“But, but, my lord, you can’t—”
“But nothing. Take him to cells, gentlemen. And McSheffrey, have your friends in the prosecutor’s office quickly draft a series of charges against Mr. Alexander. Tell them I said that if there aren’t at least thirty charges, they’re not doing their jobs.” With that, the sheriffs did as they were ordered and hauled a scrapping, spitting, cursing, screaming Dan out the side door of the courtroom.
65
Sheff’s closing address was a day-long tirade, full of phrases like “drugpushing, gun-running, scurrilous piece of filth” and “murderer of tens of thousands,” leading to a thunderous conclusion: “Do not let this murderous pile of garbage back on the streets. No one is safe with this drug- and gun-running international terrorist on the loose.”
The following day came Dana’s one-hour closing. “Look, you need to establish that Leon knew about the conspiracy. You’ve heard all about the conspiracy to destroy the Glen Canyon Dam, and there is not one word of evidence tying him to it. All that the Crown has, after this incredible production, are a series of emails that in all likelihood are fake. Mr. Hamilton Turbee was eminently qualified to say so . . .”
When she was done, Judge Mordecai read his instructions to the jury, which took until 3:00 p.m. Finally the jury was permitted to discuss the evidence.
When a jury goes out, all purposeful activity ceases. Dana walked up and down the foyer, peeked in some other courtrooms, bought a cup of undrinkable coffee from a machine, and paced and paced and paced.
After one hour and fifteen minutes, a message came over the building sound system: “All counsel please return to Courtroom 401. All counsel to Room 401 please.” An hour and fifteen minutes? A verdict? Indeed, after an eight-week trial, seventy-five minutes to deliberate? But a verdict was on the way.
Much lawyer folklore has developed around reading a jury when they return a verdict. If they’re smiling and looking at the accused, it will be not guilty. If they’re smiling and looking at the prosecutor’s table, the verdict will be guilty. If they’re frowning, etc., etc. The twelve men and women walked into court from a side door, led and followed by sheriffs. They were grim and angry looking. None looked at Leon.
“Look at ’em, Archambault,” said Sheff. “None of them are looking at Leon. Look at their expression. They want to hang him.”
“She’s in the bag, Sheff,” Archambault replied. “In. The. Bag.”
Dana knew the folklore, too. The jury never looked at her; they had downturned mouths and a few of them had a beat-up look about them. They assembled in their usual places.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a decision in this case?”
“Yes, my lord, we have,” said the foreman.
“And on Count One of the indictment, how do you find?”
“Not guilty.”
Judge Mordecai went through each charge in the nineteen-count indictment. In each and every case, the foreman came back with a “not guilty” verdict.
Sheff was astounded and demanded the jury be polled. Dana could not believe what she was hearing. Leon not guilty. Who would have thought?
There was a general uproar in the room as reporters and politicians reached for their cell phones, completely ignoring the court’s injunction about the use of such devices while in session. Seven or eight reporters went running for the door to give the word via the satellite uplink stations.
“Can I go now?” Leon stood and asked the obvious question.
“Order in the court. Order in the court!” yelled Judge Mordecai, whacking his gavel hard against the bench. “I can’t hear a word the accused is saying.”
The noise dropped a few decibels, and Leon repeated his question: “Can I go now?”
Mordecai looked at McSheffrey, who was a little dazed by the result. “Is he free to go, Mr. McSheffrey?”
“No, he isn’t. He is currently working a seven-year sentence for possession and importing and exporting drugs and guns. He has four and a half years to go.”
“But surely—if he has served more than one-third of his sentence, and a good bit of the last year on remand time—surely he is now eligible for parole?” asked the judge.
“He probably is, m’lord, but that is for the parole board to decide, and not me.” McSheffrey paused for a few seconds and then added, “We, of course, will be appealing the result, and that will take some time.”
“McSheffrey, you are such an ass. We’re adjourned.”
Later that night, one of the sheriffs walked through cells to do a count, something protocol required every four hours. He stopped and momentarily panicked when he came to Kumar’s cell. Kumar’s feet were dangling a few inches above the floor. A bedsheet had been tied to an upper crossbar, and a noose, formed out of the other end, was wrapped around his neck. It was estimated that he had been dead for more than an hour when the guard did the count.
Dan Alexander was sitting, a sly expression on his face, in a cell a few doors down. When asked what happened, he simply replied that he didn’t think it was a crime to talk someone into taking his own life. “I mean, if he can’t live with himself, that’s his problem, isn’t it?”
66
The day of the not guilty verdict went by like a blur. Dana gave a few interviews, and smiled to see that Old Man deFijter was busy gladhanding and sugar-feeding the press about the brilliant job his lawfirm had done in winning an unwinnable case. Dana choked at the hypocrisy and decided she would be best off degowning, changing into a pair of jeans, and heading home.
Chris and Bam-Bam were glued to CNN as various aspects of the story came out.
“Hon, you probably took out the president of the United States. That’s pretty big bragging rights,” Chris proclaimed proudly.
“It wasn’t really me, Chris. Somehow or other, witnesses kept parachuting in. I had no idea what they were going to testify to. I
