“But — so we will all be clear on this — you do not admit planning and carrying out the robbery of The Friary on May fourth of last year,” Gleason said.
“No, I do not,” Tibbetts said.
“You do not admit causing the victims, Abbate and Nichols, to die of gunshot wounds,” Gleason said.
“No, I do not,” Tibbetts said.
“You do not admit causing the victims, McKechnie and Iverson, to die of gunshot wounds,” Gleason said.
“No, I do not,” Tibbetts said.
“You do not admit that you caused the deaths, by gunshot wounds, of victims Wilkerson, Gross and Alexander,” Gleason said.
“No, I do not,” Tibbetts said.
“You do not admit to any part in killing the two guard dogs,” Gleason said.
“Well, now,” Morrissey said, half-rising, “I think we’ll object to that.”
“I’ll withdraw it, your Honor,” Gleason said. Morrissey sat down. “You do not admit, sir,” Gleason said, “you do not admit that you and at least these three co-defendants, on May fourth, Nineteen-seventy-seven, did forcibly or fraudulently obtain entrance to The Friary, with the intent to steal drugs and money, and that you, and at least these three co-defendants, in cold blood, murdered those seven people?”
“Now,” Morrissey said, standing up. “I really do have to object here. This is repetitious.”
“And I object, as well,” Gleason said, “to my learned brother’s transparent effort to shield his client from rigorous cross-examination by means of these frivolous interruptions.”
“I ask that my brother,” Morrissey said, “be instructed to refrain from arguing his case to the jury under the guise of cross-examination.”
“Both of you: enough,” the judge said. “The two of you are justly famous for your dog-and-pony shows. Some judges are even foolish enough to put up with them. This judge is not. Mister Morrissey, you will refrain from cluttering up the record with a lot of time-wasting foolishness. This is cross-examination. You put your client on the stand, Mister Gleason is entitled to have at him, and I have every confidence he will. Unless he makes the sort of blunder Mister Gleason rarely makes, you will maintain your seat. Clear?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Morrissey said. He sat down.
“Mister Gleason,” Bart said, “you know just as well as I do that the sort of remark you just made in the presence of the jury is improper, regardless of how you are provoked. I not only suggest — I admonish you, that the prosecutor’s responsibilities in this courtroom do not extend to reprimanding opposing counsel for infractions of decorum. And I further admonish you that counsel thus usurping the prerogatives of the presiding judge lay themselves also open to reprimand. Which is what I am giving you now — understood?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Gleason said.
“Now,” the judge said, addressing the jury, “every so often, in this line of work, we find ourselves distracted from our common purpose by a little ego tiff among the prima donnas. Some hair gets pulled, in the figurative sense, and there’s a little scratching. But when that happens, as it did just now, we try to stop it short of biting and gouging. You are fortunate to be sitting on a case in which able, aggressive counsel are contending skillfully and strenuously for the interests of their respective clients. You are to ignore such exhibitions as just occurred — and which better not recur, gentlemen — when their zeal overcomes their judgment.
“Mister Gleason,” he said, “put your next question.”
“Mister Tibbetts,” Gleason said, “before you took the stand yesterday, you had long and detailed discussions with Mister Morrissey, did you not?”
Morrissey stood up. “Objection,” he said. “Clear implication, something improper in client conferring with lawyer.”
“Mister Morrissey,” the judge said, “when I desire to know the reason for your objection, I will ask for it. Is that abundantly clear?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Morrissey said. He sat down.
“Stand up,” the judge said. Morrissey stood up. “Unless I ask for it, I do not wish to hear it. Understood?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Morrissey said.
“Good,” the judge said. “You may be seated. Your objection is overruled. Your exception is noted. Mister Gleason, please continue.”
“Mister Tibbetts?” Gleason said.
“Yes, sir?” Tibbetts said.
“Answer the question, Mister Tibbetts,” the judge said.
“I don’t remember it, your Honor,” Tibbetts said. He looked troubled.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the judge said. “Mister Gleason: Put the question again.”
“Thank you, your Honor,” Gleason said demurely. The judge gave him a sidelong glance. “Mister Tibbetts,” Gleason said, “before you took the stand yesterday to confess your many transgressions — at least the ones you say you remember — you discussed your situation with Mister Morrissey, did you not?”
