Recipe for Hate

by Warren Kinsella

  “How can you tell they’re guys?”

  “Because they look big. I’ve seen the car near my folks’ place and by the school. Is it the cops?”

  “Might be,” McLeod said.

  “Is it worth ditching school entirely and coming down to see these scumbags charged with the murders?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” McLeod said. “You’ll probably be called as a witness to the assault, Kurt. And you’re the victim,” he said, turning to X. “For now, you should both just stay away. Besides,” McLeod continued, tapping the front page of the paper, “this trial will be one of the best-covered events in recent Portland legal history. You’ll probably know every detail about today’s little drama by the time you get home this afternoon.”

  C H A P T E R 35

  Sharon Martin didn’t want to be an Assistant District Attorney. She especially didn’t want to be an Assistant District Attorney on this particular day, sitting — as she was — in the stately Portland district courthouse, the media gang waiting behind her, and three skinheads glaring at her from the prisoner’s box. Their defense counsel was to her right, shuffling papers and trying to look smart. Maybe they were hoping that their appearance in a big case like this one would lead to a lot more client retainers.

  Martin sighed, doodling on the margins of her notepad, where she had prepared some opening remarks. In front of her, on the large District Attorney’s table, were great big stacks of police reports and witness statements, a dog-eared copy of Knoll’s Criminal Procedure and Practice, and one junior DA whose name she had already forgotten. She sighed again, wishing that she was teaching criminal law back in Boston, and not practicing it in a courthouse up in puny Portland.

  Martin hadn’t been able to get a teaching job because she looked far too young. She was a blonde and really attractive, too. She had finished at the top of her law class — the gold medalist. But her looks sometimes had worked against her, and she ended up in Maine, prosecuting cases in which she had little interest.

  She had ended up in Portland because that was where her fiancé wanted to be. Her fiancé — who wasn’t particularly handsome and who had been runner-up in Boston University’s gold medalist sweepstakes the year they both graduated — had an intense interest in maritime law. The best place to practice that was in Portland, apparently, so they moved here. Sharon was offered lots of articling positions at various fancy firms, but took one instead with the District Attorney. Her parents and her law professors at BU had been horrified, but Sharon figured the DA’s office was the straightest route to a teaching position. On that, she was unusually wrong, but she had been wrong about her fiancé, too. Two years after they were called to the state bar, and a year after they married, she caught him in bed with one of the partners at his firm, and that was that. She now lived alone, in a cramped apartment near the water on Portland’s northeastern fringes.

  Sharon looked up as the crowd, which included Ron McLeod and the Upchucks, continued to watch, and the junior attorney with the forgotten name almost snapped to attention. He asked her if she needed anything. “Some water would be nice,” Sharon said, and the young lawyer got busy looking for a pitcher of water and two glasses. There wasn’t any in the courtroom.

  There wasn’t any winning case in Courtroom 200, either. Sharon had been reading the police reports, witness statements, and whatnot over and over, and it was obvious — to her, at least — that proving the skinheads’ guilt, beyond a reasonable doubt, was going to be basically impossible. After going through all the evidence Detectives Savoie and Murphy had put together, she had gone to see Portland’s District Attorney, a pompous old fart who called himself A. Fripper Archibald — but who the media and the thirty-odd assistant DAs called “A Frigging Asshole.” Archibald had listened to her take on the case, and to her conclusion that the skinheads — while obviously total scumbags — couldn’t have killed Jimmy Cleary and Mark Upton. He lifted an untrimmed eyebrow and kept his manicured fingers steepled.

  “Your task is not to reason why,” he wheezed. “Your task is to secure convictions, so that the mayor and the governor’s office get off our collective backs. Do you understand me, Ms. Martin?”

  Back in her tiny office on Newbury, near the courthouse, Sharon met with Detective Savoie. She had sensed that Savoie, unlike his partner, thought the case against the three skinheads was weak, at best. Sprawled in the chair facing her desk, reeking of cigarette smoke and looking as messy as usual, Savoie expressed sympathy. “You shouldn’t be surprised, Martin,” he said, after hearing about her conversation with A. Frigging Asshole. “The guy is an asshole, and he’s just looking for an appointment somewhere. He knows that isn’t going to happen with this punk shit still making headlines.”

