I guess the name Rupert would have alone been enough to turn him into a jackass. He told me he’d been named after a great-grandfather, but who names a kid Rupert? Life is tough enough without having to deal with the unnecessary shit dished out by bullies who would take exception to the name Rupert. His parents should have been slapped.
Rupert was a strapping twenty-eight-year-old man from an area of Knoxville called Mechanicsville. He’d kidnapped, raped, and murdered a young couple, both of them just college kids. He didn’t do it alone—he had three accomplices—but he was, without a doubt, the leader of the group. It was his idea to go out and steal a car. It was his idea to pull out a gun and kidnap Arielle Blevins and her boyfriend, Stephen Whitfield, who just happened to be in the car Rupert decided to steal. It was his idea to take them to the small house where he and his brother and his cousin and his girlfriend were staying. It was Rupert who hog-tied Stephen Whitfield with a garden hose before he dragged him out back of the house to a set of railroad tracks where he raped Stephen with a broomstick and choked him with a belt before he shot him twice in the back and once in the head.
Then Rupert and his boys went back inside and went to work on Arielle. She’d already been tied up and left in a bedroom. Rupert and his brother and his cousin took turns raping Arielle every possible way a person can rape another person for two days. Then, when Rupert sobered up long enough to realize they might have left some DNA on her or inside her, he decided it would be a good thing to pour bleach down her throat, into every orifice they had raped, and all over her body. Then Rupert put a plastic trash bag over Arielle’s head and two more over the rest of her. He then stuffed her headfirst into a trash can in his kitchen while his girlfriend stood by and watched. After about thirty-six hours—according to the medical examiner—Arielle eventually suffocated.
Rupert had actually been stupid enough to tell me he did all those horrible things. He was unapologetic about it, proud even. And his reasons for killing, raping, maiming, and torturing two innocent human beings?
He had a hard life growing up.
His mother was a drunk, and his father wasn’t in the picture.
He’d been in prison for robbing people and felt as though he was mistreated by the guards, the administration, and the other inmates.
He needed Stephen Whitfield’s car so he could sell it in order to buy drugs.
He was fucked up on alcohol and methamphetamine that night.
Those were the reasons he gave me, but the reality was that he was a sociopath, a pure predator who felt no empathy for anyone. He hated everyone, including me. In fact, he hated me more than I hated him. I could feel the loathing. It oozed from him like a poisonous fog.
I looked across the table at Rupert. I had trouble looking him in the eye, and I was sure he could sense my reluctance. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” I said.
“Are you?”
I nodded my head slowly. “As ready as I can be under the circumstances. The police have actually done a hell of a job locking down this case. The evidence is overwhelming. You can testify in your own defense if you want, but I wouldn’t advise it because you’ve told me you did everything they’re accusing you of doing, you have a long criminal history, and the prosecutor will eat you alive if you get on the witness stand. We don’t have a single witness who has come forward who wants to help us. The psychological expert we brought in says you’re not crazy or mentally challenged, so those defenses are out. We can say you were high, but that isn’t going to get us anywhere. All of your codefendants have made deals with the prosecutor and are going to testify against you. But yeah, to answer your question, I’m ready. I’ll go in there prepared and cross-examine their witnesses. I’ll give you the best defense I can.”
“Which ain’t gonna be shit.”
“You didn’t give me much to work with.”
“Man, I oughta come across this table and stomp your ass into the floor.”
I smiled at him. “I wish you’d try. I really do. I spent a year in the max section of the Knoxville jail, and then a year in a federal maximum security prison, you know. Did I tell you that? No, I guess I didn’t. I was falsely accused of a murder, framed by a prosecutor, and did some hard, hard time. Chances are I could kick your ass without those handcuffs and shackles, but if you come at me all cuffed up like that, it isn’t going to go well for you.”
He leaned toward me as though he was going to lunge, but he didn’t. Instead, he spit in my face.
“Motherfucker,” he said. “When I escape, I’m gonna look you up late at night.”
I wiped my face with my sleeve, stood, and pushed the button on the wall to summon the guard. There was a time in my life when I would have broken his jaw for spitting on me, but instead I just looked at him. Something inside of me was telling me to stay calm for the moment, because I’d get even with him later.
“You’re gonna be in a small box for the rest of your life until they execute you,” I said. “It’ll probably take them about fifteen years, but they’ll get around to you eventually. But if you ever manage to escape and come looking for me, you can rest assured I’ll be waiting with a pistol in one hand, a beer in the other, and a smile on my face. Have a nice evening, Rupert. I’ll see you in court tomorrow.”
As I walked down the hall outside the interview room toward the light and freedom outside the jail, I smiled and shook my head.
I went home, got a couple of hours of restless sleep, and went to court the next morning expecting to begin Rupert’s trial.
The prosecutors were at their table. I was at my table with my cocounsel, a competent, experienced lawyer named Bret James—defendants get two lawyers in death-penalty cases. There were about a hundred prospective jurors waiting for jury selection to begin. There were several reporters and a few cameras. The judge walked in, sat down, called the case, and said, “Is everyone ready?”
“I got something I want to say,” Rupert said.
I cringed as the judge looked at me.
“Your lawyer should be the one speaking for you, Mr. Lattimore,” Judge Montgomery said.
“My lawyer threatened to kill me yesterday. I don’t want him representing me.”
“He threatened to kill you? I find that hard to believe.”
“Ask him,” Rupert said. “If he ain’t a liar, he’ll tell you he threatened to kill me.”
“Mr. Street?” the judge said.