Of course, it wasn’t really Darth Vader. It was some nerd named David Kandinsky dressed up as Darth Vader. But it was a convincing costume.
As he walked down the center aisle of the courtroom, he made that distinctive iron-lung sound Darth Vader made in Star Wars. When he sat down in the jury box and said good morning to the judge and jury—as witnesses are advised to do—he sounded like James Earl Jones. He must’ve been speaking through a voice modification system built into his helmet.
To say that the unflappable Richard Fineman went ballistic would be putting it mildly.
“Sidebar, Your Honor!” he said.
“Approach!” said the judge who was just as upset.
It was indicative of the laziness and stupidity of Michael Willis, Esquire, that this was the first judicial sidebar conference of the entire trial. I had a pair of headphones on the defendant’s table I could use to listen in to the discussion while the jury heard nothing but white noise. I donned the headsets and got ready for the fireworks. What I heard would’ve been hilarious, had it not been that a decade of my life was at stake.
“Your Honor, this is beyond outrageous. Counsel is turning this trial into a three-ring circus. I object in the strongest possible terms.”
“What in the name of God do you think you’re doing, Mr. Willis?”
“Your Honor, this witness is critical to my case.”
“Then why didn’t you tell him to show up in street clothes?” asked the judge. “What could you hope to gain by letting him take the stand in a Star Wars costume?”
“That will become clear during my questioning, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor,” said Fineman, “it’s inflammatory. It’s not in the least bit probative. It makes a mockery of the judicial system to the point where it should be considered contempt of court.”
Fineman shouldn’t have said the words contempt of court. That decision was solely under the discretion of the judge and he seemed protective of it.
“I’ll decide what’s contempt of court and what isn’t, Mr. Fineman.”
I could see Fineman bow his head and step back like the Queen of England herself had rebuked him. The judge turned back to Michael in a conciliatory, almost fatherly tone. “Mr. Willis, you’ve been quiet during this whole trial. There have been times when I was afraid you were asleep. And you seem to be working on some kind of elaborate drawing on your yellow pad. I’d love to take a look at that, by the way, after the trial is over. But now, out of the blue, you come up with this bizarre display of showmanship and histrionics. What possible reason could you have for asking your witness to testify in costume?”
“Your Honor, as I said, if you’ll give me just a few questions my reasoning will become clear.”
“Your Honor, I cannot allow—” said Fineman.
A petulant Michael Willis suddenly cut him off. “Your Honor, it’s only fair! Mr. Fineman brought that volunteer girl in here dressed in her convention get-up. She had that kerchief around her neck and all those badges, medals, and buttons on her chest. What was the reason for that? I listened to her entire testimony. Well, most of it. And I still don’t know why she was all dressed up like that.”
“He has a point, Mr. Fineman. I wondered about that myself at the time. I kept waiting for Mr. Willis to object, but he was busy with his artwork.”
“Your Honor,” said Fineman, “I simply thought her attire would lend some credibility to her testimony and help the jury understand she was in a position of authority at the convention.”
“I rest my case, Your Honor,” said Michael.
“You rest your case? Now?”
“I mean Mr. Fineman made my point for me.”
“Mr. Willis, when you say ‘I rest my case,’ it has a specific meaning in the courtroom. You don’t say those words colloquially. You say them when you’re really ready to rest your case.”
“I’m sorry. But you know what I mean.”
All three of them were silent for a minute while the judge stared at the ceiling and pondered his decision.
“Okay, look, here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going to allow it—”
“Your Honor—”
“Shut up, Mr. Fineman. Consider yourself lucky this trial has gone like a wet dream for you so far. You’ve been taking batting practice against a pitching machine set on ‘slow.’ For whatever reason, Mr. Willis has chosen to let you get away with murder. He says this witness is critical to his case, so I’m going to allow it.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Michael.
“Listen to me, Mr. Willis, and listen good. I’m going to give you five minutes of questioning to prove this demonstration is probative. If I don’t understand your reasoning within five minutes, I’m going to put an end to it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The attorneys walked back to their tables.
When Michael reached the defendant’s table, he picked up his yellow pad and leaned over to whisper something to me, “Hey, Joey, you’re good with words. What does probative mean again?”
“It’s an adjective that means useful for uncovering evidence or proof. Like you’re trying to ferret out the truth.”
“Okay, cool. That’s what I thought it meant. Just checking. Wish me luck.”
Instead of wishing him luck, I closed my eyes and said a quick Hail Mary.
Michael stepped up to the attorney’s podium, checked his notepad, and asked his first question.
“Sir, would you please state your whole name and occupation for the record.”
“Darth Vader, supreme commander of the Galactic Empire.”
“Objection!” said Fineman.
“Sustained. Mr. Willis, please remember what we talked about up here.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Let’s try that again. Could you please state your real name and occupation for the record.”
“David Kandinsky. I work in a shoe store.”
“And where do you reside, Mr. Kandinsky?”
“Middletown, Ohio.”
“Is that near Columbus, Ohio?”
“About ninety minutes.”
“So is it fair to say that when you heard a Fan-Con was coming to Columbus, Ohio, you were excited about going to the convention and wearing your Darth Vader costume?”
“Objection, Your Honor! Counsel is putting words in the witness’s mouth.”
“Sustained.”
“Let me rephrase that. Did you wear your Darth Vader costume to the Columbus Fan-Con last October?”
“I did.”
“And were you the only one there dressed as Darth Vader?”
“No, I counted five Darth Vaders, including me.”
