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“I probably could have treated you a little better, couldn’t I have? “Yes.” “Despite all of that you have still been kind to me and haven’t sought revenge, right? I don’t know if you remember those days.” “Yes.” She was living with her parents in Newport Beach. No more questions.” It was time for Kent Easter to call his most important witness, and so he uttered one of the most melancholy sentences jurors would hear: “At this time I would just be calling myself.” He took the stand, wearing one of the unassuming sweaters that had seemed his sole wardrobe through the trial.
Finally, representing himself, he would face his fellow Orange County citizens alone.When Easter put on his case now and called her to the stand — with a sign-language interpreter on hand for her claimed hearing loss — he did not seem angry at the woman he claimed had ruined him.Instead, his tone seemed almost wistful, his gaze tender.And still the sole breadwinner for his three kids, aged 8, 10 and 12.“All this education that I had is now completely useless to me, by and large,” he said.Don’t believe it.” For Kelli Peters, the run-in with the Easters amounted to “the worst experience of her life,” Marcereau said.
Her daughter Sydnie, who was 10 when the Easters tried to frame her mother, had refused to sleep alone for fear “the Easter monster” would abduct her, Marcereau said.
Easter sat alone at the defense table, without his co-defendant and ex-wife, Jill.
When Marcereau chatted with him during court breaks, he found him oddly affable — low-key, disarmingly polite, with a sense of humor — and had to remind himself he was the enemy.
“I should never have hurt Kelli Peters,” he told jurors when they returned. The “polite and professional” cop had not even raised his voice. “I’m simply a parent of a young family that is broke,” Easter said.
“So I really come here already having lost everything I have except for my family, and I submit there is no further point to additional punishment.” His words were plaintive, but his tone nearly robotic.
This was before the arrests and the trials and the cameras, before his pedigree became a cudgel with which to flog him, before strangers were writing him letters urging him to kill himself. He was rehearsing a plea for mercy — his closing argument to jurors weighing his financial fate.