“What are you going to do about the publicity?” Maddy asked Marc.
“I’ve been thinking about it and I think the best thing to do is go after it directly. Don’t try to be cute about it. Ask each juror up front if they’ve seen or heard about it on TV or in the media.”
“What if they say no?” Barry asked.
“Then they’re probably lying,” Marc said. “Unless they’re on our list of ‘yes’ jurors, I might use a peremptory challenge. We’ll see. If they admit bias, the judge should drop them. I’ll at least indoctrinate them to the idea that the TV and news reports may not know what they’re talking about; that what they see on TV are leaks, not evidence. Get them to promise to ignore it and keep an open mind.”
“What about things like abortions, miscarriages, and political groups that may indicate a bias?” Madeline asked.
“We argued about that and the judge had it all put in the juror questionnaire that they all answered. Supposedly, those things were covered that way. Connors didn’t want us to get too personal, especially with the women. If they had a miscarriage or abortion or lost a child, they were dropped as potential jurors.”
Marc tells Maddy he is not going to challenge any jurors for pretrial publicity unless their bias is blatant. He tells her it is pointless since whether they admit it or not, they have all heard about the case.
“Can you get the cameras kept out of the courtroom?” Barry asked.
“Sure. The prosecution went nuts, the media went nuts but the judge ruled against me. Um, Maddy,” he said to his investigator. “Since the subject came up, would you mind sitting at the defense table, you know, a little dolled up wearing a low-cut, backless cocktail dress?”
Barry choked back his laughter as Madeline narrowed her eyes at him and said, “You do know I carry a gun don’t you?”
“Oh yeah, sorry I forgot,” Marc sheepishly said. “So, how about a bikini?” he added as he ducked when she threw a yellow legal pad at him. Even she had to laugh at that juvenile remark.
“That’s enough for today,” Marc said. “We’ll see what Jeff and Sandy come up with off the internet and work on it more this weekend.”
As they were leaving Marc told Jeff and Sandy they could knock off for the night.
“I’m okay,” Jeff said. “I’m going to stay for a while and keep looking. I, ah, you know, like Brittany and I want to help her.”
Sandy wiggled her eyebrows and winked at Marc. Jeff saw it and started to protest but Sandy cut him off and said, “I’ll stay for a while and help him. Our lives are so boring anyway this might be fun.”
Marc took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, gave it to Jeff and said, “Order in pizza. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
FORTY-FOUR
By noon on the day after Melinda Pace broadcast the news that jury selection would take place in Rochester, the media had descended like a horde of locusts. Rochester, Minnesota is one of the best known, most widely publicized and acclaimed small cities on the planet. The Mayo family started their world-renowned medical facility as a family practice by the patriarch, William Worrall Mayo in 1863. In the 1880s he was joined by his two sons, Dr. William James Mayo and Dr. Charles Horace Mayo. From that modest beginning in what was a sleepy little farming community straddling the Zumbro River in southeast Minnesota, one of the two or three most respected medical facilities on Earth has grown. Kings, Presidents and despots do not go to Cuba for their socialist “free” healthcare. They go to Minnesota with one notable and humorous exception. The socialist dictator of Venezuela, Hugo Chavez went to Fidel’s worker’s paradise and by the time they were done with him, he was likely wishing he had gone to Rochester. Unfortunately, the kind and decent citizens of this very pleasant city were about to get hit by a media storm.
The last weekend in January, which is what this was, is typically as bad as the weather becomes. This year was to be no exception. On Friday morning the air temperatures ranged from minus eight on the southern border with Iowa to a really bone-chilling minus thirty-five in International Falls on the Canadian border. Coupled with a brisk fifteen to twenty miles an hour westerly wind made it a dangerous day to be outdoors.
Every television station, newspaper and several large radio stations were setting up shop. CNN had a crew on hand and all of the major networks, including the ones on cable, made sure there was an affiliate crew from the Twin Cities ready to report in. Among them, standing in line to check in at the downtown Holiday Inn, was the intrepid Ms. Gabriella Shriqui. She looked outside, across the river at the back of the government center and an involuntary shiver swept over her when a gust of wind blew between the buildings along the frozen over Zumbro River.
When Gabriella got to her room, she dejectedly dropped her single suitcase on the bed and opened the drapes. She stood at the window watching the traffic go by four stories below on Broadway Ave. There were very few pedestrians out and those that were scurried along the sidewalks, bundled up in large coats, heavy boots and fur-lined gloves, their breath making long streams of steam. The traffic on the street at midday was light which made her wonder why it was moving so slowly. The street itself looked as frozen as ice, which it was, colored white and very hard.
Gabriella shivered again, folded her arms across her chest, rubbed her hands on her biceps as if to warm herself and said out loud, “It even looks freeze-your-ass-off cold out there.”
Her phone went off and she retrieved it from her coat pocket, looked at the caller ID and said, “Hey, Hunter. Tell me again why I need to spend this weekend in a Rochester Holiday Inn when nothing happens until Monday morning?”
