"Fourteen."

"How old are you today?"

"Nineteen."

"Six or seven months before March nineteenth, did you get along with your dada"did you love your dad?"

"Yes."

"Did you love Linda?"

"Yes."

"Did you have problems with her?"

"Everydaya"typical problemsa"like doing the dishes, cleaning the doghouse."

"Did you hate her?"

"No."

In response to Robinson's questions, Cinnamon described the odd household that existed in 1985. She got along with everyone; she thought of Patti Bailey as a sister. Yes, they argued, but they loved each other. They fought over silly things such as who was going to sit in the front seat. Patti was sixteen, almost seventeen. Cinnamon had only argued with her father about typical thingsa""Like, 'Cinny, go wash the car,' and I didn't want to."

Cinnamon's answers came so softly that it was difficult to evaluate her emotions, but she looked desperately uncomfortable as she discussed getting along with her father. Tears filled her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.

"Do you feel bad talking about your dad?"

She wiped her eyes. "Yes." Cinnamon bowed her head like a penitent. She was such a small figure sitting in the witness box, no bigger than a twelve-year-old.

"Cinnamon," Robinson asked gently, "do you still love your dad?"

"Yes."

Her answer was much more terrible to hear than if she had said, "No." Cinnamon accepted a tissue, but declined a break. She would continue.

Robinson changed the topic. Cinnamon said she didn't like CYA, but she had gotten used to it. Of course she would like to be free someday.

"Cinnamon, simply because you want to get out of prison, are you making things up about your dad?"

"Noa"if I wanteda""

Pohlson objected, and Judge McCartin struck everything after "no."

"Cinnamon," Robinson asked once morea"so that there would be no question. "Did you do the killing?"

"Yeah ... yes."

Under further questioning, Cinnamon told the jury about the terror she felt as she was drawn into the plans to kill her stepmother. She had been repeatedly told by both David and Patti that Linda and Alan were planning to take over David's businessa"Data Recoverya"and they were going to kill him to do it. "He said we have to get rid of her. He could move away or he would kill himself before he'd let her kill him. He would leave. I said, 'Why don't you divorce her?' and he said it wouldn't work. . . ."

"What was your feeling when your dad told you he would have to leave you guys?"

"I was scared . .. crying."

"Did you believe him?"

"Yes."

She had believed it all. Over and over, her father had said, "Get rid of Linda ... we have to kill her." She had heard it so many times on so many different drives that she could no longer remember how many. It was always her father, Patti, and herself. Linda was never around when they discussed the predicament they were in, and how to solve it.

At this fragile moment, the door of the courtroom opened, and unbelievably, unthinkably, a cla.s.s of a hundred or more junior high school students filed in-noisily. They were on a field trip. Cinnamon, stricken, stared past Robinson at the sea of young faces.

Robinson and Pohlson both approached the bench. Surely, the students should not stay. They were very young, and this trip was only a lark for them. Their chairs creaked and their feet sounded like thunder at this tense moment.

Despite Robinson's urgent request, Judge McCartin shook his head. This was a public courtroom. The students could stay. As they realized what they were listening to, even the fourteen-year-olds in the group became quiet. Did they know they were listening to a young woman who was their age when she committed the crime of murder?

The questioning continued, and Cinnamon's voice was so faint that even the judge next to her could not hear her. McCartin startled her when he said gruffly, "Put the mike on the witness."

"Cinnamon, do you recall specific occasions... discussions?"

"Yes .. . several... on the beach, my father told me to go down the beach. When I got back, we left. The topic came up of what was to be done to Linda."

"What was to be done?"

"Ways to kill her .. ."

Yes, she remembered some of the ways. They could shoot Linda or electrocute her in the bathtub. Cinnamon thought that was her idea.

"Were you serious?"

"Yes."

"Why did you seriously suggest a way to kill Linda?"

"Because I wanted her dead. I didn't want to lose my father."

".. . Did your dad suggest who, if anybody, should do it?" "Yes ... he said one of us girls would have to do it. He didn't have the stomach to do it."

"... Did he ever complain about a weak stomach before?"

"He was always sick."

Robinson pelted his witness with questions. He knew Pohlson would do the same tomorrow or the next day on cross-examination. He had to get all the truth out of Cinnamon now. Yes, David told them repeatedly that she should do it, that one of the girls had to. Cinnamon began to sob again. "I was willing to do it because I loved him, and I didn't want to lose him."

Listening intently, Pohlson was poised. He objected to what he construed to be leading questions from Robinson. Robinson was trying to show that there was no benefit at all for Cinnamon in Linda's death, but he could not phrase a question that pleased either Pohlson or Judge McCartin.

After three objections, McCartin bristled and growled at Robinson, "You want to be sworna"take the stand? No more argument. No more leading questions!"

Finally, Robinson got a full question out. "On your own, did you ever plan to do something to Linda?"

"No."

The death plan had evolved from a constant drumming in of the principles of family and staying together and most of all, love. Unless Linda died, all of those things would be lost.

"He said, 'If you loved me, you would do this for me.'"

With all the scheming and talking and plotting and persuasion, it always came down to love. Always. Once the murder script was in motion, someone would have to perform. And it was Cinnamon who was selected.

"Did your dad ever say, 'Cinnamon, don't do it?'"

