Craig Kleffman
Chapter One
THE CAR SEAT
“I’m in it to win it.”
—Det. Gronn’s comment about his upcoming testimony
I stood. Melissa’s car seat sat hunched behind the witness stand. Her soul filled the courtroom.
This was her moment. I was only there because she was absent. I’m never really nervous. I’m amped up and ready for battle, but never nervous. I held the PowerPoint remote in my right hand. I took a deep but silent breath. I looked down.
I took seven steps to the front of the jury box in the center of the courtroom. I glanced at the jury. Silence filled the courtroom. I pushed the silence an extra three seconds. By design, tension rose. I looked at the family in the audience.
My PowerPoint beamed behind me. Melissa smiled at the jury from the slide. I could feel the family’s energy. I love this moment. I live for this moment. I absolutely love being a criminal prosecutor. I hated why I was there, but I loved that my good fortune afforded me this opportunity. I was the chosen individual that would explain why Mr. Shick was so guilty.
“We’re here today because Melissa Rein cannot be here” is how I began.
Her picture was on the overhead. As I heard those words reverberate against the walls, I flashed in my brain to a different photo not on the screen. That photo captured her lifeless body on a shiny metal coroner’s slab. A giant coroner cupped Melissa’s hand in his. A blue wristband with a 10 digit number encircled her tiny wrist.
To say she had promise, was a grotesque understatement. To say her family loved and cherished her was demeaning to their devotion to her. Their courage pushed me forward. Their courage kept me up at night. Indeed, their courage kept me away from my own kids through this trial, a very fair trade, it would turn out. And, their courage drove me to prepare this case so that I could make this closing argument.
I could feel the tears rise up in me like a geyser. My voice broke. I knew this would happen. During my four practice closing arguments, my voice always broke and the emotion overran me in the beginning of the presentation. I walked to the counsel table and picked up a bottle of water. (I’d practiced that, too.) The bottle allowed me to settle for a moment and give me a few seconds to stuff my emotions back on the inside.
I could see the news camera focus on me. I saw a few colleagues in the audience, some junior, some senior. I used the anger and disgust I felt toward the defendant to my advantage. I never hide that sort of emotion from the jury. I knew this would be a career highlight. I tried to savor the moment. But the gravity of the situation humbled me.
“It’s uncontested that the defendant drove 90 MPH, ran from the police, and smashed into the Rein car with enough force to imprint his license plate into the side of her car” I said next.
On the screen, the photo showed the Rein’s blue Lexus. The photographer focused on the middle of the rear passenger side door which showed the defendant’s license plate characters. Melissa never had a chance. Her car seat couldn’t save her.
I like to speak plainly during closing arguments. I also like to hold people personally accountable.
I walked over to the car seat, People’s 25, and I picked it up. “Melissa should be in this car seat right now. She should be with her mom, headed to a mommy-and-me swim lesson; she should be with her grandparent’s playing hide and seek; she should be helping her father change out of his firefighter’s uniform. But she can’t do any of those things. And, she can’t do any of those things because of him.” I said as I pointed to the defendant.
“It’s that plain and simple.”
“Mr. Shick made his choices that day. He choose to get up early smoke weed. He chose to drink beer. He chose to smoke PCP. He chose to drive while high on PCP. He chose to run from the police. These were his choices — albeit a series of catastrophic choices.”
“Remember on cross-examination” I said, “he admitted he could have walked, ridden a bike, taken a bus, called a cab, or even called a friend. Instead, he jumped into his car, in this altered state, and endangered dozens of lives. Even worse, when the police confronted him, with lights flashing and sirens blaring, he ignored them and sped off. His irresponsibility collided with the Rein’s lives in a way that would forever transform them.”
I could feel the jurors resonating with the argument. I could also see the defense attorney shifting in his seat. I relished the opportunity and the challenge of this case.
Although the case caused me personal anguish (I had a two year old and a newborn at home at the time). I felt absolutely driven to bring justice to the Rein family. Like Melissa, my first child was a NICU baby. That is, each child was born about 10 weeks early. Melissa, like my son, weighed less than two pounds. The Kleffman family — like the Rein family — spent several months making a daily pilgrimage to the NICU ward in the hospital.
