10
The Memphis Trial

In late January 1976, our house was in exactly the same state my mother had left it before going to the hospital—like a snapshot of our lives before her overdose. Open Christmas presents lay at the bottom of the stairs and stacks of folded laundry and holiday decorations were arranged on the dining room table. My father hoped that my mother’s time in Connecticut would be a respite, both for him and for her.

But in the beginning of February, he would have to fly to Memphis to attend pre-trial hearings, and the respite would be over. He was incredulous that he was about to stand trial simply for distributing a movie. And even though he’d stopped distributing Deep Throat in November of the previous year, that wouldn’t stop the legal proceedings. Nothing would, it seemed.

My father also needed a lawyer. So far, he had received counsel from Tony Arnone’s lawyer, Robert “Bob” Smith, a hotshot First Amendment attorney from Atlanta. But Bob had recently advised my father that he needed his own representation. The time to go to Memphis was quickly approaching and there was much left to do.

As Dad put away Christmas decorations, his mind wandered back to the hectic events of the last few years. He had feelings of sadness and regret, of course, but also the pleasure of some successes, at least financially, and of so-far surviving this whole ordeal. He recalled a 1974 trip to the Peraino’s office in Florida, when Bobby DeSalvo had revealed how a good gesture to support Tony Arnone’s growing adult theater business had gone terribly wrong and had altered my father’s life—an event that had been more and more on his mind lately.

“I still can’t figure out why just a few of the distributors were indicted and not everyone,” my father said that day to Bobby, who was busy sorting the Philadelphia proceeds. “It’s not like I was the only one.”

“Well, not everyone has a prime spot at the top of this venture,” said Bobby looking thoughtfully at my father with his grayish-blue eyes.

“What?”

“Anthony, Tony Arnone is your best friend. The two of you are business partners. And you started the AMMA Corporation together, am I right?”

“The AMMA Corporation? How is the AMMA connected to Deep Throat?” My father shook his head, confused. “Tony and his cousin asked me sign as the president of that company years ago to help them open new theaters in Florida.”

“And why would you do that?” Bobby asked, glancing up with one eyebrow raised.

“Because I lived in Philadelphia and they said it would make opening the theaters easier for them and more difficult for Florida law enforcement to shut them down.”

“So you’re saying . . . you don’t know what the AMMA is used for today?”

My father stared blankly.

“Anthony, the AMMA Corporation was pulled off the shelf for our little venture here,” and Bobby made a sweeping hand gesture at the piles of cash.

“When did that happen?” my father asked.

“About a year and a half ago, I guess.”

“But why . . . why didn’t Tony tell me?” my father stammered, rubbing his forehead, his mind beginning to race. “I was just trying to help him.”

“Hmm . . . well, let’s wrap up what we’re doing here,” Bobby said, shrugging his shoulders dismissively. “How about we go to the bank to take your name off the accounts,” he offered, sensing my father’s anxiety.

Later that afternoon, the two of them left the office to head to American National Bank.

“Little fuckers,” said Bobby under his breath as he turned the key in the ignition.

“What are you talking about?”

“You see that church across the street?”

“Yeah.”

“Look at the corner. The sedan parked there. We’re being watched by the FBI.”

“Jesus Christ!” my father said as he turned around and squinted against the sun. He saw a light blue car parked on the side street next to the Covenant Presbyterian Church. Two men were sitting in the front seat.

“Are you being followed in Philly?” asked Bobby.

“I don’t think so.”

“You probably are.”

Later, after their business at the bank, Bobby and my father returned to the office.

“Thanks for your help, Bobby.”

“No problem. Hey look, one piece of advice.”

“What’s that?”

“You think Tony Arnone is your friend?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m here to tell you, he’s not. Just keep that in mind.”

Bobby’s voice was foreboding and my father nodded in acknowledgment of the warning. He didn’t want to believe that Tony had intentionally set him up. But the AMMA Corporation’s connection to Deep Throat might explain why my father had been dragged into the federal case. It was, as far as he could tell, the only explanation.

