We stumble out of the courtroom to wait in a newer courtroom set aside for us down the hall. This is the hardest time of all. Diane's brow is furrowed with worry. Julie's face is a study in pain and weariness. Everyone else shuffles around awkwardly, not knowing what to do. It is just too hard to be in the room. The air is dense with feelings, with trepidation.
I leave them in their individual solitudes of pain and worry and return to the mass of details that await me. It feels surreal walking into 109 through walls of cops and questions. I know better, but it feels like all this other stuff should stop while we wait for the verdict. Danny, Scott, and Tommy are conversing, worrying, predicting, projecting. Matt Stewart isn't with us today. His son is graduating from the army at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, and he left last night to attend.
No one lets the family into their real fears. Danny looks at me and says, “What is taking them so long? This is so easy.”
We discuss the hows and whys to occupy our nervous minds. “Well, shit, Dan, at least he goes to jail even if it is a bullshit manslaughter.”
I look at Dan and Scott. “You guys did your best.” Scott is biting his nails again. “Scott, you did great. It's up to them, now.”
So hard to leave it up to them. As if we had any choice.
To ease the tension, the detectives start a betting pool on when the jury will return. From 1300 to 1900. I go with 1520. It's an incredibly anxious time and I know I'm not the only one who's praying.
At 11:10 a.m., the jury was excused to begin deliberations.
An hour later, the jury asked to hear the grand jury tape again.
The lawyers, the detectives, and the families waited in the small courtroom assigned to Amy's family. For the next four hours, everyone hovered, slumped, and paced, waiting in an agony of indecision.
1425. I'm in the hallway outside the old courtroom, listening to Danny's heels strike the marble as he paces. Like decades of cops before him, Scott is leaning against an historic marble pillar. Danny looks at me and says, “Manslaughter. I know that's what it will be. They are struggling with murder/manslaughter. I cannot even think ‘not guilty.’ I can't, Captain.”
“It's Joe, Dan. Joe. And I can't think that either. We've gotta pray that they will see the truth.”
Tommy is in and out, in and out, full of energy, pacing like a parakeet, his shoes shuffling and clicking. Eyeing me with the thrill and anxiety of the wait.
I go in and out of the room where the family is waiting. Everyone does. It's awkward. There's not much more we can say. There's nothing to do in this stark room except wait. No one dares to leave in case the jury comes back. No one knows what to do with themselves. So we pace. Shuffle. Every now and then there is a funny word, an injection of humor into the awful tension. Then we return to a somber silence and our shuffling, pacing, and waiting.
1520 passes and I've lost my ten dollars. What's the holdup? God, please help them. Amy?
Danny's still pacing the hall, a nervous Nellie. “It's gotta be manslaughter. They'll think he was on acid, believe his version, and …”
“Danny, as long as he's guilty of something … and goes to jail! Did you see that prick turn around and look at Julie? Sometimes I wish Dennis would snap and jump on him.” Dennis has done an impressive job of holding himself together. He has told us he'd like to kill Gorman for what that bastard did to his daughter.
Bruce Coffin comes over from 109. Still out? He feels the tension, then quietly grabs me and says, “There's a grasshopper at a bar, you see, and the grasshopper says to the bartender …”
“Bruce!”
Around four, the jury sent word that they had reached a verdict. Hastily, everyone entered the courtroom and took their seats.
Before the jury returned, the judge spoke to those who were waiting. “Before we bring the jury in, I just want to say that I know this is a difficult—has been a difficult trial for many in this courtroom and I know this is a difficult moment.
“Regardless of what the verdict is, there would be people who would be pleased and there would be people who will not be pleased, but I am telling you and I am instructing you that I will not tolerate any sort of outbursts from anyone in this courtroom when the verdict is given by the jury for two reasons.
