“Maybe we’ll offer him another deal—he may be able to avoid the state pen after all. We’ll probably need his testimony against Colosimo and his gang of hoodlums.”
“Good,” Luke replied, as he noted the judge entering from the doorway near his bench. “I’ll keep in touch,” he added as he departed.
After Judge McCabe read the instructions to the jury, they retired to the jury room to deliberate. It was almost 4:00 p.m. The tense wait for the verdict now began.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Wednesday, November 19
Scott and Fasi went to their offices to wait for the verdict. A bailiff would be stationed right outside the jury room to listen for the knock that the jury had a verdict. Then the clerk would call the attorneys to assemble in the courtroom. This was the phase of the trial that took the major toll on all participants, counsel as much as the defendant.
The Waiting. What a miserable, unbearable feeling, waiting for the verdict. Where could you go and what could you do, other than wait? It wasn’t like waiting for a plane or train to arrive. Those were predictable, at least usually. Not so with a jury verdict. Some old salts say that a quick verdict means an acquittal. But what is a quick verdict? In 1971, the Charles Manson verdict took nine days. That’s a long wait by most standards, but it might be considered a “quick verdict” when compared with the Thomas Maniscalco verdict in 1994. Maniscalco was a California biker-turned-lawyer-turned-killer who was found guilty of second-degree murder after the jury deliberated twenty-four days. Unbearable waiting.
The Waiting. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers tell us, in their 1981 hit, “The Waiting,” that “the waiting is the hardest part.” The Philadelphia Flyers played this song at the home games, when a play was being reviewed by the officials.
The Waiting. Lawyers like to be in control. Must be in control. But now it was entirely out of their control. Now the mind turned to the witness who was not called, the question that was not asked, the objection that was not made. Relentless second-guessing and self-reproach. It might be the attorney’s first trial, or the hundredth, but the waiting was the same—a stressful, comfortless, utterly helpless feeling until you get that call—the jury has a verdict.
Scott had plenty of work on top of his desk, but no work would get attempted during “the waiting.” He called Jennifer’s cell.
“The jury’s out,” he said.
“Yes, I saw it on Channel 3. I was late getting to the courthouse and couldn’t get a seat, so I went back to the Student Center to watch. There was a big crowd there. They were cheering your closing argument. Lot of interest here at the school. I thought you aced it, Scott. How do you feel?”
“Exhausted.”
“I know, but I mean about the trial, the verdict.”
“I don’t know, Jen. We went into it with high hopes, solid case, then the witnesses performed their disappearing act. And the defense came up with the big lie. I’ve heard if you are going to lie, make it a big one—it works better on a jury. But it’s preposterous. I can’t believe the jury will buy into it, though I guess anything is possible when the key prosecution witness has no credibility—none. And Max Gordon is a celebrity, and as far as the jury knows, has an unblemished record. They don’t know he’s under investigation by every bar association he’s a member of and even some he’s not.”
“Do you think you’ll get a verdict today?”
“I sure hope so. Judge McCabe ordered food to be delivered at six. I’m sure he wants to finish today. I don’t know how long he’ll wait on a verdict before sending them home for the night.”
“Well, I hope they bring in that verdict soon. I can tell you are pretty stressed.”
“And I don’t deny it,” Scott replied.
“When you finish up there tonight, come on over, regardless of the time. I think I know how to relieve that stress.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thursday, November 20
Scott arrived at work the next day later than usual. No reason to get there before the jury, which would begin deliberating again at 9:00 a.m. At 10 p.m. Wednesday, Judge McCabe had questioned the jury foreperson about the progress they were making. She responded that they were indeed making progress but believed they were unlikely to reach a verdict soon. He dismissed the jury for the night with instructions to return in the morning to continue deliberations.
