under narrow rule that says such crimes must be so unique as to leave little doubt they were committed by the defendant. These so-called “finger-print” or “signature” crimes are normally used in cases of serial crimes.
Breclaw argued to Page, and Van Bokkelen said he will argue to the appeals court, that if the allegations were too weak to charge Koo, they were too weak to be used as evidence of another crime.
Judges have discretion whether to allow “signature” crimes into evidence and judges presented with the same set of circumstances can disagree about whether such a “signature” exists. Should the appeals court rule in favor of Koo, Van Bokkelen would not have to defend against the uncharged allegations.
2
Beginning of the Condemned Life
October 15
Transfer to RDC from Lake County Jail, Indiana
Early in the morning, at around 4 a.m., one correctional officer knocked on my cell and ordered me to get ready to go to the RDC. Meantime, I had learned a little about the RDC from other jail inmates.
They told me that RDC stands for the Reception and Diagnostic Center for bad boys. It sounded good to me when I heard the name. It seemed to me that the state wanted to take good care of all prisoners committed for their crimes, charges or sentences. I believed the state would make a diagnosis for their crimes individually for the state’s records and discover the etiologies of each crime for future uses. Then, the state would initiate constructive recommendations for each crime. I was somewhat excited.
I had nothing to pack. The officer handcuffed and took me down to the jail booking area where I was initially taken following the trial three months ago. It was already familiar in my sight, and then I realized I had become one of the senseless prisoners of Indiana after all.
In there, they ordered me to change into civilian clothes — those I had worn when I enlisted in — so I did, and then I was dropped into a separated cell next to the booking office and uncuffed.
Soon six other prospective prisoners were brought down. So the cell was warmed with prisoners, and it seemed not a bad place for them, by the way they were talking with each other. Of course, I was an atypical extra, but most of all they did not pay any attention to me. I was left alone in the corner.
They were acting and talking like experts of all things criminal, and they chanted while clapping their hands as they told about the charges and were recounting their thrilling adventures of crimes outside. They made high-fives and touched palms as though winners, and then laughed and smiled. I watched them talk but could not understand what they were really talking about. I tried not to look at them and just kept to myself.
Once their moods were up, they were predicting their destinations and their respective characters openly as if they were already assigned to them.
There were four whites, two blacks, and me, a special, being none of the above. Soon, they served breakfast: one bowl of cereal and a quart of juice with milk. Past 6 a.m., the booking place began to get busy and the police officers were bringing new “merchandise” in their cars and sold them to this county jail “free of charge.”
At around 7 a.m., the transportation officer put handcuffs and shackled us because bad boys might act crazy. They were a way of reassuring people that these specimens of expensive merchandise won’t get loose from their hands.
When they put shackles on me, I thought I was going to transform into a Dracula. I lost my mind for a few seconds. I felt as if I was one of those evils from the histories of trial complexes in the Lake County, Indiana. I felt like I was going to kill everybody instinctively. In a second, I held my emotion, took a deep breath and stood still.
When we lined up, the back steel door of the jail was opened with a squeaking sound. One transporting car, just like a remodeled army ambulance, was waiting for us. The transporting car had two parts, one part with a long steel seat, while the other part looked empty.
As I went out of the jail building, I wished to cry out but suppressed my feelings and hit my chest with handcuffed hands in order for me not to expose my feelings. It was the most aching and devastating moment in my life. I took a deep breath and then wandered for a few seconds until the officer yelled at me.
It started to rain from morning and the outside was foggy. The raindrops were good enough to wet my face while I was merely standing on the ground for the orders. As the chilly wind hit my face, my body trembled for a second. I knew they were not going to fling me into the sea, so I kept waiting for a command. Slowly I realized I had to obey orders from this civilization since I was someone this society hated and its court condemned.
Suddenly, something made me think extraordinarily. I sensed that the State was afraid I might say something bad to it, so it had to take me away from any contact for a long period of time and put me under its plots and imaginations. No one would know until God would bring out the truth, but for the time being society would not mind God at any cost. That’s the end of the first chapter.
As I got in the car, I teared up slowly, and the tears finally dropped from my chin, but it was hard to wipe them off because my hands were cuffed and shackled together. I bent my head and barely wiped my face with my sleeves. To me it felt like I was being taken away to the memories of Auschwitz from WWII, because in there I could not see and seek and find freedom. WWII maniacs still are remaining and existing in this country, America, which is why I have to worry.
When the car began to roll, it made all sorts of noises, reminding me of carrying wrecks of war time. And the weather reminded me of all manner of justices and injustices of Indiana, and seeking relief, eventually my soul drifted away from the reality, but then, just the same, insidiously digested the fact of life in America. Those were painful moments thinking of life in America.
The car was moving steadily. It was hard to see outside through the small, iron-barred window. Again, prisoners were talking about the prisons where they would be going and about each prison’s notorious characters. I had noticed that these prisoners must have experienced life in prisons before. I listened but made no comment since I had no knowledge about the prison system in Indiana.
About thirty minutes later my tears dried up, and then I just concentrated on the direction the car was heading. The other guys began to drift away after about a half-hour of talking, and all I could hear was only car engine sounds.
RDC (Reception and Diagnostic Center),
Plainfield, Indiana
At around 11 a.m. the car arrived at RDC, the major collection center. Outside, it was still foggy and there was a little poor visibility. The officer released shackles and handcuffs and then took us inside the building. In there, the officer double-checked our individual names and then made us walk underground about fifty yards, connecting from the outside building to the RDC main building.
When we arrived at the reception hall, there were many prisoners from other counties before us so that the place seemed pretty noisy and the hall was crowded with inmates. It reminded me of the flea market outside. Everything I saw inside the facility was not in its proper place and the building was so old it looked like I was taken to the wholesale garage. Suddenly, I was confused and I felt I did not like the name, RDC.
While we were sitting on ragged chairs, one RDC prison worker approached and said that they allowed us to keep a Bible and writing materials but no ball pen. About ten minutes or so passed and one prison-uniformed inmate called us, so I thought