* * *
I spent a solid two weeks with a laser focus on preparing this case. I did so as I neglected the other dozen or so cases I had assigned. I felt compelled to get it right.
The first trial ended with a hung jury on the murder count. The jury convicted the defendant of the other half dozen counts, including vehicular manslaughter. Vehicular manslaughter is neither a serious nor a violent offense under California law — even when the victim is a precious two year old girl. Thus, the defendant’s maximum 10 year sentence for vehicular manslaughter would, at maximum, result in five actual years of prison time. This was woefully inadequate, so we decided to retry the murder count.
The previously assigned DDA had been promoted, so I was assigned as the trial deputy in this case. In the first hours I had the case, I reached out to the investigating officer and the parents. I needed the Reins to understand I was fully committed. I take my job as a prosecutor seriously. This commitment created enormous personal pressure to ensure I properly served Melissa, the family, and the community in this case.
I wanted the Reins to feel empowered. We would not settle the case — we would try it a second time, and I would do everything in my publicly granted powers to bring home a guilty verdict. In order to do so, I tried to organize the evidence and presentation for the greatest impact. That impact occurs, in my opinion, when the evidence delivers a powerful emotional blow to the jury — their logic and mind (and sometimes their own rationalizations) invariably follows their heart.
When I called the Reins, I reached the grandparents first: “This is Craig Kleffman. I’m the assigned prosecutor for the People v. Shick case.” There was a long pause. I understood the jolt. “I am trying to reach Melissa’s mother, Kristin.”
As the grandfather grabbed a pen, I did my best: “I’m very sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine the pain you’ve gone through over this.” We talked for a few minutes more that Saturday afternoon. The death of a child is hard on those who knew the child. It’s unmanageable for the family of the child.
Later that day, I spoke with Kristin. “Can you please pull a couple of photos of Melissa? I’ll need them for my closing argument.” I would use those photos as evidence, but that was only part of the reason I made the request. Victims feel helpless in our criminal justice system. Giving this task to the mother of a slain child, made her a partner. It also empowered her a tad.
“I’m 110% committed to getting justice for Melissa. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the work done.” I told Kristin: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The family expressed some concern about the timing. “The trial is in two weeks. Are you going to have enough time to prepare?” Kristin asked.
“I’ll get it done. Just remember I get paid to worry. Your family’s been through enough. I don’t want you to worry about a single thing. Let me worry about everything. I’m very good at it.” With that, I dug in on that quiet Saturday afternoon at the abandoned DA’s office.
* * *
The preparation of a criminal case for trial goes through multiple phases. When a case is actually prepared, the assigned prosecutor can summarize it in one sentence. The statement answers this simple question: Why are we here? For the Shick trial, my answer came quickly. “We’re here today because Mr. Shick murdered Melissa Rein during a 90 MPH police chase that ended when Mr. Shick fatally crashed into Melissa Rein’s car.” I said to the jury in the opening statement.
I would prove this beyond all doubt to all the jurors. I would do so with overwhelming evidence.
* * *
When I first reviewed the case, I wondered what happened to the car seat.
I discovered “CAR SEAT?” scribbled in the prior prosecutor’s trial preparation notes stuffed in the file. But, the court exhibit list didn’t list the car seat. Nor did vehicle impound logs show whether there was a car seat in evidence.
I called the assigned detective: “Do we still have the car seat?”
“It may be at the tow yard with the car. I’ll check.” And, 15 minutes later, “they’ve got it” he explained.
“We’re taking it back to the office” I explained at the storage yard the next day. “I’m going to mark it and put it into evidence.”
My detective asked “you mean a photo of it.”
I paused. “No, not a photo. I’m going to mark the actual seat. When it’s marked as evidence it will go back into the jury room with the other exhibits. Melissa’s soul will be in the jury room with them as they deliberate.”
I could see my detectives eyes widen. “You can do that?”
“Absolutely we can do that. And we’re going to do that” I replied.
Kids eat, drink, sleep, urinate, defecate, sing, cry, play and ride in those car seats. My wife and I — like nearly all new parents — constantly wrestle our kids in and out of car seats, every time we go anywhere. And, I knew as a parent, car seats are deeply personal and symbolic.
* * *