Guilty but Innocent

By G. B. Hoover and Joseph Anthony

People go to jail because they have committed crimes but a very few of those incarcerated really are innocent. Sid Brown was found guilty of murder but he was convicted even before he went to trial because he was stubborn and refused to condemn himself for a crime that he did not commit. Contradictory statements and a fatal loss of control in the witness box sealed his fate despite the best efforts of the homicide detectives, his lawyer and even the offer of a plea bargain by the prosecutor. This perfect legal storm combined to condemn and incarcerate an innocent man who could not be proven innocent until it was too late. The participants in this true story have never recovered from the ensuing tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449039530

G. B. Hoover

Joseph Anthony lives in Parkton, Maryland with his wife Susan and their two cats, Nigel and Marvin.

Book preview

PART I

WHY THE DOG?

ONE

THE 911 CALL CAME in at 4.15 am on Saturday morning, August 7th, 1982. The caller sounded incoherent, slurring his words but shouting that he had been shot and his nephew was dead. The dispatcher tried to calm the caller, asking for his name and address and reassuring him that a patrol car and an ambulance were on the way.

Hurry, will you, yelled the caller, I’m bleeding to death here and my nephew’s already dead.

Some fifteen minutes later, a patrol car pulled up in front of the one-story corner house in The Heights. It was a single family dwelling facing row homes across the street and surrounded by a badly peeling white picket fence. A pathway lay between the fence and the neighboring expanse of row homes that stretched out down the road from the corner. Behind the house was an open field separating it from a copse of trees; a stream ran between the trees and the open field. The pathway led from the street directly into the open field.

Although this place was in the south-east part of the City of Baltimore, it was curious that there was no-one around. The streets were silent and empty. Elsewhere in the city and particularly West Baltimore, the responding police officer reflected, there would be raucous parties going on all round and drunks and druggies would be staggering about. Friday nights and early Saturday mornings were big party times in his experience. The silence, quiet streets and absence of people was slightly unnerving, particularly in the half-light of pre-dawn.

The responding officer, Steve Wilson, quickly scanned the yard and its surroundings before striding up the path to the front door and entering the house. He first saw an older white man slumped against a wall, leaking blood and moaning. Across the room, he spotted a bare-chested younger man lying on the floor with a dirty red-rimmed hole in his chest, approximately where his heart was. Immediately, Steve checked with the dispatcher that EMS were on their way and told her to call 2100 to notify Homicide that a dead body had been found. He could see signs that there had been some sort of struggle in the front room. An overturned bottle of cheap wine was slowly letting its contents gurgle out over the floor, puddling into a pile of ash and scattered cigarette ends from an ashtray lying beside an upended table. A Lazy-Boy recliner was tilted at an odd angle and newspapers and a couple of girly magazines were scattered around the room. A dank smell of sour wine, cigarette smoke and the coppery smell of blood permeated the room.

As he took in the wrecked room, Steve heard the squeal of brakes as at least two other patrol cars from his sector arrived, closely followed by the throbbing and flashing lights of the EMS ambulance. Since Steve was the first on the scene, it was his and he detailed one of the arriving uniforms to check the house and the other to secure the perimeter.

Within minutes, the two EMS men climbed out of their ambulance, opened out a stretcher and laid their emergency medical gear onto it before advancing on the house. Just as they were about to step into the front room from the doorway, the newly arrived Homicide detectives called out sharply, Wait, that’s a crime scene, you can’t go in there.

They hurried up to the house and, putting out a restraining hand towards the EMS men, the lead Homicide detective, Lenny Cole, stepped into the front room and surveyed the wreckage.

Hey detective, called out the ambulance driver, what about him? indicating the bleeding man slumped against the wall. Shouldn’t we get him to the hospital?

Aw shit, I suppose so. muttered Detective Cole. Just slide that gurney round the wall and get him, and watch where you’re stepping, okay?

Approaching the barely conscious and moaning man, the EMS team gently loaded him on the stretcher, and started backing out of the room. Leaning over the body, Lenny looked down and saw that the victim’s shirt and trousers were soaked with what looked like red wine. His shoulder, however, was soaked in blood and there were tell-tale signs of gun shot residue or GSR around the entry wound.

