONE

THREE KILLERS

CHAPTER 1

PRELUDE TO A KILL (1975-1977)

I

San Mateo, CA

Richard Allen Davis will forever live in infamy as the man who murdered 12-year-old Polly Klaas. On October 1, 1993, Davis kidnapped the Petaluma resident at knifepoint during a slumber party at Polly’s house. He had entered the home through the rear of the house and abducted the young girl as her friends watched on helplessly and in horror. The story ran nationwide and shocked America. Had we become a country where little girls in small towns were no longer safe sleeping in their own homes? Hugh Downs and Barbara Walters featured Polly’s horrific story on 20/20 while actress Wynona Rider, who grew up in Petaluma, offered a $200,000 reward for any information leading to Polly or her abductor.

Davis was finally arrested on November 30, 1993. Four days after he was taken into custody Davis led authorities to Polly’s lifeless body. Found with her skirt pulled up, Davis admitted that he had raped and strangled Polly from behind. Heinous and reprehensible, Davis’ abduction, rape, and murder of Polly Klaas would set in motion highly controversial legal issues that would eventually send California prisons into a major crisis. In 1975, however, Davis was just another small-time hustler looking for a fix. At twenty-one his future already looked grim. With a life that seemed to be dominated by three prevailing elements: drugs, jails, and violence, Rick Davis was a nightmare in the making.

New Year’s found Davis doing another jolt in the San Mateo County Jail. Lawrence M. Cauchi (cow´-chee), known by his middle name, Mark, was also doing time there. He was in on another violation of parole from the California Youth Authority. Mark seemed to call the shots wherever he went. In the jail it was no different. Calling shots was a natural part of Mark’s larger than life persona; a persona that was near mythical in its magnitude. It was not, however, something he cultivated nor a meaning he strived to fulfill. Rather, it was simply a part of who he was. In a very dark and dangerous underworld where reputation and respect mean everything, Mark possessed them both. He possessed them with the cool eminence and prestige of the legendary ronin—the ancient band of outlaw samurai who roamed the Japanese countryside without a master.

Mark never missed a beat. He had heard that Davis was going out on weekend passes from the jail. Mark saw the passes as an excellent opportunity to mule dope back into the institution. Although he was not acquainted with Davis personally, Mark began to devise a scheme to get close to him. Among the jail population drugs open doors quicker than conversation. Mark knew this. Besides, he was a man of very few words to begin with. One day, on his way back from chow, Mark stopped by Davis’ cell. He had armed himself with a few joints.

—Hey, bro’. You got a light?

—Yeah, sure… Here ya go.

—Thanks.

Mark took the lighter from Davis and fired up a joint. As he pulled hard and deeply on it, Mark handed the lighter back to Davis. He could feel his lungs expand with the dense cannabis smoke. After a moment Mark exhaled a mushroom cloud the size of Hiroshima’s. Damn! This is good weed he thought to himself as he fanned away the smoke. Davis was watching expectantly. Mark knew that he would be.

—You wanna hit this?

—Yeah, thanks. Don’t mind if I do.

—You’re Rick, right?

—Yeah (toking on the joint).

—I’m Mark… Mark Cauchi.

Davis nodded an acknowledgement. He tried to hold in his hit, but ended up coughing half of it away. Fuckin’ lightweight thought Mark. What little he knew of Davis didn’t impress him. Coughing away half a hit of primo bud did not improve Mark’s opinion of him. Still, a mule was a mule. And so Cauchi set about harnessing this one as they passed the joint between them.

—So, I hear you got weekend passes.

—Is that what you hear?

—Pretty much. Anything to it?

—What’s on your mind?

—Business.

—I’m listening…

Mark ran down the plan: While Davis was out on pass, Mark’s old lady, Marilyn, would meet him with some heroin and grass. The dope would already be in balloons ready for Davis to cheek on his way back in. Should the mission go sideways, Davis could always swallow the balloons. They could retrieve them later after they passed through Rick’s digestive system. For the average person, the latter part of the mission would prove too disgusting to even comprehend, let alone execute. But these were not average people. They were junkies, killers, and thieves scratching out their existence at the bottom of life’s heap. Vile and disgusting just went with the territory.

