Authors: M. William Phelps
Joe McDermott was known by friends, fellow attorneys, and colleagues as the “cocky buffalo.” Strange name. It was given to McDermott in light of his courtroom manner and ardent belief in the idea that every defendant deserved to have his or her basic human rights protected in a court of law. Over the course of his long career leading up to representing Tracey Humphrey, McDermott had sat behind courtroom tables next to some fifty death penalty defendants over nearly five decades. His reputation and his record, in and around the Tampa area, were as solid as his will to see that a defendant was shown dignity and respect inside the courtroom—regardless of what he or she had been accused of. In having Joe McDermott appointed as his defense attorney, free of charge, Tracey Humphrey could not have
hired
a better trial lawyer.
Joe McDermott had a slow, hospitable, serious way about him that made you think of KFC’s Colonel Sanders, a man he strikingly resembled. Think of former judge Robert Bork with glasses, and you get the picture.
“Joe was an unfazed savvy veteran of the courtroom, a true warrior,” said his nemesis in the Humphrey case, Fred Schaub. “Yet, he was a true gentleman. He would leave no stone unturned in an attempt at finding a hole in the prosecution’s case. He had the presence of St. Nick and would gain the confidence of the jury as a trustworthy advocate for his cause. He had an uncanny ability at getting law enforcement witnesses and other state witnesses to like him and trust him, and then in trial, he would proceed to take them apart in his gentleman way…. No matter how combative a trial got with Joe, he would always offer his congratulations and a handshake at the end. He was a true professional.”
In representing Humphrey, McDermott had a serious public-image problem to contend with. Humphrey had escaped from custody; he had been charged—even before being indicted for murder—with several rather heartless crimes (sexual assault/battery and kidnapping), not to mention he had a history of abusing females. The only way to go about the task of polishing Humphrey’s tarnished public persona was to depose the candidates the SAO was potentially going to parade into the courtroom to chip away at Humphrey’s character, alibi, motive, and innocence. This, of course, while the PPPD and FDLE continued building a case against him—now with Ashley Humphrey in their corner, entirely content with her role in bringing her husband down.
McDermott had a few pluses in his column, however. In fact, during one conversation Ashley had with Ski, the detective asked her, “What were you feeling right after the murder?”
“I was feeling mad,” Ashley said.
Ski asked why.
“Because he (Humphrey) wouldn’t let me get extra cheese on my pizza.”
Ashley’s immaturity and lack of compassion were not going to be hard to expose to a jury. McDermott had run a fairly informative deposition with Ashley on November 22, 2004, in addition to two different sessions after that. He was quite satisfied in knowing that she would possibly break down on the stand.
Ashley came in during those depositions and told her side of the murder tale. McDermott tried, but he had trouble cracking her. Ashley seemed stronger now—presumably because she had been removed from the situation with Humphrey. She wasn’t under his wing anymore, being abused emotionally and told what to say, do, and think.
Between November 2004 and April 2005, save for weekends, not a day went by without some sort of motion, deposition, subpoena, or notice of a pretrial hearing being brought before the court in preparation for Humphrey’s trial. McDermott was never going to be accused of not being thorough. This defense attorney, whom many recognized as the “dean of the criminal bar,” was, indeed, living up to every bit of his reputation and panache.
The bench that Honorable Judge Nancy Moate Ley sat at in Courtroom One of the Criminal Justice Center in Clearwater, Florida, was positioned in front of what looked to be a throw rug–size black-and-white piece of flat marble tile on the wall. Judge Ley’s chair was situated between two flags: the American and the judicial. A flat-screen television hung to the judge’s left, almost above the door to her chambers. In front of the bench, to the left and right, defendants and counsel, along with representatives from the SAO, sat at respectable lengths from each other.
It seemed appropriate—however sad and depressing it might be—that Sandee Rozzo had been murdered, nearly three years ago now, only a few miles from where the trial of her killer was about to begin in that February 2006. Humphrey was forty; Ashley, arguably the state’s star witness, was now a twenty-three-year-old woman. Both were different people in some ways, the exact same in others. Ashley’s change came more internally. She was getting into the Jesus scene inside the jail and had begun to develop a conscience. She realized that although she had committed the act of murder under the direction of her husband, she was responsible for it. Humphrey’s changes, on the other hand, were more outward and cerebral. Humphrey wore a two-piece suit, a button-up shirt, open at the top, and a pair of glasses that seemed en vogue with the culture. He had his hair clipped crisply, a buzz cut. Although he looked like a high-school science teacher, no more the muscle-bound, ’roid-juiced weight lifter, there was no mistaking the swagger and cockiness that had perhaps inflated in him since being locked away in prison. Humphrey was skinny (for his size) and frail. He smirked from the side of his mouth at times, and he walked with a certain brazenness that spoke of a man who honestly believed he was going to walk out of the courtroom a free man at the end of the day.
