“How’s Tot?” Jones asks. “Did she tell you who leaked the story?”
“No need. A friend helped me figure it out.”
“All rise for the Honorable Judge William Palmer,” the stocky bailiff announces.
Judge Palmer enters his courtroom looking like a wise monk with a long white beard and hair that is cut close to his scalp. Julia knows from experience that Palmer gravitates toward brevity, conservatism, and Jesus. She also knows he is a good and fair judge.
Judge Palmer, measuring in at an inch or so shorter than Julia’s five-foot-seven stature, sits on his bench with almost regal authority. A tiny giant on this throne.
“Bailiff, please bring in the defendant,” Judge Palmer instructs in his rich baritone.
The bailiff disappears behind a side door to escort Nick Rossi out. Julia tries to will David to turn around so she can at least give him a smile before the circus starts and to get a read on what happened in the judge’s chambers earlier, but David stares firmly ahead, waiting for the defendant to enter the courtroom.
“I had no idea Jose Canseco was Detroit’s biggest criminal,” Twyla whispers in Julia’s ear.
Nick Rossi walks into the room fluidly, like a panther. His resemblance to the former Major League Baseball player is almost uncanny. Rossi is tall and muscle bound, with impossibly broad shoulders, a square jaw, close-set dark eyes, and olive skin. He strides confidently over to the defendant’s table and turns around, taking a slow pan of the crowd. Julia feels his eyes lock on hers for a second, and she holds his stare before he moves on. Julia scribbles down two words in her reporter’s notebook: “intimidation” and “power.”
“Now, before I let the jury in, let me remind counsel about the rules of my courtroom,” Judge Palmer begins. “I do not like games. This trial is not reality TV or a game show that is going to be played outside of this room. I don’t want any revelations going on anywhere but inside these four walls, and certainly not announced in the press first. Do we have an understanding here?”
Although not going into specifics, Judge Palmer obviously wants to give David and the lead defense attorney, William Tarburton, a bit of a public slap for bad behavior, Julia notes to herself.
“Yes, your honor,” David and Tarburton agree in polite unison.
“Unfortunately, an article in this morning’s paper brought to my attention a matter that should have come directly to me first. Let it be known, I do not like surprises, not on my birthday, not on Christmas, and definitely not in my court-room.”
“Your honor,” David interjects.
“Nor do I like to be interrupted after an issue has already been resolved. Assistant District Attorney David Tanner this morning made a motion to add a party after the discovery period passed. I have granted this motion in the interest of justice.”
Round one: David, Julia thinks, and suppresses an urge to give a victory fist pump in the air. She then checks Nick Rossi’s reaction. He is smiling, a look of amusement dancing up the corners of his lips.
“Now, bailiff, please bring in the jury.”
Julia quickly draws the shape of a box with twelve circles inside. Once she gets a read on the jury, she will fill a “P” or “D” inside each circle, indicating whether she thinks that particular jury member will vote on the side of the prosecution or defense.
The jury shuffles in, day one always the hardest, as they face nerves, excitement, and pressure. At least one of them is probably fantasizing if they can land a book deal or at least an interview on CNN when the high-profile trial wraps. Julia does a quick analysis of the jury that consists of seven women and five men. The female jurors, who look to be between the ages of thirty and sixty, could go either way, Julia thinks. The defense could play up Rossi as a victim who witnessed his mother’s brutal rape and murder when he was just a child. But David could win their sympathy by delving into the impact that Rossi’s drug-trafficking arm of his business had on a wealthy West Bloomfield teen who OD’d. Based on the color of their skin, Julia deduces the ethnicity makeup of the jury is five whites, four Hispanics, and three blacks.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Palmer booms. “In the coming days, you will be tasked with a great responsibility. I will remind you of your duties while you are serving as a juror in this case. You are not to read, listen to, or watch any media reports of any kind pertaining to this trial, nor are you to discuss the case in any way, shape, or form outside of this courtroom. Not with your husband, not with your child, not on your Facebook page, and not even with your dog.”
A collective nervous hum of laughter fills the courtroom. The ice has officially been broken as Judge Palmer coaxes the jury to be more at ease.
