Fire Blight

by Nat Williams

  CHAPTER 77

  The Gilbert County Courthouse was ringed by satellite news trucks, with stylishly dressed journalism school grads milling about. Newspaper reporters carried notepads and small voice recorders. Radio journalists, bloggers and others who were likely high school students doing a class project filled out the media cloud.

  Television camera crews had staked out the most level spots to set their instruments. Still, there is all that adjusting. But not for the McKenzie team. To the envy of their competitors, their regional fame - and the ad revenue it generated – convinced the station to cough up the money for an Acadalus self-leveling tripod, whose invention came about thanks to the inspiration of an airplane in-flight simulator. An inclinometer magically adjusts, providing a stable base and a centered bubble.

  With the 18.5-volt lithium ion battery and charger, the bill was north of five grand, a big purchase compared to the few hundred bucks needed for a quality, professional tripod with manual settings.

  It paid for itself in no time, thanks to the inking of a long-term advertising contract with Trail Cats, one of the biggest golf-cart manufacturers in the Midwest. It is located in Blanton, not far from Cherokee Camp, and is one of the region’s largest employers. Trail Cats had recently begun directing more of the company’s production toward vehicles not designed to run on fairways.

  The new models have headlights, AM/FM radios with USB ports, cellphone holders and built-in coolers that don’t require ice. They have largely replaced scooters in today’s retirement communities. They’re safer, easier to drive and hold a lot more groceries.

  The company wanted all its commercials on WLLE slotted during the newscast. Trail Cats had one demand: no McKenzies, no contract.

  Of course, management didn’t inform the couple of the details of the contract, but it probably wouldn’t have mattered. While they were certainly business savvy, they weren’t looking to move. Christie was a native, Blake loved it here, and they had no plans to go anywhere else. Of course, they didn’t let management in on that secret. And so the dance continued.

  Win. Win. Win.

  “It’s now a waiting game,” McKenzie said from the steps of the courthouse to her husband, who aimed the self-focusing lens of a television camera. “The prosecution and defense just wrapped up their closing arguments. The jury now will decide the fate of David Purcell, who was charged with the brutal double murder of his wife’s parents, Dr. Elmer Van Okin and Norma Van Okin. It’s anyone’s guess how long the jury will deliberate.”

  “Christie, have you gotten a feel for how either side feels about their case?” said Paula Gerrish, one of the News at Five anchors back in the studio.

  “Gilbert County State’s Attorney Vernon Hilliard and defense attorney Craig Lipscomb have both said they are confident of victory. But, of course, the jury will determine that. One thing I can say, Paula, is that neither side expects a quick verdict. They’re prepared for a lengthy deliberation. But we have seen surprise after surprise in this trial, so anything is possible.”

  “We’ll cut back when a verdict is reached,” co-anchor Scott Macias said from the newsroom. “And in case our viewers are wondering, you plan on remaining at the courthouse until then, right?”

  “Yes. Blake, my cameraman, and I are prepared for the long haul. We have a tent, a cooler full of sandwiches and power drinks, and our cellphones.”

  The next shot was the studio. Macias smiled at the camera.

  “Full disclosure: For some of our newer viewers, Christie’s cameraman is Blake McKenzie, her husband,” he said. “They have been a team for several years at WLLE. So no snarky remarks on our website, OK? And, as always, we welcome your comments at wlle7.com or on our Facebook page.”

  Over the years, WLLE had gained publicity well beyond its coverage area. While many competitors grudgingly acknowledged WLLE’s reporting bona fides, they also thumbed their noses at what they considered stunts.

  The producers weren’t averse to occasionally moving the McKenzies from straight news to feature work. And the more sensational the better. They did police ride-alongs, milked cows at a dairy, rode on a school bus, and once even descended seven-hundred feet into the bowels of a coal mine, where Christie worked part of a shift. Getting approval from management, the union and the federal Mine Safety and Health Administration was worth the trouble.