“The first reason is that would be disrespectful to the Court and I don't mean by the Court myself, I mean what we are doing in this room. And second of all, it would be disrespectful to the members of the jury. We have asked these twelve people to do a very difficult job and they have done it and so I would ask that everyone show the respect that they deserve and that the Court deserves as well.”
At 4:08 p.m., as Amy's family held hands and held their breath, the jury entered. Danny Young and Scott Harakles were waiting side by side, and they saw that none of the jurors looked at Gorman.
THE CLERK: Madame Forelady and members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?
THE FOREMAN: We have .
It's 1600. The jury is back. My stomach flips. Everyone moves quickly toward the hall leading to the courtroom. The tension in the air so tangible a cloud of it seems to move with us. We file into the wooden spectator area. Danny, Scott, Fern, and Bill are up in front. It seems so right that these four men should be aligned for this.
Gorman is led past us. He's got an air of indifference, cavalier as he comes to learn his fate.
Everyone is in their places, standing, bending, swaying with the weight of the moment.
Justice Mills looks at us for a moment. It is very intense. Then she speaks, taking charge of her courtroom. The decision is in. There will be no outbursts in this court. She continues to warn everyone about respect for the process. You could hear a pin drop as she reminds us of the sacredness of what is happening.
“Remain standing for the jury,” the bailiff announces. They file in from the right side of the courtroom. Ordinary people.
The room is surreally quiet. Danny and Scott practically reek of tension and concern. They have put so much into this. Eyes closed, I pray as I listen to the jury move into their positions.
I have no reservations. No doubt. I know that Gorman is guilty. But I have no idea what we will hear. Please, God. Please.
Justice Mills announces the protocol to the court as the jury remains standing. Then her clerk turns to the forelady. “How do you read to the charge of murder?
THE CLERK: As to the indictment charging murder, do you find the defendant Jeffrey Gorman guilty or not guilty?
THE FOREMAN: Guilty.
THE CLERK: So say you madame forelady?
THE FOREMAN: Yes.
THE CLERK: So say you all?
THE JURY PANEL: Yes.
Justice Mills continues, thanking the jury and addressing the attorneys, but many in the room aren't listening. They're hearing the word “guilty” echoing in their ears. Danny Young and Scott Harakles grab each other's arms and murmur, “Yeah! We did it!” They're feeling incredible jubilation and trying not to let it show. The air in the room is filled with murmurs and suppressed sobs. Rising above them is a piercing cry from the back.
I hear the foreman returning with other words, and then the word “guilty.”
A collective gasp from the crowd in many frequencies. I still can't believe my ears. Like it was an echo chamber, there are whispers of the word. “Guilty.”
I look up and thank God. Danny's head is bowed. Scott is looking up at the ceiling. Both emotional. The judge is still speaking, giving instructions, but I don't hear what is being said. It is drowned by the muted mews, strange, stifled cries and sobs from where the family is seated. In the back, Gorman's mother howls like a wounded animal.
My eyes are wet as I look to the ceiling, trying to stop tears I don't want anyone to see. The jury files out. The judge leaves. Danny's eyes are wet as I grab him, Bruce, and Scott. After the seemingly endless wait, everything has happened so quickly.
Now that court is dismissed, the sound of crying grows louder as people stop holding back. Diane,
Julie, Lucille, Dennis, and Kathy and Richard are all hugging, choking, holding back emotions and cries.
Tammy Westbrook's grief is unnerving. A steady, muted howl punctuated by tragic wails.
We stumble and shuffle out of the courtroom, bumping into each other, as Gorman is led away. I watch his face for a reaction and there is nothing there. Nothing. I heard later that he leaned over to Bill Stokes and said, “Watch your back, bitch.”
We move out into the hallway. I shake Fern's hand. Bill's hand. Well done. Well done. I don't feel happy. This is not triumph but closure. It will take time to sink in, to penetrate the barriers we've erected to brace ourselves against the possibility of a “not guilty” and Gorman going free.
I hold back tears as I walk, but one runs off my right cheek and ski jumps onto my shirt. First time I ever cried in court.
