Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1)
Read Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) Online
Authors: Rick Santini
DIRECTED VERDICT
The perfectly legal and seldom used,
get-out-of-jail free pass.
Rick Santini
DIRECTED VERDICT
Copyright © 2016 by Rick Santini.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: April 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-606-0
ISBN-10: 1-68058-606-8
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To Jerome Prince, the late, respected and beloved Dean of Brooklyn Law School; who taught me Rules of Evidence. To my many former mentors and colleagues who showed me how to break or at least bend those very same rules. And to Marty, the best thing that ever happened to me and made me realize there are some rules you never break.
Author’s Note
Definition. A Directed Verdict is an always requested, seldom granted, motion by defense counsel that allows a trial judge the right to override the decision of a jury if he feels the weight of evidence does not support the jury’s verdict. It is a legal fiction. It allows the court to play judge, juror, and open-gate keeper. It gives the judge the legal and unchallenged right to play God.
It is also an absolute abomination. Yet it is done often…far, far too often.
“Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman of the jury, a tall, thin, gangly black man, rose to his full height of six foot four, stared solemnly at the old-time jurist and proudly replied, “We have, Your Honor.”
“How say you?” inquired Walter A. Kolkolski, who had asked this very question at least three hundred times before. He rested his liver-spotted hands on his weak chin and waited for the reply. He already knew the answer. Or at least he thought he did. Walter Kolkolski had been on the bench, Superior Court for the Great State of New Jersey, for more years than he cared to remember. There was a time, oh so long ago, when he would have relished the power and prestige of the position.
Those days ended when the job became just a job. The black robes hid his disgust for the legal system along with his well-worn and wrinkled navy blue suit that was in desperate need of a good dry cleaning, or more accurately, a reprieve to Goodwill. His enthusiasm for justice had been lost in the hundreds of criminal cases he had tried. What kept him going back for more was the pension. Money. Money they owed him for his long years of what he considered enforced servitude. New Jersey was known for richly rewarding those who spent a lifetime navigating miles of red tape, petty politics, and absolute bullshit.
All for the almighty buck.
Wally, as his old-time friends affectionately called him, glanced over at the defense table where the now frightened and shaking defendant and his all too slick lawyer stood, facing the panel of jurors. Anthony Pauli Ricardo, the junior college liberal arts student, knew damn well he was guilty. In spite of what his lawyer insisted time and time again during the course of the trial and at summation, he knew.
“It was consensual, it was consensual, it was consensual. It was not rape.”
The jury had heard that simple defense from Day One.
“On the sole count of the indictment, rape in the first degree…guilty, Your Honor.”
Anthony’s face quickly showed the anguish of knowing his life, as he had known it for the past nineteen and a half years, was now over. He would not get his associate degree from Newark Community College; he would not apply to Rutgers for his bachelor’s, never go to law school, and would never be the lawyer he promised his father he would become. His dreams were crushed because he could not take his eyes and his hands off the big busted bimbo sitting next to the now beaming ADA.
For maybe the first time in the entire trial, Judge Kolkolski was wide wake. He wondered if the jurors had listened to the same case he had. With the usual bored and noncommittal look on his face he turned to defense counsel.
“Any motions, Mr. Sugarman?”
“Yes, Your Honor, we move for a directed verdict.”
“I will take it under consideration.”
The judge looked down at his calendar. He had already made up his mind but needed the sentencing report to confirm his thoughts.
“Sentencing on Monday, October third.”
Judge Kolkolski turned and thanked the jury for their effort, banged his gavel, and as the bailiff intoned, “All rise,” the judge left the courtroom and headed for his private chambers.
He desperately needed a cup of black coffee and a cigarette.
Idiots. God damn idiots.
***
Anthony did nothing but replay the incident in his mind for the next three weeks, as if he had not thought of it every waking minute since he had been arrested. He would never, never forget the look of humiliation on the face of his saintly old mother.
It was now Monday, October third. Sentencing day. Tony had not slept all night. How could he? He was up at six thirty and had shit, showered, and shaved by the time he heard his mother in the kitchen making breakfast. She too had risen early and spent time trying to look presentable. She was making Anthony’s favorite breakfast, one he would never be served in jail.
