Superior Court judge Gregory A. Adams doesn’t just take the bench. He makes an entrance. He bursts into his fifth-floor courtroom through a door just to the right of the bench, then slams the door behind him. The clock drives his courtroom; his favorite phrase is “at this point in time.” Minutes matter to him. Court starts promptly at 9 a.m. Ten-minute breaks last exactly ten minutes. His voice cuts through all others, loud but never shouting, and he gives lawyers what could be called a friendly glare. Even what are normally quieter moments in court make a racket. When the lawyers gather at the bench for a private sidebar discussion, Adams activates a switch that fills the courtroom with an abrasive static noise so nobody can hear what they’re saying. A former prosecutor for DeKalb County, he’s amassed awards and titles, from past president of the DeKalb Bar Association to an honor from the Boy Scouts of America. There’s even a building named after him: the Gregory A. Adams Juvenile Justice Center.
On the morning of Tuesday, February 21, 2012, Judge Adams presided over opening statements in the case of Georgia v. Hemy Zvi Neuman, charged with murder and the use of a gun in a felony. From an initial pool of 250 people called to the courthouse in Decatur, a jury of nine women and three men was selected. As is often the case, this courtroom was smaller in life than it appeared on television, with four rows of wooden benches in the audience section where family members were seated. It was a tense group, invisible lines between Rusty’s family—his parents, his brother, and his brother’s wife—on one side and Andrea and her supporters, including her mother and friends, on the other. Rusty’s family had become convinced that Andrea was involved in the murder even though she hadn’t been charged. The news media came out in force. National network correspondents delivering reports for the Today show and Good Morning America joined the local television and newspaper reporters, who live-blogged and tweeted from the courtroom. HLN carried portions of the trial live.
Hemy Neuman sat at the defense table between Robert Rubin and Doug Peters—Peters in his customary bow tie. Hemy dressed business casual in a zip-up navy sweater jacket over a blue dress shirt, with no tie, his white T-shirt poking through. The man who’d be called “the defendant” for the next several weeks appeared quiet, impassive, as if he were just another observer. DA Robert James took his seat at the prosecution table and watched as Chief Assistant District Attorney Don Geary stood and gave the opening statement for the state. In his presentation, Geary spoke of the one person not in the courtroom, Rusty Sneiderman. Retracing the bloody events of November 18, 2010, step by detailed step, Geary described how Hemy followed Rusty to the preschool parking lot, waited while Rusty dropped off Ian, then shot him. “As Rusty falls, the defendant’s not satisfied. He walks up and, in near contact, he puts [the gun] to Rusty’s neck and fires again,” Geary told the jury. “Then this man who didn’t know the difference between right and wrong goes to his van and drives off quickly.”
The opening statement played to the emotions while also attacking the insanity defense, but as powerful a presentation as he delivered, Geary could not hold the jury’s full attention. For behind him in the audience section was Andrea in a gray sweater with a Star of David necklace. She was sobbing uncontrollably. She drew heaving breaths as her mother comforted her. It was the first time many people had seen Andrea, a powerful impression few would forget—and not the last one she’d leave at the trial.
Next, Doug Peters gave the defense opening. “This case is about two good men,” he said, calling Rusty Sneiderman “a great father to his two children” and Hemy Neuman a “great father to three.” But on that morning in November “the lives of those men and their families were shattered, broken in pieces on the ground, never to be put back together again,” Peters said. “Why? Everyone in this courtroom and this community is looking for the answer.” He told jurors to look no farther than the victim’s wife. Hemy had an affair with her, Peters said, and by the end he became convinced he had to kill Rusty to save Andrea’s children, prodded into murderous action by visions of an angel and a demon. “Now, that’s a dad gum story,” Peters acknowledged, but insisted it was one he could prove.
The lawyers done, Adams cleared the courtroom for a break, during which prosecutors revealed they would call Andrea first. It was a surprise, not least for her. She had not spoken to police in months, her relations with authorities souring as they continued to suggest she played a role in Rusty’s murder. Her lawyer, Seth Kirschenbaum, requested a hearing. Ever mindful of the ticking clock, Adams welcomed Kirschenbaum to the podium with a most unwelcome stare. The judge bluntly reminded the lawyer that he had no standing in this criminal trial since Andrea was a party to the case and that technically Adams didn’t have to listen to a word he said. But as a “courtesy,” the judge would let him speak, briefly.
