[Deathpenalty] death penalty news----NEV., ID., CALIF., USA

[Rick Halperin]

Jan. 18



NEVADA:

When This Death Row Inmate Decided He Wanted to Die, It Created A Firestorm No 
One Was Prepared For----Nevada has scrambled for the past year to figure out 
how to legally grant Scott Dozier his request.



On the day he had been scheduled to die, Scott Dozier arrived at the visiting 
room inside Ely State Prison looking edgy and exhausted. He'd been thwarted. 
For more than a year, he had worked to ensure his own execution, waiving his 
legal appeals and asking a Las Vegas judge to set a date. But with just days to 
go, the judge had issued a stay amid questions about the drugs Nevada planned 
to inject into him.

Dozier had spent a decade on death row for the murder of Jeremiah Miller, whose 
decapitated, partially delimbed torso was found in a Las Vegas dumpster. Now 
47, he accepted the punishment, feeling that death would be better than a life 
spent in prison. "I don't want to die," he told me. "I just would rather be 
dead than do this."

Of the more than 1,400 men and women who have been executed in the US in the 
last 4 decades, roughly 1 in 10 have abandoned their appeals. In the legal 
community, they're known as "volunteers." But few volunteers have set off as 
much legal and political upheaval as Dozier. Like many death penalty states, 
Nevada hasn't actually executed anyone in years. Dozier's request spurred a 
frenzy of preparations involving state and federal lawyers, judges, political 
leaders, and prison officials, who had to rev up an execution apparatus that 
had been dormant for a decade.

That a man deemed unfit to live in society - indeed, to live at all - could 
wield such influence is a testament to our country's conflicted views on the 
death penalty. We have a president who has extolled capital punishment in 
tweets and full-page newspaper ads, while exonerations have fueled unease about 
the system's flaws. Death sentences have plummeted, and, as appeals drag on for 
years, many condemned prisoners die of old age before they can be executed. It 
can seem as though we like the idea of the ultimate punishment just so long as 
we don't have to kill anyone.

And then comes Scott Dozier, calling our bluff.

A few months ago, after I wrote a story on the state's plan to kill him with 
the opioid fentanyl, Dozier called me. He was on the verge of getting what he'd 
asked for; his execution date was only weeks away. He was planning a series of 
final interviews, while also vacillating over whether there would be any point 
to doing them. "The public is ambivalent and apathetic, and maybe there will be 
10 minutes of entertainment on the news," he said of his case. "Maybe a few 
sick people will spend too much time with it on social media."

We sat in the Condemned Men's Unit visiting room, surrounded by murals 
depicting Spiderman, Superman, Olaf from Frozen, and a mountain scene. A 
conversation we expected would focus on Dozier's preparation for death was 
instead about his frustration at remaining alive; now he was just like every 
other prisoner there, waiting for the courts to determine his fate. His eyes 
flicked over to a female officer 20 feet from us. He wanted to know how long we 
had to speak, and he walked over and inquired politely. She made a call and 
delivered a message from some higher-up: "Take as long as you need."

As he got this tiny bit of control, Dozier's face relaxed. He stretched out his 
legs and asked me to buy him a V8 and almonds from the vending machines, and as 
he grew comfortable, I suddenly realized we were talking about the mp3 player 
he is allowed to have, on which he listens to St. Vincent, Dead Man's Bones, 
and a lot of punk rock and metal. He'd shift topics without warning - even 
talking about your own death eventually gets boring.

At his sentencing, his lawyers predicted that he would thrive in the structured 
world of prison, and this has proven true, though Dozier would not call it 
thriving. He's miserable. "I'd have been just as happy," he said, "if they took 
me out back and shot me."

Compared to most death row prisoners, whose life stories tend to be marked by 
poverty, mental disability, and childhood trauma, Scott Dozier had a privileged 
upbringing. His father worked on federal water projects throughout the West, 
and Dozier moved with his parents and 2 siblings every few years to different 
suburban enclaves. But he rebelled early and constantly, selling marijuana and 
LSD in high school.

Dozier hates the idea of appearing as an unconvincing, whiny prisoner, which he 
calls "a fucking cliche."

Dozier married a high-school girlfriend, and they had a son. After a brief 
stint in the military, he worked at the Luxor Hotel & Casino, donning gold 
brocade and a tiger-striped skirt and driving a chariot in a dinner show called 
"Winds of the Gods." He was a talented pastel artist, and he ponders the path 
his life might have taken had he found a mentor. By his mid-20s, he was working 
as a stripper and doing landscaping gigs, but his primary income was meth, 
which he began to make and sell as he bounced between Nevada and Arizona.

"I liked the idea of living outside the law," he said.