Frittata.
The potatoes, onions, green and red pepper, and celery had been sliced and diced. The hot Italian sausage was frying in a separate pan on the ten-year-old gas burner stove. All Carmela needed to do was mix in the egg batter and be careful it wouldn’t burn. She kept the flame on medium low. Her mind was on other things this morning, but she had made frittata since she was eleven at her mother’s side in the old country. It was now second nature.
“Morning, Mama.”
“Good morning, Anthony. You look very handsome today. Pour yourself some fresh coffee and be sure not to spill any on your shirt. I washed and pressed it yesterday so you would look like a gentleman.”
Carmela did not have to add why.
“Yes, Mama.”
***
“All rise, the Honorable Superior Court Judge Walter Kolkolski now presiding.”
“Be seated.”
Walter had two cups of coffee and had just put out his third cigarette of the day. It was only ten a.m. He tried his damnedest to look concerned and judicial. It wasn’t easy.
After the bailiff called the case and Angie the court reporter signaled she was ready, the defendant and his attorney stood to face the court. The room was dead quiet. The jury, including Bill Johnson the foreman, leaned forward to hear how many years the rapist would get. The inside betting was three to five. Maybe as much as seven. And he would be forever registered as a sex offender. That was the important thing. Wherever he lived, no matter how many times he moved, the neighbors would know.
Anthony Pauli Ricardo was a convicted rapist.
“Mr. Ricardo, I have listened carefully to all the witnesses. I have watched your demeanor and remorse for the past four and a half days. I have also observed the whispers and denials made between the complainant and the assistant district attorney. I do not know what the jury was hearing or thinking, but I simply cannot find her testimony to be credible. She purposely went back to your room that night looking for sex, and she found it. When you did not lavish her with compliments and praise, and refused to drive her back to her car, she cried rape.”
Bill Johnson, the jury foreman, was almost out of his chair. Rage and disbelief were splashed across his entire face.
“I am granting Mr. Sugarman’s motion for a directed verdict. I find the defendant not guilty. Mr. Ricardo, you are a free man, and I apologize for the overzealous behavior of the district attorney. Court adjourned.”
With that, the gavel banged down. Judge Kolkolski assumed that was the end of the case.
Far from it—very far from it.
“You can’t do that, Judge. You simply can’t do that. We heard the evidence. We believed the complainant, Ms. Cummings. We rendered our verdict, and you just can’t let that rapist bastard go scot-free.”
Kolkolski turned and stared hard at the foreman of the jury.
“You’re damn lucky I banged the gavel signaling the court was no longer in session, or I would now be holding you in contempt of court. You did your job; I did mine. Good day to you, sir.”
Walter needed another cigarette, and he needed it now.
The courtroom was in a state of panic.
Anthony was hugging his lawyer. There were tears streaming down his cheeks.
His mother Carmela was trying to get to the other side of the docket to hug her now innocent son.
Bob Sugarman may have been the only one in the courtroom who was not surprised. He had known Judge Kolkolski for years. He had tried dozens of cases before him over the last ten, twelve years. They both belonged to the Essex County Republican Club, and Walter was one of the good old boys. Besides, many years ago, Wally’s oldest son Stanley was convicted of rape. He had been shanked in prison and swore to his dying day the sex had been consensual.
By all rights, Judge Kolkolski should have recused himself, but no one except Sugarman knew about it. It was Wally’s way of getting back at the very system he swore to uphold.
Victoria Cummings was in a state of shock. She looked at the assistant district attorney for some type of explanation. She had been raped, she had repeatedly said no. The jury believed her, and now that pompous old prick on the bench told the world he believed she was lying and let her rapist go. This would not be the end of the matter; in fact, it was just the beginning.
“He won’t get away with this. He will rue the day he allowed this travesty to happen.”
Jury foreman Bill Johnson was speaking to no one in particular but all the jurors and the court clerk heard him. The clerk later repeated the comment to the judge, word for word.
No one could ever imagine how the motion for a directed verdict would affect the lives of five very distinct and determined individuals. Those lives would never be the same again.
