The courthouse was named for Norman P. Gleason, a famous judge who became a justice of the state supreme court and, later, an unsuccessful gubernatorial candidate. As a judge, in 1928 Gleason ordered integration of a public swimming pool for the first time in the county and took on a corrupt mayor and city council. He survived a car bombing. But in the early 2000s, a graduate student at an upstate university published a master’s thesis positing that during the 1920s Gleason had taken bribes from employers trying to suppress union activity in local factories. That was the least of Judge Gleason’s crimes, however. It turned out he was the likely perpetrator of a murder that occurred in a riverside bungalow in 1931—the consequence of a quarrel with a man whom Judge Gleason accused of committing sexual indiscretions with the second Mrs. Gleason. The victim was found dead, lying facedown. An unidentified doctor arrived on the scene and declared that the poor fellow had died of a stomach hemorrhage. Only after the “doctor,” who was never seen again, left the scene and the coroner arrived was the body turned over to reveal three gunshot wounds to the abdomen. Through correspondence, heretofore undiscovered police records, and newspaper reports, the grad student concluded that Gleason had done the shooting and that the supposed doctor was a confederate. Unsurprisingly, the reputation of the courthouse suffered. Out of either embarrassment or lethargy, the county board of supervisors has yet to schedule a vote to change the building’s name.
When you walk through the courthouse, you encounter a fusty smell of mold and disinfectant, dank corridors leading nowhere, and gloomy faces of attorneys and litigants. By the time of the Sullinger trial, a study by the court’s general administrative offices concluded that most jurors find the courthouse difficult to access, the jury deliberation rooms too small, the restrooms rundown and unsanitary, and the parking garage dirty, dark, and potentially dangerous. Some of the more superstitious and cynical court watchers posit that justice can’t be done while the tainted ghost of Judge Norman Patrick Gleason inhabits the building.
I don’t believe in such hogwash. Still, lately I’ve found myself wondering whether Natalie Quinn-Gilbert’s courtroom is haunted by the ghost of her late husband. What else explains the goings-on in there?
THE PROSECUTOR
JACK CRANSTON
The fucking jury is deliberating, that asshole Jenna Blaylock is somewhere preening and making money, the judge is probably on her way home, and I—who’d like nothing better than to go home, pour myself a Scotch, and crawl into bed—am back in my shit hole of an office on the eighth floor of the Norman P. building preparing for an arraignment of a couple of losers who held up a mini-mart and evidently had never heard of security cameras. In the movies, criminals are either brilliant or glamorous. Don Corleone, Bonnie and Clyde, and their more recent millennial incarnations. In real life, the vast majority of criminals are flat-out stupid. That’s why they become criminals, and that’s why they get caught.
David Sullinger is an exception to the rule. He’s smart because he can play stupid masterfully. He’s smart because he’s a murderer who won’t be convicted. He’s smart because he looks and sounds like a victim. I saw through him from the beginning, even when no one else did.
He’s also lucky. His star witness was his squeaky-clean, pretty, college-student daughter, and my star witness was his drug-addled, defiant, high-school-continuation-dropout son.
When Lacey jumped to her father’s support immediately after David’s arrest, it became obvious from the get-go that the case wasn’t ripe for prosecution. I told the district attorney not to bring this case right away, to marshal the evidence, to bide our time, because we’d eventually get something on David or the girl. Most trails go cold, sure, but a select few go hot. This one would’ve gone hot because David won’t change his abusive ways. But pressure from the DA’s feminist constituency to prosecute a wife killer meant more to her than the opinion of her chief assistant, who, unlike her, has tried a shitload of cases to a jury. So she pursued the case immediately. Then the feminists flip-flopped, and now they support a man who killed his wife. Why? Because of Jenna Blaylock and that damn battered-spouse defense. The feminists like that the defense usually benefits women, and they’re using this trial to make some new law. So, as it turns out, the DA is twice fucked. She brought a bad case on the merits, and she lost public opinion.
