Chapter 19
Nearly six years after someone bludgeoned Denise Huber to death, and almost three years after Yavapai County officers found her frozen body, a pool of prospective jurors assembled in the eleven-story Orange County Superior Court building. The modern structure stood at the center of a high-rise local government complex in Santa Ana, less that one-half mile from the Victoria Drive home where an introspective, frail child named John Famalaro had once lived.
Ione and Dennis Huber planned to make the trip from Mandan, North Dakota, and stay for the full trial no matter how long it took, but they would wait until the start of actual testimony. Once again, generous benefactors would help fund their trip and their living accommodations in Orange County. A woman who had lived close to them near Vista Grande would give them the full use of her recent model Buick for the duration of the trial.
Superior Court Judge John “Jack” Ryan inherited responsibility for the Famalaro trial. A twelve-year military veteran as a sergeant in the U.S. Marine Corps before obtaining his law degree, Ryan had also served as an Orange County prosecutor for nine years. First donning the robes of a municipal court judge in 1981, he was elevated to the Superior Court three years later. Known for balancing a sharp sense of humor with tough insistence on following correct courtroom procedure, Ryan commanded respect from both sides. Leonard Gumlia said, “I like him very much, personally. I didn’t agree with his calls on the change of venue motion or the victim impact issue, but I think he certainly conducts fair trials.”
Chris Evans agreed with the compliments paid to Ryan. “I was happy to hear that he would be the judge in this case. He knows the law better than most attorneys, is very even-handed and fair, and has strong control of his courtroom. He hasn’t lost touch with the blue-collar guys in this world, and uses common sense. And most important, he doesn’t tolerate a lot crap from either side.”
To be certain that the jury would be selected from a fair cross-section of Orange County residents, judge Ryan requested a jury pool of 1,200 candidates. The crowds of prospective jurors, wearing visible numbers on their chests in place of name tags to insure anonymity, assembled and were given the opportunity to tell the court if a protracted trial would impose unusual or financial hardships on them. It didn’t take a genius to realize, from the very size of the group, that something important was brewing.
Several hundred reluctant members of the assembly presented acceptable reasons to be excused, so were thanked and sent back to be considered for shorter trials. In shifts, the remainder occupied the 123 seats in Ryan’s courtroom on the eleventh floor, and filled out multi-page questionnaires inquiring about their personal views related to the justice system. “What are your general feelings about the death penalty? Do you have any religious convictions about the death penalty? Do you feel the death penalty is used too often? Too seldom?” The form gave candidates the opportunity to say whether they would automatically rule out or impose capital punishment, and if they could be impartial in their findings. It asked if they had formed any preconceived notions about the defendant’s guilt or innocence, and what information they had learned about him through news media or any personal contacts. Space was also provided for the answer to an essay question: “Please summarize in as much detail as possible all that you have heard or read about this case, Denise Huber and her family, and the defendant John Famalaro.”
Gradually, over several laborious days, more prospective jurors were weeded out before the commencement of voir dire, the questioning by attorneys and the judge. One man was overheard saying, “I don’t want to sit up front and look at that piece of scum,” referring to John Famalaro. It didn’t take long to eliminate the speaker as a possible juror. About 200 candidates remained.
Days before the scheduled trial kickoff, an understandable and short delay occurred when defender Denise Gragg learned that her sister, who had been suffering through a long illness, had succumbed to it.
As the process resumed, one of the jury candidates, Bonnie Snethen, number 384, laughed at the idea of becoming a juror on a major homicide case. The slim, attractive blonde, smartly attired, knew that of all the people jammed into the courtroom, she would probably be the least likely to be selected. After all, her ex-husband had been a deputy D.A. They’d been divorced sixteen years, but she still maintained contact with him. Not only that, she had brushed shoulders with Judge Ryan at several social functions, while he was still a deputy D.A. “I’m outta here,” she figured.
Prior to receiving the questionnaire, when the judge outlined general facts about the upcoming case to the room full of curious candidates, Snethen at first didn’t recognize the name Famalaro. Then she vaguely remembered having heard something about the crime, and her breath caught in her throat. She realized it certainly would be a major trial. The victim, she recalled, was in her early twenties, and Snethen could understand the parents’ horror, since she had a daughter close to the same age.
Serving jury duty on such a case might be interesting, Snethen mused. She had left a job in the finance business a few days earlier, and had been considering relaxing on the beach or perhaps taking an extended cruise for a couple of months before taking new employment. Then came the jury summons. Several valid reasons to request hardship dismissal entered Snethen’s mind, but she didn’t feel that such an escape would be honorable.
On the second day in the crowded gallery section of the courtroom, Snethen completed her questionnaire, turned it in to the bailiff, and sat quietly.
“Hello, Juror 384, how are you doing?” came the judge’s voice.