—What’s in it for me?

—Whaddaya lookin’ for?

—How ’bout a taste and a good time?

—You got a taste comin’ off the top, but you’re gonna have to find your own good time, bro.

—Hmm… Yeah, I guess that’s cool. I’m in.

—Good. This should hold you for a minute.

The deal was on. Mark slipped Davis a few joints. He made a phone call and set up a meeting for the weekend. Davis left the jail on Friday. On Saturday, Mark phoned Marilyn to make sure everything went down as planned. It had. Davis would be back the following morning with the dope.

Sunday morning came and went, but Mark saw no sign of Davis. He asked around the jail to see if Davis had returned, but he was nowhere to be found. Later that evening the news came down. Davis skipped out on his pass and was officially AWOL. While it was one thing to burn the county on their time, it was quite another to burn Mark Cauchi on drugs or money. For a man without any muscle or juice, it was an audacious play. Perhaps he saw burning Cauchi as a career move; that by punking someone as heavy as Mark he could quickly move to the top of the food chain. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The move he pulled on Mark violated the sacred and time honored convict’s code, and would cost Davis dearly. Mark Cauchi was not one to be punked. Nor was he one to forget anyone who burned him. He was a patient storm and on that day, Richard Allen Davis became a marked man.

II

James Dance was a chalk outline just waiting to happen. It wasn’t a question of whether, but simply a matter of when. Dance was a fractured man with a fractured life and a seemingly different moniker for each deadly shard: James Sussel, J. W., Popeye, Jimmy, even James Danz, an AKA apparently reflective of his childhood years living in Germany. Original records from the California Department of Corrections (CDC) reflect the name James Welch though his final prison commitment was under the name Dance. This latter name change may have been a deliberate attempt to obscure his true background from the CDC as to his enemies within the system, allowing him to go to the mainline of any prison in the state.

Regardless of his numerous aliases, Dance was a powder keg with only a hint of a fuse and everybody knew it. One just never knew what to expect or how the evening might go down. He was prone to animal-like savagery upon even the slightest of provocation. It didn’t matter who you were. If you ran with James Dance long enough, you’d eventually throw snake eyes. It was a law of nature.

It was another crazy and unpredictable day. Dance and his regular crew of miscreants, Al Raubitschek, Debbie White and Helen Gray, were in the sunny East Bay on their way back from a road trip. They were driving toward the Bay Bridge through Piedmont, a small and exclusive East Bay city, surrounded on four sides by the working class neighborhoods of Oakland. The foursome was as thick as thieves—figuratively and literally. Far from sophisticated, however, they were all bottom feeders who occasionally came to the surface for a quick score. Unfortunately, whenever four socially crippled human beings unite, a reverse form of synergy takes place in that they always seem to bring out the absolute worst in one another. Add drugs and alcohol to the mix and disaster is sure to follow. Such was the case on that Sunday afternoon.

Al was driving that day. The girls were in the backseat whacked out on everything under the sun and chattering away like monkeys. They were driving Al crazy. They usually did. Al often felt out of place with his present company. Some men are born at the bottom of life’s pile. Some men are pushed there. And then there were men like Al who put themselves there.

Al came from money and a good family. Privilege, however, is never an effective shield against addiction. Like cancer, addiction is pure in that it is completely unbiased. It transcends all boundaries of race, color, creed, and socio-economic status. Al Raubitschek was living proof. In the end, all the money and education in the world could not save him from the fall. Like every other junkie on the planet, he put everything worthwhile into a spoon or a joint or an outfit and watched his world go up in smoke. When he fell, he splashed down hard, and landed right into Dance’s pond.

Running with Dance and the girls kept Al well for awhile, but inside his soul was dying and he knew it. Unfortunately getting out of the game often takes an act of biblical proportions, and even then the odds on staying out are long and hard. For now this was the best that Al could do, but deep down he knew that he wouldn’t run with this crew forever.

Dance was nodding in the front passenger’s seat. He slowly came to and patted his coat pockets looking for his cigarettes. Finding them, he shook one out of the pack.