After that day, my father realized he had willingly signed papers to be the president of the AMMA Corporation. And he knew that blaming Tony would not solve his immediate problems. Tony’s omission about the use of the AMMA Corporation for Deep Throat angered him, but it would still be best, my father decided, for them to stick together.

*

My parents spoke every day while my mother and I were in Connecticut, but they didn’t discuss the events that had led up her overdose. The immediate crisis was over and neither of them was capable at the moment of resolving any underlying issues. My father was distracted by the trials, so he didn’t let his mind dwell on the fact he had almost become a widower.

My mother just wanted to go home and not cause any more turmoil.

“How’s Kristin?” my father asked during one of their many evening phone conversations.

“She’s fine,” my mother said. “She’s having a good time with her cousins.”

“I’m glad. Frannie?”

“Yes?”

“When do you think you might be coming home?”

“I think in a few days. I want to be in my own house.”

“Good,” my father said, sighing in relief. “I’m glad. It’ll be good to have you both home. I’m just sorry that I’ll have to leave so soon.”

“We knew this was coming,” my mother said quietly. “We don’t have a choice.”

When we arrived home a few days later, we fell immediately back into our regular routine, almost as if nothing had happened. The feelings of the past—and fears about the future—were put on hold. We all seemed to be collectively holding our breath. My father compartmentalized certain areas of his life; he resolved to stay focused on surviving the next bump in the road and nothing more.

*

While sitting alone in our kitchen one morning, my father picked up the phone and dialed Memphis information to find an attorney. After a few calls, he reached Brett Stein of Finely, Stein & Kuhn Law Offices, who quickly agreed to take his case. Brett’s firm, my father would learn, had a solid reputation for taking cases that other lawyers considered to be underdogs.

“Mr. Battista, my partner Phillip Kuhn and I will meet you at our offices when you arrive for the pre-trial hearings,” said Brett.

Brett hung up the phone, and then he strode purposefully toward Phillip’s desk, the thud of his cowboy boots echoing through their small office space.

“We just got a new case!” Brett said triumphantly.

“Yeah? What’s it about?” Phillip asked, somewhat distractedly as he prepared a brief for another client.

“His name is Anthony Battista, a stockbroker from Philadelphia. He’s indicted on obscenity charges in that pornography case about Deep Throat. The pre-trial hearings will start in a couple weeks in Judge Wellford’s court.”

Phillip looked up. “That’s pretty soon, Brett.”

“It’s enough time.”

“But we don’t have experience in pornography cases and we’re very busy,” Phillip countered doubtfully. “You’re crazy for taking this.”

“You have a civil rights background, and this case has First Amendment implications. What’re you worried about?”

“I just hate it when you spring stuff on me.”

“I told Mr. Battista we’d meet him the day before the hearing to discuss his case,” Brett said, disregarding Phillip’s protests. “He’s flying down at the end of the month.”

“How long you think this trial is going to last?”

“Maybe a couple of days?” said Brett.

“That’s probably about right.”

Phillip shook his head and for a moment he worried that Brett may not be able to do much work on this case, given the firm’s workload. But then he laughed quietly to himself. He was always ready for a challenge.

*

Arriving for work a few weeks later, Phillip found a young man standing alone in his office’s small waiting area. “Mr. Battista? I’m Phillip Kuhn, your lawyer. You talked to my partner, Brett Stein, earlier this month.”

The two men shook hands.

Dad was immediately struck by how much Phillip looked like Abraham Lincoln. The man was in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and a tall, lanky frame. My father would later learn that Phillip had run for Congress in 1972 and that he had been involved with many groups associated with the civil rights movement and was well liked in the black community.

Phillip escorted my father to Brett’s office. Brett was seated behind his desk and he immediately rose to greet my father. Brett’s cowboy boots, dark Jewish features, and the firecracker pep in his voice all made my father feel right at home. Brett was not a typical southerner, but he had made a home for himself in Memphis. Maybe there was hope yet for my father to win over a Memphis jury.

The men sat down and Phillip opened his briefcase and spread an array of papers out on Brett’s desk. They discussed the pre-trial hearings first.