“Now, before the counsel for the prosecution and defense choose whether to provide their opening statements, I’ll reiterate, brevity is golden. This case promises to be a long one, so I will ask counsel to make their points and move on. Mr. Tanner, do you wish to give an opening statement to the jury on behalf of the state?”
David, looking to Julia like a white angel with his light blond hair standing out like a beacon among the dark suits and drab brown interior of the courtroom, stands up, an imposing figure to be reckoned with at a lean height of six feet. While some attorneys prefer to hold props such as pens or legal pads for utility or comfort, David does not. Julia knows he just wants to appear like a regular guy who stopped by for a little visit and a friendly chat with the jury.
“Yes, and thank you, your honor,” David replies.
Judge Palmer does not exclude counsel from approaching the witness stand or jury box. David moves past the lectern and gets a few feet away from the twelve jurors, close but not too close that they invade their space and potentially make them uncomfortable.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” David says warmly. “My name is David Tanner, and I will be representing the state during this trial.”
David pauses for a moment and then emits a deep sigh. “I’ve been a prosecutor now for going on fifteen years. Never once have I gone off script and offered a jury even a hint about my personal life. But the stakes in this case and the ramifications should the defendant, Nick Rossi, go free are far too high this time. So here goes. I have two boys. One of my biggest fears as a father is for anything to happen to my children, including their exposure to drugs. Granted, my boys are young, but we’ve seen in our city that sometimes age doesn’t matter. In the coming days, I will present evidence clearly showing that Nick Rossi masterminded a ruthless plan driven by greed and violence to bring heroin, crack cocaine, and methamphetamines into our city, intimidating anyone who got in his way, and hooking our most vulnerable and precious assets, our children.”
David’s approach is somewhat unorthodox but smart, Julia thinks, as she silently urges her husband to keep putting a face on the case to get the jury’s attention.
“The defense will probably try to convince you that Nick Rossi is a good man, a law-abiding citizen, the only spot on his record a juvenile misdemeanor charge from his youth,” David continues. “But as a key witness in this case is expected to tell you later this afternoon, this is because Nick Rossi has either paid off those he needed to turn the other way, including Detroit’s own former mayor Willis Slidell, or intimidated innocents with threats of death to themselves or their loved ones. If drug trafficking in our city of Detroit and shamelessly paying off the people we voted in to look out for our best interests weren’t enough, I will share evidence with you that Rossi operated an illegal gambling operation through our casinos, manipulating and luring employees through bribes and threats to ensure his business would continue. All the charges Mr. Rossi faces are astounding, but as a father, his drug business cuts the deepest. Two notorious drug dealers were arrested selling Rossi’s crack cocaine during the lunch hour right across from a middle school near Mack Avenue and Helen Street.”
David lets the sentence hang and pauses in front of an older black woman whose eyes s
hine with understanding.
“Many young lives have been lost, and our children have been taken during their prime because of the drugs Rossi has brought into our city,” David continues. “Bryce Sullivan, or Sully, as the other members of his West Bloomfield track team fondly called him, overdosed at an end of season party, courtesy of Mr. Rossi. Now, the defense will try to tell you that Mr. Rossi is not facing murder charges, only drug trafficking, illegal gambling, and bribery charges. I will prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that these charges are indeed true. But we all know the ramifications of Mr. Rossi’s criminal operation did not stop there. Five million dollars worth of heroin, crack, and methamphetamines distributed and sold in Detroit means many of our kids will become addicts, and others, like Bryce Sullivan, won’t live to see their high school graduation.”
Julia pans the jury. They seem to be wrapped around David’s every word.
“The witness who will be introduced to you later today is a former employee of Mr. Rossi, and he worked for Mr. Rossi for the past five years. This witness will take you through Mr. Rossi’s carefully calculated operation, from its early front as a laundry and dry-cleaning operation that was actually Rossi’s first portal to distribute drugs here in Detroit. But that was just the beginning. The witness will then detail how Mr. Rossi’s appetite for the Detroit market grew to bribing and threatening employees at the MGM Grand, Greektown Casino-Hotel, and the MotorCity Casino Hotel. You will hear firsthand how Mr. Rossi bribed and intimidated the security in these hotels to ensure his gambling racket could take place on the VIP floors of these high-end establishments. But Mr. Rossi’s corrupt influence did not end there. You will see recordings of the defendant in a luxury suite of the MGM Grand handing a city councilman and the former mayor hush money to ensure his illegal operation would continue.”