As the wounded man muttered incoherently, the EMS team positioned him on the gurney and slipped an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Man, one of them muttered, this guy tied one on last night. Phew, but at least there ain’t no vomit.

What’s he saying? asked Lenny. Does it make any sense to you?

Naw, not much - something about why’d he do it, he shouldn’t have done it. Just meaningless rubbish.

Okay, said the lead homicide detective, take him to Johns Hopkins Bayview. Someone will get to him later. He glanced at Steve Wilson, You get out front and stop anyone else from coming in – we’ve got to check everything out. He sighed, yet another pointless death in South-East Baltimore.

Lenny Cole was a well-built veteran homicide detective and he had a wealth of experience. He had seen everything at least twice, and very little surprised him. Although black, he was uniquely color-blind when it came to homicides, all he saw was the red of the spilled blood. His partner, Lamar Chambers, was also black but much younger and fairly new to the Homicide Division. The two detectives worked well together, experience in the older detective and enthusiasm untainted by cynicism in the other had melded them into a very effective team. They had a high clearance rate for homicides, as had the Homicide Division as a whole, although the clearance rate had been dropping of late. Hopefully, this one would not be one of their infrequent failures.

Lenny sniffed at the heavy smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze permeating the room and nodded at his partner, Okay, Lamar, let’s get started. Call the tech’ guys and re-check the house for anyone else, right?

As he carefully scanned the room, Lenny immediately noted the absence of both a gun and any spent cartridges. So, the two men had been shot with a revolver, but where was it? Looking around, it seemed to him that the old guy had been sleeping, or at least dozing, in the battered Lazy-Boy recliner now canted against one wall. Obviously there had been some sort of fight, judging by the position of the recliner, the wine bottle and ash tray on the floor as well as the up-ended metal side-table and the TV set lying on its back beside a smashed wood stand. An old lamp with a low wattage bulb was still alight in the corner of the room but Lenny could see everything clearly as daylight from the progressing dawn that crept into the room. He made notations in his notebook that an intermittently conscious late middle aged white male with a gun shot wound in his right shoulder had been transported from the crime scene to hospital by EMS personnel. The body of a half-naked white male, apparently shot, was also found at the crime scene.

While he waited for the Crime Laboratory people to arrive, he examined the body lying in the doorway between the front room and the bedroom behind it. The dead man was much younger than the wounded man. The bullet appeared to have gone straight into the heart, presumably killing him near instantaneously. Lenny noted the absence of any blood spatter, indicating that he had probably been killed by a small caliber revolver. Lenny also saw that there were no powder residues on the torso, ‘Hmm,’ he thought, ‘shot from across the room. Wonder if there were powder burns or gun shot residue on the older guy who was shot? Got to check that out.’ The dead man seemed to be even younger than Lenny first thought, probably about 18 or 19, and was well-built, blonde haired and blue-eyed, very much your typical Billy-boy. Curiously, he was clad only in baggy cut-off sweat pants which were pulled down from his waist, almost exposing his genitalia.

Lamar returned to the front room, All clear. Back door’s locked, every other room is empty. Nothing out back, either. Looks as though one of them, the young guy I think, was sleeping in the bedroom. He looked down at the dead body, That’s odd.

What’s odd? Whadda ya see?

His pants are pulled down.

So?

Do you think he and the old man were getting it on and then things went wrong between ‘em?

Could be, said Lenny, might explain things, but maybe not. Who are these guys anyway?

Bills and envelopes on the kitchen table indicate that the house belongs to a Sidney Brown. Since there’s also a pension check to Sidney Brown from Bethlehem Steel on the table, my betting is that that’s who the old man is. I wonder who the young guy is, could he be the old guy’s lover?

Processing of the front room, the house and its surroundings by the homicide detectives and the Crime Lab team took time but there were precious few clues. Packing things up, they got ready to return to Police Headquarters but heard a shout from the responding officer, Steve Wilson, out in the side yard. Leaning out the front door, Lenny called Whazzup?

Detective, there’s a dog out here.

So, what sort of dog is it?

I’ve no idea but he’s a big bugger. Man, I hate dogs, ‘specially big ones.

Okay, okay, groaned Lenny, call dispatch and get Animal Control over here.

