Was that enough?
Her mother was wearing a blue/black dyed rabbit-hair coat. We find, on the front seat of Caleb Hughes’s car, two rabbit-hair fibers. That’s what the case was constructed on—fibers.
You also tried Mir Aimal Kasi.
The murders occurred in ’93 when I was trying Bobby Lee Ramdass for killing a 7-Eleven clerk, because I remember somebody handed a note, “Shooting at the CIA,” and there were a number dead.
Was that an important case for you?
Oh, yeah. That was such a sensational killing by a sensational killer.
And you got to work with FBI agent Brad Garrett, who brought Kasi back from Pakistan.
On that plane ride, when he tells Garrett what he did and why he did it, he told the story with great pride. He told Garrett he had long thought of what he was going to do, that he would come back some morning and do the same thing just to stick it in the ear of the CIA and the Americans. He was a dedicated terrorist.
He was convicted and sentenced to death. Do you get satisfaction from a conviction like that?
Oh, yeah. You get so much more involved in these things by the time you finally go to bat on them. Then you’ve got the challenge in the courtroom. I like to go up against good lawyers, good trial lawyers, because, you know, they work you out. And that’s good, that makes the system work.
How have the judges changed over the years?
That’s one I probably should stay away from.
Oh, come on.
You don’t see as many strong sentencers today as you used to. We had two guys who were on the bench at the same time—Bruce Bach, who was the chief judge of the circuit court, and J. Howell Brown—and the prisoners used to call them the Killer B’s.
Want to name some who are not so strong?
No, thanks. I made the remark one night to some group that if you luck out as a criminal in Fairfax, there are a couple of wimps up there. And of course that made the papers: “Horan said there’s a couple of wimps in the Circuit Court.” And it was true.
The DC sniper case—didn’t you prosecute that yourself?
I got Lee Boyd Malvo. Paul Hebert in Stafford County got John Allen Muhammad. We were kind of sharing witnesses at times, we were sharing evidence—a fascinating case to try.
I would say Malvo’s essential defense was brainwashing. Malvo said Muhammad made him do it, which the jury rejected, and they should have rejected it. The brains of that outfit was really Malvo—smart, clever, and he is the one who scouted out the areas where they did their killings.
Is this what you argued in court?
Yes. The truth is he killed most of the people. That day when they did the five, when they killed the four people in Montgomery County and the one fellow in DC, they were shot from the trunk of that car. Anybody shot from the trunk of their car, it was Malvo; it wasn’t Muhammad. I’ve been in the trunk of that car. It fit Malvo like a glove; it didn’t fit Muhammad—Muhammad’s a much bigger guy.
You asked for the death penalty, but he got life without parole. Why?
He had a great break genetically. By the time I tried him he’s 18 years old; he did the crimes when he was 17, but he looked 15. Those lawyers, they did a heck of a job. They suited him up in pastel shades. He sat there in those pastel shades, sweaters, he looked like a preppy. But not a college preppy—he looked like a high-school preppy. And about the third day of trial I say to Ray Morrogh [Horan’s assistant, who has now replaced him], “Look at that son of a bitch, sitting over there doodling.” And I said, “This trial’s going to last for a bunch more weeks. Do you think he can pull it off?”
So it was an act?
That jury would go out of the room, and he would banter with the bailiffs and laugh and talk to the lawyers, but the minute that jury came in that room, that preppy is sitting there—doodling.
He held that for six weeks—it was a remarkable performance. I was always very impressed with his ability to do that.
Your last case was Alfredo Prieto, who was accused of raping Rachael Raver and shooting her and her boyfriend, Warren Fulton, back in 1988. The first trial was a hung jury. You tried it again in January and got the death penalty. You came across as the avenging angel—“You did it, you gotta pay.” Does that motivate you?
I think on the really bad cases it’s a big factor. For the ordinary run-of-the-mill crime, I’m not sure it really plays a role. But on the really serious—any rape, murder, for example—it plays a big role.
Do you get angry?
How do you deal with that in court?
You’ve got to keep it down. You get to know the families of victims, and I’ve always said that the nicest people I know have been the families of victims. This Prieto case was a great example—the Fulton family and the Raver family, they’re just such nice, nice people. You really have to guard against becoming swayed by your emotions in the case.
Having observed you in the court, I think you manage to communicate your outrage, but you don’t pound your fist, you don’t point your finger—there’s no histrionics, but it comes through.
It helps to really believe in what you’re doing. And I think a certain amount of passion comes out of that because I’ve developed a certain amount of animosity toward the crime and the criminal. The longer I’m with the case, the more that kind of builds up. I mean, the thought’s constantly going through your head, it’s such a horrible thing this guy did, that by the time you get to closing argument you’ve developed a genuine dislike.
It must be a fine line to feel it and yet contain it.
Yep. You don’t want to sound like a raving lunatic in the courtroom.
With the Prieto case over, what will you be doing?
I’m in the process of unloading 40 years of the office and deciding what I should leave in the files and what it’s time to throw out. I think I’ve probably tried my last case—I’m done.
Is that hard?
I really had mixed emotions going in there for that verdict, because I’m sitting there waiting for the jury to file in and it suddenly dawned on me: I’m never going to do this again. And it hit me, and my stomach was churning. I’ve done it for so long, and I’ve done it so many times.
A lot of prosecutors in offices of this size never go into court. The courtroom is my inspiration, it’s what I love about this job—it’s going in there and accepting the challenge of proving what you say happened. And the fact that I’m never going to do that again was a jolt to my system.
So why quit?
My hearing is what did it to me. There are certain women lawyers I can’t hear in the courtroom. I had trouble in the sniper case with Judge Rousch, who tends to be very soft-spoken. I’ve always been afraid I’d miss something important. Once I decided I was going to have to stop going in the courtroom, then it was an easy decision.
Was there a particular trial or incident?
It was gradual. I found that I really had to strain at bench conferences in which we would have whispered discussions. I guess my hearing, particularly my right ear, is failing. I was with a Marine Corps fighter squadron for a couple of years; there were signs all over the place: “Wear your earplugs. Do not come in here without some covering for your ears.” I was about 27, 28, something like that.
And you thought you were invincible.
I was around too many whining jet engines too many times for too many years.
So what’s in the future?
I really don’t know what I’m going to do next. The National District Attorneys Association has talked to me about lecturing prosecutors; I’ve given some thought to maybe doing some lecturing in law schools. But we’ll have to see how it plays. And I’ll play some golf, see how that works.
What was your most satisfying case?
Probably Melissa Brannen, because it was a very difficult case to try. And it was a purely circumstantial case.
But you didn’t get the death sentence for Caleb Hughes.
I always thought the day would come when we would find Melissa Brannen. And then I’d want to try him for murder.
What will you miss about the job?
It’s a fascinating way to make a living. One of the things I will miss is that there was something new all the time.
What did you take away from Fairfax County?
It is a remarkably law-abiding community. We see it in the crime rate, we see it in the juries. These are people who believe in obeying the laws. That has not changed over 40 years.