  The pair’s quirky outings often paid big dividends. During the school bus ride, an oncoming sedan ignored the flashing lights and the stop sign on the bus. The vehicle plowed through the warnings, and barely missed an eight-year old girl crossing the road to get to her home. WLLE’s cameras caught it all.

  The segment caused a stir, which ultimately led to the General Assembly passing a bill stiffening fines for those who fail to obey school-bus warnings. Another winner. Great for the kids, great for the politicians and great for the station’s ratings.

  Despite the unconventional nature of the McKenzie pairing, it was strictly legit in the news sense. The couple had met at while attending Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. They were paired on class assignments in the Radio-Television Department in the College of Mass Communication.

  He was an introverted technician, and a Cubs fan. She was a highly caffeinated reporter who loved the idea of diving into a story, letting the other side weigh in and telling the public what just happened. And a Cards fan. Let the chips fall where they may. She made sure it was a level playing field. Christie McKenzie’s critics never laid a hand on her. Her bona fides were unquestioned.

  They landed jobs at the same time at WLLE twenty-three years ago, and soon became a dynamic duo. Camera operators are usually as anonymous as they come, but the station’s producers liked the novelty of the husband-wife thing and ran with it. Christie didn’t care; the producers valued her reporting style and were usually supportive of her suggestions.

  Love it, like it or hate it - it would have been difficult to argue that the pairing didn’t work. WLLE’s News at Five had won its time slot for seventeen years running. Advertisers slobber when they see those kinds of numbers.

  The couple worked out long-term contracts early in their respective but combined careers, hiring an agent and soon pulling in more money than anyone else at the station, except the general manager. And they weren’t far behind. But it was never about money. They truly loved what they did, and it showed. That may have been the main reason the couple had been such a hit for all these years. Not only were they talented, they were also genuine.

  Local news is the most profitable time slot of a television station’s broadcast schedule. And despite the salaries the McKenzies were paid, the hour-long time slot was a huge money maker.

  “Thank you, Christie,” Gerrish said. McKenzie’s video feed disappeared. Gerrish spoke to the camera in the studio. “As we always say at WLLE, we’ll ride a story to the end of the trail. Or, in this case, trial.

  “In other news …”

  Away from the cameras, individual storylines were taking place. David Purcell, Craig Lipscomb and Tonya Rudnick chatted in a holding room. Two guards waited outside.

  Vernon Hilliard, Justin Grimes and Bachelor discussed possible outcomes while pacing the floor of Hilliard’s spacious office, just down the hall from Courtroom B.

  The other players in the melodrama that was C-Camp’s biggest show in years dispersed, some hanging around the courthouse hallways, others mingling among the members of the media on the courthouse lawn, and others gathering at a few of the coffee houses, bars and other businesses nearby.

  The sun gradually lowered in the western sky, then disappeared, bathing the area in a beautiful purplish aura. The air on this spring day began to cool, as the day slowly faded into twilight. Soon the last semblance of daylight dissipated and a blanket of gray descended on the scene.

  The McKenzies relaxed in their lawn chairs set up in front of their pup tent on the courthouse lawn. There was a cooler, folding table, mosquito spray, suitcase and tote bag full of other essent
ials. They made love, not with one another, but with their iPhones.

  They prepared for their media sleepover. It became clear that there would be no verdict today.

  CHAPTER 78

  The grass was wet with dew as the sun rose over Cherokee Camp. True to their word, WLLE-TV reporter Christie McKenzie and her husband and cameraman, Blake McKenzie, spent the night in their tent, catching a few hours of sleep. The portable solar-powered lights went out, one by one, as morning broke.

  The jury had failed to deliver a verdict late into the evening, and individual members made their way to their homes, as the judge had not believed that sequestration was necessary.

  They did, however, get free transportation back the next day. Most took the court up on the offer to be driven to the courthouse in a fancy van. A little after nine a.m., the jurors continued deliberations.

  “How do you think everything went?” David Purcell asked Lips. They were back in the room with Tonya Rudnick. Again, two deputies guarded the door outside.

