“Do you understand the charges against you?” O’Sullivan asked.
Jones said nothing.
O’Sullivan’s longtime clerk, Bobby Edwards, had read out the list of charges. There were the 121 charges of felony murder and the 311 counts of attempted murder. The names of the victims were read out, too, so Bobby had been reading for more than half an hour. He described charge after charge after charge found in the grand jury’s indictment. He had started with a charge of “seditious conspiracy,” which some considered a big deal. Namely, that Jones had “an intent to cause the overthrow or destruction of the lawful civil authority of these United States of America.” That one, X told me, carried the death penalty.
But Jones’s lawyers were likely not worried about the sedition charge. First, nobody ever got charged with sedition anymore, apparently. Second, sedition — like bribery — was a criminal act that generally required another participant to stick. And, as was well known, Thomas M. Jones had acted entirely alone.
But, more ominously, Edwards also announced that Jones had been charged with the murders of two federal law-enforcement officers, Glen and Cathy Beaupre. This was more problematic. The Beaupres were members of the United States Marshals Service and they had been dropping their four-year-old daughter, Tina, off at the daycare at the YWCA that morning. Tina had also been killed.
If he was found guilty of killing the Beaupres, he would definitely be given the death penalty.
Once again, X and I were standing at the back of the jam-packed courtroom. When the clerk finally read Nagamo’s and Eddie’s names, we looked at each other and said nothing. But when the clerk read out the rape charge — that, on the third day of November in the year 1975, in Clinton, Maine, Thomas M. Jones committed a gross sexual assault against a minor — Jones abruptly turned to scan the assembled crowd. There was a murmur as he did so. It was obvious he was looking for someone.
I wasn’t planning on losing my cool, but I kind of did. “She isn’t here, you prick,” I hissed, and a few people turned to look at me. There was a small army of armed security guys in there, and a couple of them looked at me, too, frowning. They thought Jones was a prick, too, probably, so instead of arresting me, they just signaled for me to keep quiet.
X, however, was now staring at Jones, and Jones was staring right back at X. X’s eyes had turned black, like they get when he’s about to beat the living shit out of someone. A moment went by, then another. I half expected something to be said, or something to happen. But nothing did. Jones shifted his gaze back to Judge O’Sullivan, and the moment passed.
O’Sullivan addressed the defendant again. “Mr. Jones, do you understand the charges against you?”
There was silence, except for the sounds of reporters scribbling in their notebooks and people shifting in their seats, craning to get a better look.
O’Sullivan’s scalp was getting noticeably redder. He squinted at the defense lawyer. “Mr. Dennison, does your client understand the charges against him?”
Dennison shrugged. “Your Honor, we have made many efforts to get our client to give us instructions,” he said. “Some of have been successful, some have not.”
A full minute went by. O’Sullivan regarded Dennison, then DA Martin at the prosecutor’s table. O’Sullivan and Martin had both been expecting this moment to come. Dennison, they knew, almost certainly planned to argue that his client lacked the mental capacity to kill or rape anyone. It was the only way to avoid the death penalty. So, why wasn’t he saying that his client was pleading insanity?
“Very well,” Judge O’Sullivan finally said. “The accused is not indicating that he understands the charges against him, one way or another. So …” He paused to look down at a stack of papers in front of him. “On its own motion, then, this court possesses the jurisdiction to order that the defendant be examined by the State Forensic Service for evaluation of the defendant’s competency to proceed. The court requires that the State Forensic Service shall promptly examine the defendant and report its initial determination regarding the defendant’s competency to proceed to this court. A copy of the report should be filed by the State Forensic Service to Mr. Dennison and Ms. Martin. Is that understood?”
Dennison nodded his head, clearly pleased. “Yes, Your Honor.”
The DA also nodded, not looking pleased at all. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” O’Sullivan said, as he lowered his gavel. “I require this report in twenty-one days or less. Court is adjourned.”
Thomas M. Jones was led away, scanning the courtroom as he left.
Maine Superior Court Justice Sean O’Sullivan glared at David Dennison.
