by Jose Baez
I didn’t have to be back in court for two more days for the sentencing, so that night I was picked up and I flew to New York, and I did my first—and only—post-trial interview with Barbara Walters.
Everyone came calling, everyone, but at the end of the day I thought, The verdict speaks for itself. I’m not going to make the rounds and gloat. It’s not the right thing to do.
I wanted to be gracious in victory. I didn’t want to come across as a blowhard.
IF YOU WERE TO ASK ME whether Casey received a fair trial, my personal opinion would be no. A lot of his rulings would have come back on appeal. But having said that, what Judge Belvin Perry did extremely well was make sure Casey had a fair jury.
During jury selection he gave us ample time to interview the jurors, to speak to them. He also was very strict when it came to protecting the jurors from outside influences. He sequestered them, and he also kept up their mood and their stamina. He went out of his way to make sure this jury wasn’t influenced, and that was no easy task. It was a massive undertaking, and he did it with flying colors.
WE RETURNED TO THE COURTROOM for sentencing. Ashton wasn’t in attendance. As soon as the trial was over, he immediately announced his retirement. He retired literally within hours of the verdict. And then he flew to New York to do media appearances.
When we were celebrating at Terrace 390 after the verdict, one of the media people calling me informed me that Ashton was going to be on the Today show. I texted Linda Drane Burdick asking her if she knew.
“I know now,” she texted back.
What I ended up finding out was that even before the trial began, Ashton had hired Annie Scranton, a publicist, who three weeks before the verdict had booked him for the Today show. This appearance was supposed to be his victory dance. The idea was for him to fly the next morning after the verdict, and the only reason he wouldn’t be on the show was if there was a first-degree murder conviction, and then he would do the show after the penalty phase. There were rumors that early on in the trial she was going around looking for a ghostwriter for him.
Now I don’t have a problem with Ashton writing a book. I’d be a hypocrite if I did, but when I was trying this case, a book was the furthest thing from my mind, and it appears it was the only thing on his mind while trying this case. His book came out in November—the verdict was in July—so you can imagine how quickly they had to put it together.
What bothers me the most is that he had filed a motion accusing me of having a conflict of interest, when in fact there could be no more of a conflict of interest for a prosecutor—a minister of justice on a death penalty case—when you’re intention is to profit. I am appalled that someone had that much authority and was able to do what he did. And I’ll take it a step further. Hands down the thing that bothered me the most about Jeff Ashton was that he didn’t bother to show up for the sentencing.
If I had lost this trial, and Casey would have been convicted of first-degree murder, I would have had to turn over the case to Ann Finnel, our death penalty lawyer, and I wouldn’t have had a role in the penalty phase. It would have been the most difficult thing for me to do, passing all the “I told you so” guys in the media, the public, everyone, who were saying for months, “I told you she was going to fry.” But I would have done it. I would have gone to court, and I would have been there every single day. This guy didn’t even have the decency to show up and sit next to his team at sentencing. I felt horrible for Burdick and George, having to sit there without Ashton, who was in part responsible for the not-guilty verdict. He was off to New York making media appearances and book deals, instead of being at sentencing with his team.
It’s what cowards do—run away when they lose. They refuse to face the music. I can think of nothing worse to do to your team, and all I have to say about that is that Jeff Ashton, you’re a coward.
AFTER THE VERDICT WAS ANNOUNCED, the only person who called to thank me for saving Casey’s life was Lee Anthony. He called with a very touching message.
Afterward I said to Cindy, “You never even thanked me for saving your daughter’s life.”
“Yes, I did,” she said.
When in actuality, she hadn’t.
WE WERE HOPING JUDGE PERRY would give Casey credit for time served rather than make her stay in jail for ten more days, but we had no illusions about that happening.
Sure enough, he gave her the maximum time, and she was released ten days later on July 17, 2011.
Now the hard part: where does she go from here?
CHAPTER 34
A PRISONER IN HER OWN FREEDOM
AFTER SENTENCING, I had ten days to formulate a plan for getting Casey out of jail. I asked my California lawyer friend Todd Macaluso if he would fly his plane to Orlando so we could fly Casey out of the Orlando Executive Airport to someplace safe. There were too many crazies who were convinced she had killed Caylee while she danced the night away, and I feared for her safety.
I met a couple times with jail officials. We talked to the tactical-support team members, and they suggested that Casey and I wear bulletproof vests when leaving the jail.
“If you remember Timothy McVeigh,” said one of them, “every time he came and went, he wore a bulletproof vest.”
“She’s not Timothy McVeigh.” I replied sternly. Timothy McVeigh had bombed a federal building in Oklahoma City and killed more than a hundred people. Casey stood trial and had been found not guilty.
“No,” I said, “we’re walking out the front door, and you’re going to protect us.”
I had a meeting in our office with our entire staff to discuss how we were going to get Casey from the jail to the airport. In addition to avoiding an army of media, we knew we were going to also duck the surveillance of a half dozen helicopters.