But the dog’s dead, protested Steve.

So what, answered Lenny, someone’s got to get rid of it, and it ain’t us. That’s what Animal Control’s for.

So, the two detectives and three patrolmen stood patiently waiting for Animal Control. As Lenny scanned the property, he saw that the windows of the house were open. Was the gate open, when you got here? he asked Steve.

No, it was closed, as was the front door.

Another curious facet, thought Lenny, there’s something not right about this case. With a screech of brakes, the Animal Control truck arrived, interrupting Lenny’s thoughts. Two operatives leaped out of the cabin, gathered up their protective gear, a pole with a large snare at one end and a net, and looked at the watching police. Okay, where is it? said one, looking around.

Over there, Steve said, pointing at the dog lying on the ground between house and fence.

He’s awfully still, isn’t he? said one of the operatives and, grasping his pole, he advanced on the animal, his partner ready to toss the containing net over the animal if necessary. As they approached, the animal still hadn’t moved and then the pair of them were standing over the animal, looking down at it. Eventually, one of them called out, He’s dead.

Yeah, we know. What’d he die of?

How the fuck should I know, I’m not a vet. Don’t see much blood on him.

As the police officers and detectives returned to their cars, one of the Animal Control men called out, "Hey, what do we do with the dog?’

Fucked if I know! said Lenny, Take him to the pound, why don’t you? Just get rid of it, will you?

The Animal Control men looked at each other, shrugged and loaded the dead animal onto a stretcher. Looking down at the carcass, one of them called out to the retreating detectives, Hey. Lenny had already reached the car and was getting in, and didn’t hear the shout. But Lamar did and he stopped and looked round, What?

It looks like there’s a gun shot wound in its ear, straight into the brain.

Yeah, yeah, muttered Lamar and waved them on their way.

WHEN THEY GOT BACK to Police Headquarters and filed their initial report, their Lieutenant read it through and ordered them to canvas the neighborhood. When you can, get over to Bayview and talk to the gunshot victim. Find out what that’s all about. The two detectives sighed. They were looking at many hours of long-drawn out interviews with the neighbors. They would get endless and ultimately useless details from the well-meaning but very garrulous inhabitants of the houses surrounding the crime scene location, and they dreaded it. At least, if it was a lovers’ spat, it would be straightforward, maybe not simple but at least it would be straightforward based on what they had seen.

Lenny decided they had better get some sustenance before they headed out, there might not be too many bodegas in The Heights. As they hunched over coffee in the diner, they started discussing the case.

Pair of faggots, decided Lamar, no great loss.

Maybe you’re right, growled Lenny, but then again, you may be wrong. Either way, it’s still a homicide. Okay, let’s finish up and go and talk to the neighbors. It’s gonna be a long day!

By the way, said Lamar, one of the Animal guys said something about the dog being shot.

He said what?

He said he thought the dog might have been shot. Probably through the ear and into the brain.

Why didn’t you tell me this before? Ah man!

Sorry…I didn’t think it was that important.

Lamar, when it comes to a homicide, everything’s important. You know that.

Leaning back in his chair, Lenny started ruminating about the case. You know, he said. there’s a whole lot not adding up here.

Waddaya mean?

Well, one guy got shot and died, apparently hit from across the room by a small caliber revolver. The other guy gets shot close-up but we won’t know if it was with the same gun or not until we get the ME’s report. The room is a shambles - looks as though there was some sort of fight. Odd that one victim was shot from across the room while the other was shot close-up. And where the hell did the gun get to? Makes one wonder what had been going on when everything came down.

I told you, said Lamar, it was a lovers’ spat.

Maybe, but it don’t sit right with me. Hesitating for a few seconds, Lenny continued, And what about the dog? Where’s he fit into all this? Which reminds me, we’d better call the pound and get them to save the carcass so we can have a look at it.

Finishing up, the two detectives climbed in their car and headed back to The Heights, mentally preparing themselves for a long day of Billy-boy yammering. Time being essential in any homicide investigation, a canvas of the neighbors was a first priority, particularly as Sid Brown was still in surgery. As a result, the call to the pound was delayed until they got back to Headquarters but, by then, it was too late. The carcass had been incinerated along with any useful evidence it might have carried. Another loose end hanging out there, adding to Lenny’s growing irritation.

