by Peter Seth
I don’t want to talk too much about the trial; there was enough of that on TV, in the newspapers, and on the radio. It was all so humiliating, day after day, to be so exposed to public disgrace, but then again, Eleanor Prince and Nanci Jerome were dead, day after day, so I had no right to object to getting what I deserved.
By then, I had been moved down to the Nassau County jail. For a while, I was in the medical wing. Then they moved me to “protective custody.” Fortunately, I was not put in with the regular jail population. By then, I was the famous “Ivy League Killer” and prey for anybody who wanted to get some notoriety by killing a famous killer.
What I actually was, was an accessory to murder. They charged me with murder in the first degree because there was evidence that Rachel had planned this whole thing for a long time. There was no evidence that I knew about her plans, but that didn’t seem to bother the Assistant District Attorney.
Before the trial, my first lawyer and my parents got this psychiatrist who was an expert on trials to examine me. We talked for a very long time. (He was a smart guy, though not as smart as he thought he was. But, then again, who is?) He’s the one who told my lawyer and my parents that they shouldn’t put me on the stand, that I shouldn’t testify on my own behalf. My first lawyer felt that since there were none of my fingerprints found on the poker – and there were Rachel’s, as well as traces of her blood (I guess from that scratch on her hand) – that proved that I didn’t have any contact with the murder weapon (which was the truth). Add to that, Rachel’s bite marks on Nanci’s cheek and Rachel’s previous statements and behavior, he felt that would establish “reasonable doubt,” enough to convince a jury that I had nothing to do with the actual killings.
I would have told the jury outright that I didn’t hit anybody, with anything. I would have told them the whole damn story. But they didn’t let me testify, which they tell me is not so unusual in cases like mine. Often defendants in murder cases just have to sit there and take it in silence.
How did I stay silent during my trial? I had to, that’s how. I sat at the table and tried to look innocent, whatever that is. My first lawyer told me time and time again not to make any sour faces, and I did my best. I sat there stone-faced while the prosecution called, one after the other, Stanley Marshak, Roommate A, and Professor Brilliant to the stand, boom-boom-boom, to testify what a bad counselor, roommate, and student I was. Just for fun. Just to make me look like a complete maggot. They tried to depict me as some kind of sullen, subversive rebel, when I was the most obedient, most follow-the-rules kind of kid my whole life. Except with Rachel.
To my shame, I allowed my first lawyer to put Rachel on trial. He put on several witnesses who testified how “troubled” and “disturbed” she was. Her therapist testified that Rachel suffered from “adolescent depression and security concerns.” She said that Rachel occasionally burned herself with cigarettes. I knew that was a lie. Or I thought I knew it. And it turned out that Rachel had seen some kind of child psychologist from when she was nine until she was eleven. The psychologist had passed away two years ago, but they subpoenaed the notes from his treatment of Rachel, which revealed “empathy issues.” There was testimony from a boy at Oakhurst High who said that Rachel had actually said that she planned to kill her mother and tried to talk him into helping her. When he refused, she supposedly said, “That’s OK. I know someone who can help me.” When the Assistant District Attorney asked the boy if Rachel had mentioned the name of the person who might help her, my first lawyer strenuously objected, citing “hearsay” and some other things, but the Oakhurst boy had gotten out my first name, and the damage had been done.
It got even worse when the Assistant District Attorney started doing some improvisatory arithmetic as he was stalling for time and mentioned Rachel’s age and mine and the words “statutory rape” in the same sentence. All hell instantly broke loose: my lawyer jumped to his feet in vehement objection, the crowd went completely ape, and the judge had to send the jury out of the courtroom. Later, everyone was directed to forget everything that the Assistant District Attorney had said. How can a person forget something that they’ve heard – really? The bell had been rung. More damage.
The trial was filled with lies, and it took all my self-control not to jump up out of my chair and “object.” But I had my lawyer to do that; I had to trust him. Still, it churned me up inside, to hear falsehoods and willful misinterpretations of the truth, day after day. Part of growing up is realizing how much of life is filled with lies. Did I mention that someone told me that when Stewie Thurman left Camp Mooncliff early at the end of camp because his grandmother had “died”, that was a big lie? It turned out that Stewie just wanted to get back to his stupid college because he had been called up from the junior varsity to the varsity football team. He arranged a fake phone call and used the old “dead grandmother” lie to get out of his Mooncliff contract early. You cannot trust anybody in this world!
Also, the prosecution made such a big deal out of all this money and jewelry – stuff that I didn’t even know about – that Rachel must have taken from upstairs, or even before. They found some of it in her purse: cash and some of Eleanor’s jewelry. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Manny or Herb ransacked the place once they realized that Eleanor was gone, took everything, and tried to pin it all on dead Rachel.
As if I would kill for money! That was the most absurd allegation of all. I sat there at the defendant’s table, not moving a muscle, as they lied. I knew deep, deep, deep in my heart that whatever I did, however misguided, I did for love.