“Because the competition is there. Why, Rochester is a lovely city. Where else would you rather be?”
“At home wrapped in a blanket.”
“It’s fourteen below here,” Oswood said.
“Well, we’re kicking your ass. It’s a balmy eleven below here. Again, why am I here?”
“Because the network wants us there and they’re paying for it. The reason I called, to see if you can get a couple of man on the street interviews…”
“Man on the street! Are you nuts? I’m not going out there,” she protested.
“Yes, you are,” Oswood laughed.
“How about I try the skyway first?”
“No, we want the cold weather background.”
“You’re serious?” she said. “I thought you were just jerking my chain.”
“No, I’m not. Take the van and you and Kyle get out there and get some interviews. Send them back live. Get four or five and we’ll edit them.”
“What do you want me to ask them? How do you like not being able to feel your toes, fingers and face?”
Oswood laughed heartily and finally said, “Don’t be such a wuss. Get out there. You’ll live. Just get a few quotes about the usual blather: how do you feel about the trial coming there? That kind of thing.”
“What are you talking about? The trial is not coming here.”
“What are you talking about? We monitor the news and everyone is reporting that the case is going to be tried in Rochester.”
Gabriella, clearly confused, said, “I understood that only jury selection was going to be done here then they would be moved back to Hastings.”
“Huh. Well, I don’t know but everyone is reporting the trial was going to be there.”
“Are you saying I’m going to be living in this Holiday Inn for the next month or so if the trial is here?”
“Probably. Why, is that a problem? We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, go get some interviews.”
“Okay. So I have to go out there. All right. Talk to you later.”
At the same time, Gabriella was conversing with her boss, Marc, Maddy, Connie Mickelson and the entire office were chuckling while watching a reporter on one of the local channels. The man was reporting, obviously from a skyway, about the “breaking news” that the Brittany Riley trial was to be conducted in Rochester.
&nb
sp; The report led the midday news and between the reporter prattling on and the inane questions the busty blonde anchor asked, the segment took up almost eight minutes of air time. When they went to a commercial, Carolyn switched to another channel and caught the tail end of them reporting the same thing. For the next twenty minutes, they checked all of the networks and the cable news channels. All of them were making the same mistake. CNN even had two trial lawyers discussing the significance of it and had an interview with a lawyer who practiced in Rochester.
“That’s enough,” Marc said to Carolyn with a big grin.
Carolyn pressed the power button on the remote and Connie said, “That was fun. We’re going to have to do some more of that. Leak bad information to these idiots just for the amusement. Leave the phones, girls. I’ll take everybody across the street and buy lunch.”
When they got back from lunch, Maddy took off and Marc huddled in the conference room with Jeff Modell and Sandy. The two of them were about halfway done with their internet search of the jury list. Marc wanted to hear what they had found, so far. On the whole, it wasn’t much. Unlike TV and the movies, most people lead fairly drab, repetitive, even boring lives. Marriage, mortgages, jobs and kids happen which precludes a lot of glamour and intrigue. This list of names was no exception. Plus, the juror questionnaire that each had filled out had eliminated a lot of potential problems and biases.
Around two, by prearrangement, Connie, Barry and Chis Grafton came into the conference room after Jeff and Sandy left. Marc knew what was coming. They needed to discuss business. The four lawyers were all independent of each other. What they had was an office sharing arrangement. But they were all friends as well as colleagues and anything that affects one likely affected all of them. The Brittany Riley case was currently affecting all of them. Plus, they had these meetings about once a month just to help each other out if needed.
“Okay,” Connie began after each had taken a seat at the conference room table. “How’s everyone doing?”
“I’m okay,” Barry said. “December was bad but January, compared to a year ago is actually a little better.”
“Chris?” Connie asked.
“I’m down almost twenty percent. But I’m not sure what’s causing it.” Chris Grafton was a corporate lawyer that handled small business accounts. “It could be the economy and the weather. My clients are telling me their businesses are also down so…”
“It causes a ripple effect on others. Are you okay?” Connie asked.
“Yeah, I am. If I need a short-term loan, I’ll let you know.”
“Marc?”
“Right now I’m fine. I need to talk to the Rileys. The defense fund isn’t going to last much longer. We’ve got a lot of expenses coming up. I’ll see them this weekend. There’s untapped revenue in a home equity loan they can get. Barbara already told me that.”
“So, it sounds like we’re not in too bad of shape. We need to get that Riley trial done,” she said looking at Marc. “You know I love you guys, and if you need any help, let me know.”
Connie was the beneficiary of several successful marriages and subsequent divorces. On top of that, she had a very successful law practice and had inherited from her parents a sizeable estate including the building they were seated in. She had helped all of them out on several occasions, cash flow being what it is and was always willing to lend a hand. Despite what most people believe, the practice of law is a tough, competitive way to make a living and very few lawyers get rich.
Gabriella and her cameraman, Kyle Bronson, an affable, balding overweight, forty-something married father of three were wrapping up her final interview. So far, they had only met one man, a sixty-year-old self-confessed court watcher, who knew everything about the Riley case coming to Rochester. Gabriella, despite the cold, was able to talk to the man for almost fifteen minutes before he had to leave.