  “But,” Sharon said, exasperated, “the case sucks. With a minimum of effort, even the most ineffective duty counsel is going to get them off. They’re going to walk, because the evidence just isn’t there, Detective.”

  “Believe me, I know,” Savoie said, rubbing his tired, hangdog face with a hand. “But you’re getting the same political pressure we are. They want someone to go to jail, and they want it done yesterday. So you’ve got to do your best.”

  “It won’t be difficult to establish reasonable doubt, as you know,” she said. “Whoever killed Cleary and Upton tried to kill O’Heran. It wasn’t a suicide attempt. That’s obvious. And one of these skinheads was in custody when O’Heran almost died, and the other two were probably on a Greyhound, heading to neo-Nazi heaven in Canada. They couldn’t possibly have done it.”

  “That’s why we didn’t charge them with the O’Heran thing — which we still don’t know for sure was an attempted murder, by the way, because the kid is still in a coma,” Savoie said, sounding miserable. “They’re only going to be charged with the Cleary and Upton murders.” He trailed off. They sat in silence, unhappy.

  C H A P T E R 36

  The judge in Courtroom 200 was Sean O’Sullivan, a former criminal defense lawyer who — through his friendships within the Democratic Party — had been elevated to the bench two years before. His arrival had caused a ton of controversy and was attacked by some angry old white Republicans as “pork-barrel politics at its worst.” But O’Sullivan got to work right away and he was both smart and fair. He was liked by both the DAs and the criminal defense bar, which apparently was pretty hard to do.

  O’Sullivan had this shock of red hair, graying at the sides, and a big bushy mustache which hid the corners of his mouth. This was helpful for the occasions when he found himself grinning at the antics of the idiots who often stood before him in Courtroom 200. On this day, however, he wasn’t smiling much.

  Sitting in his paneled chambers, just outside his courtroom, O’Sullivan was really, really unhappy. From the little he knew about U.S. v. Martin Bauer, Peter Wojcik, and Dragomir Babic, the prosecution’s case was a total joke. Rumors were all over the courthouse that the police had disclosed — reluctantly — evidence that provided more than a reasonable amount of doubt that Bauer, Wojcik, and Babic had committed the murders of Jimmy Cleary and Mark Upton.

  O’Sullivan was super unhappy for another reason, too. From his clerk, he had heard that there was already an overflow crowd in Courtroom 200, most of them media. “There is even a reporter from Rolling Stone, Your Honor,” his clerk informed him, breathlessly. “Rolling Stone magazine!”

  The clerk, by the way, blabbed all the time to Ron McLeod. Ron McLeod would then blab to us. Thanks, court clerk!

  O’Sullivan shook his head and cursed. The prosecution against Bauer, Wojcik, and Babic — while probably justifiable for lots of other crimes — was not justified for the crimes they’d actually been charged with. All of which confirmed to O’Sullivan that the skinhead trial had the telltale hallmarks of a political show trial. As in, some politicians wanted to stop the bad ink flowing from the Portland punk rock murders. So, the skins were just then talkin
g to Detective Murphy in their cells. Without Savoie.

  O’Sullivan dialed his clerk’s local. “Are we ready?” he asked. Told that everything was in order, O’Sullivan stood, briefly checked out his reflection in the mirror behind his door, then stepped into the short hallway between his chambers and Courtroom 200.

  His clerk preceded him. “All rise!” he said, a bit louder than he usually did. O’Sullivan marched into the courtroom, which was — as he’d been warned — packed to the rafters with reporters clutching notebooks and pens, and dozens of punks glaring at the skinheads. Patti Upchuck was there as a reporter, too, taking notes for The NCNA. As he strode toward his elevated oak desk, at the center of the courtroom, O’Sullivan could see that the three skinheads weren’t standing.

  On either side of them, O’Sullivan saw that the police and their own lawyers were hissing at them to stand up. The skinheads stayed put, however. They were wearing their street clothes, again, with grins on their stupid faces.

