Six months of bickering and recriminations followed the verdict, as defense lawyers tried to delay sentencing by accusing the government—and Lynne Sposito—of all sorts of misconduct. Everything from political manipulation of the justice system to suborning perjury was claimed, each charge requiring a hearing and a ruling.
One by one, Judge Pickering threw out each argument, finally telling the attorneys to get ready for sentencing in March 1992. He would allow no more delays.
As the day approached, the length of the potential sentences confronting the defendants remained uncertain, in part because of the way the jury had decided the case. The verdict was unquestionably a victory for the prosecution, but it was not a complete rout because not every defendant was convicted of every charge in the indictment.
All four defendants were convicted in the most serious count, the conspiracy charge that merged the scam with the murder-for-hire plot. And all four were convicted of wire fraud—the actual scamming.
But of the two remaining counts in the indictment—which involved interstate travel with intent to commit murder for hire—the results were mixed. Nix and Gillich were convicted of count three, inducing Robert Hallal to cross state lines for murder for hire. Ransom, however, was acquitted on this count. And all three men were acquitted of count four, interstate travel by John Ransom for murder for hire on August 8 and 9, 1987. (LaRa Sharpe had not been charged in these last two counts.)
“I can’t reason how the jury can reach a verdict about Nix and Gillich, yet find Ransom not guilty,” lawyer Jim Rose said after the verdict. He and his colleagues said it seemed inconsistent, and that the jury must have been “confused.” Either Robert Hallal was telling the truth and they’re all guilty, or he’s lying and they’re all innocent.
“It makes no sense,” attorney Rose said.
Pete Halat put an even more dramatic spin on the verdicts: He pronounced himself “vindicated.” Because Ransom was found innocent of taking a trip to Biloxi to discuss murder for hire, Halat concluded that the jury must have disbelieved Bill Rhodes—the prime link between the mayor and the murders.
“I feel vindicated to the extent that the jury didn’t believe anything Bill Rhodes said,” Halat told reporters.
The jurors had a simple answer for all this: They were not confused, several said in news interviews. They believed Bill Rhodes. And the only reason they acquitted Ransom was because the government put the wrong dates in its indictment. The indictment said John Ransom traveled across state lines with intent to commit murder for hire on August 8 and 9—days that Ransom’s family convincingly swore he was vacationing in Florida, not plotting murder in Biloxi. The jurors had no doubt that Ransom was involved—that’s why he was convicted in the conspiracy—but for those two particular days in the indictment, he was in the clear. And the fact that portions of Hallal’s story seemed untrue did not persuade jurors that they should discard everything he said. They felt that on key points, he had been consistent throughout.
As for Bill Rhodes, one juror said, it was Pete Halat who was confused. “He testified about January and February, and the date on the indictment was August, when Rhodes was in jail. . . . As a whole, I believe Rhodes. I believed his ingredients, not his spices. That was said in the jury room.”
Their belief in Rhodes had not greatly contributed to the case, however, because of the way the indictment was written: his testimony did not apply to those last two counts of murder for hire. Several of the jurors told prosecutors afterward that they would have convicted Pete Halat if he had been among the defendants.1
* * *
When the day set aside for sentencing finally arrived—March 12, 1992—Lynne returned to Mississippi, accompanied by her sister, Leslie. Her two brothers sent letters but did not come.
At home, while Dick was at work, Lynne’s children were safeguarded by a former Navy Seal commando, a co-worker of Lynne’s at her clinic who had agreed to move into the Spositos’ spare room. The former Seal acted as combination tenant, nanny, and bodyguard. He took the kids everywhere, stood guard after the occasional threatening phone call, helped keep the rebellious Tommy in line. A heavy-duty lock had to be installed on the door to his room, however—to keep all his guns safe. It is testament to the effect a murder can have on a family that all this seemed a comfort, not a terror. Lynne felt safer than she had in years, knowing he was there.
People had already packed the courtroom when Lynne and Leslie arrived, accompanied by John and Becky Field. Both the Sherry children wore red dresses in honor of their mother’s favorite color, a show of support for the prosecution and a silent plea for justice for their parents.
They found themselves greatly outnumbered. The Gillich family had advertised on cable television and in newspapers, pleading for letters of support. They deluged the court with testimonials and petitions for Mr. Mike, more than five hundred signatures attesting to the good character and generosity of their favorite strip joint operator. Catholic nuns, a school principal, the general manager of Barq’s Root Beer Company of Biloxi, even the bishop of Biloxi, the Most Reverend Joseph Howze—the man who had conducted the funeral Mass for Vincent and Margaret Sherry—wrote the court on Gillich’s behalf, joining the painstakingly penned missives from Gillich’s strippers describing what a prince their boss could be.
Bishop Howze’s letter was the only one that really hurt the family, detailing as it did Gillich’s generous contributions to the church, sympathizing with the burden on his family, and calling for leniency because “I am sure the ordeals Mr. Gillich has endured thus far have made him contrite and repentant.” The names of those other good Catholics, Vince and Margaret Sherry, did not appear in the bishop’s letter, nor did it acknowledge the suffering of the Sherry family. Lynne called the Biloxi Sun Herald in a rage, begging a reporter there to write about this testimonial, but an article never appeared.
