Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  “Who paid your half of the mortgage [on your Boston home] while you were up in Canada?”

  “My mother.”

  “She went into a nursing home, did she not?”

  “Correct.”

  “Can you tell this jury what you went through to get a certificate of baptism in the name of Ronald Mior?”

  “Well, when I was moving around, living from one boarding room to the next, I did a lot of reading. I read mystery books. I took a name off a gravestone, went into the obituary columns, and filled out an application. I found out when he died, when he had church services, the church he was baptized in, and went and got the certificate.”

  “You had done it several times?”

  “No, but I intended to do it again after seeing the TV show. I was never coming back.”

  “You had begun to create yet another identity for yourself, is that correct?”

  “That’s true.”

  “What name were you going to use?”

  “Gary Adeem.”

  “Did Ms. Vaughan know you were planning a new identity?”

  “She did not,” Dempsey said, suddenly sheepish.

  “Were you planning on taking her with you?”

  “No.”

  A particularly damaging part of Dempsey’s murder trial was the non-appearance of Sylvia Vaughn, his fiancée of seven years. The only witness who could have testified on Dempsey’s behalf, who could’ve testified to the positives in his character, had decided to not even attend the trial.

  Dempsey’s demeanor started to show a slight annoyance at being rifled with what seemed to him to be meaningless questions, especially when posed by a woman. But the questions were unrelenting—it was as if Broker embodied justice’s gavel itself, hammering away at Dempsey until each tiny detail suddenly took on new and damning weight.

  “You created a life of lies in Canada because it was in your best interest, isn’t that correct?” Broker insisted.

  “It was.”

  “And you created a web of lies in front of this jury again because it’s in your best interest. Isn’t that correct?”

  “That is not correct!” Dempsey protested, raising his voice defensively.

  “You heard the medical examiner testify that Mr. White was shot under the right armpit and that the bullet exited above his right breast?”

  “I heard.”

  “He was shot in the back, sir.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was facing me. I’m not an expert in medical testimony.”

  “But you’re an expert with guns, are you not?”

  “No,” Dempsey said, growing edgy. “I’m not an expert with guns. I’ve fired guns, but I’m not expert. If I didn’t have it on me that night, I wouldn’t be here answering your questions.”

  “That’s probably true, Mr. Dempsey. But, in point of fact, you did have it on you.”

  “If I didn’t, I’d be dead,” Dempsey said, looking with confidence at the jury.

  “After you shot into the floor, you raised the gun and shot him in the chest.”

  “So I wouldn’t get my throat cut, Ms. Broker,” Dempsey said, leaning in, his massive shoulders tilting forward and inward.

  “You shot him in the chest. You shot him in the stomach. And, as he bent forward and spun around, you shot him in the back.”

  Dempsey sat up straight, his eyebrows pushing down and coming together as he pointed a finger directly at Broker. “It did not happen that way. He came at me. I don’t know what happened. I pulled the trigger. I was backed up against the bar, and that’s the only thing I remember. That man threatened to cut my throat.”

  Crossing her arms, Broker approached Dempsey. “When this was happening, did you go over to John Meany and say, ‘John, you’re the bouncer here. Help me out. Get this guy away from me.’ Did you do that?”

  “Mike Kelly went over to get Sawyers.”

  “And?”

  “Mr. Sawyers asked if there was a problem. I said no, but you better check with him. As soon as I pointed at him, he got angry. He got crazy.”

  “And Mr. Sawyers was standing right there when Mr. White got angry and crazy. Is that correct?”

  “Mr. Sawyers walked away. When he walked away, [White] came towards me.”

  “And, before that, you had no trouble with Mr. White?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And, all of a sudden, he snaps the top off of a brandy snifter and comes at you with a stem? Is that what you are telling this jury?”

  Dempsey paused as he adjusted his position on the stand. He looked down at the floor with a quick glance and, for the first time, there was a noticeable moment of reflection. Dempsey’s breath quickened and his words came out in a race, “He came at me with a glass.”

  “For no reason whatsoever?”

  Looking at no one in particular, Dempsey said, “The guy pointed at me and said, ‘Does he want a piece of my ass?’ That’s what he said.”

  It was clear by then that, of the two lawyers involved in the case, Broker was the more aggressive, more outspoken, and more driven to win. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Mr. Jubinville, Dempsey’s attorney, didn’t pose a single objection during Broker’s entire line of questioning. Broker’s commitment to putting Dempsey away matched (and perhaps even surpassed) the same drive, aggressiveness, and intensity that Dempsey had always preached to his players as he readied us for an upcoming opponent. She was prepared.

  “Did you know the name Edward White from previous occasions?”

  “I never knew Edward White before in my life,” Dempsey said, though he looked away, his arms folding tighter across his chest.

  “You never met Edward White before?”

  “I never saw him before.”

  “And your testimony is you never had any difficulty with him that evening?”

  “I had no difficulty until he came at me.”

  “And, out of the blue, you’re telling the jury he wanted to cut your throat?”

  “That’s exactly what he said to me.”

