Poisoned Dreams

by A. W. Gray

  In-the-know reporters and lawyers keep up with judges’ vacation schedules; with fourteen felony and six misdemeanor courts located on the premises, a number of jurists are always absent, and the savvy news hound or attorney can scoot into the missing judge’s reserved parking space near the building’s southern entry. The inexperienced courthouse visitor is stuck with the leftovers, a winding climb up a series of ramps to paid public parking, a brief jaunt through the garage with footsteps echoing from bare cement walls, and an elevator ride to the second-level crossover to the Crowley Building. On rain-drenched days the crosswalk is hell, and during the trek over to the courthouse the visitor is acutely aware of the Lew Sterrett Justice Center looming ominously behind the Crowley Building.

  The justice center, an uptown name for the main branch of the Dallas County Jail—and known by certain less reverent monikers to its more imaginative residents—is the main reason for the Crowley Building’s existence to begin with. Massive from its inception, and growing by leaps and bounds, Lew Sterrett is the be-all and end-all of updated incarceration. There are no steel bars in the justice center; instead, one wall of each cell is inch-thick bullet-proof plastic through which guards can keep a watchful eye. Each floor of the jail contains a central control room where deputies sit before panels of levers and switches that cause lights to brighten and dim, and electronic doors to open and close. Lew Sterrett owes its own existence to a series of federal court orders in the seventies and eighties regarding prison overcrowding. With access to the penitentiary denied until Department of Corrections population levels lowered to a mandated ninety-five percent through inmate release, the existing Dallas jails were bulging at the seams with prisoners awaiting transfer; thus the demand for jail space begat the Lew Sterrett Justice Center, and its location in turn begat the new criminal court facility. In December 1991, construction crews added the finishing touches to still another jail addition; with a final shuddering glance at the justice center, the visitor moves past grand stone pillars and through the revolving door into the Crowley Building.

  Once in the lobby, the visitor has a choice; he may either mount the escalator or proceed to the back of the building for an elevator ride. Since the escalators extend only to the third level, the trip to the sixth floor requires elevator assistance in any event, so most opt for the second choice. Elevators are crowded and ripe with courthouse gossip; reporters in transit bend finely tuned ears.

  On this rainy December Monday, the south wing of the sixth floor features all the courthouse excitement; prisoners awaiting hearings on other near-deserted courtroom levels could probably escape and never be missed. The eleven other felony courts in the building are in business, to be sure, but their plain-vanilla robbery, rape, and murder cases are only sideshows to the sixth-floor spectacle. In the days and weeks to follow, clerks and bailiffs from other areas of the building will creep from their own courtrooms to the sixth floor for updates on the featured proceedings, and then return quickly to work before their absence is detected; often these truants will bump into their own courtroom’s judges, there to sneak a peek at the action as well. The visitor exits the elevator and proceeds through double glass doors into the southern wing. The hallway is a babbling madhouse of humanity, with all the hoopla of a three-ring circus. Literally.

  That Dallas County’s three most publicized trials of the year took place at the same time, in the same wing, and on the same floor of the Crowley Courts Building was likely careful planning with the media in mind. Some reporters covered all three events at once, hopping back and forth between courtrooms like impulsive TV channel changers. The featured courts were and are on the west side of the corridor, adjacent to one another, and it required no stretch of the imagination to picture a ringmaster, top hat, tails and all, standing in the hallway and directing attention to the various acts in progress. Not only were the trials sensational, they had something in store for just about everyone.

  Racial tension fans flocked through the ornate door nearest the lobby exit, where superchief prosecutor Mike Gillette brought his felony leg-breaking case against Commissioner John Wiley Price into the spotlight. Dallas County would pour thousands upon thousands of taxpayer dollars into still another futile attempt to convict the embattled commissioner as Price, black business leaders firmly on his side, would hang the jury and, since the commissioner’s own office was right there in the Crowley Building, would use breaks in the trial to go on about his business. It would be Dallas County’s final hurrah in the Price battle; failing to convict John Wiley for anything other than the fabled sign-painting and windshield wiper–breaking misdemeanor charges, Dallas County would drop the shaky rape prosecution and finally admit defeat.