Representing Sandee Rozzo, Assistant State Attorney Fred Schaub was aided by Assistant State Attorney Douglas Crow. Joe McDermott sat with J. Andrew Crawford and Richard Watts, representing not only Humphrey, but the McDermott Law Firm.
The trial officially started on Valentine’s Day, 2006. How appropriate, many thought, seeing that the entire case, in so many ways, revolved around what a woman would ultimately say about her husband.
By the time voir dire (questioning of the jury), pretrial motions, seating, swearing in of the jury, and preliminary instructions by the judge concluded, it was February 15, late in the day. The jury had sat for nearly two days and taken questions from lawyers. They were exhausted already, and the actual testimony portion of this high-profile event hadn’t even started yet.
Fred Schaub was first up. How does an ASA wrap up a case of this magnitude in a brief little package and present it to a jury with a bow on top?
Schaub figured the way to do that was to keep the focus on, with the exception of Sandee Rozzo, what mattered more than anything else: Humphrey’s master manipulating skills. Schaub figured he needed to show the jury how a man had turned a frightened, fragile teenager into a vicious killer. Humphrey was the king of ultimatums.
The prosecutor, with a voice he could throw like a Frisbee, began with a short narrative of August 4, 2003—the day Sandee was “scheduled to testify,” Schaub said loudly, “to take the witness stand, and testify in the case of the
State of Florida
versus
Timothy Humphrey.
”
That sexual assault and kidnapping charge.
The seed.
The impetus.
Schaub explained that crime, then segued into an account of July 5, 2003, the night Sandee Rozzo was murdered.
Within the first few minutes of Schaub’s opening statement, McDermott objected on the basis that Schaub was “arguing” his case, not giving the jury an outline of the evidence that he and the state would present.
Schaub nodded to the judge’s suggestion that he stay on point with the evidence.
“We will show,” Schaub said, continuing, “that [Tracey Humphrey] is guilty as a principal to first-degree murder, and we will show that the crime of first-degree murder has, in fact, been committed.”
That
principal
factor was the driving force behind Schaub’s case, as he so aptly explained: “The crime of first-degree murder includes a concept called premeditation. It sets it apart from other degrees of murder. When someone intends to kill, and they think about what they’re doing and their intent is clear, and they plan and premeditatedly thought about it—”
“He’s arguing to the jury when he should be outlining evidence,” McDermott said from his place in the room, objecting for a second time. “That’s pure argument!”
The judge reminded Schaub they had just started.
Relax, Mr. Prosecutor, don’t put the cart before the horse here.
There were promises made, as there are in any good opening statement—the idea was to make good on those promises and deliver when it came time to present the evidence. One of the ways Schaub was going to do that, he said, included putting jurors into the shoes of law enforcement.
“Our role, as much as possible, is to place you as part of this investigation to see how law enforcement unraveled this case…to see how law enforcement developed the evidence…that pointed to Timothy Humphrey.”
Schaub talked about how Sandee had driven home, and Tony Ponicall heard what he believed were fireworks. Then, after taking jurors through that scenario—whereby Sandee was murdered and an investigation initiated—Schaub brought it full circle, back to August 4, 2003, the day Sandee was set to testify against Humphrey.
A day that never came.
Schaub touched on the fact that Humphrey had made it clear he did not want to go to prison for ten years on the sexual assault and kidnapping charges.
“…Remember that ten years if he was convicted of a crime. You will learn that that case was terminated in Hillsborough County because they could not prove it without the victim. Once Sandee Rozzo was dead”—he paused for effect—“the case died with her!”
After twenty more minutes of describing how he would bring in the witnesses to prove his case, Schaub said, “He planned this crime weeks and weeks and weeks prior to its commission. He plotted with Ashley Humphrey”—it was important to keep putting that out there: the fact that Ashley was as guilty as her husband—“weeks and weeks prior to its conclusion.”
After a few more inconsequential words and a thank you to the jury for listening to his rant, Schaub gave the floor to Mr. McDermott.
The judge took a ten-minute break. “For comfort,” she said.
In what would prove to be a signature move throughout the trial, whenever the opportunity presented itself, McDermott motioned for a mistrial.
Denied.
Joe McDermott had a graceful arrogance about him: an old-fashioned Southern style that lent itself to the bursts of drama and the natural ebb and flow present inside any American courtroom.