  I’d like to wipe those grins off your faces, you sociopathic motherfuckers.

  O’Sullivan sat down, and the media and everyone else did likewise. At that moment, the three skinheads rose, as one, and started staring at O’Sullivan. Their lawyers looked like they were going to have heart attacks. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” O’Sullivan said, calm. “As your counsel have no doubt explained to you, standing when the presiding judge enters and leaves is a sign of respect. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Bauer curled his lip. “We don’t recognize your authority over us,” he snarled. “Your laws mean nothing to us.” At that, the three skinheads all simultaneously shouted the fourteen words: “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children!” They then gave fascist salutes.

  That done, they waited, shooting hate-stares at O’Sullivan. The courtroom was pin-drop silent, except for the sound of reporters furiously scribbling away in their notebooks. Eventually, everyone’s eyes came to rest on Sean O’Sullivan, to see what he’d do. Under his thick red hair, his scalp was tingling.

  He had the power to cite the skinheads for contempt and throw them in jail until they apologized to the court. But he knew that the trio of neo-Nazis preferred being in jail to being on the street — where, he also knew, hundreds of Portland punk rockers wanted to meet up with them in a dark alley somewhere and beat the living shit out of them. Or worse.

  The three defense lawyers looked at him, wide-eyed, unsure what he would do. Sharon Martin, knowing him a bit better, had a hunch what he would do. She was right.

  “Gentlemen,” O’Sullivan said. “I sense that you are looking for a fight. I’m not going to give you one. We have important matters to deal with here, today, so you can remain standing for all I care, while the rest of us comfortably sit, until your legs completely give out. I assure you that, however much you try, you will not be permitted to turn these proceedings into a circus.

  “So,” O’Sullivan said, “knock yourselves out. You can all stand until the cows come home.”

  Their protest now a big public relations failure, the three skinheads looked at each other, then slumped down into their seats.

  “Very well,” O’Sullivan said. He turned to his clerk and nodded. “Proceed.”

  The clerk read out the indictment against Bauer, Wojcik, and Babic, which said that they, “Martin Otto Bauer, Peter Josef Wojcik, and Dragomir Babic, on or about the 20th and 22nd day of November 1978, in the City of Portland, Maine, murdered Jimmy Cleary and Mark Upton in a manner that was planned and deliberate.” The clerk paused for dramatic effect, but none was necessary. He looked at the skinheads. “How do you plead to the charges as read?”

  Wojcik and Babic looked at Bauer, who nodded. All three stood again, slowly, and looked at the clerk. With one voice, they shouted their response:

  “Guilty!”

  For at least three seconds, Courtroom 200 was completely quiet, as everyone digested what had just happened. Then suddenly the court exploded with noise and movement. Some of the radio and television reporters raced out to file breaking-news updates. The print reporters and the courtroom sketch artists craned their necks to get a better view of the skinheads, who were still standing, grinning like the idiots they were. Some of the punks in attendance started to clap and cheer, as did many of the courtroom railbirds who had been lucky enough to score a seat.

  At the front of the courtroom, however, there was shocked silence. Sitting together near the DA’s desk were Jimmy Cleary’s parents and Mark Upton’s mother, and all of them started crying when they heard the plea. Sharon Martin and the three defense counsel stared at the accused, looking stunned. Right behind Sharon, the look on Detective Savoie’s face betrayed anger and be­wilderment all at the same time. Meanwhile, Detective Murphy had his muscled arms crossed. He didn’t look surprised at all. In fact, he was beaming, looking totally vindicated in his belief that the skinheads were guilty.

  It made no sense.

  Up on the bench, Sean O’Sullivan glared at the three neo-Nazis, his reddish skin getting redder. Forgetting the presence of the gavel he was supposed use on such occasions, O’Sullivan loudly brought down his fist on his desk, slamming it until all present were looking at him. “Quiet!” he hollered. “Quiet! This is a courtroom, not a newsroom! Quiet!”