To help us get away, the police agreed to shut down the John Young Parkway for three minutes once we left the jail to give us enough time to get on the highway, but I knew the media would stake out both sides of the highway, and getting to the airport wouldn’t be so easy.
William Slabaugh came up with the idea of our driving to a multilevel garage, where the helicopters couldn’t see us, driving a bunch of cars in the garage, and making them guess which car Casey was in as all the cars left the building.
Cheney’s building had such a garage and it was across the street from the courthouse. It was perfect.
We brainstormed and came up with different ideas. We talked of driving into the garage, walking out, and taking a different car to the airport. Or taking the elevator to a different floor and leaving in a different car. Or switching to a second car, sitting there for an hour, waiting until the media left, and then leaving.
At the airport, Todd put his plane in a hangar so no one would see it. According to Todd, the media helicopters were based at the executive airport. We’d be driving into the lion’s den.
Even worse, someone learned of our plan and alerted the media that we intended to fly out of the Orlando Executive Airport. So not only were we going to be followed from the jail, but the media would be staking out the airport.
Part of the plan was to drive to a shopping center near the executive airport, and from there an executive of the airport would drive up through a back gate to the plane. But we first had to get to the mall to meet him.
Casey wasn’t going to be released until midnight, so we spent the entire day working on our getaway plans. An hour before our departure time, we made a quick drive-by of the jail, and outside in the dark, two hundred protesters and gawkers were setting up tents, carrying the usual hateful signs like “The Bitch Should Be Fried,” and “Boycott Casey.” She did have two supporters. One carried a sign saying, “Casey, will you marry me?” and the other’s said, “She’s not guilty. Get over it.”
I thought to myself, One sane person out of two hundred. Not bad.
I looked up in the sky, and there was a small plane pulling a big She’s Guilty and She Should Die banner. Someone had gone to a lot of expense to e
xpress his or her anger.
We returned to the office. My law school interns met us there. All of them were going to drive into Cheney’s garage. Robert Haney was our security guard. Casey and I would start in his car and then switch to William’s car inside the garage where no one could see us. It would be midnight, and no one else would be there. After all our cars entered the garage, our plan was for Pat McKenna to stop his car at the garage entrance and prevent anyone else’s car from entering.
Then all the cars would leave. One would have Casey and me. One car would go east, one west, one north, one south, and the fifth car would go to the airport.
With our plan set, we went through the back way of the jail, as film crews shot us going in. After they patted me down, I went to a back room where Casey was sitting. She was wearing a dark pink polo shirt with jeans and some funky tennis shoes that had two-colored laces.
“Hey,” I said
“Hey,” Casey said.
Looking at her sneakers, I said, “What the hell is that all about?”
“They don’t exactly have a shopping mall here at the jail,” she said. “It’s what your office gave me, remember?”
As we sat there for the ten minutes until the clock struck midnight, I explained our plan to her, how Haney would pull up in his SUV, and I told her about the three options once we arrived inside the parking garage. As I looked at my watch, waiting for midnight, I said, “I can’t believe this day has finally come.”
“I can’t either,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m still trying to figure out, what am I going to do next?”
“The good thing is that you have the option of what to do next,” I said.
A small tear fell down her cheek. She smiled, and at that moment the chief of the jail came over and said, “Okay, we’re ready to go.”
We had made sure Casey had packed all her stuff so she could leave unencumbered, and as she walked out the jail door to freedom, she was escorted by a SWAT team in full riot gear. As she passed one of the guards, she turned to him and whispered, “Thank you.” He was one of the guards who had escorted her from the jail to the courthouse every day, and she told me he had been really decent with her.
When we walked out, some photographers from the Associated Press were allowed to be in attendance, and I could hear the clicking of cameras. I was focused on making sure we had an unobstructed walk to Haney’s SUV, and as soon as we walked out that door, I heard screams, the way teenagers screamed for Justin Bieber at one of his concerts. I’m certain they were yelling “Baby Killer” and the like, but after going from total silence to the sound of insanity, neither one of us could make out a single word they were saying.
We got in the car, and Haney drove away. We sat in the back of the SUV trying to stay out of sight. The streets were completely empty because of the two-minute head start they gave us, and Haney drove at a good rate of speed, six helicopters flying above us—when we drove into the parking garage across the street from the courthouse. The media freaked out.
“They’re going into the courthouse. I don’t understand.”
It was midnight, and at night Cheney’s parking garage only has one entrance. After we entered, McKenna parked his car at the entrance as we had planned. No one would be able to follow us in the garage.
Haney started speeding up the ramp to the next floor and then the next, and when we got to the third floor I saw our intern Shakema Wallace’s car sitting there, and I yelled, “Stop.” On the spot, I discarded our plans one, two, and three, and decided what we should do was get in Shakema’s car.
I previously told Casey, “When we stop, hold my hand and stay close, because we’re going to do this fast.”
“Got it,” said Casey.