In April 2002, several miles from the Las Vegas Strip, a maintenance worker 
found a suitcase in an apartment dumpster that smelled "very foul" and was 
attracting flies. Inside was flesh, hair, and a bloody towel. Tattoos on the 
shoulders helped the authorities match it to a missing person report for 
22-year-old Jeremiah Miller.

A witness said he had seen a corpse in Dozier's room, and investigators deduced 
that Dozier had offered to help Miller obtain ingredients to make meth, then 
shot him and stole $12,000. "His body was mutilated," a prosecutor told a jury. 
"His arms were disarticulated at the elbows. His legs were disarticulated at 
the knees. His head was removed, and he was cut in half." An informant told 
police that Dozier had bragged that he had placed Miller's head in a bucket of 
concrete, though it was never found.

At trial, Dozier's lawyers depicted Miller as a drug dealer trying to move up 
into meth production. Speaking to a reporter, Miller's father described his son 
as "naive to the ways of the world." During sentencing, a prosecutor 
acknowledged the victim's illegal behavior but pointed out that 
"methamphetamine didn't pick up a gun, shoot Jeremiah Miller in the head, cut 
up his body, and dump him in a dumpster." Dozier's lawyers countered that 
despite the gruesome nature of the crime, the killing of a drug dealer hardly 
qualified Dozier as the worst of the worst. As Dozier puts it, "I never did 
anything against a child, an innocent person."

Though he does not express remorse for Miller's death, he feels sympathy for 
the young man's parents. "If this can bring them some gratification, that's 
awesome," he said of his execution. (Miller's parents declined an interview and 
said they will not witness Dozier's execution.) Otherwise, he is cagey about 
the crime, in part because he hates the idea of appearing as an unconvincing, 
whiny prisoner, which he calls "a fucking cliche."

"I'm not looking for mercy," he said. He sees the death sentence, ultimately, 
as what he deserves. "Nevada said stop behaving this way or we will kill you, 
and I kept behaving that way."

Dozier hasn't always accepted the legal system's conclusions about his actions. 
After his arrest for the Miller murder, another informant led police to the 
buried body of another young man, 26-year-old Jasen Greene, in Arizona, and 
said Dozier had killed him, too.

Before he faced the death penalty for killing Miller, he was tried in Phoenix 
and sentenced to 22 years for Greene's murder. Several friends, seeking 
leniency on their own charges, testified against him. He maintains that he 
never killed Greene. While in jail, he took a massive dose of amitriptyline, an 
antidepressant, and was in a coma for 2 weeks. He tried to pull out his 
intubation tube and lost more than 70 pounds. "I couldn't even wheel my own 
fuckin' wheelchair," he recalled. He decided he would never attempt suicide 
again.

A few years earlier, Dozier had read a series of articles in the Phoenix New 
Times on Robert "Gypsy" Comer, whom the alt-weekly dubbed "Arizona's Worst 
Criminal." Comer had been sentenced to death after murdering a stranger and 
raping another at an Arizona campground. He had abandoned his appeals, saying, 
"I think it's just time for me to pay the price."

As Dozier faced his own death sentence, he remembered Comer's story. Soon he 
started telling friends and family that he wanted to drop his appeals, too.

In 1976, a few months after the US Supreme Court reinstated the death penalty, 
Gary Gilmore was sentenced to death in Utah for the murders of a gas station 
attendant and motel clerk. He then told a judge, "Unless it's a joke or 
something, I want to go ahead and do it." He became the 1st person executed in 
what's generally called the "modern era' of the punishment. Saturday Night Live 
featured a song called "Let's Kill Gary Gilmore For Christmas." He was shot by 
a firing squad in January 1977.

Since then, courts have let more than 140 prisoners give up their appeals and 
go to their deaths. For a time, the New Jersey Supreme Court declared that 
capital appeals should be mandatory because the public has an interest in a 
fair system; the state has since abolished the death penalty. In most states, 
volunteers simply have had to prove their mental competence, but the bar is 
low. During a 1983 court hearing, Texas prisoner Charles Rumbaugh declared, "If 
they don't want to take me down there and execute me, I'll make them shoot me." 
He then attempted to do just that, charging at a deputy US marshal - who 
promptly shot him. He survived, and was executed 2 years later.

Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh and Florida multiple-murderer Aileen 
Wuornos (who inspired the 2003 film Monster) both abandoned their appeals, but 
most volunteers have received little public attention, and their motivations 
are not widely understood. In 2004, law professor John Blume found broad 
similarities between volunteers and those who commit suicide in the free world; 
they tend to be white and have a history of substance abuse, mental illness, or 
both.

When Northwestern University law professor Meredith Rountree studied the public 
statements of Texas volunteers about their decisions, she found a variety of 
explanations: Some simply believed that death was a fair punishment for their 
crimes. Others spoke of a desire for spiritual rebirth in the next life. And 
many just didn't see value in living in brutal prison conditions, including 
solitary confinement with virtually no human contact. Researchers have coined 
the phrase "death row syndrome" to describe such hopelessness.