I can’t stand wife beaters. I’ve put plenty of motherfuckers behind bars for abusing their wives, and I’m proud of it. But abuse doesn’t give a person a license to kill. We should be encouraging victims to rely on law enforcement, should be strengthening laws to protect the victims. What we shouldn’t be doing is tolerating homicide.
Putting legal theory and my campaign platform aside, David Sullinger wasn’t abused. He was the abuser.
I was against moving quickly, but once public opinion turned in David’s favor, the district attorney assigned me to try the case. It was an obvious setup—assign Jack to the highly publicized loser because he’s a threat to unseat the boss in the next election.
Still, I’m a good trial lawyer—better than good. Good enough to turn shit into Shinola, which I might’ve done in this case but for fuckups not of my making. Like when David Sullinger was rotting in jail where he belongs, unable to make bail, represented by the public defender after he couldn’t afford a lawyer, because his murdered wife’s assets were unavailable to him. That was cool with me, because you don’t kill someone and use their money in your defense. Then Ms. Priss-pot Lacey Sullinger turned eighteen, and Judge Quinn-Gilbert lifted the freeze on Amanda’s assets and released them to Lacey. The girl turned around and gave her father unlimited access to the money. How could Quinn-Gilbert let David Sullinger savor the fruits of his crime? Sullinger used the money to hire Jenna Blaylock, and the circus came to town, with Blaylock acting as combination ringmaster and eight-hundred-pound gorilla. She walked all over Nat Quinn-Gilbert and convinced her to include that “battered husband” language in the jury instruction—without any judicial precedent in our state. I do like that botched malice-aforethought instruction. Maybe the judge’s mistake will seep into the brains of the jury. It should, because the judge was right the first time: Sullinger killed his wife with malice aforethought.
The judge hasn’t been herself since her husband died. She and Jonathan were a real close couple. One Saturday night a few years back, my wife and I bumped into them at Downey’s Grill, and they were sitting on the same side of a booth, sharing their food and holding hands. Kissing each other more than once. On the lips.
I noticed them and walked over. Wanda later scolded me for interrupting their private moment.
“Happy anniversary,” I said to them.
The judge looked at me in amusement, and Jonathan had that wry, omniscient smile he was famous for. He was always three steps ahead of everyone. He should’ve been a judge, could’ve gone on the federal bench, but he didn’t want it. “It’s not our anniversary, Jack,” he said in his stage actor’s baritone.
I waited for him to tell me he was joking, that they were indeed celebrating their anniversary, and he finally said, “Our anniversary was three months ago, Jack. April fifteenth. We got married on tax day. We wanted something to be as inevitable as death and taxes.” He made a show of kissing Judge Nat on the lips—there was tongue involved. Were they drunk? They’d had some wine, but I don’t think they were over point-zero-eight.
When I excused myself, I saluted—a geek move that I make when I feel socially inept. Shit, was Wanda pissed at me when I got back to the table! Partly because I’d interrupted those geriatric love birds’ private moment, partly because she’d seen me salute and she hates that, but mostly because our relationship wasn’t like the Gilberts’. Whose is? Hell, at least Wanda and I aren’t the Sullingers.
Yeah, it’s a damn shame about Jonathan Gilbert. What the hell is an abdominal aortic aneurysm, anyway? How do you get one when watching a Chicago Cubs baseball game? I’m sorry for Na
talie Gilbert’s loss, but it was almost six months ago. Time to bury the dead and get your wits about you and not cause a jury to let a guilty man go free.
I blame Alicia and Cole. They say they want to move up in the DA’s office, try the big cases, but their legal research skills—not up to snuff. Holy shit, no wonder they couldn’t get a job at a big firm or in a big city. Jenna Blaylock’s crew whipped our collective ass, especially with that Georgia Supreme Court opinion that validated a battered-spouse instruction. Alicia and Cole missed it. If the state legislature would only budget more for the salaries of county prosecutors, I wouldn’t be stuck with less-than-stellar subordinates like that pair.