—Al, gimme a light.

—Here…

—Where the fuck are we?

—The Oakland hills.

—Hmm

Dance fired up his cigarette and took a drag. Then he rolled his window all the way down. The air rushed in and immediately assaulted the girls. They began to protest.

—J. W.! Roll up the window!

—Yeah, J.W. God damn. It’s fucking freezing!

—Shut up, will ya! I ain’t rollin’ the window up. I want some air.

Al remained silent and focused on the road. He knew better than to argue with Dance when he was like this. Dance flicked the ash of his cigarette out the window. The wind caught the ash and embers. It blew them back in the car and into Debbie’s face.

—Damn it, J.W. Roll up the goddamn window.

—Hey, Debbie, you know whatcha say to a broad with two black eyes?

—No. What?

—Nothin’. Y’a told the bitch twice already. Now shut the fuck up about the window!

Dance deliberately ashed his cigarette and laughed uncontrollably as more ash and ember flew into Debbie’s face. He was laughing so hard that he dropped his cigarette in-between his legs. Dance bounced around like a barefoot man on a hot beach racing to his towel. After a moment he was finally able to retrieve his smoke. As he did, he noticed a small pinhole burn in the sleeve of his jacket. Accusingly, he immediately turned to Al. Dance’s blood was boiling.

—Who did this to my jacket? Who burnt my fucking jacket!

—What? Nobody burned your jacket, man.

—You callin’ me a liar, Al? Where the fuck did this hole come from, huh? You burnt my fucking jacket!

—J.W., chill out, man. Look… roll up the window and…

The memory of what transpired next was seared in Al Raubitschek’s memory forever:

—J. W. got that scary look in his eye. It was really frightening. All of a sudden, he turned around and smacked Helen right in the face. That wasn’t right. I said—well, I guess I said what I had to say. So, Dance took off his belt and started hitting me in the face with the buckle. He was crazy. I managed to get off the freeway and we’re in this neighborhood in, like, Piedmont, in Oakland. It’s Sunday afternoon and this guy is out mowing his lawn. Helen got out of the car. We were all out of the car. She tossed me a screwdriver. That’s when Dance grabbed her and hit her in the face. He broke her nose. They were on the passenger side of the car. I was on the other side. Dance kept beating Helen. I went over there and he turned around. I stabbed him with the screwdriver and pushed it down into his chest. He went down on his knees. I tossed the piece, but I told the police what happened. They said I was protecting my girl. They took J. W. off to jail. He was out three days later.

III

By the end of February both Mark Cauchi and Rick Davis were back on the streets. On Saturday, March 2nd, at approximately 9:00 p.m. Davis and his girlfriend, Nancy, went to the Turf, a San Bruno locals’ bar. Over the course of the evening Davis knocked back half dozen beers. At the end of the bar Davis saw Ned Wilson, an acquaintance he had met through Nancy on the weekend that he had skipped out on his jail pass. Wilson was there drinking with two other companions.

At 11:00 p.m., Wilson came over and asked Nancy if she and Davis wanted to go back to his place. He told her that a friend was going to pick up some more alcohol and that there would be plenty of smoke at the apartment. Nancy wanted to go to another bar, but encouraged Rick to go on ahead; that she would catch up with him later. She dropped him off at Wilson’s apartment and a small party began to take form.

Rick Davis, Wilson and a couple others took turns passing around a jug of wine. Swapping lies and old war stories, everyone was starting to get heady and loose. Wilson turned to Davis.

—Hey, Rick, when’d Nancy say she’d be back?

—I dunno… half an hour. Maybe forty-five minutes.

—You been staying with her since you bounced from jail, huh?

—Pretty much. We sorta, y’know, just hit it off.

—Yeah, I guess so. Hey, ya wanna see something cool? I picked this up last week.

Wilson got up from the sofa and headed to the corner on the other side of the room. Wedged between the wall and a tall stereo speaker was a long sword encased in a sturdy metal sheath.

—Check this out.

Wilson pulled the sword from its sheath and assumed a somewhat exaggerated pose of a samurai warrior.

—Bonzai!