David paces back and forth in front of the jury box as if deep in thought, and then hits them with an uppercut. “Don’t let the defense convince you that their client is a helpless victim, forced to witness his mother’s rape and murder at a young age. No doubt, what happened to Mr. Rossi’s mother was a hateful and unforgivable act. I myself can’t imagine what seeing something so evil could do to a child, or how it would affect their psyche, their later actions, and their very soul.”
David lets the loaded statement settle in for a second and then continues.
“But no matter Mr. Rossi’s past, it doesn’t give him a pass card to become a criminal.”
David skillfully ticks off a few more barbed points and then concludes. “I know each of you will use your good sense going forward, and you will clearly see from the evidence, Mr. Rossi is indeed guilty of the crimes he is accused of.”
As David returns to the prosecution table, Julia notices a man with wide shoulders, a pinstripe black suit coat, and salt-and-pepper hair sitting on the bench directly behind Nick Rossi. The man turns around, and Julia recognizes that he’s Rossi’s uncle, Salvatore Gallo. The older man’s eyes settle on Julia for a moment, and Gallo gives her an almost undetectable nod of recognition before he turns back around in his seat.
“Mr. Tarburton, do you wish to reserve your opening statement until you present the defense’s case?” Judge Palmer asks.
“No, your honor. The defense will give an opening statement.”
“Very well,” Judge Palmer answers, not sounding surprised.
Tarburton rises, carrying a yellow legal pad and what looks like an expensive Montblanc pen to the lectern. As short and squat as Charboneau is, Tarburton is tall and reed thin, all bones and sharp edges underneath a classic black suit. Tarburton’s strawberry-blond hair and heavily freckled face give him an almost boyish appearance, which he has often used to his advantage, as more than one witness has made the mistake of underestimating him during cross-examination.
“Good morning. My name is William Tarburton, and I’m representing the defendant, Mr. Nicholas Rossi, who has wrongly been accused of the crimes he now faces,” Tarburton says in a calm, methodic rhythm.
Tarburton edges away from the lectern to hammer home what will likely be his mantra for the rest of the trial. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let me put this to you simply: They got the wrong guy.”
Tarburton lets sixty long seconds of silence elapse to punctuate his statement before he continues.
“I will prove that my client, Mr. Rossi, was in Traverse City with his uncle and ailing grandmother at the time these alleged and poorly made recordings were taken—the ones the prosecution alluded to, where city officials are supposedly caught taking hush money.”
Tarburton turns around and gives a nod to an elderly woman in the second row sitting next to Salvatore Gallo. She looks to be about ninety and obviously the defendant’s grandmother and Salvatore Gallo’s mother. Nice touch, Julia concedes.
“Just like the grainy surveillance recordings you will see, all the evidence the prosecution will present is circumstantial, like trying to build a strong house that won’t topple in the wind with just tissue paper and spit.”
Juror number eight, the one who has been scribbling notes in a white notebook since David’s opening statements, looks up for the first time and gives Tarburton a smirk. Julia fills a D with a question mark in the juror number eight circle of her diagram.
Tarburton moves to the witness stand and gives it a solid thump. “Mr. Tanner will parade a cast of witnesses in and out of this seat. What you must ask yourself is not only are they speaking the truth, but do they have something to gain by their testimony. You’ve probably heard the term ‘jailhouse snitch.’ The prosecution has indicated they will bring forward a witness—in some respects their hoped-for star witness, someone who allegedly worked for Mr. Rossi for years. This witness is a known and documented criminal who served time for aggravated assault and trafficking stolen goods. All illegal acts he did on his own. Now, the prosecution will try to slip in accusations of my client’s involvement in other crimes. Keep this in mind. Mr. Rossi was never involved in these fabricated claims that Mr. Tanner will undoubtedly create, nor is Mr. Rossi on trial for them. This trial is simply about whether my client was involved in bribery, illegal gambling, and drug trafficking. As you will clearly see, the prosecution has no solid evidence to convict my client on any of the charges. As I said in the beginning, they got the wrong guy.”