For Dozier, life on death row has been relatively comfortable. He works with 
pastels, listens to NPR, watches PBS. He has access to a wide range of music. 
He lifts weights, and his muscles grew so big that a judge jokingly asked at 
one hearing, "Is there a fitter death row inmate on the planet?" He cuts his 
own hair, and on the day I met him, he'd styled it with a buzz on the sides and 
a sweep on top.

Almost 3 years ago, he met a filmmaker named Alex Morelli who was working on a 
documentary about Ely, the remote Nevada mountain town where death row is 
located. The 2 became friendly, speaking regularly by phone, and began to 
collaborate artistically: Dozier used pastels to recreate images Morelli had 
captured on film. In 2012, Dozier wrote a letter to a VICE Magazine editor 
about his experiences: "I've got a surplus of time on my hands and a 
catastrophic dearth of intelligence, hilarity, and awesomeness. I can only draw 
and work out so much." The magazine ran the letter, and Dozier joked to the 
editor that when he was executed, "My last thought will be 'and I got published 
in VICE.'" One friend dubbed him "TGN": The Gregarious Nihilist.

Over the years, Dozier's parents, siblings, and friends have visited often, 
even though Ely State Prison is a 4-hour drive from a major airport. For some 
condemned prisoners, having a support network makes life worth living. For 
Dozier, it has only strengthened his desire to die; he knows the upper limit of 
how good his life can be. He doesn't want to enter a serious, long-term 
romantic relationship: "It seems like a heartache and bad time for everyone 
involved. Why would I do that?" He entered prison at age 34, and he wonders if 
those who resign themselves to life behind bars got there younger and don't 
know what they're missing.

He has also struggled with the idea that by living he would be condemning his 
family to years of pain. He has a granddaughter, and he doesn't want her to 
only know him as a prisoner.

Dozier's immediate family, who declined an interview for this story, has come 
to accept his decision. But in the past they've leaned on him to hold off on 
volunteering for execution; occasionally they've prevailed. A few years ago, 
his younger brother asked him to wait to stop his appeals. The brother's wife 
was pregnant, and he wanted Dozier to meet his son. "My initial response was 
it's not going to make any difference," Dozier told me. "My sister said, 'Don't 
be a fuckin' asshole. You can do anything for a year for our brother.' She was 
absolutely right."

In the meantime, he remained close with his ex-wife, Angela Drake, who urged 
him not to give up hope that he might get out of prison someday. "The whole 
time I have seen Scott being free, period," she told me. "He's not wired to be 
incarcerated." Drake had a new partner who was wealthy and offered to bankroll 
her ex-husband's appeals. Dozier convinced himself that it was worth a shot, 
and together they decided to focus on Arizona, where the case against him was 
arguably weaker. Many of the prosecution's witnesses were the same, so the 
thinking was that unraveling the Arizona conviction might pave the way for 
similar results in Nevada.

"He is one of the smartest, most gifted individuals I've ever met in my entire 
life," but "he made some really dumb decisions."

Whether or not you buy Dozier's claims, his Arizona appeal is a glimpse into 
the sordid world he'd inhabited. He said that a girlfriend had asked him if 
Greene - the victim - could stay at a trailer he was using to cook meth, and he 
agreed. Returning to the trailer one day, he found Greene's lifeless body, he 
said, and fearing that calling the police would expose his operation, he buried 
him. (Greene's family members could not be reached.) Dozier's lawyers also 
found flaws in the state's ballistics evidence and argued that the prosecutors 
had withheld material that may have cast doubt on Dozier's guilt, which was 
particularly important because most of the witnesses were testifying against 
him to get better deals for themselves.

One of those witnesses, Joe Wolslager, who says he helped Dozier bury the body 
in Arizona, has stood by his testimony. "He pretty much told me he did it," he 
said. "He is one of the smartest, most gifted individuals I've ever met in my 
entire life," but "he made some really dumb decisions."

In early October 2016, the superior court in Maricopa County rejected Dozier's 
appeal. His lawyers went up to the Arizona Court of Appeals - where he is still 
waiting on an answer - but the losses drained him of hope. That October 31, he 
sent a handwritten letter to Clark County District Judge Jennifer Togliatti: 
"I, Scott Raymond Dozier...of sound mind, do hereby request that my death 
sentence be enacted and I be put to death." He found a university lab that 
would accept his brain for research; his family would get the rest of him to 
cremate.

Last July, Togliatti summoned him to court. By then, it was clear that the 
state would struggle to find execution drugs and that such problems had been 
tied to painful, botched executions in other states. "That has not dissuaded 
you from asking me to sign this warrant?" she asked. "Quite frankly, your 
honor, all those people ended up dead," Dozier said, "and that's my goal here."