“Objection, Your Honor. The witness is not in a position to say with certainty how many Darth Vaders were at the convention.”
I could tell Fineman’s strategy was to make an objection every minute or two to throw Michael off his game—to the extent Michael had a game.
“Overruled,” said the judge. “He’s only testifying to how many Darth Vaders he saw.”
Michael did a little fist pump, like Tiger Woods after sinking a twenty-foot putt.
“Would you say there were a lot of people in costume at the convention?” said Michael.
“Yes, there were thousands of people in costume.”
“Three more minutes, Mr. Willis.” The judge tapped his watch. “Three more minutes.”
“Yes, Your Honor. We’re really close now. Mr. Kandinsky, would you say that many of those costumes were as elaborate as yours?”
“Most of them were.”
“Is it fair to say that many of them included helmets, masks, and other kinds of headgear that completely covered the person’s face and eyes?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“Mr. Kandinsky, can you tell me how many fingers I am holding up right now?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said Fineman. “Relevance.”
“I’ll allow it,” said the judge.
“How many fingers, Mr. Kandinsky?”
“I can’t tell. I can’t see that far in this helmet.”
“Can you even see me?”
“Just barely.”
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
“You may.”
Michael walked to within ten feet of the witness stand.
“Can you see me now?”
“A little better.”
“How many fingers?”
“I still can’t make out your hands at all.”
Michael walked right up to the witness stand and put his hand six inches away from Darth Vader’s face.
“What about now, how many fingers?”
“Two?”
“Let the record show that I’m holding up three fingers,” said Michael to the court reporter. He gave a meaningful glance to the jury, too.
I looked over at Fineman to see how he was reacting to this. He had his hands over his eyes, and his shoulders were heaving up and down. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or laughing. I’m pretty sure it was the latter.
“Just a few more questions, Mr. Kandinsky.”
“Okay, cool.”
“Did you wait in line to get Mr. Volpe’s autograph?”
“Mr. who?”
“Mr. Volpe. The man sitting at the defendant’s table.”
“I told you I can’t see that far.”
“Mr. Joseph Volpe, the man who robbed all those—er, I mean the defendant in this case.”
“Oh, yes, the Mafia hit man. Yes, I got his autograph.”
“Did you see two bodyguards standing behind him holding machine guns?”
“No, I couldn’t see them. Like I said, I can’t really see more than about five feet in this thing.”
“It’s your testimony, is it not, that the kind of helmet you’re wearing is typical of those worn by most people at the convention.”
“Yes, very typical.”
“So you’re saying that most of the people at the convention could not see very well and could not make a positive identification of my client or his accomplices?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said Fineman. “Counsel is asking the witness to speculate and draw a conclusion based on facts he could not possess.”
“Sustained,” said the judge with a heavy sigh.
“Your Honor, I rest my case,” said Michael.
“You’re resting your case again?”
“No, I mean I have no further questions for this witness.”
Michael walked back to the defendant’s table with a triumphant smile on his face and sat down like a prince taking his throne.
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s all you’ve got? That was the trick up your sleeve? That was the trick I’ve been waiting to see for three months?”
“Yep! We nailed him, baby.”
“The only thing you put a nail in, Michael, was my coffin.”
“Mr. Fineman, I presume you have some questions to ask on cross?” said the judge. I thought I heard a chuckle in his voice.
“Just a few, Your Honor.” Fineman walked to the attorney’s podium and smiled. “Mr. Kandinsky, were you ever in the greenroom at the convention?”
“I couldn’t tell the color of the room, sir. Like I said, I can barely see anything in this helmet. Everything is kind of dark and blurry in here. I can’t see colors at all.”
“No, the greenroom is an anteroom behind the curtains in the exhibition hall. Were you ever in there?”
“No.”
“Did you know that the greenroom was where the robbery took place?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“When you say that a lot of people were wearing helmets like yours, what percentage of the total number of attendees were dressed like you?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“Give me a guess.”
“About half of them, I’d say.”
“So if there were two thousand people on the floor of the convention hall, about one thousand of them were wearing helmets like yours?”
“Well, maybe a thousand were in costume and maybe two hundred and fifty or so were wearing helmets or masks.”
“And the rest of them were dressed normally, correct?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said Michael. “What is normal?”
“I was wondering the same thing, Mr. Willis,” said the judge. “I have no idea what normal is anymore. Your objection, however, is overruled.”
“The rest of them were in street clothes?” said Fineman.
“Yes.”
“The rest of them had unimpeded vision, in other words?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Redirect, Mr. Willis?”
“No, Your Honor, I rest my case.”
“Mr. Willis, what did I tell you about saying that?”
“No, I really mean it this time. I’m done. I’m through. I’m finished.”
So was I.
The jury found me guilty. It took an hour of deliberation. Well, it probably took them three minutes of deliberation. They spent the other fifty-seven minutes playing cards and reading the newspaper to make it look like they talked about the trial.
The jury sent a note to the judge asking if they could meet me before they went home. While they waited in the jury room, the judge discussed their request with the attorneys in the courtroom.
“I’ve heard this request after a not-guilty verdict,” said the judge, “but it’s unusual with a guilty verdict. After a guilty verdict, everybody is too depressed to talk about the case any further—except the prosecutor, of course. I’m going to leave it up to Mr. Volpe. If he wants to meet with the jury, he can. I want the US Marshall to put him in handcuffs though. The man has a history of passing guns back and forth.”
I indicated my assent by flicking my wrist in resignation. I was too depressed and worried about prison to speak.
Why did the jury want to meet me?
They wanted my autograph.