TWO

SIDNEY BROWN WAS A stocky man of medium height and, despite being in his mid-sixties, he still had broad square shoulders and impressive biceps and triceps. For years he had been a foundryman at Bethlehem Steel where he had built up his strength and stamina but cooked his brain in the heat, noise and bad air over a lifetime of employment in the foundry. Now that he had taken early retirement, a decision forced upon him by management, money was a little tight. Unfortunately because he was a couple of wings short of a full bucket, it had proved to be impossible to get another job to supplement his meager pension and Social Security benefits. Nevertheless he managed quite well, mainly because he owned his own home and the property taxes were affordable. His living expenses were modest since the death of his wife a few years back and, because of a nasty session with prostate cancer, dating was out of the question for him. So, with a pack or so of cigarettes every day and the odd six pack of beer or a bottle of cheap wine, Sid was a reasonably contented man. He could even cook quite well and he and his home were surrounded by friendly neighbors within walking distance although he had only one living relative, his brother Robert and his son Bobby, although a new wife Alice would eventually come into the picture. The Heights and its fairly close-knit community were home for Sid Brown.

The one thing that upset the smooth pattern of his life was the periodic burglaries of his home. Over the past year or so, there had been a series of break-ins and assorted items stolen. He had reported the burglaries to the police and various police officers had come round to take notes and file reports. The biggest ticket item that had been taken was his old but serviceable 0.32 revolver that he kept for self-defense. That had been taken months previously but by this time the police were thoroughly bored with Sid Brown and his complaints. They still went through the motions but, by and large, reports were filed haphazardly or were quietly forgotten. Sid didn’t have insurance and since there was no follow-up by anyone, least of all an insurance company, the local police made nice but promptly forgot about Sid and his break-ins. It was not that they didn’t believe him or were uncaring but some of the problem was due to Sid himself. After the first two or three break-ins, the local police suggested that he get new locks for the front and back doors to his house, and to keep them locked both when he went out and even when home. Unfortunately, Sid was, as the saying goes, a little soft in the head and tended to misplace his keys if not lose them outright. After the police had had to let him a few times, they understandably stopped taking him seriously. This attitude was not helped by the fact that Sid would frequently toddle into the station house to inform them that this or that item which had been stolen the previous week had mysteriously turned up again. Even the loss of a gun didn’t trouble them because they knew it would re-appear sooner or later.

Sid, however, knew better. Although he didn’t know who was breaking in, he knew it was local kids on their way through the woods and open field on their way home. His house, right next to the pathway, was an open invitation for unwelcome visitors, particularly after he had gone to the local Elks Hall for a few drinks on a Friday or Saturday night. The sound of his raucous snores from the open windows was the siren call to would-be burglars, and they responded accordingly.

The professionals who scouted the neighborhood rarely bothered with Sid’s place, there just wasn’t enough in the house or anything of sufficient value for it to be worth the effort. Two young Billy-boys, however, did feel it was worth their time and attention. Drew Richards, at 18 years of age, was well on the way to becoming a hardened criminal. He had been hauled into Juvenile Court several times and had an almost impressive criminal record. His closest friend, Earl Watson, was really not a bad person but he was completely under the thrall of his mean and vicious cousin Drew. They hung out a lot together and regularly got drunk or stoned, or both, during the week and particularly at weekends. Both young men had dropped out of high school and were still living at home with their long-suffering parents but in other respects, they were a study in contrasts.

Earl was of average height and medium stature, with dark curly hair, brown eyes and a pleasant if somewhat characterless face. Earl was not that bright but he was a solid, reasonably reliable young man. He was employed at Bethlehem Steel and was learning to be a welder, and showed acceptable skill in that occupation. Most of his problems came from associating with Drew, who delighted in urging the shy and unassuming Earl into mischief.