Dozier regularly sent her letters throughout the year to reaffirm his wish to 
be executed. He occasionally added jokes. "What is brown and sticky?" he wrote 
once. "A stick."

When a prisoner volunteers for execution, the decision can force soul-searching 
by judges and defense lawyers, who wonder if their roles have become akin to 
those of euthanasia doctors. After Dozier withdrew his appeals, one of his 
lawyers, Christopher Oram, quit the case. "I'm not going to go into court and 
help you die," he said. Dozier's current attorney David Anthony declined to 
discuss his views with me, but after one hearing he told reporters, "As a 
defense attorney, I try to help people and save people, and so it creates a 
moral dilemma."

It also creates a dilemma for states that want the harshness of death sentences 
without the messiness of carrying them out. The legal scholars (and siblings) 
Jordan Steiker and Carol Steiker have written that states like Nevada are 
"symbolic," sentencing many people to death - in 2017, Clark County, which 
includes Las Vegas, obtained the 2nd-most death sentences of any county in the 
country - but rarely executing anyone. California, Tennessee, and Pennsylvania 
together house nearly 1,000 death row prisoners; all told, they have executed 
just 22 people in the last 4 decades.

The Steiker siblings have examined a range of reasons for the disconnect; many 
of these states are outside the South and politically diverse, and while a 
district attorney in a conservative county scores points by sending someone to 
death row, a governor or attorney general risks alienating liberal voters by 
carrying out an execution. A more liberal political culture can also lead to 
better funding for public defenders, who become effective at litigating death 
row appeals. In these states, volunteers make up a large proportion of those 
executed. In addition to Nevada, every single execution since the 1970s in 
Oregon, South Dakota, Connecticut, and New Mexico has involved the condemned 
man's participation. "We don't kill them in Nevada unless they agree to it," 
said Clark County public defender Scott Coffee. "What you've got with Dozier is 
state-assisted suicide."

Around the time of Dozier's decision, Nevada finished construction on a new 
death chamber, which cost the state $860,000. (The old one was located at a 
prison that had closed.) But there was little expectation that the state would 
use the facility anytime soon. The last execution had taken place in 2006, 
years before pharmaceutical companies had tried to stop states from using their 
drugs to kill prisoners. In September 2016, Nevada corrections department 
director James Dzurenda sought drugs from 247 different suppliers; none were 
interested. Dozier's decision added pressure to the search, and in August of 
last year, Dzurenda sent a letter to the Association of State Correctional 
Administrators, asking if other states had extra drugs they might send to 
Nevada.

Dzurenda's search was evidently unfruitful. Later that month, prison officials 
announced a solution: They would settle for drugs they could get. That included 
fentanyl (the opioid known for causing thousands of overdose deaths around the 
country), diazepam (the anti-anxiety drug better known as Valium), and 
cisatracurium (a paralytic first discovered on the tips of poisoned arrows in 
South America).

The department also revised its massive execution manual, making decisions 
about who could witness and how to manage Dozier during his final 2 weeks. They 
held "dry runs" with staff from the offices of the governor, attorney general, 
and Clark County district attorney, according to DOC spokeswoman Brooke Keast. 
They solicited advice from Texas on how to handle media.

"If I had the choice between a drawn-out process or a quick and painless death, 
I'll choose painless."

Dozier said his lawyers wanted to contest the drug cocktail, which could 
eventually be used on their other death row clients. Though Dozier did not care 
how he died, he decided to let them litigate. "I think when you're murdering 
people at the behest - and for the alleged general good - of the public, they 
should tell the public what's going on," Dozier told me. But he also had his 
own concerns: "If I had the choice between a drawn-out process or a quick and 
painless death, I'll choose painless."

Paralytics have long been the target of lawyers concerned about pain during 
executions, and Dozier's attorneys argued that if the fentanyl failed to render 
him unconscious, the paralytic would give him the sensation of suffocating. A 
state lawyer countered, "I'm wanting to know how everybody is overdosing across 
America if fentanyl does not produce unconsciousness."

Five days before the execution date, Togliatti declared that the paralytic 
shouldn't be part of the cocktail. State Attorney General Adam Laxalt, who is 
running for governor this year, requested a stay of execution so the Nevada 
Supreme Court would have a chance to overrule the judge. Togliatti issued the 
stay, and Dozier immediately thought of his parents and siblings, who were 
planning their final visits and had steeled themselves to say goodbye. Later 
that day, thinking about how the postponement would affect his family, he began 
to cry.

"I think his family are victims of the emotional yo-yo here," said Dozier's 
cousin Rich Stephenson. "He feels like his problem is creating pain for us. And 
here we are trying to support him."

