Charlottesville, Virginia. The inside walls of his house were literally pasted with historic documents, some of them framed, some not.
Since getting out of prison twenty years earlier, Zobel had gone back to his roots. For a price he would sell you a replicated piece of history, anything you wanted, signed by a historic figure. Most of his business was done over the Internet and via e-mail.
Replicated documents or whimsical originals were sent out by UPS ground shipment, unless the buyer wanted to spring for overnight delivery.
According to what Zobel told Herman, he almost never saw the people who commissioned his work. He imposed only two requirements on his customers. First, they were required to sign and mail in a disclaimer, the form that was on Zobel’s Web site, verifying that they were commissioning the work and that there was no intent on their part to use the document for any fraudulent or unlawful purpose. Second, they had to agree that the document, when completed, would bear a discreet notation in indelible ink printed on the reverse side that the item was “a hand-replicated copy, and not an original.” That and payment, either by credit card to his site on the Internet or by check with return of the disclaimer, was all Zobel required.
When Herman showed Zobel a copy of the Jefferson Letter, the man nearly collapsed behind the counter. He had been waiting for the FBI to arrive for three weeks. When he saw the copy, he assumed that Herman was there to arrest him. Herman assured him that what he wanted was information and nothing more.
Zobel told him that from the start it was an unusual transaction, but that he’d done everything by the book. It had been ordered not over the Internet, but by phone. A price had been quoted, and a few days later an envelope arrived with typed memoranda of the contents to be penned in the letter, along with the signed disclaimer form, apparently printed off Zobel’s Web site. There were also fifteen crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, the price quoted.
All this made Zobel nervous. He was no longer on parole, but he didn’t want to go back to prison, so he did the right thing. He called his lawyer.
The lawyer assured him that as long as he had the signed disclaimer and he printed the notation on the back of the replicated document, he was in the clear. So he did it. According to Zobel’s records, the “original” of the J letter, written on four custom-made quarto-size sheets, was picked up by a private courier service two weeks later. Zobel didn’t note or write down the name of the courier service. When he pulled the disclaimer form from the file that included a copy of his work and the original envelope containing the money, the return address on the envelope read “T. Scarborough,” with Scarborough’s Georgetown address. And the disclaimer form bore the signature “T. Scarborough.” Herman used a subpoena to get the envelope and the original of the disclaimer form, leaving the subpoena and a copy of the form in Zobel’s files.
Back in the office, Harry, Herman, and I labor over the signature. While none of us are handwriting experts, Scarborough’s signature was somewhat unique. It would be difficult to copy. The signature at the bottom of Zobel’s disclaimer form appeared to be an original in blue ink, and from everything we can see-all the little nooks and crannies, right down to the tailored wisps of ink from his favored fountain pen-it appeared to be authentic.
So if someone else had commissioned the letter, how did they get Scarborough’s signature on the form?
Closeted with Quinn and Tuchio in chambers, we find this even more mystifying. The judge has been playing racquetball with the jury for more than ten days now, what with their constant requests for clarification on bits of evidence, some granted, some denied. They have returned three times to ask that Carl’s signed statement to the police following his arrest be read to them once more or, in the alternative, that they be given a copy.
Quinn has said no to a copy, from which they might end up parsing the words, but he has sent his clerk, Ruiz, in twice to read it to them.
If it’s possible to interpret their questions, with all the evidence that’s been presented to the jury, the stunning revelations of the Jefferson Letter and the matching evidence of hair samples from the envelope to those found at the scene, the jury seems hung up on a single point: how Carl could have gotten the tray with food to the table in Scarborough’s room without first seeing his body.
Guess what a jury will do with the evidence and you’ll be wrong a dozen times out of a dozen.
Quinn is now mired in another trial in a courtroom down the hall, so he has little time for us this morning.
“What the hell is going on?” says Quinn. “From the videotape and the transcript, the two of them having dinner, Teddy’s transcript, Ginnis gave Scarborough the copy of the letter. Now you bring me this,” he says.
The judge is holding the disclaimer form signed by Scarborough. “Why is Scarborough asking Ginnis for the original if he already had it?”
“It’s a good thing that video didn’t come in,” says Tuchio.
“I’m beginning to think that that video is the only thing that is real,” I tell him.
The judge has to get back to court. He is ushering us out just as Ruiz, his clerk, is coming the other way.
“You guys better stick around,” says Ruiz. “Your Honor, the jury is back,” he says.
“A verdict?”
Ruiz shrugs and shakes his head. He’s not sure, but they’ve notified the bailiff that they’re ready to come out of the jury room.
Twenty minutes later the courtroom is packed, Harry and Carl seated at the counsel table with me.
“What do you think?” says Carl.
“I don’t know. They’ve been out a long time.”
The general rule is that a quick verdict is a guilty verdict. The longer the jury is out, the greater the possibility that Carl will be acquitted. At least that’s the rule of thumb. I’ve told him this, but I haven’t dwelled on it. There’s the risk of rising expectations and the shattering shock if I’m wrong.
We wait for another eighteen minutes before the jury files in. When a jury comes in, it is always the same, the rush of emotions, the anxiety. My stomach produces enough acid to etch the concrete on my driveway. You find yourself leaping at every little sign, looking for signals. The sure and certain giveaway is when one or more of the jurors smiles at the defendant.
None of them do this today. The fact is that not a single one of them makes eye contact with Carl, or anyone else at our table. This is not good.
Quinn allows them to settle into their chairs. “The court will come to order.”
He waits for things to settle down out in the audience, until all you can hear is a couple of coughs and some throat clearing. “Mr. Foreman.”
The jury foreman rises.
“Has the jury arrived at a verdict?”
“It has not, Your Honor. We are deadlocked.”
A hung jury. There is commotion in the audience behind us, people up out of their chairs.
The judge hammers his gavel. “The court will come to order. You people out in the audience, take your seats and be quiet.”
When I turn, I see the expression of concern on Sam Arnsberg’s face, Carl’s dad, seated in the front row directly behind us. He’s not sure what this means, nor is Carl.
“What’s happening?”
“Just sit tight. Don’t talk to anybody, don’t say anything.”
Two of the deputies move up and stand just behind the bar railing at our backs. They are both facing out to the audience.
Everything now rests in Quinn’s hands, and I can tell by his expression that he is not happy.
He clears his throat. Quinn is considering his options as he sits up there on the bench. “Mr. Foreman.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Now, I don’t want you to tell me what the vote is or which way the jury is leaning, but if I were to send you all back into the jury room to deliberate a little longer, do you think it’s likely that you would be able to arrive at a verdict?”
“I doubt it, Your Honor.”
This is not what Quinn wanted to hear.