  And in the center courtroom—or center ring, if one prefers—bloody gore enthusiasts could drink their fill. With The Silence of the Lambs still showing in scattered theaters, Dallas County had had its own bona fide serial killer on the loose. “Butchered whores, ladies and gentlemen,” the ringmaster might shout, “complete—or incomplete, heh, heh, just a little play on words—with missing eyeballs. Step right up.” The suspect in the prostitute-mutilation trial was a former college halfback, part-time landlord, and full-time con artist named Charles Albright who, although having confessed to check forgery, forging transcripts in order to gain a teaching position, and having sex with a fourteen-year-old girl when he was fifty-one, had nothing in his past to indicate that he was also a madman. As an added attraction the trial would feature expert testimony from a member of the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Team, the same group on which the Jodie Foster/Anthony Hopkins movie is based. Though only called in as a consultant, the VICAT man would give interviews during trial that would lead many to believe that it was the VICAT team who cracked the case to begin with, and the interviews would ruffle local police department feathers. Albright would be convicted on hair sample evidence, sentenced to life in prison, and continue to protest his innocence to this very day.

  The Lyon trial (“Far left, folks, the courtroom nearest the corridor windows,” the ringmaster could bellow) had a little bit of everything for almost everybody. Agatha Christie readers would enjoy the poison angle, and soap opera viewers could savor the infidelity theme. And don’t forget the Dallas and Dynasty nuts, who could ogle the marquee society types who would come and go, both as witnesses and spectators. And finally, fashion connoisseurs could drool in silence as Park Cities ladies paraded their Neiman-Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue labels in.

  And so, as the Crowley Building opened for business on the first December Monday of the year, television news crews set up shop on the sixth floor and pointed cameras in three different directions. A slobbering public, starved for stories of sensational real-life crime, was about to dine to the point of gluttony.

  The Richard and Dan Show (or the Ortega/Woods movie rehearsal if you prefer) played without a key performer for its first few days because Jerri Sims was completing a trial elsewhere. Her stand-in for the time was another DA superchief, George West, a smiling black man who seemed to hold a grudge against no one other than Richard. During breaks he chatted amicably with Dan Guthrie, causing one spectator to comment on how well the prosecution and defense seemed to get along. When Jerri Sims showed up to prosecute, the cordialities would cease for good.

  On opening day at nine sharp, Judge John Creuzot faced a packed house. Dan Guthrie sat at the defense table dressed in a charcoal gray suit and, uncharacteristically for a trial lawyer, a hand-painted Nicole Miller designer tie. Guthrie would wear a series of the ties during the trial, and his crazy-quilt neckwear would draw remarks from the gallery and ribbing from Judge Creuzot. Guthrie’s legal assistant, Leila Thomas, a striking brunette with chiseled features and a model’s figure, also sat at the defense table. With Leila on the defense side, Jerri conducting the prosecution, and chic Park Cities ladies in the spectator pews, this trial would never lack for beautiful women. Leila would be at her post by Richard’s elbow e
very day, taking notes and making trips to corridor pay phones to keep Guthrie abreast of his office calls. The defense trio, Leila in front and Richard and Guthrie bringing up the rear, would become a familiar sight in courtroom hallways during the weeks to come.

  Richard’s suit was a conservative navy blue. His appearance had changed drastically since his arrest, and spectators who’d only seen his picture in the paper weren’t sure if Richard was the lawyer and Guthrie the defendant, or vice versa. Richard had gained weight, largely due to his mother’s cooking at the Shenandoah duplex, and he’d shaved off his thin mustache. The added poundage and smooth-featured look made Richard seem a trifle laid back and almost lazy. His handsome Lebanese face holds dark eyes with heavy lids, and there were times during the trial when he would seem about to go to sleep. His generally assured and bored demeanor would not help him.