During Dozier's trial in Nevada, as his lawyers tried to convince the jury to 
spare his life, they revealed that as a child he was sexually abused by teenage 
neighbors. A psychologist said his "presenting behavior suggests elements of 
antisocial personality disorder with narcissistic traits."

"If you've spoken to him, you don't need a PhD to see that," said mitigation 
specialist Vince Gonzales, who researches the lives of people facing the death 
penalty. A few years ago, Gonzales was hired by Dozier's defense team. He went 
deeper into his family history, finding that at least 5 relatives on his 
mother's side had committed suicide, including his grandfather, who told the 
family he'd been diagnosed with cancer and didn't want to put them through a 
long battle. Gonzales tracked down the autopsy and found a surprise: The 
grandfather did not have cancer.

Gonzales came to see Dozier as part of a line of "myth-building" family 
members, who want to be remembered with a kind of romance. Later Dozier called 
Gonzales, whose findings were never filed in court, "patronizing" and a 
"dingbat." Both men agree that Dozier, who likes to maintain a sense of 
control, is offended by the suggestion that his crimes were the result of 
anything other than his own decision-making, just as he recoils at being at the 
mercy of courts and prison officials.

"I do respect his decision," Gonzales said of Dozier's choice to volunteer. 
"It's the best he can do with the situation as it is."

"I'd want them all to get the same joy I get from each other, and watch it, 
tell myself a good story, and walk out on that story."

Dozier's decision began as a personal one, which he may have expected to affect 
only a small circle of people around him, but as the case drags on, the circle 
grows wider. Pfizer demanded that Nevada return 2 of the execution drugs, 
fentanyl and diazepam, and the state refused. The ACLU of Nevada petitioned the 
state's governor to stop the execution. Dozier received letters from defense 
lawyers who were bitter that his efforts might pave the way for their own 
clients' deaths. If the case continues for much longer, it could come up in the 
state's gubernatorial race.

In the meantime, the legal questions have grown even more convoluted. After the 
judge stayed the execution, Dozier asked her to put it back on. Then lawyers 
for the state, who had asked for the stay, switched course. Since they 
effectively agreed with Dozier, they said, there was no reason to delay. 
Dozier's lawyers accused the state of acting in bad faith - stopping the 
execution and then taking advantage of Dozier's frustration to push it through. 
Then the state said Dozier's lawyers were operating against their client's 
wishes. Dozier's lawyers said his wishes were irrelevant if the Constitution 
was about to be violated.

At an early December hearing, Togliatti seemed frustrated with everyone. "You 
could have proceeded," the judge told the state. "He could be dead today." To 
Dozier, she said, "You pursued this relief, you got this relief, and now you 
want a do-over, I guess."

Togliatti decided the final word on the new drug protocol should lie with the 
Nevada Supreme Court. The court has given no indication of how quickly it will 
handle the case, though Laxalt, who declined to comment for this story, has 
asked for a quick decision - the paralytic begins expiring on April 1 and the 
diazepam a month later.

Dozier has returned, grudgingly, to his routines. He is frustrated with himself 
for having allowed his lawyers to fight. ("It was a doomed relationship from 
the start," he said.) He knows nobody is sympathetic to him, given what he was 
convicted of doing. But he is comforted, too, imagining his family and closest 
friends gathered for a final visit. "I'd want them all to get the same joy I 
get from each other, and watch it, tell myself a good story, and walk out on 
that story," he said. If he could, he'd watch his own funeral.

Gonzales, the mitigation specialist, thinks Dozier is trolling us all, enjoying 
his moment at the center of a circus of his own creation. "He thought this 
could be a big F. U. to the state of Nevada," he said, "and he'd get the last 
laugh." Dozier swears he doesn't see it that way. "I'm tired of being someone 
else's pawn," he said. "They spent millions of dollars giving me a death 
sentence, and then millions of dollars not killing me. It doesn't make any 
fuckin' sense."

This article was published in partnership with The Marshall Project, a 
nonprofit news organization covering the US criminal justice system.

(source: Maurice Chammah is a staff writer at the Marshall Project, where he 
covers the US criminal justice system. He is working on a book about the 
history of the death penalty in Texas, his home state----Mother Jones)








IDAHO:

Death penalty mulled in murder



Bonner County Prosecutor Louis Marshall has been given more time to contemplate 
whether a death sentence should be sought against a Washington state man 
accused of stabbing a cab driver to death in Kootenai last summer. Marshall 
filed a motion on Jan. 11 asking for a 45-day extension to file notice of 
intent to seek the death penalty against Jacob Corban Coleman. Chief Public 
Defender Janet Whitney joined the request, according to documents filed in 1st 
District Court.

"Said stipulation is entered into for purpose of allowing the parties to 
research potential mitigating factors," Marshall and Whitney said in the 
motion.