Drew was tall, well-built and quite handsome, with somewhat unruly blonde hair and bright blue eyes that attracted young (and not so young) women in droves. Drew was reasonably intelligent and this was combined with a lot of street smarts. He drifted periodically into and out of work with Bethlehem Steel, mainly because his uncle headed up the employment office. He usually worked only until he had built up sufficient cash to stock up on marijuana and had enough money left over to buy beer for a few weeks. After the money or the weed ran out, whichever came first, Drew would go back to work but only if he couldn’t steal from other people. Unfortunately, Sid Brown’s home had taken on the role of an easy access bank for Drew and he regularly broke in and took whatever he could sell easily, always leaving his cousin Earl outside as a look-out. Most items that he took were worth only a few dollars and the thieving tended to be more of a game than a serious quest for money. However, one Friday night, Drew found a loaded revolver in the house and this rapidly made its way into Drew’s coat pocket.

As he left the house, he signaled to Earl and the pair of them retraced their steps back down the pathway into the field. Why aren’t we going home? asked Early plaintively. It was late, he was tired and the beer and weed had slowed him down considerably; all he wanted to do was get home and go to bed.

As they walked along, Drew fished out the revolver and showed it to Earl, Lookee here, see what I found.

What you gonna do with that?

First we’re going to hide it in the river bank and then, when we go out, we’ll use it to keep us safe.

Safe from what? asked Earl.

Well, you know how we break in places? This’ll stop anyone getting us.

Whaddaya mean, shoot someone?

Nah, just scare them off by waving it at them. No point in shooting anyone unless we have to.

Okay, assented a mystified Earl, and the matter was dropped. But now that Drew was able to carry heat, he always had the gun in his coat pocket whenever he and Earl went out. Makes me fail safer, he told Earl, but possession of that gun eventually had dreadful consequences.

THE CONTINUING PATTERN OF random break-ins, always at the weekend, was really beginning to bother Sid. He decided that if the police couldn’t or wouldn’t help, then he was going to do something himself. He went round the corner to see Robert, his brother. Robert wasn’t home but his son, Bobbie, was there.

Bobbie, I keep getting broken into on Fridays or Saturdays. It’s fair getting me down and I need help.

What sort of help, Uncle Sid?

Well, and Sid paused for thought. I’m wondering if you’d be willing to sleep over at my house at the weekends, sort of look after things for me. You can have the bedroom and I’ll sleep on the recliner, that is, if you’ve not got anything better to do.

Bobbie Brown was a nice young man, just turned 18 with bright blue eyes and a shock of blonde hair. Tall, well-built and good-looking, he probably could have had his pick of girlfriends but his natural shyness and an uncommon enthusiasm, at least in a Billy-boy, for study made him awkward around the opposite sex. He occasionally dated but a girlfriend per se was almost out of the question for him. He had just graduated from high school and was looking forward to starting at the local community college in the Fall. Apart from regularly working out at the local Gold’s Gym, reading and watching television, Bobbie’s life was almost a blank sheet. Staying over at his uncle’s house on a Friday and/or a Saturday didn’t bother him and would get him out of the house and away from his sarcastic and bitter father. Bobbie’s parents had divorced two years earlier and for the first year after that had happened, Robert had spent too much time sitting around the house drinking and criticizing his son. Since then, his new woman friend, Alice, had helped stop a lot of the drinking but both Robert and Alice both seemed to take a perverse delight in mocking Bobbie’s attempts at getting an education. They often would make snide remarks about him possibly being queer because he didn’t have a girlfriend and spent too much time at the gym. Getting away from his father and Alice on Friday and Saturday evenings, when the pair of them went out drinking and became even more abusive, suited him just fine. He would start that week and continue until the break-ins stopped.

THREE

IT WAS ABOUT 3 am on August 7th as Drew Richards and his cousin Earl Watson staggered back home from yet another night out and they both were definitely feeling the effects of the beer and weed that they had consumed. Got any money, Earl? asked Drew as they crossed the field.

Nah, spent it all, didn’t I? How about you?

The same but I tell you what, we can get some bread from that old guy’s place, said Earl with a nod towards Sid’s home. He’s probably sleeping off the booze, like he always does on a Friday or Saturday night.

Didn’t we take that place a while back?

So what? There’s probably still something there we can get. If it’s any good, we’ll sell it so what we can go out again tonight. Whaddabout it then?

I dunno – it might be risky.

Ah, don’t be so wet. It’ll be alright, besides I got the protector with me.

What protector? asked Earl, What are you talking about?