Good ole Joe stood, and as he began his opening statement, he started right in on what he had objected to during Schaub’s opening, almost as if the entire scenario had been planned.
“We’re not supposed to argue the case to you,” McDermott said. “We’re supposed to
present
what the
evidence
will [prove] in the case.”
Meandering around the room in front of the bench, McDermott focused on the evidence, as opposed to the
argument
of evidence. It sounded like a play on words, but he was trying to indicate, in not so many ways, that Schaub was beating around the bush and trying to hide under the fact that the state was pushing all the blame on his client, Mr. Humphrey. McDermott said at one point, “And I think one common thread that can be gleaned from Mr. Schaub’s argument about the presentation of the evidence is that everything”—he pointed at his client—“is
that
guy’s fault. Every single piece of evidence that they intend to prove would
blame
it on Mr. Humphrey, seek to blame him for
everything
that Ashley did.”
Shaking his head, McDermott broke into a short, but powerful, critique of Ashley, hoping, one would guess, to begin to raise suspicion among the jurors that Ashley could have just as easily acted on her own when she murdered Sandee Rozzo.
He called Ashley a “jealous person.” Then rattled off a list: “Jealous of people…his former girlfriends!…Jealous of his training clients that were attractive.”
Jealous, jealous, jealous!
Stopping and starting, pausing, waiting for the words to carry their intended impact, McDermott talked about how, although Ashley was young, she was certainly no dummy. He pointed out to the jury that she had been chosen “the business student of the year in high school,” and had held good jobs all throughout high school and even after graduation. Now, how could a girl that intelligent be fooled by a Svengali-like creature the state would want y’all to presume Humphrey was while around his lovely wife?
It just didn’t add up for McDermott.
Ashley had acted alone, on her own. This was the path McDermott began to walk, and would not veer away from for some time. Ashley was a resentful wife who didn’t want to lose her husband to prison, so she took it upon herself to stalk and kill Sandee Rozzo. All by her lonesome.
McDermott mocked Ashley at times, speaking in her voice: “I didn’t want to lose my man!”
For most of his opening, McDermott kept his aim on Ashley. He wanted the jury to realize that Ashley was the one to gain a lot more for walking into the courtroom and casting the blame on her hubby than she would lose in not doing so.
And it was that loss, McDermott reminded jurors, that would add up to about fifty years of her life. A long time for someone so young.
“Because the evidence will show that even in spite of the fact that the state has made a deal with her if she testifies here that she receive second-degree murder…[and] we all know already that first-degree murder carries a penalty of life without parole—never get out!—or the death penalty. One of those”—he made the peace sign—“
two
things.”
From there, McDermott went after Ski, Davenport, and a colleague of Davenport’s, SA Telly Sands—three law enforcement officers, he said, who were “surrounding her in this room.” McDermott made it sound as if Ashley had been prodded and poked with a long stick and these cops had been keeping her hostage. He accused them of “planting [a] seed in her mind of how to get myself,
me,
Ashley Humphrey, out of this case, out of the death penalty, and out of life in prison with no parole.”
Defense attorney McDermott had rolled the dice: betting on the idea that the jury would blame Ashley, thus releasing his client from any culpability. The problem was going to come down to when the state brought in Tobe White and others, who would explain to the jury that Humphrey consistently told Ashley when to speak, sleep, eat, and go to the bathroom. She could not do
anything
without that man’s approval. And by the time the state was finished, the jury was going to realize that Ashley had neither the motive nor the means to assassinate Sandee Rozzo in cold blood.
McDermott talked about how Humphrey wasn’t the one who stole the weapon, went to the gun shop, practiced shooting the gun at the range, and eventually pulled the trigger that ended Sandee’s life.
“We have no idea if she is going to weep here when she testifies,” McDermott said, drawing a deep sigh from Schaub, who knew this tactic better than most, but allowed his associate to finish without interruption. McDermott was putting images into the jury’s mind, forging ahead with what he wanted these men and women to think before Ashley even sat down in the witness chair.
“Keep in mind,” McDermott said, “that she wept in front of the fire marshal when she was reporting [her car being on fire], but she had
no
knowledge? She said the car was stolen, all gone, and the car burned up, and [she] didn’t have
anything
to do with it. Well, they weren’t buying it. They weren’t paying the claim, and they weren’t settling that claim with her! But yet she did those things….”
By the time he finished, McDermott had made a strong statement to the fact that the state’s chief witness, Ashley Humphrey, was a scorned lover, scared of spending the rest of her life in prison. And once the idea was put before her that she could—essentially—trade information for time in prison, she went for it—and hung Tracey Humphrey out to fend for himself.