DA Martin could see that O’Sullivan’s scalp was turning an impressive red-pink color — never a good sign for an attorney who’d been summoned to O’Sullivan’s chambers.
Directly behind Martin and Dennison, standing near stacks of American Law Reports, the assistant DAs and Dennison’s assistants looked on silently.
If he noticed the imminent danger, Dennison gave no indication. His eyes were on the thin report in front of O’Sullivan. He pointed at it.
“So?” asked O’Sullivan.
“Dr. Fogel could not conclude if my client was fit to stand trial, Your Honor. He —”
Martin cut him off. “Nor did Dr. Fogel conclude that he wasn’t fit to stand trial, Mr. Dennison.” The lawyer gave her a dirty look. “He couldn’t reach any conclusion after meeting with your client three times.”
Dennison was unmoved. “My client has a constitutional right to remain silent. But you cannot infer from that silence, Miss Martin, that my client possesses the requisite ability to instruct his legal counsel or to participate in a complex and onerous criminal proceeding.”
“It’s Ms., not Miss, Mr. Dennison,” Martin said. “And silence does not equal insanity.”
There was pause and Justice O’Sullivan took advantage of it. “Your client may not have said a word to Dr. Fogel or anyone else in the State Forensic Service, Mr. Dennison, but there is no shortage of words in his manifesto, or autobiography, or whatever the hell it is. There are plenty of words in there. And none of them suggest that your client in any way possesses a mental disease or defect and therefore lacked the capacity to appreciate the wrongfulness of the criminal conduct he is accused of.”
Dennison raised his manicured hands in protest. “Your Honor, you know our position on Mr. Jones’s diary,” he said, eyes closed as if in prayer. “We take the position that the document the FBI seized was a lengthy letter to me and my colleague Mr. Popowich, and therefore protected by attorney-client privilege …”
O’Sullivan slapped the top of his desk. “I know what your argument is, Mr. Dennison!” he snapped. “I’ve read your motion and supporting materials. We will deal with that issue when your motion is heard. In the meantime, all of us have a dilemma. Even you.”
Dennison arched a sculpted eyebrow. “Even me? How so?”
“Because, Mr. Dennison,” O’Sullivan leaned back in his chair and locked his hands behind his head, “if your client lacks capacity, he lacks capacity to instruct counsel. And if he isn’t instructing counsel, I’m not entirely sure what you and Mr. Popowich are still doing here in my chambers. Are you just pretending to know what is in your client’s best interest, Mr. Dennison?”
Dennison, momentarily caught off-guard, stammered, “Of course not, Your Honor! Even if our client is indeed insane, we still have an obligation to mount a vigorous defense. That is our obligation as officers of the court, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Dennison,” O’Sullivan said after a long pause, “the general principle is that you cannot take on a client who lacks the capacity to give you instructions. The only time you can do that is when you are appointed by the court.… And I don’t recall appointing you to represent Mr. Jones. You and your associate flew up here from New York City to do that, Mr. Dennison, all on your own. I think you broke the sound barrier to get here before some other publicity-seeking defens
e attorney could do so.”
David Dennison remained uncharacteristically silent.
“I am not of the view that your client lacks the capacity to stand trial, Mr. Dennison,” Justice O’Sullivan said finally. But before Dennison could open his mouth to protest, the judge held up a hand and turned his gaze on DA Martin. “That said, I am equally not convinced that the manuscript should not be excluded. It is more than highly prejudicial — it is arguably protected by attorney-client privilege, Ms. Martin. You know the rules.”
Martin looked uncharacteristically shocked. She had obviously not been expecting this. David Dennison, also visibly surprised by this unexpected turn of events, suppressed a smile.
“I will hear your arguments on the motion to exclude the manuscript on Monday,” O’Sullivan said, squinting at his calendar and waving a hand at the assembled attorneys. “That will be all for today.”
CHAPTER 35
Just as the first one had, X’s latest column in Creem resulted in several hastily arranged meetings — this one in the office of Portland’s police chief. In attendance were Savoie, Laverty, the DA, and two assistant DAs. And, of course, Chief Chow.