“This pre-trial’s just gonna be standard procedure stuff,” Phillip said. “Basically, the judge will call on us to acknowledge that you understand the charges against you and that you’ll come back to Memphis for the trial. If you don’t come back, that will be grounds for throwing you in jail. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Then there will be other procedures discussed about witnesses, jury selection, and how the trial will work,” Brett said. “Simple stuff.”

“Okay,” my father said, relieved by Phillip and Brett’s confidence.

The next day, when Phillip and Brett arrived at Judge Wellford’s courtroom, about two hundred people were standing around waiting for the proceedings to begin. The courthouse was a massive open space with marble floors, wide columns, and a large wooden judge’s bench slightly elevated over the court. Both lawyers thought, The judge must have a lot of people on his docket today, but they would quickly realize that everyone was here for one case.

Deep Throat.

My father was already there with Tony and Bob and he waved Phillip and Brett over to where they were sitting. Everyone settled into the courtroom’s wooden benches.

My father glanced to his right and across the room he saw, for the first time in person, the man responsible for dragging him to Memphis. Larry Parrish, the case’s prosecutor and the Assistant US Attorney, was sitting alone with stacks of notebooks at his side. Parrish was famously known as a good Christian, a fundamentalist, and a member of the Evangelical Church. He was outspokenly dedicated to ridding America of pornography. His nicknames were The Memphis Heat, Mr. Clean, and the Smut Raker. His reputation was growing as the most active and successful prosecutor on obscenity and for the fiery speeches he gave to juries.

Despite Parrish’s bigger-than-life persona reported by the media, he looked rather ordinary to my father. He wore a simple brown suit and he was not glad-handing the room as one might have expected. Could this be the same person my father had read about and seen on TV? He would soon find out. From what my father had read and seen, Parrish certainly had grandiose ideas about conspiracy and misplaced energy placed on upholding a law that nobody otherwise would probably care about. Parrish had a laser focus on the task at hand—to put my father in jail.

“Phillip, what do you know about Larry Parrish?” my father asked his lawyer.

“Umm . . . well . . . he’s an able prosecutor. And a zealot who is infinitely prepared.”

Just then, Herbert Streicher—a.k.a. “Harry Reems,” the male lead of Deep Throat—entered the courtroom with his lawyer, Bruce Kramer, president of the West Tennessee Chapter of the ACLU. Gerard Damiano, the film’s director, and Linda Lovelace, Harry Reems’s co-star, had been granted immunity in exchange for their testimony for the prosecution. All eyes followed Reems. He was the real star attraction of this trial.

Then Michael Cherubino, Louis Peraino, Sr., and Joseph Peraino, the film’s producers, entered the room. They were all dressed in leisure suits and dark sunglasses, and they gathered on the defendants’ side of the courtroom.

My father looked around for Bobby DeSalvo. But Bobby was nowhere to be found.

*

After the pre-trial hearings, which lasted only a few hours, the courtroom was abuzz about the absence of Bobby DeSalvo. A rumor circulated that Bobby was a fugitive living in the Bahamas.

“Do you really think Bobby DeSalvo is in the Bahamas?” my father asked his partner Tony Arnone.

“I don’t know,” Tony said, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’m not surprised,” my father said after more contemplation. “Why would he want to stand trial?”

My father hadn’t spoken to Bobby in at least four months, since he stopped distributing Deep Throat, and he had not seen Bobby for nearly two years, since the fall of 1974, when they’d gone together to American National Bank. Before the trial, another rumor had surfaced that Bobby had been whacked by the Perainos in England, where he’d gone to collect money he thought the Perainos owed him. Even if this story wasn’t true, my father and Tony knew they’d done the right thing by distancing themselves from the Perainos.

Years later, when I asked my father about Bobby DeSalvo’s disappearance, he said, “Bobby didn’t have lick of sense. Like Pussy in the TV show The Sopranos, no one ever saw him again.”

*

Phillip Kuhn called my father in Philadelphia just before the trial was set to begin on March 1, 1976. My father planned to drive to Memphis in just a few days.