The news media, also known as the propaganda wing of the Jenna Blaylock defense team, reported each alleged cut, burn, bruise, insult, and expletive that Amanda Sullinger allegedly inflicted on her purportedly victimized husband. The public undoubtedly believes that she deserved to have her husband scalp her. The pisser is that the jury undoubtedly believes it, too.
Last night, my family waited on dinner for me. A nice gesture, because I didn’t get home until a little before nine o’clock. It had been a bad day in court, with Judge Quinn-Gilbert approving the battered-spouse instruction. As we ate our Costco organic pumpkin ravioli, my son, Hunter, asked me if I truly believed David Sullinger was guilty. Everyone in his seventh-grade homeroom, including the teacher, thinks David is innocent, he said.
“As a lawyer for the district attorney’s office, I’m an officer of the court,” I said. “Not like the defense attorney, who’s a hired gun. If I didn’t believe David Sullinger is guilty, I’d drop the charges immediately. It’s not about winning, Hunter. It’s about justice.” The right thing to say to a twelve-year-old, but a lie in part. It is about winning. Everything is. The system is rigged that way. I’m not a complete liar. David Sullinger is guilty of murder. Because of all the fuckups by others, he’ll have the chance to kill again, and he won’t pass it up. He’s that type of killer—a psychopath who just can’t stop himself and doesn’t want to.
JUROR NO. 6
THE ARCHITECT
The jury deliberation room is, like the rest of the courthouse, decrepit. Jesus, the chairs are upholstered with a mustard-colored synthetic fabric that’s permanently stained with coffee, soda, chewing gum, sebum, and who knows what else! The long, dark conference table conjures walnut but is, in fact, made of Formica and composite wood. In front of each chair is a spiral notebook, a Ticonderoga number 2.5 pencil, and a glass tumbler dotted with water spots. Just behind and to the left of the table’s head are the restrooms. Binders containing the paper evidence are stacked on a credenza on the far side of the room.
“What a pit,” I say to my new friend, the Housewife, but my voice is loud enough for everyone to hear. “Aren’t they supposed to make the jurors comfortable? Why can’t they put a window in these rooms?” My ex-husband, Ernesto, says I have no filter. He’s right.
I like having no filter.
“No money,” the Housewife says. “Just like we—”
“They could do something,” I say. What I don’t say is that I’m sure the judge and the prosecutor Cranston have windows in their offices. I’m sure Jenna Blaylock has windows in her luxury suite at the Hotel Sepulveda. I’m not looking for grandeur, but I sure didn’t think it would be this bad. It’s much worse than that stuffy courtroom.
I did everything I could to get off this jury. I pleaded financial hardship. I run my own business and couldn’t afford to be away for two weeks, I told the judge. (That had been the original estimate—two weeks. The trial has lasted nearly twice that, and we’re still going.)
“There are quite a few people worse off than you, so don’t complain,” the judge said, although she took about six paragraphs to say it, so she could sound judicial and patient.
Then, during voir dire, Jenna Blaylock said to the whole panel, “Our Constitution provides that no person can be forced to testify against himself. This means David has the right not to take the witness stand, and you can’t hold it against him. Would any of you hold it against David Sullinger if he decides to exercise his constitutional right not to testify?”
Perfect. My hand shot up. “I’d hold it against him.”
Instead of excusing me, Blaylock asked more questions. Why would that woman—who isn’t nearly as pretty as she appears on television and who’s got a bad tattoo job on her eyebrows—want to keep someone who was biased against the defendant on the jury? Except that I’m not biased, or at least, not biased against a defendant who doesn’t take the witness stand. That’s his right. Fifth Amendment, as I recall. Yeah, I was lying to get out of jury duty. Who doesn’t?
Damned if Blaylock didn’t read my mind.
“Thank you for your candor,” she said to me, flashing that TV smile. “You believe in our democracy and our Constitution, of course?”