“Oh,” Tibbetts said. “Yes. Yes, sir, I did.”
“And did you,” Gleason said, “did you at some time — or maybe even more than one time; maybe several times — did you hear Mister Morrissey use this phrase: ‘Statute of Limitations’?”
Tibbetts frowned. “I’m not sure, sir,” he said.
“You’re not sure,” Gleason said, “you’re not sure whether Mister Morrissey, even once, said whether a given action that you proposed to admit, on that witness stand, was a serious felony, but that the Statute of Limitations had run and you could not be charged?”
“I’m not sure,” Tibbetts said.
“You’re ‘not sure,’ ” Gleason said. “Did Mister Morrissey by any chance happen to mention to you that you can’t be charged with perjury if you say that you’re ‘not sure’?”
“Objection,” Morrissey said, jumping to his feet.
“Sustained,” the judge said, “jury will disregard. Next question, Mister Gleason.”
“All right,” Gleason said, “let me ask you this: Did Mister Morrissey, Mister Tibbetts, assure you that each and every one of the actions you enumerated yesterday — the narcotics offenses; the intimidation of young women into acts of what amounted to prostitution; the extortion of monies from terrified or misguided young people; the advocacy of violent overthrow of the government; the travel in interstate commerce for felonious purposes; the purchase and possession of automatic weapons — that all of those felonious acts, each and every one of them, was now forever barred from prosecution by the Statute of Limitations?”
“I don’t recall,” Tibbetts said.
“You ‘don’t recall,’ ” Gleason said.
Morrissey stood up. “No need, Mister Morrissey,” the judge said. “Spare us the heavier sarcasm, if you would, Mister Gleason.” Morrissey sat down. “Just allow, if you will, the witness’s answers to be entered on the record, without your marginal glosses. You may proceed.”
“Thank you, your Honor,” Gleason said. “Well, Mister Tibbetts, allow me to test your memory in some other areas. See what luck we have there.”
“Objection,” Morrissey shouted, as he came to his feet.
Bart shook his head. “Sustained,” he said. “Enlighten me. Mister Gleason: What are we to do with you?”
Gleason looked offended. “That was a perfectly innocent remark, your Honor,” he said.
“That was a perfectly snide remark, Mister Gleason,” Bart said. “Now, I’ve told you before, and I tell you again: What you get away with in other courtrooms, does not interest me. You and Mister Morrissey may’ve enjoyed great success with your Frick-and-Frack routine before other judges. But I’m not one of them. I don’t approve of it. I won’t tolerate it. Phrase your questions neutrally. Do as I say.” He glanced at Morrissey, who was grinning. “And you, Mister Morrissey: Wipe that smirk off your puss. Keep in mind I know who started this commotion. One more peep out of you that’s not called for, and we’ll all have a little chat when this trial’s concluded.” Morrissey looked solemn. “Procee
d, Mister Gleason,” the judge said. He slumped back in his chair. “Honest to God,” he said softly.
“Beg pardon, your Honor?” Gleason said. Judge Bart feebly waved his left hand at him. “Mister Tibbetts,” Gleason said, “you were present yesterday, were you not, when your father testified about how smart you are?”
Tibbetts looked uncomfortable. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“You heard him tell Mister Morrissey, here, and the members of this jury, that your test scores, and your grades, and all the other stuff, indicate to him at least that he fathered a genius?”
“Yes,” Tibbetts said, shifting in the chair.
“Mister Tibbetts, let me ask you,” Gleason said, “are you one of those extremely smart people who goes through life in the belief that everyone else is stupid?”
Morrissey came out of the chair fast, as did the judge. “We,” Bart said, gesturing at Morrissey, “we will take the morning recess here. Jury will be excused. Counsel will repair to chambers, for a brief conference.”
21
“I was chastized,” Gleason said in the small office. “Morrissey was chastized. Klein and Bigelow were invited — no: commanded — to benefit from our example by not imitating it when their turns come. Veale didn’t get mentioned by name — I think her feelings were hurt. Anybody got a smoke?” He put his feet up on the table and closed his eyes.