The morning the verdict was read I wore my lucky blue blazer, the one I wore to my Columbia interview and that first dinner at the Costa Brava with Eleanor and Herb. They had confiscated my lucky RFK pin long ago, as a potential weapon. I always changed from my orange jail uniform into street clothes before the court proceedings, so that the jury wouldn’t be prejudiced against me. Sure.
The courtroom was packed with spectators, eager to see me fry. Supposedly, people were selling their places in line outside to get in to hear the verdict read. There were all the regulars – reporters, photographers, my parents, ordinary/nosey spectators, and the ever-present Manny Prince.
Manny sat in the first row behind the Assistant District Attorney for the entire trial. He looked at me with such hatred in his eyes – I could almost feel his stare burn the back of my neck – that the judge had to caution him about prejudicing the jury. I can’t say that I blamed him, but it’s a shame that he never seemed to care so much about his daughter while she was still alive. Other than buying her that damn car.
Herb came to the courthouse once, but he was mobbed by reporters – pun intended – both coming in and going out, so that he never came back. At first, a couple of the newspapers had played up the angle that Herb might have been involved in the murders someway, and that I was doing a “hit” for someone. The theory was that Eleanor had been killed in revenge for some recent killing of some other Mafia girlfriend from some other “family” in New Jersey, but that idea died away after a while. On that one day that Herb did show up, he sat in one of the back rows on the aisle, on the prosecutor’s side, as far away from Manny as he could get. From what I understand, they never exchanged a word.
Nanci’s family – the Jeromes – were maybe the saddest case of all. (Except for my parents, of course.) They were quite a bit older than my folks. Mrs. Jerome was enormous; probably like what Nanci would have looked like in thirty years. She wore a black dress as big as a tent to the trial almost every day, a mink stole, and a string of pearls the size of grapes. Ultra-skinny Mr. Jerome looked like he’d stepped out of a Brooks Brothers ad, with his pin-striped suit and matching silk tie and handkerchief. He used a cane to help him walk and had a big strawberry for a nose. The two of them took about a half hour to walk up and down the aisle to their seats, right behind Manny, right behind the prosecution. Once my father tried to say something to them
, but he was rebuffed in quite a nasty way. I can’t say as I blame them: there was nothing really to say. But they shouldn’t have been quite so dismissive to my Dad.
Only once did one of Nanci’s siblings come to the trial – the brother who lived in Connecticut. He looked just like his old man: thin, conservatively dressed, and alcoholic. Her sister from Phoenix never even came to the trial at all, not once. For some reason, that made me extra sad. If I had had a brother or a sister and they got murdered, I certainly would come to the trial every day. I’m fairly certain that I would have been in that first row every single day, right next to Manny Prince, wanting – no, demanding – vengeance.
When the jury came in, I knew immediately that they had found me guilty. My first lawyer told me that if no one on the jury looked at me when they walked in, the verdict was bad. And sure enough, not one of them looked at me, and the verdict was guilty of murder. In the second degree.
When the court clerk said the word “guilty,” I didn’t cry. Other people behind me cried, but I didn’t. I mastered my emotions even as my heart sank into the Earth. I was going to save my tears for later and not let myself be photographed crying. That’s just what the newspapers would have liked. And I was going to be strong for my family, the family that I had destroyed. Make that three families: I guess I had destroyed the Princes and the Jeromes too.
Some people on the other side of the room cheered. The Assistant District Attorney and his staff were happy; they “won,” even if they didn’t get their First Degree verdict. My first lawyer put his arm around my shoulder and said not to worry, that we would immediately appeal. I can’t say that I was really surprised by the whole thing. Three people were dead, and somebody had to pay for it. (I’m sure the jury held me responsible for Rachel’s death, too, even though I wasn’t driving the Mustang. I mean, why not?)
After I was found guilty, in some ways, all the excitement was over. No more trips to the courthouse. The press was already moving onto the next big story, the next murder. I got lucky: some guy named Charles Manson and these hippie-followers of his chopped up some people in Hollywood, knocking me right off the front page and out of the public focus. This was good because it finally reduced the daily humiliation that my parents suffered, so long as my trial was on the front page. And now I was old news, small potatoes; I had only “killed” three people, and Eleanor Prince wasn’t any Sharon Tate. So thank you, Mr. Manson.
I’ve been in the Nassau County Jail all this time, but they’re going to move me upstate soon, before any appeal can be filed. The only question is whether it will be Attica or Sing Sing. The difference in the driving – forty miles to Westchester vs. 350 miles to the middle-of-nowhere Upstate – would have a real effect on my parents’ lives. To visit me up there, those long drives would kill my mother . . . so to speak.
I’ve had a couple of visitors since I’ve been here. My parents, of course, though I had to tell my Dad to stop my Mom from coming. I could see that it was too hard on her, especially when there were a lot of nosey, rude reporters and photographers outside. And my first and second lawyers and their staff: all very nice people. They were extremely understanding during this whole thing, from my arrest right through to the verdict. But the one visitor I never contemplated seeing was Manny Prince.