  Order achieved, O’Sullivan took a deep breath. He fixed his glare on the skinheads, who were still amused by it all.

  “Do you understand the consequences of your plea of guilty?”

  “Yeah,” Bauer sneered. “It means we get to spend more time with our Aryan brethren until the revolution begins. We welcome it, Jew boy.”

  Instantly, O’Sullivan jabbed a finger at the police officers, and courthouse security gathered near the prisoner’s box. “Take them out of here, now,” he yelled, seething. He jabbed the same finger at Sharon Martin and the three defense counsel. “Ms. Martin, you three: meet me in my chambers immediately.” Before anyone had time to react, O’Sullivan stomped out of the courtroom, heading toward his chambers. His clerk scurried after him, yelling “All rise!” over his shoulder as he went.

  Martin and the three defense lawyers shuffled into his chambers. “Quite the performance your clients just gave,” O’Sullivan said, as he attempted to keep his cool. “Did any of you three know that was going to happen?”

  The lawyers, looking alarmed, stammered that they did not.

  “I thought so,” said O’Sullivan, shifting his gaze on Sharon Martin. “And you, Ms. Martin? Did you have any clue that was coming, today?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Martin said. “I was as shocked as everyone else.”

  “Fine,” said O’Sullivan, tilting back in his leather-bound swivel chair. “No one knew. I see. Well, here is what is going to happen next.”

  O’Sullivan continued, measuring his words carefully. “I do not intend to accept their pleas at this time,” he said. “They have counsel, they did it in open court, and they claimed to understand the nature of the charges, and the consequences. The pleas are therefore presumptively valid.” He paused. “But I will not accept them at this time.”

  “W-why, Your Honor?” one of the lawyers asked.

  “Because, from what I have seen of the evidence to date, I have considerable concern about the validity of their pleas,” O’Sullivan said. “U.S. v. Agdey, folks. No less than the Supreme Court of the United States compels me to consider whether the plea has been given in circumstances where undue pressure was applied on the accused to plead guilty.” O’Sullivan glared at them. “You are familiar with Agdey case, are you not, gentlemen? It was decided some six years ago. And at the nation’s highest court, as well. Remember?”

  The lawyers all nodded furiously, pretending to remember the case. O’Sullivan turned his attention to Martin. “Ms. Martin, I want to see the lead detectives in this case in my chambers, immediately.”

  “Y
es, Your Honor. They’re here. I’ll get them right away.”

  “Good,” said O’Sullivan. “Because something stinks here, and I aim to find out what that is.”

  C H A P T E R 37

  The court clerk, Ron McLeod’s helpful courthouse source, watched as Detective Terry Murphy shifted in his seat in Judge Sean O’Sullivan’s chambers, looking extremely uncomfortable. His partner, beside him, was watching him through the corner of his eye, while Sharon Martin was frowning at him, very unhappy. Sean O’Sullivan — who was even angrier than Martin — continued glaring at Murphy over the tops of his reading glasses. The clerk took notes, a summary of which would later be passed along to a grateful Ron McLeod.

  “Let me get this straight,” O’Sullivan said, as if speaking to a slow learner. “You went and saw the accused alone, without your partner or their legal counsel present? Is that right?”

  “That’s right,” Murphy said, shifting again. “They all said they waived their right to have their counsel present. So I proceeded with further interrogating them about the two murders.”

  “I see,” said O’Sullivan. “And did you not think it was a good idea to have Detective Savoie with you when you met with the three accused, to charge them? Or a DA?”

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” Murphy said, grim-faced. “I didn’t expect them to plead guilty so quickly, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. I’m sorry.” He paused, looking up at the judge. “But at least the families will have some closure now?” He said it like it was a question.

  O’Sullivan glared at Murphy, while Martin shook her head. “Closure, I see. Here’s the problem, Detective,” O’Sullivan said. “I am not entirely convinced by the legitimacy of the pleas those little bastards entered in my court, this morning. And I am not entirely convinced that they wouldn’t have walked, had this case ever gone to trial.” He paused, glancing at Sharon Martin. “No offence, Ms. Martin.”