Violence

by Timothy McDougall

  “This is an open and shut case.” Anderson carefully pounded his fist on the edge of the table.

  “You got three guys caught and charged with the crime, murder-one and criminal sexual assault.” Ward reminded him, tapping a forefinger on the tabletop as a sort of rejoinder. “Believe me, that’s more than most people get.”

  “I want these guys dead!” Anderson seethed again, unable to contain his rage.

  “You’re not going to get that!” Ward quickly responded, then added, “The death penalty was abolished here in Illinois anyway, remember?”

  “So that’s it?” Anderson threw his hands up with scornful resignation. “They’re going to say my wife invited them back for a party? And the jury is going to believe that?”

  “Who knows with juries?” Ward promptly blurted in reply, but he had to take a moment before he answered fully because Anderson surely wasn’t going to like what he had to say. He shoveled in a couple mouthfuls of food then continued. “The first thing a juror says to themselves when they sit in that box is I don’t want to be here making this decision. It’s dirty business to right a wrong. A jury should be able to see through their lies if the prosecutors do their job. The problem is you’re asking the jury to get your justice for you. They see these guys cleaned up. They think I don’t want to hurt another human being. The defense, if they’re any good either, they’ll create a reasonable doubt even where there isn’t any. Try to find two people to agree on anything let alone twelve. They’ll have the jurors thinking their consideration of the evidence should be based on a standard of beyond all doubt. You have to hire me just to make a little sense of this mess. And they get free attorneys to assert their rights.”

  “So what do I do?” Anderson asked, seeking some course of action.

  “Nothing, your hands are tied.” Ward answered straightforwardly and finished the last of his coffee.

  “I can’t just sit here.” Anderson declared, expectant that there must be an alternative to Ward’s view that he do “nothing.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” Ward stated emphatically and with force. “Problem is you’re in a war. Just no one thought to tell you. War inside your head, your soul. You’re full of hate and anger right now. How long do you think you can maintain that?”

  “Forever.” Anderson responded firmly.

  Ward grinned ever so slightly at this. He used the back of his hand, wiped a falling bead of sweat from his brow. He was eating too fast. Talking too much. Getting too worked up.

  Anderson watched Ward use the clean part of his napkin to soak up the remaining sweat in the forehead spaces on both sides of his particularly prominent widow’s peak. Anderson figured Ward’s rosacea was probably part genetic, part alcohol driven. Anderson also calculated he was probably going to end up looking like Ward at the rate he was going from the sheer volume of alcohol he was consuming. The alcohol, though, for himself was a Godsend. Without it he didn’t know what he would do. It deadened the pain, as it must do for Ward. His job must wear on him. By proximity alone he must pick up at least some of the stress of his client’s problems, carry some of the weight.

  “Trial date should be…” Ward pushed the remainder of his breakfast into a pile and talked as he spooned it in heaps into his mouth. “…most likely, 3, 4, 5 years from now, if you’re lucky. You might have a right to a timely disposition of this case but the justice system is designed to wear you down, take away emotion. The defense wants it to be old news. They want witnesses to die, or fall away or question their own memories because everything’s gotten so stretched. Prosecutors always think they have a weak case and will want to secure more evidence. There’ll be dozens of motions and the judge will allow it all because he doesn’t want to be reversed on appeal, or be accused of favoring one side over the other. Hell, you’ve got a business to run. For you this is about closure, meaning of life. These other people, the ones you want to do the right thing by you, they just don’t want to know you.”

  “So you’re saying if I’m nice about it, everybody will be nice and I’ll get fucked.” Anderson sourly summarized. “And if I’m not nice, everybody will be an asshole and I’ll get fucked?”

  “I’m saying your job is to get through it, and go on with your life.”

  “What life? I’m revisited every minute of every day by the memory of my wife and daughter, and what was done to them.”

  “And that’s not going to go away, no matter what happens.” Ward had finished with Anderson, with his food, with everything. He picked up the check. “This one’s on me.”

  And with that, Ward walked off to pay.

  Anderson, reflective, looked out the window.

  Father Cannova said he’d recover. Ward was saying forget it, it’s torment forever. Anderson thought to himself how Ward would make a lousy priest and Cannova would make a lousy private investigator. They were as different as night and day.

  CHAPTER 12

  The two years that passed felt like the memory loss and “missing time” experiences that are symptomatic to those who claim to have been alien abductees. Anderson didn’t remember sleeping but remembered it was challenging. He hardly remembered being awake either. It was countless the number of times he would be driving and couldn’t remember if the light was red or green in that intersection he just passed through. It scared him how little he cared. He didn’t want to hurt anyone else. Just himself.

  Anderson could only label the seasons as: an unrelenting sun-bleached beating - an ever darkening chill - a frigid permanent whiteout - and a fog that never lifted.

  He would put in low-bids on his competitors in an attempt to stay busy. He didn’t go to the work sites. Roman was handling that. Anderson wasn’t ready to deal with all the personalities just yet, and he was sure they were just as happy to not have to deal with him also. Actually, Anderson hardly ever went in to the office, either. The few times he did go Joyce found a way to act like the murders never happened and glued herself to her office duties. She was no doubt thankful for his mostly absentee status.