Judge Barbara Buchanan granted the request, court records show.

Coleman, a 20-year-old from Puyallup, is charged with one count of 1st-degree 
murder for the slaying of Gagandeep Singh on Aug. 28, 2017. Coleman stabbed 
Coleman inside Singh's minivan taxicab and stayed with Singh as he slowly bled 
to death, according court documents and prior testimony in the case.

A motive for the crime remains elusive. Sheriff's investigators who interviewed 
Coleman after the killing said he began experiencing suicidal and homicidal 
urges after his plans to attend Gonzaga University fell through. Investigators 
said Coleman ultimately resolved to kill Singh and had the man drive to the 
Walmart in Ponderay so he could purchase the knife that was used in the 
killing.

Singh was stabbed more than 20 times during the blitz, a coroner's report 
revealed.

Coleman's fitness to proceed in the case was briefly in doubt, although a 
doctor who examined Coleman concluded that he understood the charge against him 
and could assist in his own defense.

Coleman was ordered to stand trial following a preliminary hearing in which a 
detective recalled Coleman saying he attacked Singh "like a feral animal."

Coleman pleaded not guilty to the murder charge last November, setting the 
stage for a 4-day jury trial in February. A pretrial hearing in the case is set 
for Friday.

Coleman is being held without bond while the case is pending.

Prosecuting attorneys in Idaho have 60 days after the entry of a plea to notify 
the court and the defense to file a notice of intent to seek the death penalty, 
according to Idaho Code. If the state does not intend to seek death, potential 
jurors will be advised during selection that the death penalty is not a 
sentencing option.

(source: Bonner County Daily Bee)








CALIFORNIA:

Suspect in death of Blaze Bernstein will face murder charge with enhancement 
for using a knife



Prosecutors on Wednesday filed one felony count of murder, with a sentence 
enhancement for using a knife, against a 20-year-old accused of killing high 
school classmate Blaze Bernstein.

Samuel Lincoln Woodward allegedly stabbed 19-year-old Bernstein more than 20 
times the night of Jan. 2. He is accused of burying the body of the teen, a 
pre-med sophomore at the prestigious University of Pennsylvania on winter 
break, on the edge of a Lake Forest park.

Woodward is expected to make his f1st appearance in court Wednesday afternoon.

Orange County District Attorney Tony Rackauckas, in a Wednesday moring news 
conference, said sheriff's investigators were led to Woodward through 
"old-fashion detective work and surveillance," as well as a sophisticated 
examination of physical, digital and DNA evidence.

Rackauckas declined to discuss a motive or further details, but said that 
investigators have not ruled out the possibly that the case is a hate crime.

He said his office will continue to search for evidence that might support 
special-circumstance allegations, which could make Woodward eligible for life 
in prison without parole or the death penalty; prosecutors could later amend 
the charges.

Woodward is being held in Orange County Jail in lieu of a $2 million bail. If 
convicted of the current charge against him, Woodward could face 26 years to 
life in state prison.

"Our priority on this brutal murder of a 19-year-old Ivy League student is to 
make sure that Woodward is brought to justice and held accountable," Rackauckas 
said. "As a community, we hope this case might serve as an opportunity for 
tolerance and understanding."

According to an affidavit obtained by the Southern California News Group, 
Woodward had abrasions on his hands, and dirt beneath his fingernails, when 
talking to investigators. Woodward told them that was from falling into a mud 
puddle and participating in a "fight club."

Prosecutors said he cleaned up his car and took other measures to avoid leaving 
his DNA behind, and that he visited the scene days after the crime.

The 2 young men had attended the Orange County School of the Arts in Santa Ana 
together.

Woodward, who weighs 185 pounds, told authorities he met with the 135-pound 
Bernstein that night to "catch up." According to the 16-page affidavit, 
Woodward told investigators that Bernstein kissed him on the lips while the 2 
were sitting in a parked car outside the Hobby Lobby in Lake Forest the night 
of Jan. 2.

Woodward said the kiss was unwanted and that he pushed Bernstein away. 
Investigators noted that Woodward clenched his jaw and fists while recounting 
the kiss. Woodward told investigators he wanted to call Bernstein a "faggot."

The affidavit quotes text conversations between Bernstein and friends over the 
summer that indicate he intended to sexually pursue Woodward. Bernstein said in 
one of the texts that he was told Woodward was closeted.

Woodward, who was interviewed several times by investigators, said he drove 
Bernstein from Hobby Lobby to Borrego Park in the Foothill Ranch section of 
Lake Forest. Woodward said Bernstein exited the car and walked alone into the 
park. Woodward left after an hour to meet with a girlfriend, whose last name he 
could not remember nor where she lived, he says in the document.