  There was hardly a vacant seat in the spectators’ section. Since Big Daddy, Bill Jr., Susan and her husband, Billy, were all on the prosecution’s witness list and couldn’t sit in on testimony, grande dame Sue held forth as the Dillard family’s lone courtroom representative. Strong, slim, and erect, her lovely graying hair shining like dusted licorice, she would sit surrounded by friends every day in the second row. Dillard supporters and friends would jam the rest of the pews, with Allan and Rosemary Lyon the only outsiders. Rosemary, petite, pretty, and even darker of complexion than her son, showed slight worry lines at the corners of her eyes; Allan, a stocky man with nearly white thinning hair, appeared sad and confused at what was happening to Richard. Every day the Lyons would be in place directly behind the defense table, and occasionally would catch Richard’s eye and smile support in his direction.

  Almost without exception, the balance of the spectators were Park Citizens, well-dressed men and ladies, all Caucasian, all sitting silent as wealthy executioners. It was clear from the beginning where Highland Park sympathy lay, and equally apparent from the outset that if Richard had any friends they’d neglected to attend. One slender lady, a brunette with a dazzling smile, had brought her knitting along; throughout the trial, testimony would be punctuated by the click of plastic needles. Somehow the lady managed to refrain from shouting, “Guillotine.” Her restraint doubtless required some effort.

  In Judge Creuzot’s court the first two rows, left-hand side, are reserved for media, and writers both real and imagined would attend the trial in abundance. The only steadily employed writers were newspaper folk, one each from the Dallas Morning News and Times-Herald, and one from Park Cities People, a dignified lady who would have seemed more at ease in covering the opening of a play. The rest of the media section hangers-on were doing books on the case or articles for magazines: Texas Monthly, GQ, Ladies’ Home Journal. During the trial, writers would come and go.

  As courtroom business opened for the day, the assembled cast waited patiently through a series of plea bargains and arraignments, and would learn as the trial progressed that they were in store for more of the same every morning. The daily procedure was roughly identical, with Judge Creuzot calmly assuming his seat on the bench promptly at nine as bailiffs escorted a series of prisoners in from the holding cells. Be a judge lazy or energetic, a prosecution pawn or a staunch fighter for fairness, every jurist is above all a politician. At election time the number one campaign issue between opponents is the speed with which the incumbent has moved his docket along; therefore, as opposed to popular belief, disposal of cases is the court’s number one goal. Move ’em in and move ’em out; make a deal, accept the plea, and on to the next one.

  On the opening day of the Lyon trial, however, the cast was in for a surprise. The string of pleas consumed just about an hour, after which Creuzot smiled, welcomed one and all, and then promptly cleared the courtroom except for the media people. Spectators’ seats were needed for jury selection. Miffed, grumbling among themselves, Park Cities lords and ladies trooped out into the corridor while common-folk jurors streamed in to take their places in the visitors’ pews. As Dallas’ disappointed chosen elite left the courtroom, Creuzot threw his bailiff a guarded wink. It wouldn’t be the last time that the judge would pull a few Park Cities legs.

  Of all courtroom processes, jury selection is probably the most overrated. The methods used by attorneys in attempting to select the juror most likely to vote in the lawyer’s favor vary, from employment of psychology and body-language experts down to something as mundane as a coin flip, and, most say, all selection strategies show equal results. Jury makeup is simply the luck of the draw.

  “It’s all bullshit,” one veteran defense attorney says, “and, believe me, I’ve tried ’em all. Psychics, soothsayers, you name it, and anybody that says they can tell what a juror’s going to do by what he does for a living or how he crosses his legs or scratches his ass is lying to you. They should cut through all the hokey and pick the first twelve people in the courtroom, it’d save everybody a helluva lot of time.”

  Actually, courtroom procedure established by law cuts severely into a lawyer’s options. In Texas voir dire, each side has twelve strikes, peremptory challenges whereby either attorney may dismiss a juror without cause. Peremptory strikes are easy to predict, and make it simple for the defense to eliminate all judges’ and prosecutors’ wives, and the state to kick out everyone with a relative in the penitentiary. Beyond that, jury selection is pretty well catch-as-catch-can. In a high-profile case such as Richard’s trial, everyone who admits to knowing the defendant or any of the lawyers, or who acknowledges having a preconceived opinion of the case, will go. Those who confess to having read about the case in the newspapers, but maintain that what they’ve read will not affect their decision in deliberations, will stay. Enough said.