I’m talking about the gun that I got from him months back.

You’re joking! D’you mean you were walking around downtown with a gun? Man, that’s risky…what if the cops had stopped us?

Nah, nothing to it, why should they stop us? We weren’t doing anything, were we? Anyway, I’ve got it, so let’s see what we can find.

What if the old guy is awake? I don’t want any trouble.

Trouble? The protector will take care of that, besides can’t you hear him snoring? retorted Drew, waving at the open windows of the front room and the raucous snoring from its occupant. That old man is dead to the world. Come on, let’s get to it.

Oh, I dunno, I don’t like it.

Come on Earl, don’t be so wet! Tell you what, you stay here and keep watch while I go in. Whistle if you see or hear anything.

As Drew opened the gate, he heard a low growl coming from the side yard next to the fence. What the fuck? he muttered and peered at the dark patch of yard.

That’s the old man’s dog, Drew, better watch out. If he starts barking, he’ll waken the neighborhood.

Ah don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. and he closed the gate, walking towards the dog while quietly calling out, Come here boy, come here.

The dog, recognizing Drew from the many times he walked past the house on his way home, wandered over, hesitantly wagging his tail but still wary over the unexpected intrusion into his yard. As the dog reached him, Drew bent down and started patting his head and then quickly pulled out the gun. He pushed the barrel into the dog’s left ear and pulled the trigger. There was a subdued pop and the dog fell over, instantly dead.

What the fuck was that? called Earl.

Nothing man, I just took care of the dog…didn’t want him barking, did I?

Whadda ya mean, you took care of it? You killed it? asked a horrified Earl.

Told ya, I didn’t want it barking. Besides, it felt good … fucking dogs are a pain, shitting everywhere and barking all the time. I reckon I did the old man a favor in getting rid of it. Now shut up and keep watch while I go in.

A stunned and now decidedly worried and unhappy Earl stood by the gate. He peered up and down the street but it remained dark and silent, no one had heard the muffled gun shot. As the automatic timer switched off the few street lights, his eyes rapidly adjusted to the darkness. As they did so, Earl became aware of a lamp burning in the front room. He called out urgently but quietly to Drew, but the young man had already entered the house, the screen door snicking shut behind him. Too late.

DREW RICHARDS PULLED HIS sweatshirt up over his nose and mouth so that only his blue eyes and his shock of blonde hair were showing, and then surveyed the room. The old man was snoring loudly in the Lazy-boy recliner aimed at the television on its crappy wood stand. A half-empty bottle of cheap wine was on the cheap folding metal table beside the chair together with an overflowing ashtray. The whole room stank of flatulence, stale cigarette smoke and booze; the old man reeked of booze, and Drew almost gagged. He started to check out the room and knocked against an ancient sideboard, a framed picture falling to the floor smashing the glass and spilling out over the well-worn carpet.

What’s that? mumbled Sid, Whats happening?

Shut up, old man, just shut up! urged Drew.

Bobby, whadda ya doing? What’s going on? cried Sid and started to struggle out of his recliner. He was still pretty drunk, sleeping for only two hours hadn’t given his body, and rather ruined lover, sufficient time to metabolize the previous evening’s alcohol. He peered around the room and could make out Drew in the dim light from the corner lamp.

Why have you covered your face like that, Bobby? What’s going on?

Shuddup, old man, just shuddup! growled Drew, swinging round to push Sid back into his chair.

Despite his age and the residues of his Friday night boozing, Sid was still a strong man and he grabbed Drew’s sweatshirt, saying What’re you doing? What’s going on?

Drew swung at Sid, his fist making contact with Sid’s face, who howled in anger. He tightened his grip and hit Drew near the shoulder, following up with a short, sharp punch to his gut.

Shit, that hurt, cried Drew, and he punched at Sid again.

The men were now grappling with each other, knocking over the folding table beside the recliner, scattering the ashtray, cigarette butts and ash in a wide circle, in the center of which was the wine bottle, now busily allowing its contents to gurgle out over the carpet. The acrid smell of cheap wine mixing with cigarette butts and ash filled the room as the two men struggled, pushing the recliner back so that it was canted against the wall.

Bobby, stop, stop….what’re you doing? pleaded Sid as he tried to