“Ms. Larson?”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Jane said, standing up.
“Do you disagree with Ms. Sanders’ statement of the law?”
“No, Your Honor, but I do have three points I would like to make in response.”
The judge checked his watch.
“Proceed.”
“First, Your Honor, I would like to point out that my client is 78 years old and is not in the best of health and—”
Judge Adamo interrupted her.
“You’re not suggesting that she is immune from the law because she is an elderly person, are you Ms. Larson?” he asked, his face fixed rigidly.
“No, Sir.”
“Well then, unless you are prepared to provide medical testimony that your client is in imminent danger of death if I incarcerate her, I would move on to the next point.”
“Your Honor—”
“Move on, Counselor.”
“The second point is that there was a crowd of TV, radio and newspaper people outside when we arrived this morning, and they have filled this courtroom as well.”
“You’re not forgetting the First Amendment are you?”
There was a wave of laughter through the members of the media.
“Grand Jury proceedings are supposed to be secret for the protection of the witnesses and the accused. The District Attorney’s office is using this Grand Jury as a publicity machine, which is improper and is prejudicing my client. I was informed by a member of the press this morning that the ADA personally called several newspapers and other media outlets.”
Sanders jumped to her feet.
“That’s absolutely false, Your Honor. I was as surprised as anyone to see the gathering outside when I arrived this morning. I don’t know who called those people, but I will represent to this Court right now that it was not me, not anyone at my direction and no one from my office that I am aware of either. And with all due respect, this is nothing but a smokescreen generated by Ms. Larson to distract the court from the central truth. The Grand Jury is entitled to Maureen O’Reilly’s evidence and she has refused to give it.”
She sat down and the Judge turned to Jane.
“I have not known Ms. Sanders to be anything but honest with the Court, Ms. Larson. I am not foreclosing you from pursuing the point, but I would suggest that you be on a very firm factual basis before you do so.”
“Your Honor, I related to the Court what I was told by one member of the press this morning. I know we didn’t call them.”
“Then maybe Diana did,” the ADA rejoined.
Again there was a wave of laughter.
“Next point, Ms. Larson,” the judge said sternly.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Jane said. “My third point is this—Ms. Sanders has, as you know, described very well the cases in this area of the law. She's certainly correct when she says that as a general rule no one can refuse to testify before the grand jury unless he or she asserts a Fifth Amendment or other privilege, which we concede is not the situation here. All the same, she has skipped over one critical aspect of those cases. As Your Honor knows, the grand jury is an arm of the court, not the District Attorney's office. It's independent of the prosecutor and always has been under our judicial system since the earliest times. Of course, the District Attorney may guide the grand jury in the law and present evidence and question witnesses. But it's the grand jury that should decide in the end what they want to hear and from whom. Now, as far as I can tell from listening to Ms. Sanders and from talking to my client, those 23 grand jurors were never even asked if they wanted to have Miss O’Reilly answer the question posed by the ADA. Certainly, Ms. Sanders never asked them. Until she does, and the Grand Jurors respond affirmatively, I respectfully submit that there's nothing for this Court to order.”
Jane sat down and Sanders jumped up.
“This is pure obfuscation! This is—”
The judge held up his hands and motioned them both to come forward to a sidebar conference.
“She makes a good point, Ms. Sanders,” the judge said, not bothering to hide his obvious displeasure. “It’s indeed a technical point but a valid point. So you will bring Miss O’Reilly before the Grand Jury again and make sure you ask them if they want the answer to this extremely important question.”
“But Your Honor, I’ve sent them home already.”
“Well that may be all for the good, Ms. Sanders. I was inclined to give Miss O’Reilly one more night to think this over anyway.” He turned his attention to Jane. “But make no mistake, Ms. Larson, she must answer the questions of the Grand Jury tomorrow or face the strict sanctions of this court. Please convey that to your client.”
He glared at Maureen again. She sat unperturbed at the table.
“She’s not afraid to go to jail,” Jane said.
“And I’m not afraid to send her,” the judge replied. “See you tomorrow.”
They turned to go back to the counsel tables as the Court announced that the People’s application was denied, without prejudice, to a new application being made at noon the next day.
The courtroom emptied quickly, as members of the media rushed out into the hall to use their cell phones to report the results of the day’s sparring. Sanders was packing up her briefcase when Jane went over to her table.
“I just wanted to say...” Jane began, “I should have asked you first about the publicity before accusing you. So, I’m sorry about that.”
Sanders looked up angrily. She pulled her coat tight across her chest, hiding the triangle of flesh exposed by her blouse.
“Frankly, you should be,” she said.
Jane stopped herself from walking away.
“I know. Again, I apologize.”
Sanders closed her briefcase and pulled it off the surface of the table. It swung heavily against her leg.
“Look, I know what you think,” she said. “You think I’m just a little bleached blond babe trying to make a name for myself. Well, let me tell you something. I’m not as smart as you. I’m not as smart as a lot of people. But I work damned hard, every day and every night to make up for it. And if I can get a little bit of an edge from my appearance, I will damn well take it, just as any man will take an edge from his looks. Only a fool would do otherwise, and my mother didn’t raise a fool.” She started to turn away and then hesitated.