“The purpose of the motion,” began Kirschenbaum, “is brought on by the fact that Peters made it clear in his opening statement that he plans to put Andrea Sneiderman on trial and shift the blame for this crime from his client to my client. The way he’s going to do it is to completely focus on the more salacious aspects of this case whether or not they are true.”
The motion, he said, was to bar the television camera from the courtroom while Andrea testified. “I’m not asking you to clear this courtroom, but what I am asking you is to protect Andrea Sneiderman, to protect her children, and to protect the morals of all people who may hear this case that you order that Andrea Sneiderman’s testimony not be televised,” he said. “Why? Because it’s going to focus on alleged improper conduct or acts of the sexes. Not only to protect Sneiderman, society, to protect her children.”
“Mr. Kirschenbaum,” the judge said, “as a courtesy I did recognize you. All right, as of this time, you may be seated.”
No more would be said on the matter. The camera stayed on.
“Bring in my jury, please!” the judge boomed. As they filed in, Adams prodded them, “Come on in, you may be seated in any seat, no assigned seats, come on in, ladies and gentlemen, make yourself comfortable.” The judge then barked, “Call your first witness!”
Geary said, “The state calls Andrea Sneiderman.”
“Come on up!” the judge said in a voice suggesting he wouldn’t be disappointed if she jogged to the witness chair. “You’ll be sworn in!”
Andrea had her hair just past shoulder-length and wore glasses that were narrow and severe. Her expression was grim. She raised her right hand and heard the bailiff give the oath. She swallowed hard before saying yes. After spelling her name for the court reporter, she pulled her chair up and swallowed and shook her head as if she had a crick in her neck.
“Ma’am,” said Geary, “did you know Rusty Sneiderman?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling.
“How did you know Rusty?”
“He is my husband.”
In a slow, deliberate, and business-like fashion, Geary elicited the basic personal details from Andrea—her date of marriage, number of children, their employment histories, including her hiring at GE Energy. She spoke about the family’s finances, how they saved money and lived within their means, amassing an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar bank balance despite Rusty’s periods between jobs, with two houses, their primary residence half paid off.
“You wouldn’t consider yourself broke, would you?”
“No,” she said.
Geary then ventured into Andrea’s relationship with Hemy Neuman, a relationship that she acknowledged developed over the many hours they spent traveling for GE, when talk would drift from business to the personal. The prosecutor’s tone remained calm and respectful, ever mindful that the jury may empathize with the grieving widow.
“In the course of the time that I knew him,” Andrea began, “he discussed in the beginning how he was very happy with his children, had some financial problems but happy in his marriage. Then it progressed on to: I’m not happy in my marriage and my wife, that we are not getting along. She’s confrontational.”
Hemy told her about his early years, going to the boarding school in Israel, only he called it an “extremely positive influence,” Andrea testified, with Hemy telling her he became a leader and made many friends.
“Ever tell you about encountering a demon?” asked Geary, his first of many jabs at the defense theory.
“No,” she said.
Instead, she talked to Hemy about “everything from hobbies I had, to my children’s interests, to Rusty’s business ventures, to previous jobs I had had. Everything you would talk about with something you’re developing a friendship with.”
“Did you consider him a friend at that time?”
“Yes.”
“How would you describe him prior to November 18?”
“Extremely friendly individual, caring—pretending to be a caring individual,” she added, “seemed to have a very close relationship with all the members of his team … willing to take on any obstacle. That, at the time, seemed like an admirable quality for somebody in a corporation like GE. It can be tough to navigate a company like that. He seemed to have that figured out.”
“Prior to November 18, 2010, did the defendant tell you ever that he was having hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Did it ever appear to you that he was having hallucinations?”
“No, he appeared to be an extremely normal individual.”
“Did you ever hear anything about him having hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Did the defendant ever tell you that he saw or talked to a demon?”
“No.”
“Did the defendant ever tell you that he saw or talked to an angel figure?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see the defendant, prior to November 18, 2010, act illogical or irrational?”
“Never.”