  “First, I want to know what you think, David,” Lips said.

  David’s eyes drifted off as he looked around the featureless room.

  “I think it went well. I mean, I don’t really have anything to compare it to. This is my first murder trial, you know.”

  “Fortunately, it’s not my first,” Lips said. “And I feel good. I don’t think the state landed anything more than a glancing blow. That brings us to the inevitable conversation.”

  Tonya Rudnick clutched a file lying on the table in front of them.

  “David, there is always a possibility that the state will offer a plea agreement,” she said. “We’re not saying it’s going to happen. But it’s best to be prepared for any outcome.”

  Purcell suddenly felt the weight of a new burden.

  “What do you mean?”

  “First-degree murder is a Class X felony in Illinois,” she said. “The sentence ranges from twenty years to life without parole.”

  “Thanks for trying to cheer me up, but it’s not really working.”

  He glared at Rudnick.

  “You brought this up when we first got together. You’ve always wanted me to go to jail, haven’t you? Make your job a little easier.”

  Rudnick shot a save me glance at Lipscomb.

  “She’s on your side,” Lips said. “What she’s saying is true. There is never a guarantee with juries. Though plea deals are usually made before a trial, they sometimes are offered during deliberations. But I feel very good about our chances. I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about a plea.”

  Across the hall and two doors down, Hilliard and Grimes sat quietly. Bachelor and Carroll were at work. Munro’s location was unknown. He may still be around C-Camp or he may be long gone.

  Also missing were Janet Purcell and Obie Lynch. No one had seen them since the trial had ended.

  At about 11:30 a.m. there was some stirring inside the courthouse. The McKenzies prepared for a live feed. Christie made a few last-minute touches of her hair and makeup, while Blake began getting his equipment together. The jury foreman had sent a note to the judge.

  Anticipation rose, then quickly fell as it became clear that the jurors had not yet reached a verdict. Instead, it was a legal matter. They were seeking clarification of the state law addressing surreptitious audio recording.

  Hilliard and Lipscomb both took it as a positive sign. That’s what lawyers do – they come out of the womb spinning. In that twilight zone between closing arguments and a verdict, they don’t have witnesses to grill, a judge to obey and a jury to persuade. All they have is time, speculation and a nagging feeling that maybe they didn’t do enough to get the ball across the goal line.

  Hilliard was hopeful that the only thing holding up a verdict might be the legitimacy of the orchard surveillance, and he felt he was on solid ground there. Section 14-3 of Illinois Public Act 098-1142 allows such recording with the advance approval of a state’s attorney or other prosecutor. Not only had he given his OK, he had covered his behind by filing a signed document with the court.

  To Lipscomb, it meant they were again listening to a tape that didn’t include an admission of guilt, only a timing discrepancy. Who on the jury had never misremembered when he or she was at a certain place, especially on the heels of a traumatic event?

  There wasn’t a long wait for the next stirring. Another note delivered by the bailiff. This time the foreman indicated that the jury could not decide on a verdict.

  Peregrino didn’t like the idea of a tie. It reminded him of when America backed out of South Vietnam, leaving the nation at the mercy of the NVA and the Viet Cong. His uncle came back with a minor leg injury and a major case of PTSD. Thirty years later he partied like it was 1999, which it was. The party ended when he put a bullet through his mouth right when the apple dropped in Times Square and Dick Clark made it all official on the television screen. Three, two, one ... goodbye, cruel world. Oh, and happy New Year.

  The judge gave the jury an Allen charge, sternly directing those in the minority to carefully rethink the reasons for dissent and strive for a verdict. Holding a trial – especially a major trial like this one – is expensive, he told them. Calling a new one would require seating a new jury, subjecting witnesses to more cross examination and preventing the defendant from getting on with his life, one way or another. Meanwhile, he will be in legal limbo with nowhere to go.

  To paraphrase the classic line in old commercials touting the prestige of the brokerage firm E.F. Hutton, When Max Peregrino talks, people listen.