“But I do appreciate your apology,” she said, and for a brief moment Jane thought she saw a tear glistening in Sanders’ eye.
Jane put out her hand.
“See you tomorrow, Stacey.”
Sanders shook Jane’s hand in a firm grip and hurried from the room.
“Whoa, what was that all about?’ Maggie whispered then.
“Just lawyer talk,” Jane said. “I’ll tell you later.
When they got downstairs, the members of the media were still there. They formed a kind of scrum around them as Jane and Maggie tried to usher Maureen to a cab or the subway, whichever they got to first. Questions filled the air.
“What did the judge say?”
“What is Maureen going to do tomorrow?”
“Are you going to jail?”
Finally, Maureen stopped and would not go further.
“Just a minute,” she said. “I have something to say.”
“No, Maureen.”
“Yes, Jane,” she replied, gently but firmly. She stood on one of the steps to the court so that the news people could all see and hear her. “You know, when they wrote the Declaration of Independence, they didn’t just start off announcing independence. They began by listing the reasons they had for their actions so the world would not judge them wrongly. And for something of the same reason, I also would like to explain why I’m doing what I’m doing.” As those around grew quiet, Maureen searched in her bag for a piece of yellow, lined paper that she unfolded and glanced at quickly. Then she stood up straight and squared her shoulders as if ready for a fight. In her high-pitched, wavering voice, she began to read.
> “As many of you know, I’m what they used to call an Old Maid. And having lived on the West Side of New York all my life, I qualify as a West Side Old Maid, and maybe that’s justification enough for acting crazy now and then.” A smattering of laughter rose from her listeners. Jane suppressed a smile. “So I’ve lived an Old Maid’s life, with an Old Maid’s job, and an Old Maid’s apartment, complete with doilies under everything and dishes of candy for other people’s children who happen to visit. And at age 78, I can almost say it doesn't bother me anymore.” She paused again, but this time it was clearly to gather her own strength to continue. “But I was young once, and more than one boy thought I was pretty. I was the only child of a fine woman and the fine man she married. Yes, my father was a very fine man when my mother married him. Handsome. Tall. And he was a respected member of the community and of his church. A man with many friends. A man, who liked a drink at the end of a hard day and who, behind the door that closed every night upon the world outside, terrorized my mother with his fists. That fine man drank himself stupid every day that I can remember, and when he did my Mother would retreat in terror. If he didn’t hit her with his fists every night, he did so enough that she expected a blow at any moment and cringed in his presence. And when he wasn’t hitting her, he was abusing her with words, telling her she was stupid, telling her she was ugly, that her body was that of a shriveled old hag, that she was worthless to him, that she was lucky he didn’t kick her out into the street. And to my shame, I did nothing. Oh, I would comfort her, I would sit with her, I would urge her to leave him, but to my everlasting shame I did not take a knife from the kitchen drawer and cut his throat while he slept. And so it went every day, dreading his return every night, until one late October afternoon we received a call from the hospital that he was dead. He’d keeled over on the sidewalk and died of a heart attack. I remember the doctor saying that he died almost immediately—he didn’t suffer—and my asking God, why not? Why didn’t he suffer? And on the anniversary of his death and on all the intervening days, I ask myself the question as well. “Why didn’t he suffer? And why did I allow my mother to suffer?”
Maureen paused and took a deep breath, her eyes glued on that piece of paper as though she might not be able to go on. Jane stood completely still beside her, glaring at the pavement between her toes.
“So it comes down to this,” she continued. “I don't condone what this woman called Diana has done. I don't say that it was right or fair or good or even defensible. But I do understand her. I understand her as if she were my own twin. And I understand the anger she seems to represent for every woman who was ever a victim of violence or the threat of violence and who didn’t fight back, to the death if necessary. And I swear to you on the grave of that dear old mother of mine—the woman who, until the day she herself left this earth for a better place, thought she had done something to deserve the beatings—I will never betray Diana.”
She handed the piece of paper to Maggie.
“As I promised,” she said.
Without a word, the crowd parted and the three of them walked through and hailed a cab home.
Chapter Thirty-Two
News of Maureen’s appearance before the Grand Jury and of the threat of her being thrown in jail was broadcast on virtually every TV and radio news program running that afternoon and evening. Some of the radio personalities re-played her entire speech, including Susan Hempten, who also dedicated a half hour of the Dr. Suzy show to Maureen—the unlikely heroine—a topic with so much local importance that it quickly took over the entire hour. One of her callers was the first to suggest that women should appear at the courthouse the next morning to demonstrate their support of Maureen’s decision. Soon afterward, a caller from the Eumenides promised that her group would be keeping a vigil outside the courthouse everyday that Maureen was in jail. Other women’s groups, including WPW, contacted their members via e-mail to publicize the demonstration. By the time Jane, Maggie and Maureen reached the Criminal Court building the next morning, a crowd of close to two hundred women had already completely filled the sidewalk in front of the courthouse and was spilling out onto Centre Street.