He waved the sword about as if he were in combat with an unseen enemy. Wilson made guttural sounds as he fiercely slashed and hacked away at his imaginary opponent. Davis was not sure what to make of Wilson’s display; he was not sure whether it was a parody. Rather than run the risk of insulting his host, Davis’ demeanor remained even.

—Hey, that’s a pretty cool sword. Let me check it out?

—Be careful with the blade, man. It’s fucking sharp.

Wilson sheathed the weapon and handed it to Davis. Rick extracted only a portion of the sword and lightly ran his thumb across the blade admiring its edge.

—Man, this is a cold piece of work.

—Shit, you could fuck somebody up with the sheath alone.

Davis passed the weapon back to Wilson and took another swig from the jug of wine. It was nearing midnight and Davis began to wonder where Nancy was at. Then he heard a noise at the front door and thought that it might be her. The door opened and in walked Wilson’s roommate. He was a gravedigger by trade named Mark Henderson. The Peninsula drug culture was a very small, close-knit community. Not only was Henderson hooked up with Wilson’s sister, he was also—unbeknownst to Davis—Mark Cauchi’s homeboy.

Henderson closed the door and looked around the living room. He had on a coat, but was shirtless underneath. The small gathering in the apartment had caught him a little off guard. Henderson turned and spoke to Wilson.

—Hey, what’s goin’ on?

—Y’know, just chillin’ out. Drinking a little wine. Why don’tcha kick back, man. Grab a seat.

—Yeah, in a minute. I’m gonna go put a shirt on.

But Henderson didn’t leave right away. He lingered for a moment trying to place Rick. He had yet to make the connection between Davis and Cauchi, but it was furiously gnawing away at his memory. The more the connection eluded him, the more he toiled and tooled in his mind. Digging. Searching. Clawing. Struggling to bring into consciousness a mere hint of memory relating to this stranger before him. Henderson finally spoke.

—Hey, man, don’t I know you?

—Nah. I don’t think we’ve met, but… y’know, maybe. I been around.

Davis sensed no danger in the question, but Henderson wouldn’t let it go.

—I recognize you from somewhere. I know you. I fuckin’ know you from somewhere, man. It’ll come to me.

Now Davis was worried. The intensity and determination in Henderson’s hunger for recollection sent a chill down Davis’ spine. Henderson went to his room to put on a shirt. When he left, Davis looked to Wilson with pleading eyes. He held his hands up as if to ask, What’s going on? Is everything cool? Wilson replied with a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

Meanwhile, Henderson was in his room rummaging for a clean shirt. The mystery still chipped away in his mind. Then an idea came to him. Forgoing his search for a shirt, Henderson stripped off his jacket and stormed back into the living room. Towering shirtless over Davis, Henderson asked:

—Hey, man, ya got any ink?

—Wha…

—Do ya have any tattoos?

—Yeah, I got a couple. Why do…

—Shut up! I wanna see your ink motherfucker! Now!

—What fo…

—Man, just show me your fuckin’ ink.

Davis wasn’t sure where any of this was going, but a genuine panic and concern for his safety began to grow. He rolled up his sleeves and showed Henderson his tattoos. From the tattoos the revelation finally made itself known. Henderson then put the play on Davis.

—I remember you from somewhere… Do you ever do any business with Mark Cauchi?

—I did a little bit of business, but it was never taken care of.

—Hey, I got an idea. You wanna go see Mark and take care of your business?

Everyone seemed to freeze and the room grew so eerily quiet it was deafening. Although they didn’t know the specifics, from the tone in Henderson’s voice everybody knew what time it was. Davis’ mind began racing; swimming in panic—dripping with fear. Clutching weakly at self-preservation, he offered a feeble alternative:

—If he’s got a phone number, y’ know, I would like to call him.

—I just came from his pad. Why don’t we just go over there and see him?

—Well… I would rather, y’know, I would rather phone him.

Feeling trapped, Davis realized that there was no way out. Henderson was enjoying his little game of cat and mouse, and he baited Davis further.

—Hey man, ya wanna buy a gun before we go? You gonna want a gun.

—No. I don’t need one.