  “And the only other person alive that you told this story to is your fiancée?”

  “I told her I killed in self-defense, yes.”

  “And you and she are still on good terms. Is that correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “But she’s not here today, is she?”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “While in Canada, did you ever anonymously try to call the police and say ‘This is my version of the story’? Did you ever do that?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did you ever ask someone to look into the circumstances of Mr. White’s death?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “When you walked out of that barroom and onto the street, were you in fear for your life?”

  “I shot Edward White in self-defense. I was in shock after it happened. I can’t recall every detail. I walked out the door and I’ve been walking ever since.”

  “So you don’t want the jury to believe that you voluntarily came down here to straighten out the record? That’s not what you want this jury to believe?”

  “I want the jury to believe the truth.”

  “You want the jury to give you a break. Isn’t that right?”

  “I shot that man in self-defense, Ms. Broker. I wouldn’t be alive today to testify if I didn’t.”

  “Mr. Dempsey, is there anyone in that bar that you’re aware of, that you know, that saw any brandy glass in Mr. White’s hand?”

  “Mr. Kelly saw it.”

  “He’s the only one?”

  “He threatened to cut his throat as well.”

  “There were a lot of people in that bar, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re telling this jury the only person in the
whole wide world that saw this brandy snifter was Mr. Kelly? Is that your testimony?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Mr. Kelly testified he left the bar early and was not present at the time of the shooting. Is Mr. Kelly lying?”

  “I know what I saw,” Dempsey said, averting his gaze and studying his hands.

  On cross examination, Jubinville, Dempsey’s attorney, basically replayed Dempsey’s side of the story: that he shot White in self-defense, that he’d had no other choice, that his escape to Canada was driven by a fear of not receiving a fair trial in Boston, that after eleven years of running, of hiding and lying, he now wanted to do the right thing. It didn’t sound plausible. There was no punchline, no reflective consideration of the facts, no reason for sympathy that could have swayed the jury.

  Our judicial system is far from perfect. Juries are made up of people driven by emotion. Regardless of the evidence, a strong closing argument can potentially sway a jury’s determination. A good lawyer can make a jury pause, become emotionally charged, and even create doubt. It’s the ultimate sales pitch.

  “The only thing you were thinking about was protecting yourself. Isn’t that fair to say?” Broker demanded, nearing the end of what had been a truly merciless interrogation.

  “At that time, I wasn’t thinking,” Dempsey said.

  “And isn’t that what you’re doing today, sir? Looking out for yourself?”

  “I’m testifying to the truth, Ms. Broker.”

  “The truth. You’re here to save your neck, aren’t you?”

  Broker continued to question Dempsey relentlessly, demanding to know how he’d gotten up to Maine and Canada in the first place, where he’d gotten his phony driver’s license, and where he’d procured all his cash.

  “I have nothing further, Your Honor,” Ms. Broker announced.

  The judge leaned forward, “Mr. Jubinville?”

  “Nothing further,” Mr. Jubinville grunted in reply.

  “You may step down, Mr. Dempsey,” the judge said. “Any further witnesses, Mr. Jubinville?”

  “No. The defense rests.”

  The judge looked back at Broker. “Anything further from the Commonwealth?”

  “No, Your Honor. The Commonwealth rests.”

  For her closing statement, Broker took her time with the jury. She asked its members to go back and replay each witness’ statement in their minds, to look for inconsistencies in their testimony, and then decide.

  “Is that witness telling the truth? Most importantly, you’re going to ask yourself: Does the witness have a reason to make it up or lie? Because that’s what you are best at—your collective common sense is most useful for finding the truth, dismissing the lies. Because Ronald Mior was a lie, and I suggest to you that Jack Dempsey is a liar. Ronald Mior lied. He lived a lie because it was to his benefit to do so. Only when he is backed into a corner does he tell the truth. I suggest that he realizes now that he is in yet another corner here, and so he creates another lie, a lie of self-defense.

  “You heard Mr. Jubinville say he lied, and saw him shrug his shoulders, as if to say, No big deal. He became Mr. Mior simply because he lied. His whole life for the last eleven years has been a lie, and he continues that strategy here in this court. One of the things you can’t do is to make your verdict based on any sympathy, bias, prejudice, or speculation. Base your verdict simply on what you’ve heard in the courtroom. I suppose it would be nice to think, Well, this was eleven years ago. That’s a long time ago. A lot has gone on since. And we could just shrug our shoulders.

  “But you can’t do that because Edward White is dead. We can’t simply shrug our shoulders and forget. If you believe Mr. Dempsey’s testimony, that he acted in excessive self-defense, then your verdict needs to be manslaughter. But I’ll also say to you, if you find this man a liar and that he lied to you, then you must dismiss his testimony. And, based on the evidence you have heard, your verdict must be guilty of murder.”