I opened the door, grabbed Casey’s hand, pulled her out, and I was so hopped up with adrenalin, I forgot she was there and slammed the car door on her leg before she could even get out of the car.
“Owwwwww,” she yelped.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
Shakema couldn’t have been more surprised. This bright-eyed law student was in a civil procedure class one day and the next acting as the getaway driver for the most hated woman in America.
“Let’s go,” I said, and she headed down the ramps to the exit. Shakema and all the other interns had taped paper to their windows, so when the five intern cars left the garage, there was no way of knowing which car Casey was in. I had someone stand at the ticket booth paying for each car as it left.
One car went east, one north, one west, one south. Shakema headed east, and as we drove we didn’t see anyone following us. We did, however, have a helicopter above us. A different helicopter followed each one of us.
We drove until we were about ten miles from the airport, but that damn helicopter kept us in sight. We got on the phone to William who suggested we drive to Lake Mary where there was a heavily wooded area. We could part under the big oak trees and sit there quietly until the helicopter went away.
We switched into William’s car, and finally, the helicopter lost patience and went away.
I called Todd.
“Dude,” he said, “there are another five or six helicopters flying over this airport.”
“How can that be? There were six helicopters following us.”
“They must have all come here after you lost them. They apparently know we’re flying out of here.”
Great.
Okay, I thought, we’ve got to kill some time, and maybe they’ll think we’ve already left, and they’ll go away.
We drove around, and I had no idea where we were, but Casey did.
“You know about three blocks up on the left, do you know who lives there?” she asked.
“Zanny?” I blurted out.
We cracked up laughing.
“Don’t make me punch you,” she said.
William and I kept laughing.
“Are you hungry?” I asked her.
Jail food is miserable, and the first thing someone who’s spent a long time in jail wants is a decent meal, and Casey said, “Yeah, I could eat something.”
William pulled into an all-night Steak ‘n Shake, and he got us cheeseburgers, fries, and milkshakes.
Her first meal of freedom was a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake.
I called Todd.
“We’ll head over in a little while,” I said. We drove to the shopping mall where we met with the airport executive. He drove us into a back area of the airport.
“It’s still dangerous to drive to the hangar,” he said, “because they’ll be able to see you. The helicopters are still flying above the airport.”
We literally waited three hours for them to get tired and go away. We sat in the car with our lights off, and two did. Then came a moment when the remaining choppers had to come in and refuel, and boom, we hit the gas and sped into the hangar.
“So what’s our destination?” the pilot wanted to know.
“St. George Island,” I said. It’s on the Florida panhandle near Panama City and not far from Apalachicola, the oyster capital of the world. I had been there once for a weekend when I was a student at Florida State University. You can rent a house on the beach and have complete privacy. Our entire team was going to spend the weekend relaxing and talking about where Casey was going to go.
Dorothy Clay Sims drove in her car from Orlando with Michelle and my wife Lorena, and Pat McKenna also drove down after his duties in the parking garage were over. It’s about a six-hour drive from Orlando.
We took off, and even though one of the helicopters saw us, they had no way of knowing whether Casey was inside. It didn’t take an hour before we were flying high above St. George’s Island.
I called Dorothy and told her to meet us at the airport, which was less than a mile from the house we rented.
As we were arriving the pilot called Todd into the cockpit. Todd said to me, “Can you call Dorothy?”
“Sure, why?”
/> “Tell her to flash her lights so we can find the airport.”
“What do you mean, flash her lights?” I wanted to know.
“The airport is closed,” Todd said, “and it doesn’t have any of its runway lights on.”
“What good is that going to do?”
“If she flashes her lights, we can land the plane,” Todd said.
“You’re going to land the plane with Dorothy on the ground flashing her headlights?”
“Yeah.”
I looked down, and I could see Dorothy down below, flashing her lights.
“Okay, I know where the airport is,” said the pilot. “Tell her to drive to the runway.”
And that’s what she did.
Meanwhile I said to myself, Oh my God. After all this, I’m going to die in a fucking plane crash with Casey Anthony. This is a blogger’s dream come true.
With Dorothy’s lights leading the way, the pilot made a perfect landing. As we got off the plane, Dorothy was mimicking Hervé Villechaize in Fantasy Island, shouting, “Da plane. Da plane.” On the deserted runway she hugged Casey, and as soon as we left the plane, the pilot headed for the West Coast. Along the way he stopped for gas in Arizona and California, and every place he landed, the media sent their reporters in a fruitless search to find Casey.
AFTER DRIVING TO THE HOUSE, I was too wound up to sleep. The beach house had a ladder that allowed you to climb on the roof and watch the water, and I did that. It was five in the morning, and the sun was just about to peek out from the horizon. I heard Pat McKenna arrive and then I could hear someone else climbing to the roof. It was Casey.
“Jose, what am I going to do,” she said.
“I don’t know, Casey, but we will figure it out together.”
“Thank you. I will never forget all that you did for me.”
She looked at the ocean, which was turning from black to blue, and she said, “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m going to sit here and watch the sun come up.”