“Any news?” Dad asked.

“Well, the trial is here. We’re ready. But I hear Larry Parrish has developed a witness list of more than five hundred people and he has a truckload of experts lined up to testify. Judge Wellford is going to have a fit.”

“Jesus Christ. Who’s he bringing in?”

“Just about anyone who may have touched the film before it got to Memphis. And lots of psychiatrists and social scientists.”

“This whole thing is ridiculous.”

“Well, the judge is probably going to make him cut the list. But this trial is going to last longer than I thought.”

My father shook his head. “Well, I will be staying at an apartment with Tony Arnone and Bob Smith. I’m in for the long haul.”

“That’s good,” Phillip said. “But I have to tell you, the government is extremely well prepared. They’ve been collecting evidence for a long time. The IRS and FBI have had all the defendants, including you, under surveillance for at least a year prior to the arrests.”

“I was warned about the FBI,” my father said, and he thought back to Bobby DeSalvo’s warning. “What do you think our chances are?”

“Hard to tell. Maybe fifty-fifty? But let’s see how things go before we come to any conclusions.”

My father murmured in agreement.

“Do you think your wife and daughter could make an appearance at the trial? It might make a good impression on the jury.”

Dad was adamant. “I don’t want them involved. Let’s keep them out of this.”

My father knew he was lucky that Phillip and Brett were his attorneys. The three of them had established a great working relationship and even though the trial was going to take much longer than Phillip and Brett had originally thought, they had not asked my father for any additional money. This was a relief, since my father had to pay his own legal fees.

*

Both of my parents entered my bedroom before dawn on the day my father was to drive to Memphis. Dad knelt by the side of my bed and touched my shoulder to wake me from a deep sleep.

“Honey, Daddy is leaving. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

I rolled over and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I tried to focus on his face.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” I said sleepily, and I hugged him tight around the neck.

He hugged me back. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said.

Over my father’s shoulder, I saw my mother leaning against the door frame and watching us with her arms crossed. She wore a robe and her curly black hair was everywhere on the top her head. She looked like she wanted to go back to bed.

“Try to go back to sleep,” my father whispered to me. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

As my father left the room, I had a horrible feeling in my stomach. In a short amount of time, I had experienced the absence of at least one of my parents, with the first being my mother’s hospitalization and then my father’s trial.

I heard my parents whispering in the hallway.

“Don’t forget, Tommy will have money waiting for you every week. Just go to the club to pick it up,” my father said.

“Okay, I will.”

Then I heard all the sounds of my father leaving the house: his footsteps down the stairs, the front door closing, and his Thunderbird rumbling down the driveway. I never went back to sleep. I wondered when I might see him again. In my young mind, it seemed he might be gone forever.

*

For my father, Memphis was an interesting, charming southern town nestled along the Mississippi River. The streets oozed with its music history; homages in the form of statues, street names, and restaurant menu items, to Elvis Presley, Aretha Franklin, B. B. King, and other legendary musicians were everywhere. But under the surface, the city still carried its painful past as the place where Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated and where many ugly battles of the civil rights movement had been fought. Some people, my father noticed, still held tight to racist traditions while hiding behind friendly smiles.

My father pulled his car into the parking lot of an apartment complex located in the suburbs just outside the city. He got out and stretched, then grabbed his suitcase from the trunk. He had two more hanging bags he’d left in the car; he’d brought every single suit he owned to Memphis. It had been a long time since he had worn a suit.

My father walked up to the second floor to an apartment that faced a garden courtyard. He knocked, then turned the knob, and found that the door was unlocked. Tony Arnone emerged from the back bedroom.

“You made it!” Tony said. “Good to see you!”

“Likewise,” my father said. “When did you get in?”

“Yesterday. Here, I got an extra set of keys for you,” Tony said, tossing them to him. “Bob should be coming in tonight.”

“This place isn’t bad.”

The apartment had three bedrooms and one bathroom. It was modestly furnished and, like a typical bachelor pad, sparsely decorated.

As my father unpacked, he caught up with Tony.

“So, what are Bob’s thoughts about the trial?” he asked.