“Virginia Slim, you want it,” McNeil said, opening her handbag.
“Gimme,” Gleason said. He opened his eyes and accepted the cigarette.
“I thought,” Consolo said, “I didn’t think you were being too hard on him. I thought the cocksucker deserved it.”
“Ahh,” Gleason said, accepting a light from McNeil, “doesn’t matter if I was. I wasn’t getting anywhere. Making any headway. John Morrissey knows how to varnish his witnesses. If they’re smart enough to pay attention, and cool enough to keep their wits, and this lad is very smart, with the guts of a burglar — which is why of course he’s here — you can hose ’em as much as you want — fuckin’ water just rolls off. Judge says to us in chambers — off the record, naturally — ‘I don’t want any more shit from you two birds.’ Didn’t matter to me. He hadn’t called that recess, threatened me and John with contempt, I was gonna pull my horns in anyway. No use banging your head against a brick fuckin’ wall. I can’t crack the guy.”
“So,” Consolo said, “what’re you gonna do? Just roll over, then?” Gleason exhaled smoke. “Fred,” he said, “two of you’d make a dozen. No, what I’m going to do is go back in there like Mickey the Dunce and let the goofball think the judge’s got me buffaloed. And see if I can trick him into making some statement that’s so obviously outrageous I’ll be able to use it when I argue to the jury. John’s talking to his client now, while I’m talking to you. Pumping him up. Telling him how the judge landed all over me. Good. Might make him cocky.
“But I will tell you something, Fred,” Gleason said, “if I don’t get him claiming that he personally talked to Jesus, if I don’t sucker this punk into something totally preposterous, within ten minutes of the time when I stand up, I am gonna sit fuckin’ down. I am not gonna have him doing a repeat performance of that choir-boy routine he did yesterday. Jury hears that one more time, they’re liable to fuckin’ believe it.”
“I don’t see how you can let Morrissey get away with this,” Consolo said. “Morrissey knows he’s lying.”
“Fred,” Richards said, “I don’t really have the time or the energy just now, take another crack at explaining the American legal system to you. Just take it on faith, okay? John Morrissey’s good. That’s why he gets all these cases, the real time-bombs and the unexploded mines, and all this other touchy stuff nobody else’d grab. Because he’s good.
“Terry,” Richards said, “I was, you know, I was thinking while you’re up there, and I, I agree with you. Thing concerns me, you know, is that we’re losing sight our main objective.”
“Speak, sage,” Gleason said.
“No matter what you do to him,” Richards said, “you eat the rug; you nice him to death; you punch his fuckin’ lights out — it isn’t gonna matter. The jury’s still gonna have to decide: Was he nuts at the time? And the only way they’re going to be able to do that is by guesswork. The only direct evidence they’re going to have is his own say-so. To contradict that, we’ve got the circumstantial stuff that the job was pretty carefully planned; that it was carried out in obvious cold blood; that whoever did it knew exactly what they were looking for, and therefore must’ve been fairly well acquainted with the drug sideline Nichols and Abbate’re fronting with the tavern — and consequently couldn’t’ve been a good person himself. If the jury can look at what we’ve got, and if they think about the fact that this respectful, well-pressed lad has a very good motive to lie now, and say that he was nuts when he pulled off a major heist and then managed to avoid not only us, but all the regular hoods, for about a year — if that jury can say a guy who can do that must be nuts, then we are going to lose.”
“You think they can?” Consolo said.
Richards shrugged. “ ‘Can’? Sure they can. Jury can do anything it wants, and most of them usually do. ‘Will they’? I don’t know. And I won’t know, either, until after they’ve done it. And neither will you, Fred, neither will you.” He looked at Gleason. “Now, what I think, Terry,” he said, “I think you’ve probably made all the money that you’re gonna make on this kid.”
“Which isn’t very much,” Gleason said.