Tommy, Danny, and I grab hands, soft-punch each other, and offer awkward backslaps. Hundreds of images come flashing back from the case as we move toward the room reserved for us. As we leave the courtroom behind, the crying begins in earnest.
I hold my breath to control my own tears as I hug a few people. Making the rounds. Eventually, I approach Diane, following a line of others. I will not cry. Her slight body heaving as she sobs out a muffled thank-you.
“Don't thank me. Thank Danny. Thank Scott. They're the ones who made this happen.”
We part. She goes to Dan and it starts all over again. The scene is repeated over and over with different people as everyone tries to absorb it and to comfort each other.
I call the chief and Deputy Chief Burton. Listening to their “Congratulations” and “Great job!” I think, funny, it doesn't feel like congratulations. Nothing like a celebration. It just feels sad, as though part of everyone's grief was suspended, awaiting this verdict, and now it has all come rolling back.
We all just sit there in awkward silence. Finally, Lucille's friend Louie blurts out, “So what do we do now?” It breaks the tension and a few of us laugh.
Eventually, Fern and Bill come in, finished with their legal obligations, and talk to the family. Dennis and Kathy hug and listen, while Fern gives us an overview and Bill even makes us laugh.
I speak of how we wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Danny Young starting all this. About his passion for solving this case. I continue, speaking about Scott and the two agencies and how Amy brought us all together. I tell everyone that I have no doubt Amy influenced all of us, and many lives, through this horrible tragedy. Let us think of the good that has come from this.
Finally, we all embrace and hug again and shuffle out of the room.
When he could finally get away, Danny Young ducked into an empty courtroom just to be alone for a while. He had spoken with his wife, Linda, several times during the day, keeping her posted on the progress of the jury deliberations. Now he called her again to tell her about the verdict. This was when the fact that Gorman had been convicted of murder—that the good guys had won justice for Amy—finally hit home, and he broke down.
Outside, the news converges on all of us as we exit the courthouse. We've lost all track of time and are surprised to find it's dark. Diane, Julie, and Lucille form a covey as bright lights and colorful microphones identifying the stations invade their sphere. Dennis and Kathy slowly slip away.
Diane is flooded with questions and, as courageous as always, fields them with grace. Julie stares at the ground. She's not ready for this. She needs to do her processing in private. Bill and Fern are there, and Bill speaks.
Danny slides away into the dark. Tommy slides away, then Bruce. They leave the bright lights of the news as Stokes's words lift on the night air, walking out of the circle of light and into the dark.
I am reminded of the night we found Amy. How people would disappear from the glow of the spotlights, fading like ghosts into the gloom.
I can hear Stokes's voice trailing off. “From the very beginning we realized …” I head through the parking garage to 109. “Hey, Danny! … wait up.”
We walk through the lot, shoes clicking, coats and ties flying. I put my arm around Danny. “It's great, Danny. Great,” I say.
“Captain,” he says, raising his red eyes and shifting his wide shoulders wearily, “I gotta work tonight. My regular shift …”
“That's crazy, Dan, I'll get you out of your shift,” I tell him. “Go home.”
As we approach the station, I realize we don't know what to feel. It's such an anticlimax after waiting so long. I just feel numb. I think I need a beer, but I need to go home more.
Cops are moving in and out of the building, congratulating and asking questions. News vans circle the station and the courthouse like sharks. At my desk, I try to explain it to other cops and find I can't and that I don't want to.
Danny, relieved of his shift, leaves 109. “I'm going home,” he says.
I see Tommy and Bruce in the hall. “Hey,” I ask, “feel like a beer?” “Naw, let's just go home,” Tom says. “We're all kinda wasted.”
Neither Tom nor Bruce gives up a Guinness easily. But I know how they feel. No beer. No celebration. Just a strange, drained feeling. The victory is not what we all imagined.