“Bob thinks we’re outsiders here. We’ll be associated with the Perainos and the jury may have an immediate distrust of us because we’re not from the south.”

“Phillip’s saying the same thing,” Dad said, feeling grateful that at least his lawyers were from Memphis.

“But people here have been pretty nice,” Tony said, “At least they don’t seem to hate Yankees.”

“Good old southern hospitality. While we are here we should at least get some good barbeque.”

Tony laughed then asked, “How’s Frannie?”

“She’s okay. We’re working things out. How are Pat and the kids?”

“They’re all okay.”

They sat together in silence for a moment thinking of their respective homes they had left behind.

“Well, I’ll finish unpacking. You want to drive around town later, figure out where things are?”

“Sure, we can do that,” said Tony.

*

On the first day of the trial, Bob, Tony, and my father woke up early feeling like it was the first day of school or the start of a new job. The day my father had hoped would never come had finally arrived. In the kitchen, Bob sipped coffee and read the Memphis Commercial Appeal. He was always impeccably dressed and had a flamboyant, bigcity style. His Irish good looks, which turned reddish when he drank, matched his sharp wits in the courtroom. He also had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and he had a girlfriend in addition to a gorgeous wife.

“We made the papers,” Bob said, slightly impressed.

“Let me see that,” said Tony. He sat down at the table with Bob.

Dad poured himself a cup of coffee at the counter. “What does it say?” he asked.

“It’s just a small article called ‘Deep Throat Trials Start Today.’ Our names are listed as defendants,” Tony said, and he slid the paper across the table toward my father.

“By the way,” Bob said, “you guys both look great. I have to say, the three-piece suits are a nice touch. You need to play the part of the college boys. The government is after the mob here, so don’t dress like them. And remember, keep your distance from the Perainos.”

*

The courtroom was a circus. Members of the press jammed the hallways and the gallery to report on the court proceedings. The media people didn’t seem at all bothered that Judge Wellford had banned news cameras from the trial at the urging of Harry Reems’s attorney, Bruce Kramer.

My father, Tony, and Bob made their way through the throng of people—most of whom were just there to see Harry Reems—and found their place at the defense table. Phillip was there waiting for my father.

There was still no sign of Bobby DeSalvo.

My father began to sweat a little at the temples. He took a drink of water that he swallowed hard against his dry throat.

“All rise for the Honorable US District Judge Harry W. Wellford,” a bailiff called out.

Everyone stood as Judge Wellford entered the courtroom. He was a short and stocky man in his fifties, and he had a very fast gait, like a military officer. He was known to be part of Memphis society and had been a corporate attorney before being appointed to the bench. Most lawyers described Judge Wellford as feisty and as someone who expected strict decorum in the courtroom.

My father took a deep breath. He glanced at Tony. They nodded at each other, ready to begin.

*

Jury selection lasted for three days. Eight women (each of whom wore Sunday church dresses) and four men were selected, and they were divided evenly between white and black. My father remembers Phillip mentioning that the fewer African American woman on the jury the better, since, in his opinion, they had a reputation for hating oral sex. In any case, my father’s chances of encountering an open-minded jury were not great because the pool of candidates had been taken from rural parts of Tennessee, which made up most of this federal jurisdiction.

During opening statements, Michael Pelle, Louis Damiano’s attorney, characterized his client and his family as “good Italian boys who grew up in New Jersey that had children to feed,” while Larry Parrish, the prosecutor, would counter with claims about the strong-arm tactics used by the Deep Throat organization, such as threats and intimidation, and even the suspected murder of a government informant.

Parrish, later in his own opening statement, recounted the early partnership of Gerard Damiano, Deep Throat’s director, and Louis Peraino to coproduce the film. According to Parrish, Damiano had later sold his interest in Deep Throat for $25,000 under pressure to the Perainos.

My father and Tony Arnone slogged through long days in court. One day, they listened to the testimony of Damiano and Chuck Traynor, Linda Lovelace’s ex-husband. They both talked about how the various Deep Throat players had met and about how Damiano—a one-time Brooklyn hairdresser—had created this cinematic phenomenon, conceiving of the film’s crazy plot based on oral sex scenes Linda had performed for one of his other movies.