  On April 6, 1992, by a jury of his peers, Clyde “Jack” Dempsey was found guilty of carrying an illegal firearm, and guilty of committing murder in the second degree. Before Dempsey left the courtroom, he was made to listen to a handwritten, heart-breaking statement from the White family, read by Broker:

  No parent wants to outlive one of their children. Only a mother or father who has lost a child, no matter what age, knows how devastating this loss truly is. It’s a part of you that is gone and can never be replaced. To know he is healthy and strong when he leaves for work in the morning, and then to get that nightmarish phone call that he’s gone—and all in a senseless shooting . . . It’s a feeling that’s indescribable.

  It’s not something that goes away in a few months or a year. It takes forever. Only some of the pain goes away—and only very, very gradually.

  It also takes a toll on the rest of the family. Edward’s three brothers and sisters have felt a terrible loss. They were all close growing up, playing sports together, working and enjoying life. And then, all of a sudden, it’s all over. A large part of them is now lost.

  Thank you for permitting us the opportunity to make a statement to this honorable court. The jury has spoken, and now you must impose a sentence. Edward White’s family stands before you today and prays that you impose the maximum sentence possible under our laws.

  On July 1, 1981, our son and brother, then only 24 years old, was brutally murdered in cold blood by the defendant, Clyde Dempsey. The defendant fled to Canada to evade the United States’ judicial system. While in Canada, he illegally established himself as a Canadian citizen and became an entrepreneur in real estate. Newspaper accounts of activities in Canada indicate that he amassed and then lost a sizable fortune.

  During the past eleven years, the defendant has enjoyed his freedom. Edward was not permitted this luxury of life, of living. Tens of thousands of man-hours and an abundance of thousands of dollars have been expended in the investigation, search, apprehension, and trial of Clyde Dempsey.

  The action you take today, after eleven years of pain and anguish, may finally put this issue to rest for the White family, but we can never forget that July day when our Edward was brutally murdered by Clyde Dempsey. No more life—no, never, over, done, the end. No more laughing, crying, working, playing, dancing, loving. No more. Never a parent, never get to grow old, grow wise, never to know his full blooming, never. Over are the joys, difficulties, pains, gains, wonders. Over are the benevolent hard works, the forever friendships, the brotherly loves, a son’s grin. None. The end.

  Still so much pain for the living, forever empty, forever lost, forever sorrow, forever anguish for those who knew him. Friends go without. Siblings still sob. Nieces and nephews never knew him. Parents can only endure. And, from his life, we live on with his memories as a guide. Family and friends are much better for having known him. We are here in the service of spirit and the service of others who need to be protected from the man who took his life.

  As much as we have learned and as much as we have life and love, there is still so much to do. One final step is to remove Clyde Dempsey from society for the maximum term allowable without parole. Even with maximum sentencing, the scales of justice cannot possibly come into balance, for there is still so much for the living and there is no more living for Edward White, our murdered son. No more life. No, never, over, done. The end.

  Your Honor, we are a law-abiding family with due respect for you, this court, this process. Our family asks, insists, respectfully, that justice be served for our son Edward.

  Thank you.

  If only the hands of time could be wound back to that terrible night. Imagine either Dempsey or White leaving the club early or becoming lost in deep conversation with a girl, or Dempsey staying longer, sitting at the bar and shooting the breeze with Meany—a thousand different scenarios are possible such that Dempsey and White’s violent altercation never took place.r />
  Where and what would they be doing today? As of this writing, White would be fifty-seven years old. Would he be a father? A grandfather? What direction would his life be heading in? Dempsey would be sixty-eight years old. How many young boys would he have been able to help shape into young men? How many kids would have benefited from his coaching and mentoring? How many kids would have gone to college because of Dempsey’s commitment to his players? What legacy would he have left for Boston’s inner city kids?

  For Dempsey and White, sadly, we’ll never know.

  On April 21, 1992, Dempsey was given a life sentence to be served at Cedar Junction (Walpole) for second degree murder. But before Dempsey was sent to Walpole, he was held at the Nashua Street Jail located in Boston’s North End.

  On November 6, 1992, at seven-thirty in the morning, Dempsey instigated a jail house riot. Of course, according to Dempsey’s statement, that’s not what happened. As Dempsey told it, a prisoner got out of his seat to have a cup of coffee, when a guard took the coffee away. So the prisoner reached over and tried to get it back. Suddenly, the guard grabbed the prisoner by the arm. The prisoner winced in pain and told the guard that his arm had just come out of a cast, but the guard continued to put him in “a hold,” twisting the man’s still-tender arm.

  “You’re breaking my fucking arm!” the prisoner cried. The prisoner was forced up the stairs, screaming, “You’re breaking my arm!”

  Dempsey recalled hearing the guard say, “Shut the fuck up—you’re going to your cell!”

  A number of prisoners stood up and began yelling at the guard to leave the guy alone.

  In the dining room, it was a major violation of the rules to stand up at your table. All prisoners needed to be seated at all times. When someone stood up, six to seven guards came running into the dining hall to restore order. After Dempsey stood up, he claimed that he was overrun and knocked to the floor.

  “I was put in a headlock, someone had their fingers in my eyes, my arm was twisted behind my back, and a third guard had my legs. I was struck in the face and kicked in the ribs. Someone was straddling me and hitting me in my face.”