“Did you ever see the defendant act manically depressed such that he couldn’t function?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see him confused?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see him act bipolar or have extreme mood changes?”
“Never.”
“Was he pretty stable, pretty solid?”
“Extremely stable person.”
“Did the defendant ever tell you how many children he had?”
“Yes.”
“How many children did he tell you he had?”
“Three.”
“Did he ever tell you he thought he had five?”
“No.”
“Did he ever tell you that he thought your children were his children?”
She answered with an emphatic, “No.”
At the defense table, Hemy sat and watched. Sometimes he would look up at her through his glasses, sometimes looking down, his expression neutral, as if he were attending a slightly boring business meeting, attentive but not fully involved.
Andrea seemed nervous. She wrung her hands in her lap and twitched. She spoke so softly at times that the judge had her repeat answers.
“Did the defendant ever express his feelings to you?” asked Geary.
“Yes,” she said, and recalled the business trip to Minden, Nevada. “Before dinner, we were outside the restaurant, and he pulled out his phone and read a poem. The insinuation of the poem to me was that he had deeper feelings for me than just friends. We immediately sat down. I remember the first question out of my mouth was: ‘Are you happy in your marriage?’”
“What did he express to you?”
“I don’t remember what the poem said. The poem insinuated that he thought I was beautiful, which to me meant that he had more romantic feelings for me than just being friends.”
“Is that the only time prior to November 18, 2010, that he expressed that to you?”
“It’s the only time that he expressed it in that way. There were other times where in passing, or in a fleeting moment, or in what seemed like a very silly email, he would seem to be expressing feelings for me. None of those feelings were ever returned and I made myself completely clear where I stood.”
“Do you have any idea what would make, what you believe, why the defendant would have these feelings for you? Do you know why he might have them?”
Andrea paused for a long time before answering. “Ummm,” she began, “I think I’m a pretty nice person. If you ask any of my friends, I get very involved in their life. I care about them. I get to know them. I try to help them. I did nothing but try to help Hemy Neuman. I suggested to him to seek counseling for him and his marriage, suggested that he not move out of his home, and I would do that for any friend. I think he viewed me as someone that had some sort of expert knowledge, answers.”
“Did you ever tell Rusty about the poem or the defendant’s feelings towards you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I really thought that I could handle it,” she said. “I knew if I told Rusty that I would quit my job and it was the only source of income we had at the time. I thought I had everything under control. At the time it seemed benign in a sense, no reason to tell him, only to make him emotional and worried about my career and about me.”
“Did you ever report the defendant’s conduct to anybody at GE?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The question brought a change to Andrea. Her voice took on a firm tone, like she was lecturing the prosecutor.
“I would have been fired,” she said. “I think that it’s fairly clear in writing how those things are handled, but I think that any woman that works in a corporation, that has just started her career over again, almost for the second time, knows if you were to report something like that, and you only worked at the company for two or three months, your chance of success at that company are pretty limited.”
Geary then brought her through her business trips with Hemy, starting with a trip to Norfolk.
“Do you remember that trip sharing a bottle of wine?”
Andrea appeared thrown off by the question. “I think almost every time I sat down to a business dinner I had a bottle of wine—shared a bottle of wine.”
He presented her with a receipt for a fifty-dollar bottle of wine.
Andrea leaned forward and stared at Geary. “I never picked the wine that we drank.”
“Question for you,” he asked. “Why would you share a bottle of wine at dinner far away from home, without your family there, with a man that just expressed those feelings to you?”
“I worked in consulting and have had many jobs since then at which drinking a bottle of wine while you’re out of town is very commonplace,” she shot back. “And drinking a bottle of wine did not enter my mind, my psyche that that was relevant to. Sorry, when I told him I wasn’t interested, he seemed like everything was fine. So at the time … he understood and respected my decision and I felt very comfortable that he could continue a normal friendship regardless how he expressed his feelings to me.”
Shown more receipts and then emails, she gave variations on the same answer. She either didn’t remember things or downplayed the significance of them. Geary played a video of Andrea talking to Deputy Chief David Sides the day after Hemy’s arrest in which she was asked if Hemy had been with her in Colorado with her and she stammered, “No, I do not—I know that—I’m trying to think.”
“Do you remember now?” Geary asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “If that’s what I said, then that’s what I said.”