Bernstein's remains were found in a shallow grave along the park's perimeter a 
week after he was reported missing. The Register has learned that his blood was 
linked by DNA to evidence in Woodward's possession.

(source: mercurynews.com)

*******************

Defense attorney says client killed 2 California deputies



A defense attorney admitted Tuesday that his client killed 2 Northern 
California sheriff???s deputies in a daylong rampage, fighting to spare him 
from the death penalty despite his profane outbursts in court.

Defense lawyer Jeffrey Barbour told jurors that Luis Enrique Monroy Bracamontes 
shot Sacramento sheriff's Deputy Danny Oliver outside a Sacramento motel in 
October 2014 and later killed Placer County Sheriff's Deputy Michael Davis Jr. 
in Auburn, 30 miles away.

"He shot them both," Barbour said, The Sacramento Bee reported .

But he urged jurors to listen to the evidence so they can consider it during 
the penalty phase if Bracamontes is convicted.

That includes that Bracamontes, 37, was high on methamphetamine that may have 
made him paranoid and agitated, and that he tried to kill himself and 
responding officers by turning on the gas in a house where he hid before 
surrendering. Barbour said Bracamontes wrote a suicide note before 
surrendering.

"Forgive me, God," the note read. "Please take me with you. I love you, 
Janelle."

His wife, Janelle Monroy, 41, is also charged in the twin slayings.

Barbour spoke hours after Bracamontes called 1 slain officer's partner a 
"coward" amid a series of profane and incriminating statements.

Prosecutor Rod Norgaard was describing in his opening statement how Deputy 
Scott Brown retreated under heavy fire that killed Oliver.

Bacamontes grinned, then called Brown a "coward" before he was admonished by 
Sacramento Superior Court Judge Steve White.

"I wish I had killed more of the mother-------," Bracamontes later told jurors, 
adding that "I will break out soon and I will kill more, kill whoever gets in 
front of me...There's no need for a f------ trial."

White briefly removed the jury as defense attorneys said Bracamontes' 
statements were more signs that their client is unfit to stand trial.

"We believe Mr. Bracamontes' outbursts, his laughter, are a function of his 
mental illness...," Barbour said.

White again ruled that Bracamontes is competent, but he warned Bracamontes that 
he could be removed from court.

Bracamontes has shouted that he is guilty and asked to be put to death in 
previous court hearings. He has threatened to kill his defense attorneys and 
more deputies, and once had to be restrained after White ruled that he can't 
fire his lawyers.

Bracamontes is a Mexican citizen who repeatedly entered the United States 
illegally. His wife, who is an American citizen, faces life in prison if she is 
convicted.

His public defenders have argued that anti-immigrant sentiment spurred by 
President Donald Trump has made it unlikely that Bracamontes can get a fair 
trial. They have tried, without success, to enter a plea of not guilty by 
reason of insanity.

Bracamontes was heavily shackled in court, while Monroy, who has mostly 
remained quiet, was wearing a gray and black dress without shackles or chains. 
He grinned during part of Norgaard's statement and laughed when Norgaard said 
Bracamontes cared only about his dogs.

Separate juries are hearing the cases against the couple. Only jurors hearing 
Bracamontes' case were in court at the time of his comments.

His wife has contended that she was a victim of her abusive and paranoid 
husband who frequently used methamphetamine, marijuana and alcohol during a 
meandering journey across several western states, from their home in Utah to 
Sacramento.

(source: The Republic)








USA:

Terrorist Sayfullo Saipov may admit to Manhattan truck attack to avoid death 
penalty



The man charged with killing 8 people in a Lower Manhattan truck attack might 
admit to the crime - and accept a lifetime in prison - if prosecutors don't 
push for the death penalty, new court filings suggest.

Sayfullo Saipov is facing 8 counts of murder in aid of racketeering for the 
horrific attack on a downtown bike trail on Halloween.

He also faces 12 counts of attempted murder in aid of racketeering and 1 count 
of violence and destruction of a motor vehicle, as well as one count of 
providing and attempting to provide material support to ISIS.

Saipov, 29, could face the death penalty for 9 of the 22 counts.

City ramping up security with 1,500 more protective barriers

A new court document filed by his lawyers Wednesday suggests that Saipov could 
cop a plea - if it'll save his life.

"The Government expresses concern about the victims' and the public's need for 
closure in this case, but the most straightforward way to achieve closure would 
be for the Government to accept a plea of guilty and a sentence of life 
imprisonment without the possibility of parole," his lawyers, of the Federal 
Defenders, wrote.

"In short, a decision by the Government not to seek the death penalty would 
bring immediate closure to the case without the need for the public and victims 
to repeatedly relive the terrible events of October 31, 2017. We hope to 
convince the Government of that view in our submissions."

The U.S. Attorney General's office has not yet announced whether it will seek 
the death penalty in the case.

