blood was found in Schilling’s abandoned car. His
“But we hear that Mr. Schilling was somehow framed; that he’s innocent, pure as the driven snow. So how did this innocent man act when the police arrived? He shot at them and barricaded himself in his house.” Dylan shakes his head sadly. “Amazing.
“Now, Mr. Carpenter is a very clever lawyer, but when confronted with these facts, he acted like a man in a trap. First he tried to get out of that trap by claiming a Mexican drug gang did it, though he neglects to say why. Then, when he realized that exit was closed off, he tried to escape the trap by completely reversing direction, claiming it was part of a serial killing and the trainer did it.” Dylan chuckles slightly to himself and shakes his head at the absurdity of it.
“I don’t know how those poor young men died, but I do know the police in each case did not consider them murders… not even suspicious. And I also know that those deaths bear no resemblance whatsoever to the kind of death Troy Preston suffered: dumped in a closet and shot in the chest.
“I also don’t know what drives a man like Bobby Pollard to fake such a serious injury. And I don’t know how cell phones work, or what keeps airplanes in the air, or how we landed a man on the moon. And all of those things that I don’t know have nothing to do with this case.
“I do know that Troy Preston is dead,” he says, and points to Kenny, “and that this man killed him. And I am confident that you know it as well and that you will find him guilty as charged.”
Dylan has outdone himself; I have never heard him better. I feel a momentary panic that, while I’ve been focused so much on the deaths of all those football players, the jury might well see them as irrelevant.
I stand and walk slowly toward the jury. “On a December weekend almost eight years ago eleven teenagers were brought together. They came from Iowa, and Wisconsin, and Alabama, and Texas, and California, and Pennsylvania, and Nebraska, and Ohio, and North Carolina, and two from right here in New Jersey.
“Except for the two men from New Jersey, Kenny Schilling and Bobby Pollard, they were all meeting for the first time. So they spent the weekend together, and they talked. In fact, one of their talks was so secret that they asked the only adult in the room to leave so he wouldn’t hear them.
“And then the weekend ended, and they went home, and one after another they died.
“There is simply no chance that this is a coincidence. You did not hear me arguing against the DNA evidence, because that was simply a matter of mathematics, and numbers don’t lie. Well, you heard an expert tell you that the odds of these deaths being a coincidence are one in seventy-eight billion, and those numbers don’t lie either.
“But if you’re shaky on those numbers, just add in the fact that Bobby Pollard and Kenny Schilling were both geographically available to have committed every one of those murders. I should have asked the mathematics professor what the odds would be against that. I probably can’t count that high.
“So it is reasonable for you to assume that either Bobby Pollard or Kenny Schilling killed these people. That alone should tell you, after you listen to Judge Harrison’s charge, that you should vote to acquit Mr. Schilling. If it could have been either one of them, then by definition there is more than a reasonable doubt that it was Mr. Schilling.
“But that’s not all you know. You know that Adam Strickland, who was in the process of investigating Bobby Pollard, was suddenly and brutally murdered to cover up what he learned. You also know that Mr. Schilling was in jail, was living through this trial, at the time. Even the prosecution would admit that Kenny Schilling did not murder Adam Strickland.
“And most important, you know that Bobby Pollard is a liar. A liar under oath. A liar of mega-proportions. To believe that Kenny Schilling is the murderer, you must believe Bobby Pollard. I submit that no one should believe Bobby Pollard.
“Kenny Schilling had a very difficult upbringing, the kind of childhood that destroys far too many lives. It takes a very strong person to overcome it, but Kenny did more than just overcome bad luck. He went on to become an exemplary citizen, a good guy in an era and an occupation in which bad guys are all too prevalent.
“There is nothing that Kenny Schilling has ever done, not even anything he’s ever said, that would give the slightest credence to the view that he could have suddenly committed a heinous crime like this. And he did not commit this crime, nor any of the others you’ve heard about.
“Do not end another life, one that is really just beginning, and one that is filled with such promise.” I point to Kenny. “This man deserves his life back. Thank you.”
I have never given a closing statement without being positive I screwed it up, and comments to the contrary from Kevin, Laurie, and Kenny don’t come close to penetrating that pessimism. My guess is that I feel this way because it was my last chance to influence the jury, and matters are now totally out of my hands.
Harrison has decided to sequester the jury for the duration of their deliberations, and after charging them he sends them off to begin. I am now waiting helplessly for twelve citizens to decide the fate of a man I consider innocent. I am also waiting, just as helplessly, for Laurie to decide whether she will exit my life.
Suffice it to say, I am not a happy camper.
* * * * *
EACH PERSON REACTS differently to the stress of waiting for a jury verdict. I become cranky and obnoxious, snapping at anyone who asks anything about the trial. I also become intensely and uncharacteristically superstitious, living according to a long-held list of idiotic behaviors that would make life intolerable if I attempted it on a permanent basis. For instance, for fear of pissing off the justice system god, I won’t do anything remotely illegal. I won’t drive one mile over the speed limit, I won’t jaywalk, I won’t even play loud music on my car radio.
My other trait during these times ties in well with the first two. I also become a hermit, and anyone who has suffered through any time with me while waiting for a verdict thinks my reclusiveness is a good thing.
“Verdict stress” brings out Kevin’s hypochondriac tendencies even further, which is no small statement. This time it happens more quickly than most: When Judge Harrison sends the jury off to deliberate, Kevin literally can’t get up with the rest of us to leave the courtroom. He decides that something called his L4-L5 disk has degenerated, apparently overnight, and he needs a spinal fusion. What he really needs is a head transplant, but Laurie and I are obliged to almost carry him to his car.
Making matters worse is that my pessimism is shared by the large majority of television pundits covering the trial. In fact, I would say that three out of every five people in America are serving in the role of television pundit on this case. The majority view is that the defense is hoping for a hung jury, since not only would it obviously not be a loss but it would give us more time to investigate Bobby Pollard.
I actually have Laurie and Sam continuing to look into Bobby, in the likely event that we should lose and have to appeal. The unfortunate fact is that even a victorious appeal would take years and would destroy Kenny’s football career in the process.
Laurie has spoken to three members of the defensive half of the
It is an irresistible impulse to try to gauge the jury, to try to guess what they must be thinking. I never do so out loud, since that’s one of my superstitions, but it certainly rattles around in my head enough.
In this case I’m hoping for a long deliberation. Our defense of the serial killings came out of left field, something the jury didn’t expect, and without a necessarily clear connection to the offense charged. If the jury gives it serious consideration, it should take time for them to examine and debate. If they reject it out of hand, certainly a possibility, then there’s really nothing to ponder; all the other evidence favors the prosecution.
I’m at home obsessing when the phone rings, always a traumatic event during a verdict wait. It’s Rita Gordon, the court clerk, calling. Since it’s only the morning of the second day of deliberation, if there’s a verdict we’re finished.
“I hope you’re just calling to say hello,” I say.
“Hoping for a long one?” she says. Knowing how anxious I am, she doesn’t wait for an answer. “No verdict yet. The jury has a question.”