Everyone looked pissed off, except Chow, who never seemed to lose his cool, Laverty noticed.
Savoie held up the offending issue, clearly furious. “This is a serious breach, Chief. Who leaked this information to this frigging kid? This is a disgrace!”
Nobody disagreed. They were all reading, or rereading, the column.
The headline was bad enough: “ACCUSED PORTLAND BOMBER MAY WALK, SOURCE SAYS.”
But the column itself, from the perspective of the police and prosecutors present, was way, way worse. It was written in X’s usual detached style. Not too many adjectives, no verbal overkill, but lots of stuff that would leave the reader shocked.
Accused Portland bomber Thomas M. Jones may walk, sources tell Creem’s Non-Conformist News Agency.
Jones’s publicity-loving New York City attorney, David Dennison, may succeed in stopping prosecutors from using Jones’s “manifesto” against him in the trial, where Jones is facing more than one hundred counts of first-degree murder. Sources who spoke on the condition that they would not be identified told Creem that the Maine Superior Court judge overseeing the case is likely to agree that the manifesto should be excluded because it is protected by attorney-client privilege.
In the three-hundred-page manifesto, Jones describes in great detail his plans to bomb the Portland YWCA, and his hatred of women and minorities. But the document is apparently written in the form of a letter to Dennison and his law firm on Broadway in NYC.
In Maine and most American states, communications between attorneys and their clients can’t be used in court. And if Jones’s rambling, angry manuscript is excluded in the case, sources told us, Jones may walk on all of the bombing-related charges.
There is only one eyewitness, Portland security guard Bob Cox, who is ready to testify that he may have seen Jones near the YWCA on the morning of April 13, 1981. Cox suffered a head injury in the bombing, however, and may be considered an unreliable witness.
Any of the other evidence gathered is circumstantial, sources say. The bomber did not leave behind a single fingerprint or any other incriminating evidence. Without the manuscript — and without a solid eyewitness who can place him at the scene — the prosecution against Jones, led by Portland District Attorney Sharon Martin, will collapse, the source said.
If the hundreds of bomb-related charges Jones is facing are dismissed, only a four-year-old rape charge against Jones could be left to prosecute, Creem has been told. The name of the victim is being withheld by Creem to protect her identity.
Laverty looked up from the magazine. “How nice,” she said. “He wants to protect the identity of his friend, but he doesn’t want to protect the case we have against Jones.”
The DA was also pissed. She turned to her two assistant DAs. “We need to consider charging X and Creem with contempt,” she said. “This article will have Dennison seeking a mistrial before the trial even gets underway …”
Chow, who had been waiting for them to finish reading, held up a hand. “If you do that, the press will rally around this young man and argue that you are violating their First Amendment rights,” he said, his voice even. “We all know what he has written here is true. If the manuscript is excluded, the bombing case could collapse.”
“We still have Bob Cox and the employees at the truck rental place in Vermont,” one of the assistant DAs said, vainly trying to sound hopeful.
“Cox was knocked cold by the bomb and hasn’t worked since,” Laverty said, shaking her head. “Have you guys interviewed him recently? He can’t remember what he had for breakfast most days. He’s under psychiatric care and it seems he’ll be a less-than-ideal eyewitness.”
Martin chimed in. “And the truck rental guys in Vermont didn’t have security cameras, and none of them remember much about Jones. None of them definitively picked him out of the lineup. Dennison will make mincemeat of them.”
“So, what do we do, folks?” Savoie asked. “Do we just let this punk reporter wreck months of police work?”
Chow shook his head. “Detective, the entire case was largely dependent on the admissibility of the manuscript long before X wrote his article.”
Just then the phone on Chow’s desk rang. He picked it up and listened. “Yes,” he said, three times, and then hung up. He looked up at Martin and her assistant DAs. “That was Justice O’Sullivan’s clerk,” he said. “Apparently his daughter is a fan of X’s and has a subscription to Creem. She showed him the article this morning.” Chow paused. “The judge would like to see all of you in his chambers right away. He’s very angry, but I suspect all of you figured that out already.”