It was, Geary suggested, not the kind of trip she’d forget, with the email from Hemy with a picture of roses, and her reply about that being “thoughtful” and a “sweet gesture.”
Asked if that was her email, she answered, “Yep.” It was a word she’d use increasingly often, her answers becoming more terse. Then with strain in her voice she said, “I don’t remember every email that I’ve written.”
Geary showed her additional emails, from Hemy to her, from her to Hemy: more trips, more hotels, more wine. Andrea replied to Geary as if he were a child, condescension in her voice. She shrugged her shoulders and she glared. She didn’t remember everything Hemy told her and she didn’t remember what she told him back. How could she? It was so long ago. Then she’d say, If the emails say it, then it must have happened—but not the way it looks. The change in rooms in Longmont? She didn’t like the room she was in. It had nothing to do with wanting a single bed.
She was shown receipts from their first trip to Greenville, an eighty-four-dollar dinner with a thirty-one-dollar wine called “Bitch.” There was an overnight, followed by emails filled with guilt and remorse and anger—emails Andrea read aloud in court as they were projected on a screen for the jurors and audience to see.
“What happened in Greenville, ma’am?”
“We were holding each other’s hands,” she said, “and that’s it. It may sound worse than it is, but to me that was a betrayal.”
“So you’re repenting in the email, at least, from holding his hand?”
“Yup.”
She took a deep breath, and the questioning continued.
She didn’t remember him telling her he loved her. She considered his email about wanting to marry her “ridiculous.” Most of things he said or wrote she never kept track of or paid much attention to, they were just a handful out of thousands of emails that were otherwise benign. He was being “silly,” she said, “mannish.” Then he’d go back to being her friend and she wouldn’t worry about it. She never told GE, she never told Rusty. She felt comfortable enough with Hemy that she went to the UK with him.
“I do want to just note that we did not go to the dance club,” she said in reference to the email about her saying she had taken dancing lessons for years. “In fact, we did not do any of the things that are insinuated that we did on that itinerary because there were definitely points during this manipulation that I was under, which is exactly what it was, that I realized that every activity we were doing, every situation that he put me in, was a convenient situation to get what he wanted, to get me in a position that he wanted, to get me to spend time with him. And when we were in England, I realized that none of that was appropriate and so we did not do any of that.”
Repeatedly she insisted the emails weren’t an accurate picture of what was happening. Shown messages to her friend Tammi about apparent strains in her marriage, she suggested she misquoted herself in her own email.
“Yep, I told her it only ends in a fight, I’m tired of fighting,” Andrea testified. “I used the word fighting. I think that word is being misused in the email.”
For the rest of the afternoon in court, she responded with sarcastic relies of “yep” and “yup” and “nope.” She treated each email as a revelation, a dim memory to her that meant nothing at the time and even less now.
Geary turned to Andrea’s second trip to Greenville with Hemy and asked her if she went to a restaurant called Pulse.
“It’s a dance club not a restaurant,” she corrected.
“Do you remember going there?” he asked.
“We went to dinner at a restaurant, an actual restaurant, and then afterwards, we were walking along. He said, ‘Let’s check out this place. I found this place online.’ It was a place just to have [a] drink. That was my impression at the time.”
“Did you go there?”
“Yep.”
“What did you do there?”
“We had some drinks at the bar. Maybe one, two.”
“Did you dance?
“I went onto the dance floor myself,” she said. “As I explained, I’ve been a trained dancer for some time, being able to dance to me is like a release, I’m very much in my own space when I do that. I got up and I was dancing alone on the dance floor.”
“Did you dance with the defendant?”
“He came to join the dance floor. Did not join me on the dance floor initially, and he was also dancing, and then there was a time where he reached out his hand and as the defense has said twirled me around, and that’s it.”
“Were there other contacts?”
“There was not.”
“Besides dancing, like partner dancing?”
“Nope.”
“Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”
“No. I—I—no,” she said. Then added, “I guess you have people that have said that that did occur.”
“Do you have any idea why someone would believe you were kissing him?”
She shrugged. “No, I don’t.”
“Okay.”
Without prompting, she added, “In this case when you are talking about alleged affairs and someone else’s husband being murdered I think people tend to think they saw a lot of things.”
