We'd been picking a jury for close to two weeks when things got even more interesting. It was my buddy Bill's turn to play bodyguard. When he drove me home one day, he stunned me by saying, “Is that media guy supposed to tell the jurors they'll be sequestered for months?”
“You're not serious, are you?” I replied, never knowing when Bill was messing with me.
“Johnny, I kid you not,” he responded. “That media relations guy, Craig, was standing there in the hallway outside the courtroom telling all those jurors that they'd be sequestered for six to eight weeks, minimum.”
“No frickin’ way. Craig Burger did that?” I exclaimed, feeling shocked.
“Oh, yeah, he was teasing them. He told them they wouldn't see their families for six to eight weeks. Let me tell you, they weren't happy. That boy was having a good ol’ time.”
Bill knew by my reaction that he must've stumbled onto something important, something that definitely shouldn't have happened. Too bad it was a Friday night because I had to stew about it all weekend. By the time Monday morning rolled around, I was ready to ask Tyson to dropkick Craig Berger all the way to the beach.
“Judge,” I started, “we have a serious issue. The jury was tampered with on Friday.”
“Why didn't you raise this with the court right away? Why am I only hearing about this now?” Tyson moaned accusatorily.
“Dr. Bill Kelly, the tall gentleman standing up in the back row there, informed me after-hours on Friday; otherwise you would have heard about it as soon as I knew,” I replied.
Looking at me, Tyson said, “What can you tell me about this tampering business?”
“All I can tell you is what Dr. Kelly told me. He said the media liaison told approximately 42 prospective jurors, with no bailiff present, that they were going to be sequestered for six to eight weeks. He said they weren't going to see their families for that long. The jury candidates were understandably pretty unhappy about it.”
“That's unfortunate. Bailiffs, bring in the jury so I can inquire whether they heard this and if it affected their ability to perform their duties.”
“Unfortunate?” I muttered in disbelief.
“Do you have anything else you want to say, Mr. Contini?” Tyson scowled.
“Did you say, ‘it's unfortunate,’Your Honor?” I asked, incredulously.
Tyson then snapped, “You stood here a moment ago and wrongly told this court that there was jury tampering. What you described is not jury tampering, though I concede it might well have been irresponsible. I intend to inquire as to what they heard and whether it will affect them,” he repeated, shrinking a bit in size and volatility.
“Respectfully, Your Honor, I don't see how you can avoid striking this panel of prospective jurors, given what they now believe about sequestration and the inability to see their families,” I pressed, while standing to address him.
“Counsel, remain seated!” he snapped. “First you wanted them sequestered, now you don't! Which is it?”
“I want you to make a decision. Then you—not your media geek—can explain it to the jurors,” I exploded right back.
Then with my voice a little calmer, I said, “I'm sorry about the geek remark, Your Honor.”
Tyson ignored me and said, “Bailiff, bring in the jury, please.”
As Bob left to get the jury, Tyson conceded, “All right, you made your point. I'm going to issue an order to stop bailiffs, news media and anyone connected with the court from discussing this case so people don't casually overhear it.”
Although he acted like he was inconvenienced by my request, he obviously knew it needed to be addressed. To his credit, he even admitted he had dragged his feet a bit on this issue, “Frankly, my clerk Beth indicated a week ago that I should order this. I somewhat resisted it. Maybe she was a little more far-sighted than I was.”
Beth Kessler was indeed sharp. At least concerning Beth and the need to listen to her more often, Tyson and I finally agreed.
After the order was issued, media liaison Craig Burger probably received a stern warning from Tyson or from his own boss, Court Administrator Carol Ortman. I wasn't privy to the form or content of the reprimand but something happened, because his behavior that day went from cocky to low profile faster than Louie could twirl his hair.
In spite of Tyson's admonishment the day before, Vernell was late again. The afternoon session began and Tyson took the bench promptly at the appointed time, 1:15. The first thing he did was look at the defense table.
Not seeing Louie, Tyson asked, “Is Mr. Vernell here?”
Beth responded that Louie had called Denise. He said he was trying to get all his file boxes upstairs. I cringed inside, knowing Louie's cumulative episodes of lateness were reflecting badly on the defense. Being co-counsel with him was like watching myself in a videotaped loop of a car crash. It happened repeatedly and I couldn't do anything about it.
Already angry with Louie from previous episodes, Tyson fumed and said, “I've been having trouble with Mr. Vernell every day. The first thing we will deal with is Mr. Vernell, when he arrives.”
Outwardly, I said, “Thank you, Judge.” Inwardly, however, I was cursing Vernell's name.
Tyson continued his tirade, his veins bulging in his neck, “Let the record show that counsel and the accused are present, except for Mr. Vernell. He has been consistently late. It saddens this court, but I move to do something about this today. It's 1:25. I came in at 1:15. What time did Mr. Vernell call?”
“1:10,” answered Beth.