Scott sat at his desk, a stack of files in front of him, some old, some new, but none likely to get much attention that morning. His thoughts were of course on the trial. And the jury now deliberating. What could be taking them so long? Surely they couldn’t be buying into that cockamamie defense. It was ludicrous. He thought of the lady who was now the foreperson. What was her background, her occupation? He reached for the yellow pad on which he made notes during jury selection. There—she was a CPA. Surely she wouldn’t be fooled by such an absurd defense. But he recalled how attentive she was when Gordon was testifying. He felt a bit weak, then realized he had skipped breakfast. Jennifer usually made breakfast when he stayed over, but she was leaving for school just as he was waking up.
Fasi called him midmorning. “Am I interrupting anything special?”
“Hardly. Just sitting here staring at a stack of files, thinking about what that jury might be thinking.”
“How about a cup of Starbucks from my magic coffee maker? Might as well wait here as there.”
“Sounds great. I’m on the way.” He left immediately for Fasi’s office—a cup of coffee would perk him up.
They were comfortably seated, enjoying a fresh cup, when the phone rang. It was a bailiff. Judge McCabe wanted them in the courtroom ASAP. He didn’t say why. It might be a verdict. Or it could just be a request from the jury for some testimony to be read or a question concerning the jury instructions. They put down their coffee and left immediately for the courtroom.
Unlike previous sessions, they found the courtroom essentially empty of spectators. The TV camera was still in place, an operator seated nearby reading a paperback. Scott was surprised to see both Colosimo and Gordon seated at the defense table. Apparently they had remained in the courtroom to await the verdict. The clerk and two bailiffs were present, but the judge and jury were absent.
Scott walked over to one of the bailiffs. “Do you know if it’s a verdict, or just a question?” Scott asked.
“I wasn’t the one who answered the knock, but I was told it’s a verdict,” he replied.
Scott and Fasi took seats at the prosecution table. Soon, a few members of the press began to drift in. Among them was Bill Baldwin. Scott was amazed at how quickly he got the word. That was typical Baldwin. He also recognized the two “associates” from Colosimo’s law firm. They took seats directly behind the defense table. The last person Scott saw enter was Clarence Wilborn. He was wearing the same suit he wore when he testified, and it appeared that he had slept in it. Scott thought it strange that Wilborn was still hanging around. He would be sentenced soon for the crimes he had already pleaded guilty to, but he was still free on bail. Scott was sure that if he were in Wilborn’s situation he wouldn’t be wasting these last days of freedom sitting in a courtroom gallery.
The clerk picked up the courtroom phone and made a call. Shortly afterwards Judge McCabe entered and the bailiff ordered all in the courtroom to their feet with three loud raps on the floor with his tall staff.
“I’ve received word that we have a verdict,” the judge said. “Bring the jury in.”
Soon the jury was seated. The TV operator had put down his book and was standing ready behind his camera. The gallery was now about a quarter full. Several assistant district attorneys, and a couple of local attorneys who happened to be in the courthouse when the word of “a verdict in the Gordon case” went out, had also come in to observe. Judge McCabe turned to his right and looked toward the jury.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
Suddenly—and surprisingly—Scott felt relieved, despite not knowing what the verdict was. It was just that the waiting was about over. The pressure that had remained since 4:00 p.m. the previous day was about to end.
“Please hand the verdict form to the bailiff.”
The bailiff took the form from the foreperson and delivered it to Judge McCabe, who examined it carefully.
“The defendant and his counsel will please stand.” The judge then handed the form to the clerk, who was seated down and in front of the bench. “Madam Clerk, publish the verdict.”
Colosimo stood stiffly erect, with a tightened jaw, his gaze solidly fixed on the clerk. Gordon presented a look in contrast. He stood stooped and lifeless, his eyes unfocused and head bent forward, as if he had already heard the verdict and it was not good.
The clerk, a middle-aged African-American woman, stood, and with a strong voice began to read from the verdict form:
“State of Georgia versus Maxwell E. Gordon.