“Well,” Snethen replied, her expression signaling that she was doing fine, “I need to address the law enforcement issue. My father is a retired Long Beach Police Officer. On my questionnaire, I did make a note that my former husband is a Senior Deputy D.A. And I am—I do personally know Judge Ryan.” Even though she addressed her remarks to the judge, she referred to him in the third person as a sign of respect. After a moment of hesitation, she added, “And I am currently dating a retired Long Beach Police Officer who is now employed as a special investigator for the city of Long Beach.”
Snethen almost rose from her seat, fully expecting orders to leave immediately. But the judge waited expectantly, so she continued to talk. “As far as being a fair juror, I think I could be. I certainly am aware of the system. I’ve been exposed to it all my life. I understand the death penalty or life without the possibility of parole. Basically, the way I feel is that someone who commits a crime such as this should be removed from society. I don’t really care what the penalty is as long as we’re guaranteed the criminals are not back on the streets and an active part of society. So I could go either way on the penalty without a problem.”
A hint of recognition seemed to show in Judge Ryan’s face, Snethen thought, but she couldn’t be certain. He asked, “You could vote for death if you were satisfied the aggravating factors were so substantial in comparison with the mitigating factors?”
“Absolutely.”
“Or you could vote for life without the possibility of parole?”
“Absolutely.”
“How about law enforcement? Could you be objective in evaluating a police officer witness?”
“I believe I could ... All things being equal, I would like to think I could be objective.”
Leonard Gumlia asked Snethen a question he wanted every prospective juror to hear. “In your experiences with law enforcement or with your former husband, did you ever . . . discover that someone who had been arrested really was just not guilty in terms of the proof of evidence, but was innocent of the charges?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Is it possible the system can make a mistake?”
“Absolutely.”
To the next question about her ability to presume innocence, Snethen answered, “I don’t have a preconceived notion or feeling that Mr. Famalaro is guilty. I would have to hear the evidence before I could make that decision.”
Following more interrogation about her objectivity, Gumlia scanned her questionnaire then asked, “You had a close friend who was murdered?”
“Yes.”
Gumlia wanted to know if the emotional experience of knowing a murder victim, even though it had happened nine years ago, would cause Snethen to give extra weight to victim impact testimony. In her response, Snethen said, “No, I don’t think so. This young man I had known since he was five years old—I’m very good friends with his mother—and it was a horrible thing. But I don’t think that would influence me, although I did want the court to be aware of it.”
Gumlia sat down and Chris Evans stood. In the same manner he would use in chatting with a group of friends in front of a cozy fireplace, he said, “Hi, 384.”
“Hi.”
“Let me ask you this question to start. Do you understand that the impact of the victim’s death on the family is one thing you can consider as part of the factors and circumstances of the crime in this case, as an aggravating factor?”
“Yes.”
“You can give that the weight of an anvil or a feather, or anywhere in between. You do understand that?” Both Evans and Gumlia, in questioning each prospective juror, used carefully chosen words to not only elicit an answer from the individual, but to also educate the other jury candidates. Snethen gave another affirmative reply. The prosecutor briefly queried her regarding the commitment to being unequivocally fair to both sides if she acted as a juror on the case, then turned toward the judge.
Judge Ryan summoned Evans, Gumlia, and Gragg to a sidebar for a whispered conference. Gumlia had reserved a decision whether or not to use one of his peremptory challenges to excuse Bonnie Snethen, so Ryan asked him if he wanted to be heard regarding a motion to have the court dismiss her “for cause,” meaning that she was legally unqualified to serve as a juror on this case. In a hushed tone, the defender spoke. “To be honest, I don’t believe she’s given an answer that disqualifies her.” He expressed his opinion that publicity about the case to which Snethen may have been exposed plus her ties with the justice system might invalidate her, but could find no solid legal grounds for the court to dismiss her.
judge Ryan observed that her divorce from the deputy D.A. had been a long time ago, while Gumlia noted that she kept ongoing ties to law enforcement. The judge smiled and said, “If we had to excuse everybody who seemed to be pro law enforcement, we’d be in real trouble.”
Conceding that Snethen’s death penalty views seemed moderate when compared to opinions stated by many of the jury candidates, Gumlia said, “I’m worried about what she knows that may come into play ... Her familiarity with the system could be dangerous.” He agreed, though, with Ryan that Snethen’s former husband had moderate views that probably would not have influenced her to be biased one way or the other. After Ryan denied Gumlia’s motion for the court to dismiss her, the defender requested the judge to ask Snethen a few more questions about her acquaintances in the district attorney’s office.
Ryan turned toward Gumlia and Denise Gragg. “The next peremptory is with the defense.” Bonnie Snethen and the majority of the prospective jurors fully expected Gumlia to thank and excuse juror number 384. Muffled expressions of surprise rumbled through the room when he announced, “I’d ask the court to thank and excuse the juror in seat ten, juror number 162.”
Bonnie Snethen wondered if her survival was only temporary. She knew that, with several days of jury selection still ahead, she could be excused and replaced at any time.