In the face of this onslaught, the four Sherry children wrote their own letters to Judge Pickering, struggling to find words for sentiments they had never before fully articulated. No one had ever so baldly asked them to describe, as the U.S. Attorney had asked, just how they had been affected by the deaths of their parents.
The question overwhelmed. Vin Sherry took refuge in sarcasm: “I hear the good citizens of Biloxi have rallied behind Mr. Gillich in his time of need,” he wrote. “Community leaders like him are the rock on which Biloxi is built, or at least the stuff that grows under it. . . . What people don’t realize is that there is a little-known city ordinance that gives immunity to strip-club owners who tithe.”
But mixed in with the bitterness, Vin Sherry III also spoke of the new peephole in his front door and the burglar alarm he had installed, the pointless fistfights he kept getting into, part of the impotent rage that eats at him, that leaves him punching holes in the walls of his home. His therapist, he wrote, says he suffers from post-traumatic stress syndrome, just like combat veterans.
Eric Sherry wrote of being alienated from the city he once loved, of the horror of being suspected of killing his own parents, the grief for his seven-year-old son who needs counseling and who can’t sleep alone at night because he fears “the bad men” who killed his grandparents might come for him next.
Leslie Sherry, in an eloquent letter reminiscent of her father’s writings, explained how her parents never saw her graduate college or earn her master’s degree. Her father will not give her away at her wedding, she told the judge, nor will her mother hold and cuddle the grandchildren that someday will come. She recalled how her parents taught her critical thinking and self-reliance—to know she could achieve anything if she worked hard enough. This, more than anything, drove her to go on with her studies and her life after they died, she told Pickering.
“It is quite a shame,” she wrote, “that often by the time we are old enough to appreciate such ‘words of wisdom,’ those who passed them on to us are no longer around to thank.”
All the Sherry children asked the judge to treat the defendants sternly, to hold them fully responsible for their actions. No amount of charitable acts could confer absolution for murder, they wrote.
“If we can keep another family from going through this by standing up and saying, this is wrong and must be made as right as it can be, then we have done the job that was assigned to us all on September 14, 1987,” Lynne wrote in her letter to the judge. “Nothing can bring my parents back, but knowing that the people responsible for their deaths do have to answer to someone in this lifetime gives a sense of peace to us all.” Even as she penned the words, Lynne could only hope this was true. Peace seemed further off than ever.
* * *
In court on the day of sentencing, Lynne, Leslie, and their two friends, John and Becky Field, sat on one row in back of the prosecution table. The other side of the courtroom filled with the supporters of Mike Gillich. LaRa Sharpe had her two teenaged daughters there for her. John Ransom was absent, sick with pneumonia. Kirksey Nix, heavier than ever, head nodding crookedly, eyebrows bushy, had no one but his lawyers.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Peter Barrett surprised the defense by arguing that the law allowed a life sentence, at least for Nix and Gillich—something the prosecution hadn’t mentioned before. The judge rejected this, however, saying federal sentencing guidelines adopted in recent years tied his hands and limited him to a maximum of five years on each count in the indictment. He made it clear, however, that this did not mean he agreed with defense claims that someone else killed the Sherrys.
“I do believe that, by a preponderance of the evidence, that the murder took place as a result of the conspiracy,” Pickering ruled—a prerequisite for imposing the maximum sentence. When Gillich’s son-in-law/attorney Keith Pisarich began loudly objecting to this finding, the judge cautioned him to lower his voice, then repeated his finding in even plainer terms. “The court feels that the murder of the Sherrys was a result of the conspiracy charged in count one.”
With that said, each defendant had the chance to speak before sentencing. LaRa Sharpe presented her two daughters, one of whom read a tearful letter to the court, pleading for probation. The judge declined this suggestion, but found that LaRa’s role in the murder conspiracy had been nil—so far as the prosecution proved at trial. The evidence proved only that she was a scammer, he said. Pickering then sentenced her to one year and one week in prison, to be followed by three years probation and counseling. She left the courtroom arm in arm with her daughters, granted a month’s leave before she had to report to prison. “I hope I don’t see you again,” the judge said.
“You won’t see me again,” LaRa promised.
Mike Gillich remained mute when his turn came. He wore a badly rumpled brown suit, looking exhausted and unshaven. He had been placed in custody six months earlier—the moment the guilty verdict was read—and his first-ever stint in jail at age sixty-one had worn heavily on him. His temporary lodgings were overcrowded, and there was no bed for him. Mr. Mike had been reduced to sleeping on a jail-cell floor. His lawyers pointed to all the letters on Gillich’s behalf and asked for mercy, but Mr. Mike personally had nothing to say.
Judge Pickering remained unmoved by the testimonials. Gillich may have been a charitable man, the judge said, but his part in the conspiracy cost the Sherrys their lives.