“Well, let me ask you that,” said Geary. “This is a gentleman up to that point in time who asked you to marry him at least twice that we’re aware of, correct?”
She began to sniffle. “Correct.”
“And has expressed his love for you in just emails numerous times, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And you’re going to a dance club drinking with him, correct?”
“I didn’t go to the dance club as a drinking activity, and nor did I know at the time that it was a dance club until we got in there. But yes I was there.”
“And you stayed?”
“Yep, I stayed.”
“Did you have adjoining rooms in that trip in Greenville?”
“Uh, yep.”
“Did you and he spend time in each other’s room or in one of the rooms, together?”
“When we got to the hotel, I remember sitting briefly on the balcony of my room, but that was that, there was no other additional time, if that’s what you are asking.”
Geary asked, “Did the defendant ever tell you he was going to a gun show in Dalton?”
“No.”
“On October 31 of 2010, did the defendant text you while he was at the gun show in Dalton telling you that he was there?”
“No,” Andrea said, exasperation and disbelief in her voice. “Telling me that he was at a gun show?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I do not remember him texting me that.”
“Now is this like the other emails, that it could have happened, you just don’t remember?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I would remember a gun show.”
“You didn’t remember ‘I love you’ but you’d remember a gun show?”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t remember, I just didn’t remember all these emails from two years ago. Similarly I don’t think I could remember the content of texts from two years ago.”
Geary then asked her about the morning Rusty called 911 to report a man on the side of the house. She recounted how Rusty had called her at work to tell her what happened.
“And as soon as Rusty ended that call or you ended that call, who did you call?”
“I have no idea. I was at work, so I was presumably doing work things.”
“Any idea why you would immediately call the defendant after talking to Rusty?”
“I’m sure it was—no—I’m sure it was work-related,” she said. “It does seem coincidental. But I’m sure that there was something else going on that I had to call him about. I talk to him frequently about work matters. And I had a meeting with Hemy that day and I told Hemy exactly what happened on the side of my house.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I told the person that worked for me, I told Hemy and told like six other people also what happened on the side of the house because it was bizarre and scary. And he stared at me and looked at me and it was him the whole time.”
“Did you know that then?
“No, how could I know that? He was sitting there like an absolute normal individual. He came to work. He was at work. For all I know he was at work the entire time. We don’t work in the same building, I don’t know where he was at that time. Rusty didn’t recognize him. How would Rusty recognize him? He was wearing a disguise. He described him as a Mexican worker.”
Her testy answers turned to anger as Geary asked how Hemy would know how to approach their house through a sidewalk hidden in the woods.
“Someone had to tell him about that,” he said.
“Someone had to tell him?” she answered angrily.
“How else would he find out?”
She snapped at him, “He had been stalking my house for months.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I think we all know that by now.”
“So that’s a guess on your part?”
She leaned back. “It is speculation on my part, yes.”
Andrea continued to simmer, lashing out again when he questioned her about Hemy coming to her house two days before the murder while Rusty was there and the children were upstairs asleep.
“I keep going back to this, but I just want to clarify: You had a man over to your house with your children—”
She interrupted him sharply, “I had no choice but to continue my career and my job and—”
The judge now jumped in with a warning. “Miss Sneiderman, the lawyer has a right to ask the question. You can give a response. But let him finish the question. He’s going to allow you to finish your answer.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Geary said. “This is the same man who repeatedly said he loved you, he repeatedly asked you to marry him, who came to your house with your children in their beds to work on a project?”
Andrea said, “Yep.”
“At your house?”
“Yep.”
“And at this time did Rusty know about the advances of the defendant?”
“Nope.”
By now she’d been on the stand most of the day, her nerves appearing frayed, when Geary asked her how she found out about the shooting.
“That morning, did you get a phone call from the daycare?”
“Yep.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Really didn’t tell me anything,” she said, her voice now dropping. “They said there has been an accident.”
“I’m sorry, speak up a little please.”
In a whisper, she said, “They said there had been an accident, that Ian is fine. But there had been an accident.”
“And the accident specifically was directed to Rusty, or did they tell you?”
“They didn’t really tell me,” she said, speaking louder, “and then I screamed into the phone asking what was going on, and they just said you need to come here and so I dropped the phone and ran out of my office.”