Gabriella was dressed in warm boots, insulated underwear and a heavy fur-lined very chic black parka. Even with all of that, she was almost stiff from the cold. To wrap it up, Gabriella, runny nose and all looked into the camera and said, “I must say, these have to be the nicest people I’ve ever met. The people in the Cities, as pleasant as they normally are, would not stand outside in this weather to talk to anyone, let alone a reporter.
“And one last thing Hunter, just so you know, someday, no matter how long it takes, I’m going to cut your balls off for making me stand out here and freeze my ass off to do this.”
Everyone at the station who saw and heard the last remark wanted desperately to put it on the air, especially Melinda. Hunter Oswood, who laughed as loud as anyone, edited it out himself just to make sure no one could sneak it past him. He did manage to keep a copy for himself to be used at Gabriella’s next performance review.
FORTY-FIVE
Marc looked around the windowless, oak-paneled courtroom where he would be spending most of the week. As usual, despite all of the courtroom experience he had and the jury trials he had done, he was barely able to sleep the night before. Wide awake by 5:00 A.M., he got up, shaved, showered and went downstairs for breakfast to get ready for the day.
He arrived early, barely minutes past 7:00 A.M. The moment he stepped off the elevator, he was immediately confronted by a mass of media members waiting for the door of Courtroom Seven to open. The waiting area on the sixth floor of the Olmstead County Government Center’s court division was not especially large. It was mostly used for witnesses waiting to be called and wasn’t suited for a mob like this. Marc had all he could do to muscle his way through while saying “no comment” all the way to the single entryway door.
Marc showed the two burly male sheriff’s deputies his I.D. and while they checked for his name on their list, he noticed Gabriella Shriqui standing in front of a window that overlooked the frozen Zumbro. He said both “hello” and
“no comment” to her at the same time. She smiled back as the guard opened the door for Marc.
Once inside the bar, he laid claim to the table he wanted, the one on the right-hand side of the courtroom. Marc set his briefcase and overcoat on top of the table which would put him closest to the witness stand.
Unlike most courts, the pathway to the bar was not in the middle of the gallery. It was on the left-hand side, along the wall. When he entered, he walked up to the gate which was on that same left side of the courtroom as was the jury box. Even though he had used the skyway to walk over the river from the Holiday Inn to the courthouse, he still wore a heavy winter coat. He wanted to use it as an additional prop to secure the table he wanted. A minute later, before Marc had seated himself, another deputy, a woman, came in from the back hallway.
They greeted each other with a pleasant “good morning” and Marc said, “Maybe you ought to let them in to get them out of the hall.”
“The judge’s clerk is preparing a drawing, a lottery to allow some of them in. If we let them all in we wouldn’t have room for anyone else,” the woman said as she took up station in front of the bench.
“Make the media sit in the back two rows,” Marc said which made the woman chuckle.
There are five hard, uncomfortable wooden benches in this courtroom’s gallery. There is a space along both walls, with the bench seats in between them, to allow people to come and go without crawling over everyone in that row. Each bench is long enough to accommodate about fifteen normal sized people fairly comfortably. Except, after maybe two hours, a normal person’s butt and lower back will become pretty sore, which Marc believed is why the benches are intentionally made uncomfortable; so people wouldn’t loiter. There are courtroom junkies, people that use trials as entertainment, who are experienced enough to carry a small pillow with them if they can sneak it past security.
The first row was reserved for Brittany’s family and staff for the lawyers. Marc told Barbara and Floyd they did not have to attend but Barbara insisted. By eight o’clock the two of them along with Barbara’s sister, Charlotte Daniels, were seated behind Marc and Bri
ttany. Taking up most of the row, behind the other table, were nine members of the prosecution, staff and jury consultants. At the table to Marc’s left, closest to the empty jury box, were Lowell Vanderbeck and Danica Hart.
Marc, Vanderbeck and Hart had conferred with Judge Connors in chambers to make sure everyone understood the rules. The judge reminded them that this was a first-degree murder trial and the prospective jurors must be questioned one at a time. The judge would first ask a series of routine questions, most of which had been included in the pre-selection questionnaire dealing with the overt bias and hardship of being sequestered for a long trial. Marc, for the defense, would be allowed to ask questions first and then the prosecution. This would continue until there were twelve jurors and four alternates. Connors had made it clear that he was not going to let this go beyond Friday.
“I’m so nervous,” Brittany whispered to Marc. “I’m glad I’m sitting down. Who are all those people?” she asked indicating with a nod toward the prosecution crew seated behind them. A couple of them, an older man and a younger woman, were leaning over the rail conversing with Vanderbeck and Hart.
“That’s the prosecution team,” Marc told her. “I’m so good they need a whole team,” he smiled.
Brittany smiled and laughed at his little joke and then said, “I hope so.”
[Marc Kadella 03.0] Media Justice Page 27