Convicted on three counts, Gillich received a five-year term for each, stacked one on the other—a total sentence of fifteen years, with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar fine as well.
Marshals immediately hauled Gillich from the courtroom to a holding cell. As he left, he waved and offered a weak smile to his family and supporters, who fled the room shortly thereafter. Lynne idly watched them go, unable to completely suppress a grim smile. An elderly woman, Lucille Schenk, a longtime backer of Gillich’s, suddenly leaned toward Lynne, leered, and screeched belligerently, “What are you lookin’ at?”
Lynne said nothing, but John Field muttered, “Not much.”
The court was mostly empty when Nix’s turn came. Unlike his patron, Kirksey Nix found the podium irresistible. It would be his one final platform before sentence was passed.
Reciting poetry, rambling about lies and innocence, Nix admitted to scamming, then denied all else. “Like the woman in Macy’s basement who shopped till she dropped, I did scams with a frenzy,” he said. “But somewhere in the dark of the night . . . the killers of Vincent and Margaret Sherry still lurk. . . . This case is not solved.
“Mike Gillich is an innocent man,” he said, trying to shoulder blame one more time. Then he looked directly at Lynne, saying, “Judge Sherry and Councilwoman Sherry deserve more. . . . A political assassination occurred. . . . It is textbook Machiavellian to blame the criminal element. . . . The killers are out there. The people should not think the Sherry case is solved. I know it is not.”
Lynne stared back at him, fascinated and repulsed at the same time, wondering if she would ever feel relief, if this process would ever be finished.
When Nix was through with his lengthy statement, Judge Pickering spoke. “Mr. Nix, you are quite eloquent. . . . The court observes that it is unfortunate for you, and unfortunate for society, that a man with the talents and abilities you have would dedicate himself to crime.”
“No one regrets it more than me,” Nix said, still standing at the podium, wearing his red suspenders and tassled loafers for the last time.
“You kept your mind on the street, even while your body was in prison,” the judge said, quoting Nix’s own testimony. “The Sherry family must live with the consequences of that.”
With that, the judge passed sentence. Nix received a fifteen-year term as well, to begin only after his life sentence was completed, if ever. That way, if he should ever be pardoned or paroled in Louisiana, he would still have fifteen years of federal time ahead of him. Then the marshals led Nix from the room. The judge left next, then the lawyers gathered their boxes of papers and briefcases and filed out. It was over.
(Recovered from his pneumonia, John Ransom came to court a week later offering to solve the case with his own investigation if given three months in the field. The judge declined this odd offer from the Dixie Mafia’s feared hit man. He gave Ransom a ten-year sentence instead, stacked on his twelve-year sentence in Georgia. At his age—sixty-five—and considering his poor health, this amounted to a death sentence, his lawyer argued, pleading for leniency. But the judge said Ransom deserved no such consideration.)
* * *
The end seemed almost anticlimactic to Lynne. Six months had passed since the trial, and the ebullience she had felt then had long since faded. She felt no relief, just exhaustion. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said to Becky after the sentencing. There would be no celebration.
In the glow of the guilty verdicts the previous fall, George Phillips had vowed to reporters, “We’re gonna work this case until I either die or go out of office, one of the two. We’re never gonna stop the investigation until we are certain we had solved the murders of Vince and Margaret Sherry.”
At the time, it seemed like a new break in the case was imminent. Someone would crack, and they’d have their murder case cold. Now that he was convicted, John Ransom would change his tune and confess. Or Mike Gillich, facing prison for the first time in his life, would roll over and say who pulled the trigger. Or maybe Lenny Swetman, facing a drug indictment with Nix and Gillich, would cooperate.
But six months had gone by, sentence had been passed, and the investigation was no closer to a final solution than before. The defendants had maintained their innocence. Lynne wanted to know what happened. All the confident predictions had led nowhere, she said. If these men were guilty, they had nothing to gain from insisting on their innocence, and everything to gain from telling the truth, she reasoned. And yet they still said the government had it all wrong, that someone else did the killing.
Well, the prosecutors told her now, the defendants all thought they had a shot at a successful appeal: They’re convinced the combination scam-murder conspiracy was unconstitutional, and they still expect to win a new trial. Maybe, George Phillips told Lynne, when the appeals were resolved and the convictions affirmed, they might start hearing a different story. But that was years off, he conceded. And suddenly, that “first step” Peter Barrett spoke of started sounding like the only step to Lynne. She had confidently told reporters six months earlier that the killers should listen for footsteps, the investigators were coming—but now she wasn’t so sure. The case remained far from solved, as far as she was concerned. They had the conspirators. But did they have the killers?
“They keep talking about footsteps,” Pete Halat observed. “They’re never going to completely solve this case until those footsteps turn in a different direction.”2
As she emerged from the courtroom after sentencing, Lynne was asked when she would finally pronounce her ordeal ended. Hadn’t she had enough? one reporter wanted to know. As discouraged as she felt, Lynne had a ready answer.
“When the people that cold-bloodedly murdered my parents are awaiting their own death penalty on a state charge, then we’re done.”
Lynne Sposito is waiting still.