“Do you consider this movie to have any artistic value?” Parrish asked Damiano under oath.

“Oh, yes. It is not artistic in the sense of Greek tragedy, but it is a comedy, a farce, a social statement of our time. But if I was shooting this film today, I would include less sex and more plot.”

“You think that would improve the artistic standard?” Parrish asked.

“By today’s standards, yes. But when you take everything into consideration, it’s probably the most successful movie ever made.” He was alluding to Deep Throat’s estimated grosses of $25 million.

In addition to the film history lesson, Parrish repeatedly introduced the testimony of witnesses about the threats of murder and violence in connection with distributing the movie. Judge Wellford finally objected, stating that these alleged crimes were not part of these proceedings. But Parrish effectively argued that every witness needed to tell his whole story in order to avoid perjuring himself. Judge Wellford then allowed some of the testimony about the violence.

Parrish even called Uncle Coke as witness for the prosecution; Uncle Coke was, after all, a theater checker for my father in the Philadelphia area. On his day in court, Uncle Coke appeared wearing a new suit, though he still had all the attitude of a blue-collar working man.

“What is your relationship to Anthony Battista?” Parrish asked him.

“He’s my nephew,” Uncle Coke responded curtly.

“Did you go to the Johnstown Theater for Anthony Battista?” Parrish asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you deliver money and films to Anthony Battista regarding Deep Throat?”

“Yes.”

After answering only yes or no to an hour-long series of questions, Uncle Coke stepped down from the stand. Then he sat next to my father and said, referring to Parrish, “Boy, this one is stating the obvious, huh?”

*

The case was reported in the newspaper and on local and national TV almost daily, and everyone was anxiously awaiting the arrival of Linda Lovelace to testify. Unfortunately, she never appeared and was rumored to be hiding in Mexico.

During the proceedings, my father and Tony Arnone’s names were brought up repeatedly by the prosecution, connecting them to the national distribution network for Deep Throat. Also, my father’s title as president of the AMMA Corporation was constantly highlighted.

Because their days in the courtroom were stressful, my father tried to relax by enjoying the nightlife in Memphis. He went out to dinner most evenings with Phillip and Brett or with Tony and Bob. Memphis was an exciting city and it gave my father a chance to indulge in his love for live music. In particular, he liked to frequent the blues bars on Beale Street.

“Tony, we’re going to Caroline’s,” my father said one night. “Come with us?” Caroline’s was a friendly country western bar that featured southern rock, like Lynyrd Skynyrd, and great food. It had become a frequent hangout for my father and the Deep Throat gang.

“No, I’ll pass,” Tony said. “I don’t like that kind of music.” On most nights after dinner, Tony just went back to the apartment.

“Suit yourself.”

My father, the other defendants, and their lawyers were treated like local celebrities whenever they went out. And conversations always revolved around the trial.

“Do you think Judge Wellford will allow Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson to testify?” my father asked one night, referring to Hollywood’s intense interest in this trial for fear that actors would now be prosecuted by the law for artistic expression.

“I don’t know,” Phillip said, taking a sip of beer. “I don’t think so, but Tony Bill, the director of The Sting, will.”

“I hope his testimony helps.”

“Wellford is already pissed that this trial has lasted so long,” said Phillip.

“I can’t believe it’s almost the beginning of April. Has it been six weeks already?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s been a long haul. Harry Reems loves the media attention though.”

My father shook his head and laughed to himself.

“Let me tell you a funny story,” Phillip went on. “I was in the elevator the other day with Harry and this reporter from U.S. News and World Report. Reems started talking to him about how Hollywood supports him and all the fundraisers being thrown for his legal defense all over the country. The reporter just looked at Reems and said, ‘Look, I’m writing for the legal section, not the fucking leisure living section.’ I almost died laughing.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s the funniest story I’ve heard in a while!” my father said, holding his sides while chuckling.

Then they both stopped laughing—the seriousness of their situation descending on them, as usual, in sudden downpours.