CHAPTER 36
The first blow, Sister Betty said, came as she was rounding the corner — a punch to her left ear, not super hard but hard enough.
She’d been taking a shortcut, walking from Congress Street toward Gary’s, doing some errands and heading to a get-together of the X Gang. She’d just stepped into the alleyway that ran parallel to Free Street and was getting close to Gary’s when it happened.
It was so sudden, and so unexpected, at first she thought she might have walked into a board protruding from a garbage bin or something. But, as she was bent over, swearing and clutching the side of her head, she saw the three pairs of boots on the asphalt in front of her.
The boots were attached to three of the four guys who had been at Gary’s on the night of the Hot Nasties gig.
Sister Betty lurched back from them, shocked. They were all wearing jeans, jean jackets, Timberland boots, and flannel shirts. Typical jock wear. They were all smirking at her.
“Well, well, well,” the short, stocky one she remembered said in a nasal twang. He sounded like he was from somewhere else — mid-coast, maybe? Lots of dropped Rs and weird pronunciations. “’Chupta, girl?”
“You fucking hit me!” Sister Betty said, her initial shock replaced with anger. “What the fuck?”
“You’re a spleeny one, ain’t cha?” Short Stocky said, grinning. “Sensitive little bitch.” He and his friends laughed.
Sister Betty paused, clutching her throbbing ear, considering her options. It was midafternoon on a Saturday, but absolutely no one else was around. She had to focus on not getting beaten to death, so she kept quiet.
“Ayuh,” Short Stocky said, which Sister Betty took to mean yes. “Ain’t nobody around ’cept you and us, girlie.” He paused, pointing down at the plastic Electric Buddha record bag she was carrying. “You get us a present?”
Before she could say anything or react, Short Stocky snatched away the bag and peered inside. He extracted the Slits LP, which had cost Sister Betty twenty bucks — a lot of money.
“Return of the Giant Slits,” Short Stocky read, examining the cover, then turned it over. He held it up for his two pals to see. “Look like fuckin’ dykes, don’t they, fellas?” His t
wo friends nodded, laughing.
Short Stocky stepped toward the brick wall and smashed the record against it. He then folded the record in two and tossed it to the ground. “It’s clutch now,” he said. “Sorry, dyke.”
Sister Betty, now afraid, considered whether she would be able to run away fast enough. She decided that she couldn’t.
In the pocket of her leather jacket was a small Swiss Army knife. With the three thugs closely watching her for a reaction, she knew she’d never get to the knife in time — and, even if she did, one of them would be more likely to use it against her.
Short Stocky stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his bad breath. She didn’t want to cry, but she felt that she might.
“You kinda look like a dyke yourself, dyke,” Short Stocky hissed. He reached up and pushed her shoulder, hard. Sister Betty stumbled back, but she didn’t fall over. “You a dyke?” he said, stepping toward her.
“Leave me alone. There’s three of you and just one of me …”
Short Stocky turned to his pals and laughed. “And you think a little dite like you could take one of us?” he said, using the coaster word that means “a tiny amount.”
Sister Betty said nothing, easing her right hand into her jacket pocket. Short Stocky didn’t seem to notice.
“You need to tell your dyke friend in that fag band … what are they called, Billy?” he asked, turning to one of the other two, the taller one.
“The Hot Nasties,” Billy said.
“Oh yeah, the fag Nasties,” Short Stocky said, pointing at Sister Betty, his finger an inch from her face. “You need to tell that dyke drummer that we know who she is and that she deserved what she got. And that she needs to drop out of that trial now.”
“Why?” Sister Betty said, genuinely bewildered.
“Because she can fuck it all up, that’s why!” He was yelling now and stepping closer. “The bomber will walk because of her!”
Sister Betty did not understand, at all, how anyone could possibly reach that conclusion. The complete reverse was true: if Thomas M. Jones somehow escaped prosecution for the murders, it was only the remaining rape charge that would send him to prison.
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