Just then, Louie's screeching wheels announced his arrival. The squeaking got louder until the doors swung open rather violently to reveal the disheveled Louie, then breathlessly saying, “My apologies… to the court. The elevator… Deputy Roderick was with me… was stuck on the seventh floor… for like nine minutes.”
At the defense table, everyone had either covered their ears or were getting ready to cover them. Molloy and Cindy were rolling their eyes. Lewis just stared at the floor, maybe even feeling sorry for Louie. He knew what was about to happen.
Ignoring Louie's excuse, the judge, who was now on the warpath, began by saying “The first thing we're going to address is timeliness during the trial. Yesterday, I reminded Mr. Vernell to be here on time. I told him if it happened again, I would put it in writing and take sanctions. This is the fifth time I'm noting this! Each time I have brought this to his attention, I received a fine apology, saying that he couldn't be here on time. His apologies seem to be empty.
“The court orders Mr. Vernell to be on time at all times during this trial. Failure to be here on time will subject you to criminal contempt. And for failing to abide by an order of this court, you will be subject to up to six months in the Broward County jail and a $1,000 fine.”
The Christie girls, along with their father, hated life with Louie at that moment. You would have thought their movements were choreographed if you didn't know better. They were shaking their heads in almost perfect unison, arms folded, eyeballing one another.
“Your Honor, may I respond briefly? Again…”
Once again ignoring Vernell, the judge continued, “The court herein makes this order. It shall be typed up and a copy will be given to Mr. Vernell.”
“Your Honor, may I respond briefly?”
“I apologize, but this was necessary.”
“Your Honor, my profound apologies to the court and court personnel, and to all others I might have inconvenienced. I called your secretary's office at approximately 1 P.M. I was downstairs, Your Honor, because of my particular habit or practice, I have about eight boxes. It takes me a considerable length of time to get through the guard gates.
“And for about nine minutes, we were stuck on the seventh floor. Deputy Roderick was with me and can confirm it. We all had to leave the elevator. I have always held this court in profound respect and I certainly don't want to offend you in any way…”
“I'm not taking this personally. I've made my observations,” Tyson said, matter-of-factly.
“Who are you kidding, Judge, you're not taking this personally?” I said to the guy in my head.
Seeing there was nothing left to lose, Louie went for broke—literally.
“Your honor, I have to address the court. I have not received any money on this case since July 1990. I frankly find myself in the position of having to take other cases to survive financially. Without these cases, I can't pay for my office and my telephone. That's why I was late this morning; I had a deposition to attend. I was working so I could make the money to keep my office open during this trial.”
Louie had only been paid $5,000 from Bert Christie, so he had previously asked Tyson to approve payment to him as though he were an Assistant Public Defender working in the Public Defender's Office. Tyson initially turned him down because he had already received some private money from Bert. According to law, the Public Defender's Office can only represent those who are truly indigent and unable to pay any fee whatsoever. Because of this denial by Tyson, Louie was forced to take whatever work he could get to keep his doors open.
“Your apology is accepted,” Tyson said, ignoring Louie's cries of poverty. “From now on, you are to arrive one-and-a-half hours before we begin. You have to do this because you need time to sort out your things. You have constantly used this as an excuse.” Then, backing down a bit from his hard-line stance, he said, “Do I need to force you to be here one-and-a-half hours or even 15 minutes ahead of time? Or are you going to be here on time, without complaining about elevators and the large number of cases you have to bring?”
“Today was an unusual circumstance…” Vernell answered quickly.
“Sir, this is the fifth time it has happened,” repeated Tyson, this time looking calmer.
“I apologize.”
“Then what time do you want to be here if I set a time? Fifteen minutes before?”
“Yes, sir.”
“OK. Fifteen minutes before so you can set up. Be available.”
Everyone was relieved when Tyson finally got it all out of his system. He became extraordinarily nice, as though he were feeling genuine remorse for spooking everyone like he did. There was a real bipolarity about his mood swings, which I recognized so well from my own behavior. It seemed like for every time he acted up, he'd get convicted in his own heart and then try to make up for it all by reverting to the granddaddy with twinkling and sometimes sad-looking, puppy-dog eyes.
Tyson asked that the next juror be escorted in for questioning. We all felt more relaxed—especially Louie. Everyone quickly settled back into the usual stupor induced by the interminable rounds of questions and answers.
Unbeknownst to everyone in the courtroom, however, this latest round with Louie had forced Tyson to make a decision he otherwise resented: He ignored the applicable law and granted that Louie be paid $25,000 by the Broward County taxpayers as a Special Public Defender, even though he wasn't entitled to it.
If Tyson really had wanted to play by the rules, he would have forced Bert to choose between Vernell and a new attorney from the Public Defender's Office. The defendant and his lawyer weren't supposed to be allowed to have their cake and eat it, too. Tyson's decision essentially allowed Bert to choose his own private attorney and then have the taxpayers pick up the tab. But Tyson was so frustrated and worn down by fighting with Vernell, the $25,000 started to look like a bargain. He must've thought that it was worth the money to purchase freedom from this madness and guarantee that Vernell had no more excuses for being late for trial.