“We the jury in the above captioned case find as follows: As to Count One, Influencing Witnesses, Not Guilty. As to Count Two, Influencing Witnesses, Not Guilty. So say we all.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Thursday, November 20
As soon as the verdict was read, Judge McCabe polled the jury, calling each member by name and asking the same question: “. . . is this your verdict?” After the twelfth affirmative “yes,” he thanked the jury for their service, adjourned the court, and quickly left the bench.
Maxwell E. Gordon was a free man.
And with that, Gordon’s stooped body came to life. He straightened up immediately, thanked and congratulated Colosimo with a smile and quick handshake, and walked to the bar rail. He was still smiling as he faced the media and spectators in the gallery.
“Could I have your attention?” he called in a loud voice. “I have something to say about this trial, and I’ll be saying it outside in a few minutes, out by ‘The Flame of Freedom.’ All are welcome.” He stopped and looked at the TV cameraman, who was standing behind his tripod and still recording. “Cameras also welcome!” Gordon then returned to the defense table, where Colosimo had remained during the short announcement.
Scott and Fasi had turned to watch Gordon as he spoke. They had not had time to reflect on the verdict. Now they faced each other, and both were at once speechless. Fasi extended his right hand to Scott and placed his left hand on Scott’s right shoulder. He took a deep breath and slowly shook his head. Words did not come from either prosecutor.
“The Flame of Freedom” that Gordon referred to was a monument located in front of the Chatham County Courthouse, a few yards to the right upon exiting the courthouse. It was erected in 1969 as an “eternal flame of freedom,” a tribute to veterans who offered their lives to preserve it. Gordon used the monument as a backdrop to a speech after the acquittal in the Harrison retrial.
“I don’t think I’ll be attending Max Gordon’s little ceremony,” said Scott.
“Good idea,” Fasi responded. “Let’s go up to my office and finish our cup of coffee.”
“That’s a much better idea,” Scott replied as he watched the small crowd moving slowly toward the exit to the courtroom. One person in particular caught his eye. It was Clarence Wilborn, moving rapidly, pushing his way through the slower crowd.
Scott and Fasi took the elevator up to the sixth floor and Fasi’s office. Fasi’s Keurig machine quickly produced two cups of hot coffee, and the two were now seated in the same spots they were in when the bailiff called. They had not spoken since leaving the courtroom. Scott was still feeling the shock of hearing the words, “not guilty.” He tried to erase the image in his mind of the smile on Max Gordon’s face as the clerk finished reading the verdict. He was sure it would haunt him for a long time. He regretfully recalled that he had the opportunity to leave the case but chose not to. He recalled telling Juri, on the way back from their visit to Atlanta, that he “wanted to see the slimy bastard and his slimy client when the jury brings in the verdict.” Well, he had seen them, and it wasn’t a pleasing sight. Now he would just have to live with it.
The mood was somber, almost funereal, as the two sat in silence. Scott got up and walked over to a small table near Fasi’s desk where there was a small television.
“Do you mind?” Scott said, pointing to the TV.
“No, I guess we should take a look at the celebration, since we played a leading role,” Fasi responded.
Scott found the channel. It showed a crowd assembling in front of the memorial. Scott recognized several of the journalists who had been covering the trial. Bill Baldwin was among them. Gordon could be seen a few feet behind the memorial, but he was not speaking, perhaps waiting for the crowd to grow. The time was approaching 11:30 a.m., and the early lunch crowd was leaving the building. Many, seeing the tripod with the TV camera setup on the paved walkway facing the memorial, stopped to observe. Soon there was a crowd of a hundred or more.
Max Gordon stepped forward and faced the camera. He was all smiles.
“Thank you all for coming,” he began. “How fitting it is that I’m able to make this speech in front of the ‘Flame of Freedom.’ This flame, which has burned so brightly for almost forty years, is a reminder of the precious heritage we—all Americans—enjoy. And that includes those of us accused of crimes we did not commit. I want to thank the good people of Savannah for making right this terrible wrong. And especially the members of the jury who saw through the lies told by the prosecution. And another special thanks to my defense team, led by one of America’s foremost trial attorneys, ‘Diamond Jim’ Colosimo.” He pointed to Colosimo, who acknowledged the accolade by extending both arms outward and upward, with middle and index fingers in a victory sign, reminiscent of Richard Nixon.