Judith had arrived literally at first light with a few members of the Eumenides. They wore the long down coat and knit cap attributed to Diana and were in the first row of protestors behind the temporary sawhorse barriers that the police had hurriedly put in place once word spread about the demonstration. All of the Eumenides waved signs, most of which read “Jail Abusers, Not Victims”—a slogan which they also chanted loudly from time to time. One of them held a sign with a picture of Mariana Morales and the words “Remember Mariana!”
As more women arrived, they joined in the chant that the Eumenides had started. Each time, Judith led it off with the rhythmic beating of a large wooden spoon on the back of a soup pot, a sound that reverberated among the brick buildings on either side of the street and could be heard blocks away. The TV crews all filmed the Eumenides activities with the rest of the crowd of women behind them. Several interviews were conducted also with the Eumenides serving as a backdrop, waving their signs and shouting their slogans.
Judith called out to Jane as she, Maggie and Maureen were walking into the building. Jane could not ignore that voice. She stopped and waved, and Judith motioned her over so emphatically that she left Maureen with Maggie and went to the edge of the barricade.
As she approached, they started chanting her name “Jan-ey Lar-son, Mar-tha’s Daugh-ter. Jan-ey Lar-son, Mar-tha’s Daugh-ter.”
Embarrassed, she smiled and raised her hand weakly in acknowledgement. She started to rejoin Maggie and Maureen, but Judith motioned her closer still, mouthing words that were impossible to hear above the din. As Jane leaned forward, Judith suddenly grabbed her head in both of her hands.
“I’m unbelievably fucking proud of you!” she screamed and kissed her on the mouth, holding Jane’s lips to hers for a long second. Then she whispered. “And I love you more than she does, Jane. I do!”
When she let go, the Eumenides erupted in a cheer that was carried through the crowd.
“Jan-ey Larson, Martha’s Daugh-ter.”
“You know I’m right!” Judith shouted.
Jane just waved again and returned to Maggie and Maureen, still flustered by the attention and Judith’s surprising kiss and the strength that had been evident in her hands and arms.
“Quite a show she puts on,” Jane said.
“Oh, yes!” Maureen said. “It’s really remarkable.”
“Except that it’s not a show, is it?” Maggie added. “She means it.”
“To me it’s all a show,” Jane replied, but Maggie didn’t respond. She was looking across at Judith.
“She can’t take her fucking eyes off of you,” Maggie said.
“Let’s go inside,” Jane said.
When they reached the floor of the Grand Jury room, they could hear the sound of the wooden spoon beating on the pot as if it were just outside the window, instead of many floors below, and the rhythm of the chanting rose in waves to that beat.
At one point as they waited, Maureen got up and looked out the window. Someone below spotted her and a cheer erupted along with a new chant, “Maur-een, Maur-een, Maur-een!”
She waved and the noise grew larger in response. More and more women passing by joined the crowd.
“Come stand with me, Jane,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Jane said. “You’re the one they want.”
Maggie took her hand and squeezed it.
“Please join her,” Maggie said softly, whispering. “I’m sorry about earlier. I really am. It’s just that you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, and the thought of losing you is just a little too much for me.”
“There’s no chance of that happening,” Jane said.
She got up and joined Maureen, and a new cheer rose up from the crowd as they stood beside each other and waved. In the midst of it, the banging on the pot became more rapi
d like the beat of a pulse.
A minute or two later, the door to the Grand Jury opened and the clerk called Maureen’s name. Jane kissed her, as did Maggie, and Maureen walked through the door with the same unflappable calm that she had displayed throughout.
* * * *
Inside the Grand Jury room, Maureen took her seat, sitting up straight with her purse in her lap, her gloved hands folded on top.
Sanders repeated certain questions that she had asked the day before and Maureen answered them, until she got to the one that asked for the identity of Diana. Dead silence ensued for several seconds. Then Maureen again refused, politely but firmly.
Sanders turned to the Grand Jurors.
“Would the Grand Jury like Miss O’Reilly to answer the question that I have posed?”
The question was directed to a man of about fifty-five years, who had dressed in a business suit for each session and who had been designated the foreman of the Grand Jury by vote the first day. He had thick, curly carrot-red hair and a face full of freckles. Even his brown eyes seemed to have specks of red in them. He looked around at his fellow jurors, meeting each of their gazes solidly before moving on.
“I don’t,” a woman said then. This was the young black woman with the beads in her hair who had sat in the front row and smiled back at Maureen the day before. She worked as a file clerk at a small law firm in the city, and had been one of the few suggesting her own questions to the ADA during prior testimony, and had uniformly voted with the prosecutor when indictments were being considered. Now she stood up. “And I don’t much like that we might have sent this lady to jail without even being told what we were doing.”
Praise Her, Praise Diana Page 25