  The jury meekly lined up and filed out of the courtroom, back to the bleak room where they would continue reasoning, shouting, praying, cursing, debating, convincing, braying, opposing, agreeing, disagreeing, respecting, hating and ultimately succumbing to fatigue.

  CHAPTER 79

  “Just when we thought nothing stranger could happen in this trial, the jury deciding on the fate of David Purcell has said it is deadlocked,” Christie McKenzie told the WLLE-TV audience. “The jury foreman sent a note to Judge Peregrino for clarification of the wording of a statute pertaining to audio recording. Now, the foreman has told the judge that they cannot decide on a verdict. The judge refused to call a mistrial, ordering the jury to go back and deliberate more. Try harder was his exact instruction.”

  Only a tiny percentage of people have ever experienced the long, raw, uncomfortable experience of waiting for a jury to deliver a verdict in trial that personally affects them. There is a lot riding on the outcome. The defendant, of course, stands to gain or lose the most. But a trial’s outcome affects others, including law enforcement, witnesses, family members and lawyers staking at least a portion of their reputation on the proceedings. They don’t necessarily have to win, though that would certainly be nice. It’s a matter of spinning the results.

  Among other things, Hilliard’s cruise into life’s sunset was at stake. His plans were to get re-elected in November, serve four more years, then enjoy a long retirement with his wife. A big, fat goose egg would surely seem like a big, fat goose turd on his legacy. He’d give up a condo at Sarasota to be the proverbial fly on the wall of that jury room. That is fantasy, of course. He dealt only in reality, which included time. Should he approach the defense with an offer?

  “It’s going to be today, for sure,” Hilliard said to Grimes. He paced back and forth in his office. Grimes gave away nothing. He knew what was coming next, but smartly chose to stay put.

  “What do you think? Second-degree? Twenty years? Fifteen?”

  Grimes didn’t respond. He instinctively gave his boss a wide berth.

  “Ten years? No, that seems … small.”

  Hilliard didn’t get the opportunity to offer Lipscomb a deal. A couple of hours later, the jury foreman had another note for the judge. He was one hundred percent convinced that this jury would never be able to come to an agreement in the matter of the State of Illinois versus David Edward Purcell. He told the judge, in no uncertain
terms, that the jury was hopelessly deadlocked.

  Peregrino can blow holes in a mountain, but he can’t move one. So he played his only hand, and declared a mistrial.

  Hilliard was disappointed, but not crushed. Even the worst-case scenario wasn’t terrible. He could retire while still relatively young. They had a little money. They could enjoy their golden years. But damnit, he wanted to win this case. And the not-so-little matter of what to do next would surely feel like a slow walk across a mile-long bed of nails.

  “The trial of David Purcell is officially over,” Christie McKenzie told her many WLLE viewers. “Judge Peregrino has just declared a mistrial after the foreman told him the jury was hopelessly deadlocked.”

  “What happens now?” WLLE anchor Paula Gerrish said from the studio.

  “It’s all up to Gilbert County State’s Attorney Vernon Hilliard,” McKenzie said. “He will have to decide whether to re-try Purcell or drop the charges. His decision is complicated by the fact that this is an election year, and he is on the ballot for another four-year term.”

  Back in the courtroom, Peregrino thanked the jurors for their service, then dismissed them. The business day wasn’t over, however. His eyes swept from left to right, scanning the faces of Justin Grimes, Vernon Hilliard, Craig Lipscomb and Tonya Rudnick. The court reporter’s hands hovered over the stenograph.

  “Who wants to go first?”

  Lips wasn’t shy.

  “Your honor, I would like to move for dismissal.”

  “And the state?” Peregrino said. He wasn’t looking at anyone, just shuffling some papers.

  “The state objects, your honor. Nothing has changed since our pre-trial motion.”

  Peregrino’s parsnip-sized fingers pulled off his thin reading glasses and set them down in front of him. He took his time, as always. No one could ever accuse the judge of being impetuous.