Another young man sitting in the crowded courtroom had a gut feeling that he would definitely be selected as one of the jurors. David Reyno, age thirty-six, a native of Leonard Gumlia’s home state, Minnesota, had quietly observed three days of the selection process. The soft-spoken man with brown eyes and neatly trimmed black hair kept his smoothly handsome facial features in a calm, contemplative expression. He later described his reaction when called to jury duty in early April 1997. “There was a huge crowd when I was sent upstairs to the eleventh floor. I knew it had to be a big case, and wondered what it was about. In the courtroom, when Judge Ryan told us it was the people versus John Famalaro, it still didn’t click. But when he said the defendant was accused of killing Denise Huber—wow! It hit me. And right then, I had the gut feeling that out of all those hundreds of people, I would land on that jury.
“When they called me up to the jury box, about halfway through the proceedings, I did feel some doubts and thought they might release me. I told them that I’d kept track of the news at the early stages when Denise disappeared. I live in Costa Mesa and was raised just a few miles from where she was abducted. I felt identification with her because I have friends and a sister her age. During those years she was missing, I sort of lost track of it, but heard the news when they found the body. She was in cold storage all that time. You just wish that somebody would have found her in that freezer much sooner. I was relieved when they finally did discover the body, for her parents’ sake.
“At first, when I saw the way the defense lawyers looked at me, I thought that I was going to be released. But suddenly that gut feeling came back, and I knew I was going to be one of the jurors.”
David Reyno and Bonnie Snethen watched other prospective jurors take seats in the box and answer endless questions. Some were dismissed within minutes, others lasted for hours thinking they had been accepted, then looked startled when either the prosecutor or a defense attorney thanked and excused them. For the most part, jury selection is a tedious process, but now and then the atmosphere becomes heated and electric. Juror number 410, a tall woman who might have been a model, dressed in white pants and a white blouse, told the court that she wouldn’t be a good candidate because she was too emotional. Evans asked her if she could look John Famalaro in the face and vote for the death penalty. She answered by glaring at the seated defendant and in a the low growl of a lioness, with her teeth clenched, snarled, “Yes!” Leonard Gumlia excused her.
A priest answered when the court clerk called his number, and surprised the assembly by saying he could vote for the death penalty if aggravating circumstances warranted it.
During the questioning process, Denise Gragg emphasized at one point that a vote of not guilty would not be a vote “against the Hubers. We will not ask you to vote against the Hubers.”
Prospective juror number 381 explained that he may have been emotional when he filled out the questionnaire because it was done just twenty-four hours after a nephew had killed his own girlfriend, then committed suicide. The defense team excused number 381.
The unexpected can happen, and did. In the late afternoon of May 7, with the lawyers and all participants virtually exhausted, twelve jurors and four alternates had been finally accepted by the prosecution and the defense. Grateful and relieved, the judge had started to thank the remaining prospects for their patience when one of the seated alternates, number 200, raised her trembling voice. “Your Honor . . .”
Judge Ryan asked, “Did you have something to say?”
Seeming close to an emotional breakdown, the woman groaned, “I don’t think I can do this!”
“You don’t think you can sit?” Ryan patiently asked.
“No, I don’t. I really apologize . . . This has been getting worse as I sit here. I’m not truly sure I can be fair.” With the court’s permission, Chris Evans asked her if she could expand her explanation. The woman fought back tears and said, “I’ll be honest, I’m having a hard time even looking at the defendant.” She just couldn’t give him a fair trial, she confessed.
Ryan commented, “That’s why we ask these questions. Some can sit and some can’t.”
Embarrassed, the woman glanced toward the sparse crowd of weary prospective jurors who now would have to continue the grueling selection process, and uttered, “They are going to mug me in the parking lot.”
Gumlia and Evans both quickly agreed to stipulate the woman should be excused. Ryan informed the remaining sixty-plus candidates not to leave. The process would have to begin once more.
The loss of the one alternate threw off the carefully worked out balance the defense and prosecution had sought. As new prospects came forward, and were accepted or bumped, each side sought to restore the equilibrium. The afternoon droned on into evening. At 5 P.M., the air conditioning was shut down, and the room became sultry. Impatience and fatigue caused groans when either Gumlia or Evans excused a juror. Twenty candidates came forward, answered questions, and twenty were dismissed. Through the giant west-facing windows of the courtroom, the assembly could see the sun dropping close to the Pacific horizon ten miles away. They sweltered in the stuffy room. One man called out loudly, “Hey judge, how about sending out for some pizza?”
A dozen more prospects endured interrogations, until at last, at 6:30 P.M., both sides announced their acceptance of the impaneled jury.
David Reyno’s prescience about becoming one of the jurors turned out to be accurate. Both he and Bonnie Snethen survived the harrowing process. They, plus eight women and two men, and the four alternate jurors, were sworn in to hear the evidence in the case of the People vs. John Joseph Famalaro.