“But still,” Richards said, “all you’re gonna make. And if you try to work him for any more, you’re running the risk of getting Bart really pissed off at you. Which we don’t want to do. Bart likes you. The jury likes Bart. If Bart decides he don’t love you no more, you know just as well as I do he will let the jury know. And they will say to themselves: ‘Well, this nice judge, that takes such good care of us, he seems to think Mister Gleason needs a little discipline. So we’ll do the judge a favor — we will punish the young man.’ And they’ll do it, too. You rile up Bart to the point where he decides to whip out his dick and piss on your boots with that jury looking on, you’re not gonna convince them that your pants’re wet from rain. You could lose not only Tibbetts, on the insanity drill, but also the daughters of Sappho and the refugee from everybody’s All-Star goon squad. Cut your losses, man. You sit down when you go out there, you’ll catch Big Mo flat-footed. He’s expecting you to open up a few more interesting areas for him to explore on redirect. Disappoint him. Man never got in much trouble, what he didn’t say.”
“What you say makes a lotta sense, John,” Gleason said.
“I know it does,” Richards said.
“And as a result,” Gleason said, “naturally, I’m not gonna do it.”
“Mister Tibbetts,” Gleason said, “you testified yesterday about your third year at Stanford, and what happened to you then.”
“Yes, sir,” Tibbetts said.
“And, I believe, you compared your experience to that of a religious conversion,” Gleason said.
“Yes sir,” Tibbetts said.
“Would you elaborate on that for us, sir?” Gleason said.
Morrissey stood up slowly. He shook his head. “Your Honor,” he said, “when I don’t understand the question, I have to assume my client can’t, either. So I’m going to object.”
“It is a little broad, Mister Gleason,” the judge said. “Think you could trim it down a bit?”
“I’ll give it a shot, your Honor,” Gleason said. “Mister Tibbetts, when you said that your experiences over Nineteen-sixty-seven, -eight, when you said they were comparable to a religious conversion, did you mean that you suddenly found yourself — and I mean no offense by this; I’m groping for my words here — did you find yourself, as it were, blinded by a revelation?”
Morrissey stood up. “No,” Bart said, holding up his right hand, “no, you wanted Mister Gleason to rephrase it, and he has. If the witness can answer it, I’m going to
ask him to do it.”
“I can answer it, your Honor,” Tibbetts said softly. The judge nodded. “I,” Tibbetts said, “when I was growing up, I was raised in a strictly observing, God-fearing house. But, as I got older, it seemed to me that most of what we did in church, and in our daily lives, was ceremonial. Ritual. That there wasn’t much substance to it. That we did it last Sunday, and we’ll do it next Sunday, and the incense will burn and the singing will be nice, and we’ll all feel peaceful inside. But nothing, nothing outside ourselves changes much. The poor are still poor. The blacks are still oppressed. We’re still killing people in Vietnam, with whom we have no quarrel. We still have a president who believes that this is right. We feel contented in ourselves, because we’ve observed the patterns, but we’re deluding ourselves. Making believe.
“I was young, Mister Gleason,” Tibbetts said. “I was young, and passionate, and I saw injustice. In my first year away from home, for the first time I saw with my own eyes the disparity between the way that I had lived, the way my parents lived, the way I guess ’till then I’d assumed everybody lived, and how people in other places suffered under the most grinding poverty. I traveled, for the first time I traveled outside this country. I was invited to be a guest musician with what was — still is, I guess — called the Ipswich Ensemble, and we visited countries in the Middle East, performing for the elites, and aristocracies. The English couple that controlled it saw it as a showpiece of our democracies. I was one of their show horses. I saw something else. All around us we saw the hordes of the poor, starving, begging, crying out for help. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t reconcile what I saw with what I believed that I believed.
“I went through what I’m afraid I actually called, then, ‘a crisis of faith.’ I counseled with a clergyman and asked him what to do. And he recommended that I search the writings of the mystics. And I did that. John of the Cross, especially. And I was moved by the holistic understanding of the unity of the universe that he expressed.” Tibbetts smiled sadly. “One of my professors told me, in my sophomore year, that — I’m afraid I’d made him very impatient with some argument of mine — that the major symptom of pathologically persisting adolescence is the non-negotiable demand for a pan-explicative. And I became very angry, and said that the reconciliation of contradictions between what we, as Americans and as Christians, what we say we believe, and what we actually do, lends itself to but one explanation. Which is simply that we profess ideals we’re not prepared to carry out. That simple.
Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard) Page 18