—Suit yourself. We’ll go over and see Mark now. Let me go put a shirt on.

As soon as Henderson left the room Davis bolted for the door. The night was an echoing drone competing with the rapid thundering of his own heart. With cautious and deliberate movements, Davis began his merciless journey to safety. Hiding behind cars and lampposts every time he heard a sound or saw a moving shadow, he scurried through the night like desperate prey.

Racing through the empty parking lot at the Tanforan Shopping Center, Davis crossed the street and headed for the railroad tracks until he reached the back of South City High School. A considerable amount of time had elapsed. Davis, believing that he might be safe, emerged from the shadows. From behind him he heard someone yell, Freeze! He took off running again, but was quickly stopped as a car, with Henderson at the wheel, screeched to a halt directly in front of him. Racing up from behind Davis was a man with a gun. The man was Mark Cauchi. Knowing that his day of reckoning had arrived, Davis’ heart sank. He was a dead man, and he knew it. He tried to play stupid, but it only added insult to injury.

—Mark, what’s up? What’s going on?

—C’mon, man, let’s go for a ride.

—A ride? Look, wait a minute. I…

—Just get in the car.

Mark was cool and composed as always. Davis was a wreck. He hesitated. Mark bashed him in the head with the butt of his revolver and shoved Davis into the backseat of the car. Davis saw stars. Mark climbed in beside him. Davis was sandwiched in between Mark and Wilson.

—This ain’t nothin’. Wait ’til we get you where we’re going.

You’re gonna get all six of these!

Mark spun the cylinder on the revolver to emphasize his point. As he did, Henderson gunned the engine. Davis desperately peered out the window as the night sped by. As if he were reading Davis’ thoughts, Mark smashed any notion of fleeing.

—Try to get out now and I’ll blow your head off!

Henderson adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see Davis. He spoke to him through the mirror.

—When Cauchi is in jail I take care of his ol’ lady. When I’m in jail he takes care of mine. You burn his ol’ lady, you burn me.

You dead!

—Mark, look man. I’m sorry. Y’ know, Nancy’s got some money.

I can get some money from her and pay you back.

Henderson shook his head as if to dispel any truth from Davis’ plea. He knew Nancy better than Davis did.

—She keeps her money to herself. She won’t give you no money.

Anyway, you burned him, now you dead.

—C’mon, Mark. We can work this out. I can get you the money.

—It’s too late, man. You burned me—and that’s the last person you’re gonna burn. If you woulda shot me a kite explaining what happened everything would be cool. Then you run from the apartment and everything. Now you dead, man.

Davis was driven out to the railroad tracks past Oyster Point in South San Francisco. The final destination was a muddy dirt road that ran parallel to the freeway. The road was completely deserted save for a few skeleton frames of burned out abandoned cars. The traffic from the freeway above would surely drown the sound of gunshots or suggest an engine backfire if they were heard by anyone. It was a perfect spot for what the police would later call a planned attempted execution style murder. One might wonder if Davis’ captors had used this location before for similar deeds.

Mark got out of the car first. He fully intended to keep his earlier promise to put all six bullets into Davis. Mark told him to get out of the car and start running. Hesitant at first, Davis did as he was told. He managed less than a dozen steps. As he did, Mark trained the pistol on the center of Davis’ back. Slowly and deliberately, he squeezed the trigger. The blast tore through Davis’ flesh and sent him down solid. Somehow, Davis managed to get back on his feet. As he attempted to flee Mark continued firing at him. Four shots sailed past Davis and ricocheted off rocks and cement. Davis almost made it all the way to the nearby freeway before he collapsed from exhaustion and loss of blood. He groped the freeway embankment like a lifeline, but to no avail. Mark was already on him. Davis closed his eyes and played dead. More than anything he needed to gasp for air. It was all he could do to hold his breath and control his trembling. Mark was determined to make sure it wasn’t an act. He put the gun to the back of Davis’ head.

—This one should do it.

Mark pulled the trigger… but nothing happened. He pulled the trigger two more times but the gun had jammed. On the fourth and final try the pistol barked to life, but unbeknownst to Mark the barrel was angled towards Davis’ ear. The bullet had only