I drive away in silence. A patrol car, sirens blazing, runs up Pearl Street, another east on Congress, headed toward Smith for a “10-45,” another domestic.
I snap off the radio, sick of police shit, and drive home in silence, the defroster blowing warm air into my face. Almost there, stopped at a red light, tears slowly fill my eyes, turning the traffic light and waiting cars into a kaleidoscope of colors.
Later, alone in my hot tub outside, it's about fourteen degrees. So cold. So crisp. I sit in the gathering warmth, more peaceful now. Stars are twinkling blue white through the branches.
Images from the case are rushing through my head. I see her corpse in the dirt. I'm sorry, Amy, so sorry. For you, for everyone. Those stifled sobs in the courtroom are back with me, all that blurting out of pain. As images flash, I wonder, What it is really all about? I look up at the heavens and get no answer.
I rest in the water, so tired I'm half dozing in the silence. Then wind whispers through the trees and my buoy bell chimes. I have not heard that sound in a while. My tears pour down, hot in the cold air. Suddenly, I feel peace as the wind shifts and the chimes sound again.
I know it's Amy, telling me, telling us, that it's okay.
I reflect on Amy's diary entry on September 10th. “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Forever. FOREVER.
Epilogue
Amy's Legacy
And can it be that in a world so full and busy the loss of one weak creature makes a void in any heart, so wide and deep nothing but the width and depth of vast eternity can fill it up!”
—Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son
Amy St. Laurent's family had to wait a long time for the closure that would finally let them begin their grieving process without repeatedly having to sit in courtrooms rehearing the details of her death. It would not be until six months after the verdict, at the sentencing phase of Gorman's trial, that the family would finally have a chance to tell the court what Gorman's violent act had done to them, and what the world had lost when Amy St. Laurent was killed.
Amy's younger sister, Julie, spoke of the pain of spending seven weeks with the missing person posters everywhere she went, downtown, in her favorite stores, and all over the USM campus. How she'd be out putting up posters and expecting that Amy would come around the corner and start laughing at her. But it went on and on. There was no place she could go where she could get away from them.
She told of driving down the road past the spot where Amy had been buried, a place she passed several times daily on her way to school and work, and how, since Amy was found, the knowledge that Amy had been there the whole time made her physically ill. She had never been able to travel that route again.
She told the court that when she lost her big sis
ter, she also lost her best friend and her sense that the world was a safe place: “When that day happened, everything in my life came to a stop. My family was walking around like zombies … the look in their eyes of not celebrating her birthdays. You should see the hurt on their faces. Even now, after it's been two years, I don't see things the same. The world isn't the same to me … everywhere I go, I am constantly … watching myself.”
Amy's father, Dennis St. Laurent, said that he had been in a living hell for twenty months and doubted that he'd ever come out of it. He told the court that his daughters were all he had in this world, all he lived for, and Gorman had hurt both of them. He said that Amy had been a loving and caring person who did not deserve what Gorman had done to her. He reminded the court that, not only had Gorman never shown any remorse for his crime, he was so cold blooded he had tried to hide Amy from her family so that they could never find her and at least have the closure of a funeral.
Last to speak on Amy's behalf was her mother, Diane Jenkins. After thanking the court for the opportunity to finally be heard, she said:
I wanted to start out by saying that there are two kinds of people in this world. One who makes the world a better place for having been a part of it and those who leave it with destruction in their path.
I want everyone to know who Amy was because up until now, she has only been the victim's face on the posters. I also want everyone to really understand the impact that this has had on my family, friends, and me. Amy was a pretty remarkable young woman for only being twenty-five. She loved her family and friends and was extremely caring and loyal to them. She understood what it meant to care and give from the heart.
You see, people genuinely loved Amy because she knew how to love and care about them. Amy was also a very hard worker, a contributing member to society. She had the opportunity to go to college and she didn't take it, so she worked very hard to finally get where she was. She had a very good job with a lot of responsibility.
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