“Judge Henderson would like you in court at two P.M. The jury has returned a verdict.”
There it is. It's over, but I don't yet know the ending. The only feeling more powerless than waiting while a jury is making its decision is waiting after they've made that decision. Now the result is even out of their control.
I take Tara home, shower and change, then head back to court. I arrive at one-forty-five and wade through the crush of reporters and cameramen calling out to me, all their questions blending together.
They want to know what I think, when in fact there is at this moment nothing on earth less important than what I think. The die has been cast; this is like taping a playoff game and then watching it afterward without knowing the final score. There's no sense rooting, or hoping, or guessing, or thinking. It's already over, one way or the other. The boat, as they say, has sailed.
I nod to Kevin and Laurie, who are already at the defense table when I come in. Richard Wallace comes over to shake my hand and wish me well, and to congratulate me on a job well done. I return the compliment sincerely.
When Willie is brought in, I can see the tension in his eyes, in his facial muscles, in his body language. If doctors say that normal, everyday stress can take years off one's life, what effect must this be having on Willie? Has he already received a death sentence of a different type?
Willie just nods at us and takes his seat. He's smart enough not to ask me what I think; he's just going to wait with the rest of us.
Hatchet comes in and court is called to order. He doesn't waste any time, asking that the jury be brought in, and moments later there they are, revealing nothing with their impassive expressions.
Hatchet gives the obligatory lecture about demanding decorum in his courtroom once the verdict is read, and he is stern enough that it will probably have an effect. He then turns to the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman stands. “We have, Your Honor.”
“Please present it to the bailiff.”
The bailiff walks over and receives a verdict sheet from the foreman. He then carries it over to the clerk.
Hatchet says, “Will the defendant please rise.”
Willie, Kevin, Laurie, and I stand as one. I can see that my hand is on Willie's shoulder, but I don't remember putting it there.
“The clerk will read the verdict.”
The clerk takes the form and looks it over. It seems as if it takes four hours for her to start reading, but it is probably four seconds in real time. Each word she says sucks more air out of the room, until I think I am going to faint.
“We, the jury, in the case of the State of New Jersey versus William Miller, find the defendant, William Miller … not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”
The gallery explodes in sound, and air comes flooding into the room and my lungs. Willie turns to me, a questioning look on his face, as if for confirmation that he has heard what he thinks he's heard. I have a simultaneous need to scream and to cry, which my inhibitions convert into a smile and a nod.
Willie turns and hugs me, then Laurie, then Kevin, and then we all in turn hug each other. As I mentioned previously, I'm not a big hug fan, but these don't bother me at all. Especially the one with Laurie.
Hatchet gavels for quiet, thanks the jury for their contribution to society and sends them on their way. He then takes the unbelievably un-Hatchet-like, human step of apologizing to Willie for his years of incarceration, hoping that he can rebuild his life despite it. This case, according to Hatchet, points out the flaws of our imperfect system, while at the same time demonstrating its incredible capacity for ultimately getting things right.
Wallace comes over to congratulate me, and he then shakes hands with Kevin, Laurie, and Willie. The bailiff comes to take Willie away, and Willie glances at me with concern and confusion. I assure him that he is only going to complete some paperwork, and then he is going out into the world.
The defense team makes plans to meet Willie tonight at Charlie's for a victory party, and I go home for a quiet celebration with Tara. She and I spend a couple of hours watching television, with the assembled legal pundits anointing me a legal genius. Turns out they're not so dumb after all.
Tara seems unimpressed, so we head out to the park. I use up my fifteen minutes of fame tossing a ball to Tara, and I am actually interrupted three times by other dog owners seeking my autograph, which I sign with a flourish.
I get back home to change for the party, and there is a message on my voice mail from Nicole, congratulating me on the verdict.
On the way to Charlie's, I stop off at the police precinct to talk to Pete about his efforts to go after Victor Markham. He's upbeat about nailing him for the murder of Denise. Betty's testimony provides the motive, and the flaws in Victor's story, such as the time it took to get to the bar, are incriminating.
The police never had reason to investigate Victor before, so it is only now that they are learning things like the fact that there is no record of any phone call that night from Edward to the club. Additionally, and amazingly, the valet people at the club keep detailed records of the times members’ cars come in and out, and rather than throw those records away, they consign them to a life in storage. They have been retrieved and are totally in conflict with Victor's story.
Troubling to Pete is his feeling that Victor could not have done this alone, and in fact is not the type to dirty his hands. Edward, who is also legally vulnerable, could not have participated in the actual murder, since he was in the bar the entire time and had no blood on him. Pete believes Victor had help, but he has no leads as to who may have provided that help.
Charlie's is overflowing; word has apparently gotten out that we were coming here. Willie is in his glory, reveling in this first flush of freedom. He's invited Lou Campanelli, and when Laurie and Kevin arrive, the owner of the place puts us in a side room in which we can have some privacy.
Willie, to his credit and to Lou's obvious relief, is downing Virgin Marys right and left. With his other hand, he is waving to and leering at every woman in the place, enjoying his celebrity and obviously hoping to capitalize on it. Marys are the only virgins that Willie is interested in right now.
He holds up his glass to me in a toast.
“Man,” Willie says, “you're the most amazing genius of all time.”
I modestly wave off the compliment, though the accuracy of it is obvious to even the most casual observer. I go on to tell Willie that he hasn't seen anything yet, that he should wait until he sees me go after Victor Markham on his behalf in a civil suit.
After about an hour at the party, I start to feel overwhelmingly tired. The intense pressure and emotion have taken their toll, and I say my goodbyes. I make plans to meet with Willie about the lawsuit and his life in general, with Kevin about the prospects of getting him out of the Laundromat and into a form of partnership with me, and with Laurie about, well, who knows?
But all of these meetings are going to have to wait until two weeks from tomorrow, because, as they say, I'm outta here.
LOVELADIES IS THE NAMEOF A small town on Long Beach Island. Its colorful name has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the town as it exists today; it is a wholesome, family community set on the most magnificent, pure white beach in New Jersey.
I've spent a good deal of time there in the past; it's a place where I can unwind and depressurize after the intensity of a trial. For the next two weeks my life will consist of lying on the beach with Tara, walking on the beach with Tara, and reading on the beach with Tara. There is also a seafood place called the Shack, where Tara and I can sit outside and eat terrific shrimp and lobster. To say that I'm looking forward to this time is to expose the inadequacy of language.