“Well,” Phillip said, “this case has a lot of colorful characters, which isn’t necessarily good for us. And I think the judge is going to allow a screening of the film. If that happens, it won’t be good for us at all.”

The following week, on a Monday at 9:30 a.m., a special screening of Deep Throat was held for jurors. Defendants, their lawyers, and the prosecutors also attended. In a nine-hundred-seat theater in downtown Memphis, gasps could be heard from jurors viewing the jarring, sexually explicit visuals. It was like nothing any of them had ever experienced.

*

A few weeks later, on April 30, 1976, a verdict was reached. Deliberations had only lasted twenty minutes, so as the jury foreman—a credit manager at Firestone Tire and Rubber—began to read the decision, my father was expecting a guilty verdict.

“We find the defendants guilty on all obscenity charges and nationwide conspiracy to distribute Deep Throat to Memphis.”

My father looked straight ahead after the guilty verdicts were read. When it was finished, a burst of energy erupted in the courtroom with loud conversation and people moving about. He turned to Phillip.

“Don’t worry,” Phillip said steadily. “We’ll appeal.”

“I know.”

Dad looked at the prosecutors. They were congratulating one other and many reached to shake Larry Parrish’s hand. He looked pleased—smiling like the cat that ate the canary. This angered my father. Parrish’s misguided notion of justice, he thought, was just a waste of everyone’s time. He wasn’t protecting society, as he claimed, since the viewing of a movie was voluntary. It was also infuriating that while Parrish had claimed he would never argue with what a man does in private, that was clearly what he had done in this trial. Also his prosecution of the case seemed to be colored by his own personal religious views.

Later that day, one female juror member, a waitress, was quoted in the newspaper as saying, “[Deep Throat] was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen. People had to be sick to pay good money to see this movie.”

*

“Frannie, they found us guilty,” my father said simply over the phone.

There was a long silence. My father had kept my mother informed about the trial in almost daily phone calls home, so she had been expecting this outcome.

“But this isn’t over, right?” she asked.

“No, it’s not.”

“Okay.”

“We’re going to appeal. And I’m coming home.”

“Well, that’s good news.”

“The prosecution will decide sentencing in a few weeks. Nothing will happen yet.”

*

“We’ve been railroaded!” my father said in frustration as he was packing to return home.

“I know,” said Tony. “We never had a chance for a fair trial in Memphis.”

“This is a nightmare!”

“Anthony . . .”

“I never would have thought being involved with some stupid movie would turn out like this.”

“I don’t think it’s anything anyone could have anticipated,” Tony said in a low voice.

My father turned from his packing and stared Tony dead in the face. “You know, I wish you’d have told me the AMMA Corporation was being used to distribute Deep Throat. Why didn’t you tell me? You and your cousin, Tony De Pra, said you would tell me when you used the company. You used my fucking name. I should have had the opportunity to make decisions.”

“AMMA wasn’t the reason you were dragged into this, Anthony. A lot of corporations were used to distribute Deep Throat.”

“But my name was mentioned as the president of AMMA, not yours, a bunch of times.”

Tony raised his voice, “Do you think I wanted any of this to happen?”

“I think you wanted to make money! And you didn’t think about how it would affect anyone else!”

“Look, you were indicted because we’re friends and business partners. There’s no proof AMMA is why you were arrested.”

“Sure,” my father said, disgusted.

“I’d never want anything bad to happen to you or your family, Anthony. How long have we known each other?”

“A long time. Maybe too long.”

“Come on . . .” Tony pleaded. “It seems like yesterday Pat and I lived on the third floor of your grandmother’s house and we sat next to each other in economics class at Villanova. I was a groomsman at your wedding, for Christ’s sake!”

They stood staring at each other for a long time.

Finally, my father’s expression softened. “I’m just frustrated,” Dad said quietly.

“We’re not giving up,” Tony replied. “We’ll appeal to the Supreme Court if we have to.”

Dad was up for the fight, especially if he had someone willing to fight at his side.

This guilty verdict was only the first of many hurdles yet to come.