N.Y. beefing up security to keep travelers safe during holidays

In court papers, the Manhattan U.S. Attorney's Office says on Oct. 31, Saipov 
drove a rental truck from New Jersey to New York over the George Washington 
Bridge, and then traveled south on the West Side Highway.

When he arrived at Houston St., Saipov drove the truck onto the pedestrian and 
bike path - slamming into "numerous" civilians as he sped south. He also 
smashed into an occupied school bus at West and Chambers Sts.

When Saipov hurried out of the truck, he showed a pellet and paintball gun and 
shouted "Allahu Akbar," prosecutors said. An NYPD cop shot and subdued Saipov, 
and police discovered 2 phones, as well as a stun gun, in the vehicle. One 
phone was packed with some 90 ISIS propaganda videos.

Officials said they discovered a note near the truck with Arabic phrases 
meaning "No God but God and Muhammad is his Prophet" and "Islamic Supplication. 
It will endure."

Saipov is also alleged to have asked that the ISIS banner be displayed in his 
hospital room after his arrest.

(source: New York Daily News)

**********************

Against Lawyer in Death Penalty Dispute----The U.S. Supreme Court on Wednesday 
grappled with whether a criminal defense lawyer violates the Constitution by 
ignoring his client???s express wishes in order to save him from the death 
penalty.



The U.S. Supreme Court on Wednesday grappled with whether a criminal defense 
lawyer violates the Constitution by ignoring his client's express wishes in 
order to save him from the death penalty.

"This sounds a lot like my ethics class in law school," Justice Sonia Sotomayor 
said during arguments in McCoy v. Louisiana.

Robert McCoy argues that the Sixth Amendment prohibits a defense lawyer - as 
part of his defense strategy - from admitting his client's guilt over the 
client's express objections. McCoy's defense lawyer at trial conceded McCoy's 
guilt to the killings of 3 people despite his client's insistence he had an 
alibi and his express objections to the lawyer's admissions.

As in law school classes, the issue inspired a series of hypotheticals from the 
justices as they pressed McCoy's counsel, Seth Waxman of Wilmer Cutler 
Pickering Hale and Dorr, and Louisiana's lawyer, state Solicitor General 
Elizabeth Murrill, on what a defense lawyer can and cannot do.

What follows are some key moments from the arguments.

A Sixth Amendment rule?

Waxman told the justices that the Sixth Amendment guarantees a personal defense 
that belongs to the accused. Waxman's bottom line: "When a defendant maintains 
his innocence and insists on testing the prosecution on its burden of proof, 
the Constitution prohibits a trial court from permitting the defendant's own 
lawyer, over the defendant's objection, to tell the jury that he is guilty."

Can a lawyer concede any element?

Chief Justice John Roberts Jr. asked if Waxman's Sixth Amendment argument 
applies to bar a defense lawyer from conceding any element of the crime. If 
there is a contemporaneous objection, Waxman replied, the attorney cannot 
concede any element of the offense.

Justice Stephen Breyer interjected: "The argument against agreeing with you in 
this is it will be like a balloon expanding into we don't know where what, 
because they're filled with elements, the federal code. And before you know it, 
lawyers will have a hard time defending this person. And you're walking right 
into jail when you start telling your lawyer how to run his case. Right there 
is the problem."

Defendants often make their lawyer's job difficult.

Defendants, and even clients in civil cases, "all the time do things that make 
counsel's job either difficult or impossible," Waxman said in response to a 
hypothetical from Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The Sixth Amendment principle 
does not restrict how the lawyer presents evidence, what defenses he actually 
does present, or how he cross-examines witnesses.

Sotomayor added: "People can walk themselves into jail. They can walk 
themselves, regrettably, into the gas chamber. But they have a right to tell 
their story."

What Louisiana's "narrow" rule says.

Louisiana's Murrill proposed the state's own rule to the justices: "In a narrow 
class of death penalty cases, counsel sometimes might be required to override 
his client on a trial strategy when the strategy that the client wants counsel 
to pursue is a futile charade and requires him to defeat both their objectives 
of defeating the death penalty."

Murrill argued that McCoy's lawyer made a strategy decision and McCoy's claim 
should be reviewed under the 2-prong test for ineffective assistance of 
counsel, not the Sixth Amendment.

A "terrible" position for a lawyer, in Kagan's view.

Kagan said at one point during the argument: "I totally understand that this 
lawyer was in a terrible position because this lawyer wants to defeat the death 
penalty. And he has a client who says: That's not my goal here." She continued: 
"In other words, you just have conflicting objectives. But the question is when 
that happens, does the lawyer have to step back and say, 'You know what? That's 
not his goal. His goal is to avoid admitting that he killed his family 
members.'"

(source: The National Law Journal)