She shook her head slightly. "He said, 'If you love me, you'll do it. If you don't, I'll have to go away.' I felt guilty."

"Did you ever feel he said things to make you feel guilty?"

"Yes."

"Were you jealous of Linda?"

"No."

"Her jewelry?"

"I wasn't interested in her jewelry. I wanted to go to the beach. He gave me the things I wanteda"my radio and my Walkman."

Some of the jurors watched Jeoff Robinson. Others looked down at their laps. Only a very few looked at Cinnamon. It was as if they found her so delicate and so sad that it would be cruel to stare at her. She kept her eyes fastened on the prosecutor. Clearly, she had come to trust him.

Cinnamon had a solid memory of all the crucial events five or six years before. She had become a little more relaxed on the witness stand. Now, ever so gradually, Robinson led her into disturbing details, as if she were slowly stepping into icy water.

"Did you think killing someone was all right?"

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"What did you think about what you did?"

"I was doing the right thing . . . because my dad told me to." Cinnamon was crying again. "Why would he tell me to do something that wasn't right?" Clearly, she had asked herself this question many times before and had not come to terms with her father's depravity; emotionally, she was still in danger.

Robinson moved inexorably closer to the murder night.

They were on one of their many car trips when David turned to Cinnamon. "He saida"since I'm the youngesta"I was too young to get in trouble for it. They'd send me to a psychiatrist and send me home. He didn't mention going to jail. I said, yes, I would do it."

Cinnamon could not remember how long her father said she would be away. She thought only a few days.

"After the murder, he said I should try to kill myselfa" shoot myself in the head. I could just nick myself. I got scared. I said I didn't want to. I said I'd rather take the medicine. I believed it would just look like I tried to kill myself."

Pohlson asked for a sidebar conference. Robinson seemed tense. The presence of the platoon of teenagers in the courtroom had upset his witness and thrown off his rhythm.

For the first time, Cinnamon darted a quick sideways look at her father.

Robinson asked Cinnamon about the suicide note. There had been many of them.

"He told me to write a note to say I was sorry for what I did. I wrote them and showed them to my dad.... He picked one; I was to get rid of the others."

Robinson had drawn Cinnamon along with hima"to the night of March 18. Each of her responses came as if she had been holding her breath; Robinson had to ask her the next detail in sequence before she could say it aloud.

"Before that night, were there discussions on who would do what?"

"He said he would be gone so he wouldn't have anything to do with it. I knew I was going to go to the doghouse, after I shot Linda."

The jury had never heard about the Uno game, the argument over putting the baby to sleep. Cinnamon relived the last day for them. "We were asleep alreadya"I don't know how long. I heard a door opening. He walked in and said, 'Girls, get up. It has to be done tonight.' My dad told me to follow him. I followed him to his room and stood at the door. He told me to wait and be quiet. . .."

Cinnamon's voice was thick with tears.

"I got a gla.s.s from the kitchen, and he took the pill bottles to the pantry. He told me to take more, and I said. 'I can't swallow any more.' But he kept telling me to take more. We left the bottles and the gla.s.s there."

"Did you ever feel that you would die as a result of these suggestions?"

"No."

But suddenly she did. A look of stunning shock and then ineffable sadness washed over Cinnamon's face. It was obvious that she had at long last acknowledged the truth in this one frozen moment. Her father had made her take the AMPi RULE

pillsa"not to give her an alibi or only to make her sicka"but because he wanted her dead. This was the worst, the last thing Cinnamon had not faced, and she wept as it sunk in. And then, quickly, she darted a look at her father that seemed to say, "1 know it all now. I know." *

"Cinnamon," Robinson drew her back. "What happened then?"

"We went to the living room by his recliner. He grabbed a brown pillow from the recliner and told me to hold the pillow over the gun. I didn't know why. He said Patti would show me. There wasn't a gun, but I knew I'd see one soon. Patti was standing with us. My father was getting ready to leave 'cause he had his keys and everything with him and he was right by the door. Then he said, 'We can do this another time if you want, but if you love me, let's do it now.'

"I went to our room. Patti was wiping off the gun that she had sitting on the bed with a towel. She handed it to me. She told me, 'You know what you have to go do.'... I asked how to work it. ... I was very scared, very nervous. I took the gun to my dad's rooma"it was very dark. I fired the gun toward where Linda would be 'cause I knew she slept on that side of the bed...."

Tears streamed down Cinnamon's face.

"Linda was sleeping. I knew I was pointing the gun right at her. I knew it was going to hit her. I pulled the trigger. There was a loud noise and a jolt. I got scared, and the pillow got caught in the gun, and I ran to Patti's room and told her, 'I broke the gun!' I took the baby and gave Patti the gun. The gun went off... . And we could hear Linda crying. ... Patti said I had to go finish, so I took the gun. . . ."

The courtroom was very quiet, suspended in this moment. The jurors were finally all looking at Cinnamon, their faces empty, listening.

"I went back because Linda was still alive and I'd been told to go back and finish. I wanted her dead too. I went back to make sure she was dead. I walked in and fired the gun again. I just walked in and pointed it toward her. I knew she was there. I was going to shoot her." "And then what did you do?"

"I dropped the gun. I was dizzy. I ran outside through the kitchen and I got the note I was supposed to get from the trailer. I ran to the doghouse 'cause that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I was supposed to do."

"Did you know what you had done?"