  He did remember being in the fetal position quite a bit, having drunk to excess, and wishing God, but more likely Satan would take him – somehow. It was a recurring event which was growing tiresome and made him think maybe he was in hell already.

  He did also remember consciously trying to push away all thoughts of Karen and Tristan actually being murdered. The guilt would be overwhelming as the images tried to bang through his defenses. Even the slightest mental reconstruction of their slaughter would turn him homicidal with rage.

  CHAPTER 13

  “All rise! The Superior Court for the County of Cook, State of Illinois, is now in session, the Honorable Harold R. Marr presiding! Whoever has business before this court will now be heard! God save the United States and this honorable court!“

  It was the People of Illinois

  v.

  Derek Lysander

  Gabriel Lysander

  And Ruben Roney

  And the shopping list of charges ranged in the indictments from two counts each of first-degree murder, home invasion, aggravated discharge of a firearm, possession of a controlled substance and aggravated criminal sexual assault for both Lysanders (except there was no firearm charge in Gabriel or Ruben’s case), all the way to two counts of first-degree murder, home invasion, and attempted aggravated criminal sexual assault for Ruben Roney.

  The reason Ruben was also up on the murder charges, even though he was outside at the time Tristan’s “accident” occurred and when the fatal shot that killed Karen was fired, was due to the “Felony Murder Rule” which states that if you are committing a felony (in this case rape) and someone dies during the commission of the crime, whether accidentally or intentionally, you can also be charged with the murder even though you may not have even been present or had any intent or reason to believe someone would be killed during the course of the offense. It’s a bit controversial but it is the law in Illinois, nonetheless.

  Bonds wer
e set at a million each for Derek and Gabriel, $500,000 for Ruben. None of the three were ever released on bail before the trial.

  Prosecutors were hoping the sheer weight of the charges would compel them to all cop to a plea, which did not occur. They offered reduced second-degree murder charges, which is considered an intentional killing but where there is no premeditation. It is more a heat of the moment murder and prosecutors were selling it as “it was understandable that you were fired from your job earlier in the day and you went to the home of the person who you thought caused it and things just got out of hand.”

  Derek and the others were lucky to begin with that the gun was not theirs, but considering the rape evidence and the Felony Murder Rule, prosecutors brought a first-degree murder charge which carries a minimum sentence of 20 years in prison to a maximum of life behind bars. There are no “good time” provisions. It’s a Class X felony. The entire sentence must be served. Coupled with the home invasion, the forcible felony of sexual assault, and with “extended term” provisions for “exceptionally brutal or heinous behavior indicative of wanton behavior,” they were looking at a minimum of 30 years each.

  If they took the deal, second-degree murder is a Class 1 felony which carries a sentence of 4 to 20 years (with even probation an option for up to 4 years), and prosecutors dangled prison terms of 19 years each for the Lysanders and 15 years for Roney. This was important. Sentences of 20 years or more would send them to a maximum security prison. These lesser terms, anything from an 8 to 19 year sentence, could be served at a medium security facility (and sentences of 7 years or less are usually served at a minimum security prison). It would make a difference. They were also given hope that they’d get out before they were really old men.

  Roney was already climbing the walls. He didn’t want to do any more time. Most inmates get “turned-out” on the inside, forced into homosexual relationships, but Roney, unlike the Lysanders, was on the receiving end of the attacks, that is he had been penetrated and was therefore considered a “boy,” not a “man.” This meant he would be sold for sex, and was a pass around punk-ass bitch for a wolf or predator. He was the recipient of a “Covered Wagon” party his first night in the Cook County Correctional Center several years back for his other offenses and luckily had been avoiding the same fate on this go-around, so far. But only because of his association with the Lysanders.

  A Covered Wagon is an assault where prisoners drape blankets over the bunk beds to obstruct the view of guards and then assault another inmate, usually a “newbie,” by knocking all their teeth out and forcing them to perform fellatio for everyone. It also includes being sodomized to the point that blood will literally pour from your anus. Roney never wanted to experience that again. He had been trying to prove his manhood ever since and that was how he began to hang around the Lysanders, meeting them in a bar one night, where all three of them had a gang-bang with a cocktail waitress. He just hoped to get their cast-offs.

  Prosecutors early on also tried to get Roney to “turn State’s evidence.” They could sense his more frail nature, and offered him a sentence of 5 years on the lesser second-degree murder charge with 3 years probation to testify against his accomplices. He refused, flat out. He was far more afraid of the Lysanders and what they would do to him when they got out. Derek and Gabriel had mentioned repeatedly how a snitch, in their world, doesn’t ever deserve a beat down but should always be killed. Roney didn’t want to rely on them getting maximum prison terms.

  The prosecutors knew they were shooting low, hoping to hit something and move on, but this time they missed. Derek and the others indicated through their public defenders that they were not interested in any plea deal. They were taking the gamble as well. They actually hoped to get an acquittal, and stranger things have happened.