Scott continued to listen, anger building with every platitude uttered by his old nemesis. He turned to Fasi, who was staring at the screen with eyes narrowed and jaw clenched.
“I’m going to need a barf bag, Joe. This sounds like the same speech he made after he bought that acquittal in the Harrison case with his paid liars.”
Before Fasi could respond, the screen revealed a man rushing toward Gordon. He had a pistol—a small automatic—in his right hand. As he reached Gordon, he grabbed the back of his shirt collar with his left hand and pulled Gordon backwards. The pistol immediately went up, making a hard contact with the back of Gordon’s head. The man holding the pistol turned, facing the camera. It was Clarence Wilborn.
Chapter Forty
Thursday, November 20
“You’re going to tell this crowd the truth,” Wilborn shouted. “Now! Do it! Tell them the truth, you lying whore of an attorney. Now!” Wilborn, with a firm grip on Gordon’s collar, twisted him so that he faced the camera. “Tell them how you used me, or your fucking head is going to explode.” The crowd now began to disperse, some running toward the street, some ducking into the entrance to the courthouse. But the camera and its operator remained, along with a small crowd, apparently more curious than frightened.
Wilborn was less than six feet tall, thin and wiry, but obviously powerful. His one arm on Gordon was more than sufficient to control the rotund Gordon, even without the weapon that he held to back up his commands. Gordon’s face was flushed, his eyes wide with fear, but his arms gave no fight to the man holding the pistol.
“Tell them how you—you—planned it and brought me in to help with the dirty work. Look at the camera! Tell them now, you filthy son-of-a-bitch!” Wilborn’s pistol remained firmly against Gordon’s head. He leaned into Gordon, shouting his commands into his left ear and tightening the hold on his collar. Gordon’s eyes were bulging from their sockets.
“Turn me . . . loose . . . and . . . I’ll . . . tell . . . them.” Gordon was struggling to get the wor
ds out.
The event was being recorded live by the same cameraman Gordon had invited to his victory celebration. The commands by Wilborn were being heard clearly by Scott and Fasi as they watched the TV screen in Fasi’s office. They glanced at each other frequently but said nothing. Scott looked carefully at the few remaining spectators for Colosimo, but apparently he was no longer present. Neither was Bill Baldwin. Smart move on the part of both, he thought, but he was sure that Baldwin had not wandered far and was observing from a safe distance. It would surely be his lead story the next day.
The camera suddenly turned from Wilborn and Gordon, and focused on a uniformed deputy who was slowly making his way through the remaining small crowd and moving toward Wilborn. But the deputy was spotted by Wilborn.
“Stay where you are,” Wilborn shouted, “or I’ll drill this fucker’s head and then yours.”
The deputy stopped and was heard to yell at the cameraman, “Turn the camera off. And everyone, out of here.” All of the remaining spectators quickly fled, except two or three who apparently felt safe ducking behind the monument.
“Don’t move that camera!” yelled Wilborn. “You move it, and I’ll shoot this pervert between his ears. Keep that camera running. I want Savannah to know. This lying bastard paid two witnesses a quarter million each to fool a jury last year. Then used his own lies to fool a jury today. I’m to pay ten years for my crimes and he’ll pay nothing! That’s justice?” He jerked hard on Gordon’s collar once more.
“Tell ‘em, Max. Tell the truth. Who set up those payments? Who? Say it, Max!”
Sirens were heard on the TV. Scott quickly walked to Fasi’s sixth floor window and looked out. He had a view of Montgomery Street and saw multiple vehicles heading toward the courthouse with blue lights flashing. The scene near the memorial was only partially visible from the window, so he turned back to the TV.
The Two-Witness Rule: A Novel Page 20