“Of course,” I said. Why did I say that? What else could I say? That I didn’t believe in democracy? Sure, I wanted to avoid jury duty, but I didn’t want to look like an idiot doing it. I felt my jaw clench and unclench rhythmically, a subconscious reaction when I become angry or flustered—so my ex-husband pointed out years ago during one of our quarrels. Well, I was quarreling, and he was observing my facial idiosyncrasies calmly, which was how he quarreled.
“Of course you believe in the Constitution,” Blaylock said, her tone—what’s the word, unctuous? Yeah, she was unctuous, but damn if it didn’t work for her. Cranston, the DA, half stood, maybe to object, but he sat back down and fiddled with the knot of his tie, which was always loose and made him look like an exhausted pharmaceutical salesman rather than a credible attorney. Maybe if he’d stood all the way up and objected to Blaylock’s questioning, I would’ve had the balls to stand up to her and wouldn’t be sitting here now.
“And you understand that our constitutional rights are very important to a democracy?” Blaylock asked me.
“Yeah, sure I do,” I said, trapped.
“So, as a juror, you’d follow the Constitution, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. What a wimp. How stupid. Why didn’t I add, But if David refuses to testify, I’ll still hold it against him; I can’t help how I feel?
Blaylock turned and went back to her table. David Sullinger was sitting there, wearing what became his signature doe-in-the-headlights expression. She rested her hand on Sullinger’s shoulder. “And you’ll give David Sullinger every chance, and assume he’s innocent unless the prosecution proves him guilty?”
“Yes,” I said meekly. I felt disgusted with myself, because I don’t like meekness. Why didn’t I say, I despise meek people, and David Sullinger is obviously meek as a newborn lamb. Can I go now?
THE HONORABLE
NATALIE QUINN-GILBERT
There’s a knocking on my door, and I start. I almost never shut my door.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens, and my bailiff comes in. I admire Bradley. He’s been through a lot yet keeps his dignity. Maintaining dignity was an especially difficult task for Bradley given the involvement in this case of his ex-partner—Beckermann was the deputy’s name, I think.
“They’re deliberating, Judge,” he says. “Unless there’s a note or a verdict, I’ll let them go at five fifteen, just as you ordered.”
I nod.
“Are you okay, Judge?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
He gives a grave nod and shuts the door almost tenderly.
I’m not fine. My husband’s dead. We decided not to have children, made sure none of our friends assumed it was a fertility problem. We loved hiking, backpacking, traveling, and fine wine, and children interfere with hiking, backpacking, traveling, and fine wine. Children interfere with romance. Some of our friends whispered that we were selfish. Maybe so. We had careers and each other, had seen what children do to marriages (just look at
the Sullingers). Now the same friends whisper, “We told you so. Don’t you wish you had children to see you through this tragedy, to make life worth living, to fill the void?” They don’t understand. There is no void. I don’t want children. I want to feel my husband’s arms around me.
What does anyone expect? I’ve been on the bench too long, the budget cuts are too high, my hands hurt from the arthritis, and those searing hemorrhoids leave me in dire pain after three hours in that hard swivel chair. My body is the shape and consistency of an overripe papaya. I’m tired but haven’t given up, because Jonathan wouldn’t want me to. I awake every morning expecting reinvigoration, anticipating a renewed spring in my psyche, but it never materializes.
No, Bradley, I’m not fine. I botched up a jury instruction in the worst possible way. Not only that, I might have made another, more significant error. All day yesterday, the parties argued over the jury instructions. It was grueling and tedious, more so because Jenna Blaylock was involved. We live in a small county, and the local lawyers all know each other, and they have to get along, because what goes around comes around. Blaylock isn’t from here, so she doesn’t have to be civil to anyone. After the trial, she’ll go back to her law office in San Francisco and never set foot in this county again.
I left the toughest legal issue for last, thinking I’d wear the lawyers down so they’d more readily compromise. What I didn’t bargain for was that the lawyers would wear me down. No, it was Blaylock who wore me down.
We, the Jury Page 3