I didn’t expect any visitors that day. I had been found guilty and was just another prisoner, waiting to be moved to another place in the system. The moment I saw Manny sitting behind the plexiglas partition in the Visitors’ Room waiting for me, I could have walked out and refused to see him. But I didn’t. I sat down and picked up the phone on the wall that connected us.
“Hello, Manny,” I said.
“Hello, smart guy,” he said back to me with a smirk on his face. He was wearing one of those silly, expensive, embroidered Caribbean shirts with the pockets that he liked.
At first, we just looked at each other. I suppose he had the right to gloat over his victory, but I still felt sorry for him.
“I assume they checked you for weapons,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “They search you real good in this place.”
“Tell me about it,” I said sarcastically.
Another pause while we looked at each other. He was “free,” and I was not, but there was something very strong and very odd that almost equalized us.
“What are you doing here, Manny?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, looking straight at me with the blue-blue eyes that Rachel had inherited.
“You want to see me suffer?” I asked. “Does that make you happy?”
“Yeah, it does,” he snapped back. But then he became reflective. “No . . .I don’t know how I feel. I wish they coulda given you the chair. Then this whole thing would be over.”
“Sorry, Manny,” I said. “I’m still alive.”
He seemed more pathetic than I was, and certainly more pathetic than my Dad. But then I realized that it was because my father’s only child was still alive, and Manny’s wasn’t.
“Rachel said you had a new girlfriend,” I said.
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “That’s finished.”
“I know how you feel,” I said.
He shot me a dark look, and there was another silence between us.
“What do you want, Manny?”
He leaned forward, toward the scratched plexiglas that separated us, and whispered into the telephone after a long pause.
“I know it was her.”
“What?” I said.
His eyes burned into mine, just as Rachel’s had so many times, and he snarled, “You think we were monsters, her mother and me. The worst parents in the world. Right? . . . You have no idea what it was like to try to be a parent to Rachel, no idea. You don’t know what we went through with her. You know how many doctors we saw, how many specialists? From the moment she was born, she was not an easy kid. Beautiful and bright as anything, but never easy. Always trouble. Eleanor and me, we fought like hell over her, what to do with her, how to deal with her tantrums, her moods. We were at the school every other week with her when she was young. She was always difficult, always headstrong, always . . . impossible. Why do you think we broke up? We wanted to have other kids, but we were afraid to. We couldn’t handle one Rachel, forget about two! Our marriage never stood a chance, trying to raise her. … OK, so maybe we weren’t the greatest parents in the world. But we did our best. And we did try to protect other people from her.”
“So now you’re gonna tell me that’s why you and Eleanor wanted to keep Rachel and me apart?” I said. “For my own good?”
“Partly . . .” Manny said. “Partly.”
I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything. Even if what he said was true, it was all too sad to contemplate.
He looked down, then looked up with despairing eyes, and continued, “OK, that’s what I wanted to say . . . I know it was her. I know that she led you on, that you just followed her, doing what you two did. I know what she was really like. I always thought that something like this could happen someday. She was a beautiful, beautiful girl, but there was always something . . . something wrong.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything at the trial?” I asked.
He leaned in closer and whispered viciously into the phone, “What was I gonna say? Something to help you? You were there, smart guy, and you didn’t do anything to save those two people. You just did whatever she wanted you to do. So you got what you deserved.”
I could have answered him in a million snotty ways. Instead, I just told him the truth.
“What can I say, Manny? I loved her.”
Smiling sadly, he shook his head and muttered, “What an idiot . . . what a waste.”
I laughed once, bitterly, and said, “That’s what my Dad thinks. Only he doesn’t say it.”
“Well, he should say it,” Manny snapped. “And more than once.�
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He smiled sadly and then sat back. “I saw your father in court. He seems to be an OK guy.”
“He is,” I said. “You’d like him. You have a lot in common. Both of your kids are dead.”
“Don’t you say that!” Manny shot back. “Rachel’s dead, and you’re alive.”
That was a fact I couldn’t challenge.
“So . . .” Manny continued, shifting in his chair, back and forth. “What else I came here to say was” – he stopped moving and looked straight into my eyes – “dammit-to-hell! I forgive you.”
Then he slammed down the phone so hard on the wall that I thought he would break it, got up out of his chair, and walked out of the Visitors’ Room. I didn’t even have time to hang up the phone or say goodbye. And I never saw Manny Prince again.
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My excellent new lawyer came to me with excellent news today: I am being sent to Sing Sing, not Attica. Yes! A win for our side! I’m not sure why that happened; I think he pleaded some kind of “hardship” or something. Anyway, the System somehow worked in my favor. (Thank you, Your Honor.) It will be much easier for my parents to visit me now and cry more often in person. I don’t want to think about how often my mother cries at night. There are certain things that I can no longer think about.
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I saw my father one last time before they moved me upstate. He had gotten friendly with some of the guards – did I mention that my Dad was the nicest, sweetest guy in the world? He thought that if the guards knew him personally, they might go a little easier on his son. That’s how he thought: even as I ruined his life, all he was concerned about was me.