“Did you, prior to dropping the phone, did they clarify it was Rusty or they didn’t tell you?”
“I don’t remember. I presumed it was Rusty. I don’t know whether they actually said. Maybe they said it had something to do with Rusty. I don’t remember.”
He asked again, “Did they at any time tell you what had happened to Rusty?”
She responded with an emphatic “Nope.”
After receiving the call from Donna at the preschool, Andrea recalled running to the parking lot and driving to the preschool, making several calls along the way.
“Do you remember who you called?”
She sighed. “My parents, my brother, Rusty’s parents,” she said.
“Rusty’s parents—do you remember who you talked to?”
“Yep, I talked to Rusty’s dad.” She pointed him out in the audience section.
“Don Sneiderman?”
“Yep. I said something’s happened to Rusty. I have no idea what, and that’s all I said, and I was belligerent on the phone.”
“At that time did you know what had happened to Rusty.”
Andrea leaned forward again. “No,” she said, her voice full of restrained rage. “I didn’t know what had happened to Rusty until I got to the emergency room. No one told me what happened to Rusty.”
“Who else did you call when you were on your way to the daycare?”
“I don’t remember, but evidently I tried to call Hemy,” she said, pointing to him, “probably to tell him that I had left the office, that something had happened, which was a very normal thing for me to have done, to tell my boss that I had left my office and something had happened to my husband.”
“Do you remember what his cell number was at the time?”
She cracked a smile. “No I don’t.”
She couldn’t remember how many times she called Hemy or whether she left him a voice-mail message. “I barely could have my foot on the gas pedal and go fast enough,” she said.
“How many times did you call Rusty?”
“Call Rusty?” Andrea seemed taken aback by the question.
“Rusty,” Geary said.
“Zero times.”
“Why didn’t you call Rusty?”
“Because they just told me something had happened to Rusty,” she replied. “What are the chances that he’s going to be answering his cell phone?”
Geary offered, “They didn’t tell you what happened to Rusty.”
“Is there a question?” she asked.
“Yeah, just curious why didn’t you call Rusty?”
“Is that the question?”
The judge had tired of the sparring and told the prosecutor to ask another question.
“You arrived at the daycare, how long did you stay there?”
Andrea couldn’t remember, saying it was a chaotic experience, her emotions running wild, everybody around her refusing to tell her what was going on.
“I pulled up in my vehicle to caution tape and police cars and Rusty’s car, but no Rusty. I fell out of the vehicle, I was picked up by I don’t know who, and taken inside.”
“Was it a police officer, do you remember?”
“Have no idea.”
“When you were taken inside, did you talk to anybody, or did someone talk to you or do you remember?”
“I remember, they sat me down in this office that they have, this little office room, I remember one of Sophia’s [former] teachers, Katrina is her name, she came in, she was hugging me, couldn’t let me go. No one was talking, no one was staying a word. No one would tell me what happened. And then eventually, Gary Cortellino from the Dunwoody Police Department sat down in front of me and started asking me questions.”
“Do you remember how long that lasted, ma’am?”
“It felt like three seconds, but I have no idea.”
“At that time did you leave the daycare?”
“Eventually my parents came from Roswell because I was on the phone with them almost the entire way to the daycare,” she said. Then she put her mouth up to the microphone so her words were loud and clear. “I was on the phone with them on the entire way to the daycare.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“They were keeping me company in the car,” she said, adopting her lecturing tone, “because I was beside myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No time to call Rusty in there,” she said.
Eventually, with the help of her brother and father, they tracked down the hospital where Rusty was taken.
“When you went to the Atlanta Medical Center, ma’am, did you find out what happened to Rusty?”
“They took me into what I call the Death Room. And sat in a chair and someone—I have no idea who—they came over and said that he came in with multiple gunshot wounds and that he was dead. I don’t remember anything they said after that. I fell to the floor.”
“You found out at the hospital that Rusty had been shot.”
“That’s correct.”
“You say the Death Room. At that point, did they tell you or indicate to you that Rusty was in fact dead?”
“Yep.”
“Is that the first time you found out he was dead?”
“Yep.”
“And you found out he was shot?”
“Yep.”