  While the selection of Richard’s jury was a rather cut-and-dried affair, Judge Creuzot’s handling of the panel was anything but. Within the first few weeks of his governor-appointed tenure on the bench, Creuzot noted something he believes gives him a leg up on future political opponents. Prior to assignment to the various courts, prospective jurors report to a central panel room for preliminary instructions, and it falls on one of the judges to meet with these selected citizens to explain the jurors’ duties and responsibilities. Since jury room duty begins a full hour before court convenes, most judges regard the jury room assignment as the ultimate pain in the ass—not to mention the loss of sleep involved in having to report to the courthouse an hour early—but Creuzot saw the assignment as an opportunity. Prospective jurors’ names come from the registered voters’ list, and the judge who presides over preliminary jurors’ instruction will be in the jurors’ memories at election time. So Creuzot volunteered, and found that other judges would gladly let him take their places. Since the panelists in Creuzot’s court for the Lyon trial were the same ones whom he’d instructed in the central room only hours earlier, the judge had a special interest in every juror who stood to be counted.

  Of particular interest to Creuzot were those who served with somewhat less than boundless enthusiasm. Jurors are not, after all, volunteers, and many report for duty with manufactured reasons for which to be excused. The judge listened patiently to descriptions of the various ailments, spouse fatalities, and homes on fire that citizens erroneously believe will excuse them from jury duty, then calmly explained to each protester that they were the chosen, and that was that.

  Creuzot took more time with the connivers, experienced panelists who’d been there before, and who understood going in that nothing short of an affliction with Alzheimer’s—and then only in the disease’s latter stages—would excuse them from duty. These folks’ trick is to play with the number system, a procedure by which panelists select an identification number on entry into the central jury room. There are fifty jurors, in numerical order, sent to each court, one through fifty here, fifty through a hundred there, and those not selected for final duty once they’re assigned to a court can then go home. Veteran duty dodgers know this system, and also understand th
at, due to the number of preemptive strikes accorded to each side, it is less likely that the latter numerical portion will be chosen. Therefore the informed malingerer will, on first entering the central room, chose one of the numbers from forty to fifty, ninety to a hundred, and so forth, thus insuring that no matter to what court he’s assigned he’ll have one of the latter numbers in that particular court.

  Alas, the best-laid plans, etc., and Juror Number 42 in the Lyon case, due to the unusual number of dismissals for cause, found himself on the hot seat and likely to be chosen. This gentleman, a well-dressed, I-don’t-have-time-for-you business type, then made a fatal mistake. He suddenly developed an emergency, an excuse not to serve, even though Judge Creuzot had plainly asked for excuses when the panel had first entered the courtroom, and the time for giving such excuses had long passed by. Creuzot wasn’t amused. He called our well-dressed friend to the front of the courtroom, gave him a good old-fashioned tongue-lashing in front of media and panel members, and instructed the gentleman to have a seat and wait his turn. The malingerer won out in the end, however; during his voir dire he suddenly developed a strong conviction that Richard didn’t do it, and the prosecution excused the man for cause and sent him on his way.

  Such small nuances aside, Creuzot assembled twelve jurors and two alternates in a day and a half. On the main panel were five women, four blacks, zero Hispanics. Three jurors were retired, the balance held jobs. None lived in the Park Cities; Richard was to be judged by a group of ordinary Joes and Janes. The stage thus set, Creuzot dismissed the balance of the panel and permitted the lords and ladies to return. Jurors, writers, and spectators alike would be sitting for quite a spell.

  34

  George West, Jerri Sims’ stand-in for jury selection and preliminary proceedings, wasn’t able to hang around for the trial itself. On the evening before the opening arguments, a teenage locker room attendant at L.B. Houston Municipal Golf Course in far North Dallas robbed the pro shop and murdered three employees in the process, and West drew the prosecution assignment on that case. An avid golfer himself, West had played the course many times and was personally acquainted with the deceased golf course workers, as were many courthouse employees and some of the writers covering the Lyon trial. The morning after the murders was a sad time for all. Park Citizens in the courtroom, having spent what golfing lives they may have enjoyed at the country clubs, didn’t know the public course workers and saw the killings as just another article in the newspaper. The ladies and gentlemen from the wealthy sector were much more interested in the initial courtroom appearance of Jerri Sims.