  Derek, Gabriel and Ruben also all agreed to be tried together. Their testimonies matched. There were no accusations of blame towards each other, no vast differences in who was where aside from Ruben who said he was outside when the fatal shot was fired, which was true. It was simply a very cost-effective way to try them considering that essentially identical witnesses were to be called in all their cases, with the same evidence being presented, and since they didn’t bargain, bundling the cases could possibly be appreciated at sentencing, should they lose. That was good lawyering as well, since the judge they drew had fifty criminal cases pending, and his calendar was not unusual.

  There were the typical maneuverings and standard hearings before the trial itself ever began. There was even a defense motion to dismiss all charges claiming the indictment itself was incomplete. It challenged that “there was not even enough evidence to bring charges,” and “if there is an insufficiency in the charging instrument, a judge is compelled to examine the whole of the case, and if there is a deficiency anywhere, even concerning probable cause, then a motion to dismiss may be brought.” They did bring their motion. And the judge did deny it.

  There was also an “In limine” motion before the start of the trial where the defense counsel asked the judge to bar introducing their prior convictions saying they were unduly prejudicial. Since the defendants were not testifying in their own defense, the judge agreed and therefore that evidence would not be presented to the jury.

  The Lysanders “priors” wouldn’t have clearly shown a pattern anyway because the “unlawful restraint” convictions, for which they spent sixteen months apiece in Joliet Penitentiary, were “plead downs” from the much more serious attempted sexual assault. This was an aborted rape of a 19-year-old grocery store check-out girl who happened to go to the wrong dance club one evening.

  Also, it was the dropped deviate sexual abuse charges against them, (if charges could be introduced into evidence which they cannot), that would have created the most damage against the Lysanders. Deviate sexual abuse is usually against a minor and was so in their case. It was against a 15-year-old girl who they had “met” when they were working as part-time drivers for a school bus company. The young girl came across them at a summer carnival where they brought her to their vehicle and forced her to orally copulate both of them. The parents of the girl went to the police and filed charges but some weeks into the process decided not to subject their daughter or themselves to the rigors of a trial, and promptly moved out-of-state. The parents had gotten especially nervous when they learned they needed a conviction or else there could be a lawsuit brought against them by the suspects for falsely claiming their daughter was sexually assaulted. The parents of the girl concluded they had all suffered enough.

  As Ward predicted, the defense did ask for Anderson to be excluded from the trial because his presence would also be “prejudicial” and Judge Marr denied it. However, as Ward also foretold, in a subsequent motion they put Anderson on their witness list and claimed his hearing the testimony of others would taint his own eventual sworn statements and the judge allowed it. Therefore, Ward would have to give Anderson an accounting of events until Anderson took the stand.

  The trial itself took place several weeks past the 2nd anniversary of Karen and Tristan’s deaths. That second remembrance had been an incredibly cold day in May, a record for the date. It was now mid-June and so hot the asphalt was spongy walking across the thoroughfares to the court building. The street surfaces reminded Anderson of that plushy carpet in the funeral home.

  The court building always smelled similar to a petting zoo, like straw and animal urine with feces. Maybe it was because of the distasteful, beastlike nature of the business that was done there. Regardless, it smelled that way all year round.

  Anderson waited restlessly for Ward to arrive in a corner of the vast vaulted lobby of the criminal courts building. They had already spoken in the parking lot of the Heart-O’Mine motel that morning. They had very few words. Anderson was anxious to get going with the trial, hoping with it there would be some measure of closure.

  Ward was careful not to give any false hope but he was not downbeat, either. He also didn’t tell Anders
on the trial could’ve been delayed much further, months, even years, but he heard the defendants were just as anxious to get at it because recent indications were, with the lousy economy and prison overcrowding, violent crime was not getting the usual hard look, especially at sentencing, even where homicide was concerned.

  It took ten minutes standing on line for Anderson to get through courthouse security which was choked with attorneys, witnesses, victims, jurors, defendants free on bail, relatives of defendants, and the odd law student or spectator.

  The sheriffs who were assigned as screeners growled commands at the sweaty, nervous inflow of courthouse arrivals. Anderson thought it felt like you were entering a prison of sorts. Everywhere it was dirty, like O’Hare airport during the Christmas rush, only this place was no doubt always filthy.

  Anderson was going to be left to bide his time in the plaza while Ward would have the job of monitoring the trial proceedings and taking notes in the spectators’ gallery.

  Right now, Anderson simply watched Ward move up in the queue where Ward finally got to empty the contents of his pockets into the plastic bins provided by security before he would be allowed to proceed through the metal detectors. There were several gang members immediately ahead of Ward, dressed banger-chic, off to attend some “associate’s” trial. They slowed things up, each gang member having to submit to an individual pat-down and hand-held wand detector search.

  Ward eventually walked-through the large, upright rectangular metal detection portal without setting off the dreaded “beep” and collected his belongings on the other side of a long table. He disappeared into an elevator with a gaggle of lost-souls, low-lifes, and lawyers.