Tarburton hammers away for another ten minutes. He portrays Rossi as a victim who was traumatized after being forced to watch his mother’s rape and murder, an unfortunate experience of convenience Tarburton uses to draw out sympathy from the jury.
Tarburton concludes, and Julia reluctantly admits that if she had to write a scorecard on opening statements, it would be a dead tie.
“Ladies and gentleman, as this is the first day of trial, let’s break early for lunch. Please be back in the courtroom by one PM,” Judge Palmer announces.
Julia turns her phone back on. 11:10 AM. She’s already missed four texts and a phone message from her metro editor, Margie Kruchek, who demands an explanation on how the Detroit News got the bit about the Butcher before she did. Julia would prefer to file the story from the courthouse but knows she needs to try to diffuse Margie, so she makes the decision to go back to the newsroom and face the music. She realizes she’ll need to make it quick since Logan is scheduled to arrive at the courthouse for his field trip at twelve-thirty.
Despite her time crunch, Julia decides to wait for the crowd to thin out so she can try to get a moment with David alone, but he is already up and heading down the aisle ahead of the pack. As he passes Rossi, the two men engage in a momentary stare-down, until David breaks and moves toward the door. Julia wants to give him a thumbs-up but realizes that wouldn’t look fair and balanced, something she vowed to her editor she would remain when her boss threatened to take her off the story because of David’s involvement in the case. Instead, Julia and David both give each other a polite nod. Julia watches her husband disappear out the door and feels a tug at her heart. She realizes she was wrong
. Covering the case is not going to be as easy as she thought.
* * *
Six stories above Julia, Jim Bartello, the former head of security for the MGM Grand, ducks into an empty office on the eighth floor of the courthouse and places a call as he looks over his shoulder to be sure he isn’t being followed.
“Yeah, they’re taking an early break for lunch. Good news. Sammy Biggs declined special protection, so get in place and stay there. The cops will be escorting Biggs directly through the lobby of the courthouse at exactly twelve-thirty.”
CHAPTER 6
Julia does the walk of shame across the newsroom, looking at no one, but she knows almost everyone is looking at her. She’s worked in the business long enough to realize that news people are a fickle bunch, oftentimes fiercely loyal when one of their own takes a hit, but also rabid guard dogs when it comes to their beat. For most reporters, the story is the one thing, the only thing, that matters, and if it gets stolen, shame on you.
Julia sinks in her cubicle, hoping to be left alone so she can knock out a summary of the morning’s opening arguments to be posted on the paper’s website. She takes the flash drive of the Rossi case out of her pocket and stares at her blank computer screen, willing a snappy lead to come to her, but is distracted by the interruption of her ringing desk phone. The caller’s name comes across the screen: Margie Kruchek. Julia bites the bullet and picks up.
“Newsroom, this is Julia Gooden.”
“Come into my office right now.”
Julia plans her strategy as she walks across the newsroom, sparser now than ever after another recent round of layoffs last month. Julia decides her best defense is to simply throw herself on the sword and tell Margie she made a mistake and it won’t happen again.
Margie, a round, middle-aged woman with a brown bob and square-shaped black glasses, sits behind her desk with her hands neatly folded in front of her. Margie has never pretended to be friendly since day one, when she got the job after being downsized at the Philadelphia Inquirer six months earlier. Julia was relieved when Margie replaced her former boss, Bob Primo, whom she detested, viewing him as a soulless viper. Julia ultimately decided to stay at the paper instead of returning to her former job at a smaller daily because of Primo’s departure. The environment in the newsroom had improved, and Julia didn’t even mind Margie’s brutally honest approach. But this time, Julia wouldn’t mind a few fake pleasantries from her new boss to soften the blow.
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