On the 58th day of his son's capital murder trial, Robert Holmes
took the witness stand on Tuesday and repeatedly tried to make eye contact with
the mentally ill young man he still calls "Jimmy."
He spoke of his
son's idyllic boyhood in Castroville, a small California town south of San Jose
that treasured its children. He described the social awkwardness and isolation
that came with a move at 12 to a bigger city, San Diego. The boy once
surrounded by a pack of friends suddenly had no one.
But he still had
soccer, and he still had school. "He still had a family that loved
him," the elder Holmes testified.
He looks back
now at that move as a pivotal time in his son's life. There was a before and an
after. Before is the Oak Hills neighborhood, near Monterey. After is San Diego.
Soccer and happy times
"He was happiest when he was
playing soccer when he was a young kid," Robert Holmes testified.
"Oak Hills was probably the happiest time in his life -- and ours,
too."
In court, Holmes
tried with mixed success to connect with his son. He'd spent most of the lengthy
trial sitting a few feet behind James. Now, he was on the witness stand,
directly in front of him.
Robert Holmes smiled during sidebar conferences. He raised his
eyebrows. He mouthed the word "hello."
But, as he has
throughout his trial, James Holmes simply rocked softly in his chair at the
defense table. It was impossible to see from the spectator's section whether
his father succeeded in making eye contact, but his repeated attempts suggest
not.
James Holmes
does not interact with the people around him at his trial. He doesn't talk to
his lawyers, and they don't talk to him. At times, they talk over him as he
sits there, rocking.
He refuses to
let his parents visit him in jail.
A family
history of mental illness
His father's testimony revealed a
longer, wider disconnect. As Holmes got sicker, he pushed his family away. His
mother and father didn't have a clue.
Despite a family
history of mental illness, it was something that wasn't talked about.
Robert Holmes
referred in his testimony to "two breakdowns" his twin sister
suffered but said he never learned the diagnosis. His own father suffered from
some sort of mental illness in his later years, Holmes testified, but he didn't
know what it was.
"Our family
didn't discuss it," he said.
James Holmes
never told his parents about the intrusive homicidal and suicidal thoughts he
has said plagued him since 15.
"His mental
illness was disturbing to him," testified Jeffrey Metzger, a
court-appointed forensic psychiatrist.
His parents
never knew he was mentally ill, although they began to suspect something was
wrong when he visited them at Christmas in 2011. He was pale, scrawny and worn
down.
At one point,
his father noticed an odd, wide-eyed, faraway expression. Months later he'd see
that look again -- in his son's mug shot.
James Holmes was
diagnosed that Christmas with mononucleosis and spent the holiday break
sleeping and playing video games. When he returned to school, he avoided calls
and emails from both his mother and father.
Worries
of where James was headed
They learned in June that James was
seeing a psychiatrist. The family had been to counselors before. But this time
they were worried because the psychiatrist said James, who had broken up with
the only girlfriend he'd ever had, planned to drop out of school.
The parents
began to research what might be wrong and came up with a theory -- Asperger's
syndrome. They left a voicemail with the psychiatrist, Dr. Lynne Fenton, but
she never called back. His father thought James might be depressed.
"If Dr.
Fenton had told you how sick your son was, would you have done something to try
to help him?" defense attorney Tamara Brady asked. But prosecutor George
Brauchler objected, and Holmes was not permitted to answer.
Holmes was
making plans to take off work and visit his son in Colorado when the phone rang
in the middle of the night. It was someone from the media. There had been a
shooting, the caller said.
At first, he
testified, he thought Jimmy had been shot.
No, he was told,
his son was the shooter.
By now, the
horrific facts are well-known.
On July 20, 2012, James Holmes donned a helmet and ballistic
gear, packed 700 rounds of ammunition and three guns into his car, and drove to
a movie theater in suburban Aurora,
Colorado. He tossed a tear gas canister into the front seats and opened fire,
killing 12 and wounding 70 in one of the worst mass shootings in recent U.S.
history.
He has been
convicted of 24 counts of capital murder, and prosecutors are seeking the death
penalty. They proved four factors that make his crime deserving of the ultimate
punishment -- including exceptionally cruel, multiple murders and ambushing the
victims.
The jury
rejected Holmes' insanity defense. But there's no dispute that he was seriously
mentally ill, suffering from some form of schizophrenia, according to expert
testimony.
This is the
so-called mitigation phase of the trial. It is up to the defense to raise
reasons why Holmes shouldn't be executed. The defense is hoping that mental
illness -- and the fact people still love Holmes, at least the boy they knew --
could be reason enough to spare
him from the ultimate punishment.
More than two
dozen witnesses have testified, painting a vivid picture of Holmes' family
life. Unlike many people on death row, Holmes childhood seemed almost idyllic.
"Jimmy was
always really an excellent kid," his father testified.
Friends,
neighbors, schoolmates and teachers agreed, describing a smart, sweet, exceptional
boy.
"A
Renaissance child," his fifth grade teacher called him.
Doting parents
The witnesses also spoke of doting
parents who did everything they could to raise happy, successful children.
Dozens of photos were shown of an adorable baby, a grinning boy, a loving
brother, and an awkward teen and young adult. Other photos and videos showed
the parents snuggled in a huge bed with their two children, family camping
trips and vacations, ball games, summer and winter trips to the mountains,
beach outings and even the obligatory Disneyland photos of two smiling kids
wearing mouse ears.
It was difficult
to believe those photos were of the same person who posed for selfies with
orange-dyed hair, spooky black contact lenses and high-powered weapons and body
armor, then stormed a crowded movie theater and opened fire.
Robert Holmes
encountered that person in jail shortly after his arrest. He barely recognized
the promising boy he'd raised.
"He was
clearly very messed up," he said. "His eyes were bulging out of his
head, and his pupils were dilated. He did tell us that he loved us, and that was
good. But I could see something was really wrong with him."
He might not
have been sick enough to fit the criteria for legal insanity, but he was and is
seriously mentally ill, psychiatrist Metzger told the jury. His illness could
ultimately sway jurors to spare his life.
Even if Holmes
could appreciate he was doing wrong, the psychiatrist added, he still was
influenced by a powerful delusion -- that he could avoid suicide and increase
his own self worth by taking the lives of others.
"I think
Mr. Holmes' actions on July 20 were a direct result of his mental
illness," Metzger said.
"It all
boils down to whether you believe he had a delusion or not."
Robert Holmes, a
retired statistician, is undergoing cross examination and his testimony resumes
Wednesday. His wife, Arlene, is expected to follow him to the witness stand
before the defense wraps up its case.
The jury could
begin deliberations by Thursday. Jurors have the day off on Friday.
If they decide
the mitigating factors outweigh the aggravating factors, the trial is over and
Holmes will spend the rest of his life in prison. If not, the trial resumes
into another sentencing phase in which the jury will hear from shooting
survivors and relatives of the dead -- people Holmes referred to as
"collateral damage" -- who will testify about how the crime has
changed their lives.
