John Wayne Gacy (31 page)

With the help of a uniformed sheriff, Bob and I pushed our way through the sea of bodies in the gallery and past the soft murmur of voices and the pointing fingers. We seated ourselves at the defense table and smiled knowingly at our opponents.

Gacy was brought out from custody wearing a pale lime green polyester suit, off-white button-down shirt, and a printed burgundy tie. It was the first time that he had put on civilian clothing, worn anything besides prison garb or a hospital gown in over a year. All he needed was a cigar, and he would have looked like the cheap pol that he fancied himself to be. He looked around the courtroom in amazement, like a child.

The names of each prospective juror, together with minimal pertinent information about them, had been placed on three-by-five-inch index cards, which were being shuffled by each member of the prosecution team as if in a riverboat poker game. This time-honored practice assures a random selection of prospective jurors. The cards were passed to us. I picked up the stack, cut them, shuffled the deck twice like an old pro, and handed it off to Bob. He held up the deck dramatically, ran his thumb along the side of
the stack, split them, cut them, shuffled them, and set them on the table in front of him. The order of selection had been chosen. A bailiff swooped in and scooped up the deck.

Then those familiar words from the head bailiff rang out and filled the silent courtroom. “All rise!”

Judge Louis B. Garippo entered the courtroom with a flourish and glided up the short steps to his perch atop the bench, black robe flowing behind him. Once seated, he nodded to his bailiff.

Sixteen names were slowly called out by the bailiff. As each name echoed throughout the courtroom, a man or a woman that had been previously seated in the first rows of the gallery stood up and tentatively walked to the jury box and took a seat. When the twelve spots in the jury box were filled, the remaining four took their seats next to the jury box as potential alternates.

Judge Garippo folded his hands in front of him on his desk. His favorite tie peeked out from the top of his robe and splashed the only color against his serious black presence. His prominent gold-rimmed glasses reflected the lights above. He had been a judge for ten long years. He had been here many, many times in the past; and he knew better than most exactly what to do, how to handle the intensity of such a scenario. He smiled a quick, calming smile at the nervous members seated in the jury box. His firm but kindly, somewhat-fatherly manner immediately put the jury members at ease.

“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. You have been selected as prospective jurors in the case of
People of the State of Illinois versus John Wayne Gacy
. John Gacy has been charged with thirty-three counts of murder in indictment no. 79-69 to 75 and 79-2378 to 79-2403.” Garippo looked up, expressionless, at the prospective jurors. He paused for just a beat, and continued. “Because of the nature of the offenses of which Mr. Gacy is accused, he is eligible for the death penalty.”

You really have to be in a courtroom where the penalty of death is at issue to feel how the gravity of the moment pounces upon
every single person in the room. There is something about hearing those words spoken out loud from the bench that does it. In spite of the fact that everyone in attendance knows full well in advance what is going to happen, there is a lightning bolt, a charge of electricity that fills the air. An imperceptible collective gasp happens out of nowhere and out of no one. This isn’t a movie; this is real. Hearts pound, pupils dilate, ears perk, attention focuses.

Judge Garippo reached for a glass of water and took a sip. He adjusted his glasses and went on.

“The State of Illinois has elected to seek the death penalty.”

Again, Garippo paused to let this sink in. A couple of the prospective members dared to look at the oaf sitting next to me. Gacy looked like he might have to pee or something. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t present. His mind was somewhere else. The rest of the panel purposely avoided looking at the defendant and the defense counsel. Many had suddenly found something interesting on their shoes or on the ceiling. I made some notes.

“The matter before the court is a capital offense. If Mr. Gacy is found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt and is legally eligible for the death penalty, the state’s attorneys, representing the People of the State of Illinois, will ask you to impose a sentence of death.”

Just when you might think it impossible, the electricity in the room intensified by a power of ten. This time many of the panel members, both in the jury box and in the front rows of the gallery, locked their gaze on William J. Kunkle, Terry Sullivan, Robert R. Egan, and James M. Varga. They didn’t seem to mind, although they each shifted slightly in their chairs.

Garippo continued, “The indictment in this case is the formal manner of charging Mr. Gacy with the offenses—it is not to be considered as evidence and carries no inference of guilt. Mr. Gacy, under law, is presumed to be innocent.”

Again, the seasoned judge gave his audience a moment. This, of course, was important information that everyone already knew;
yet they needed to hear it directly and specifically from him and on the record.

“This presumption remains with him throughout the proceedings and may be overcome only by proof of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Garippo sipped more water. He wanted his words to sink in as if they were being heard by every person in the courtroom for the very first time. It was working too. He had the entire room. He certainly had me. I couldn’t hear those words enough. He began again, as he looked at each of the prospective jurors in the jury box and at those seated in the gallery.

“The State has the burden of proof, that is, they must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Gacy committed the crimes as charged.”

I hoped that everyone in the room felt the lump that I felt in my throat. It appeared every time I sat in that chair at that table. It didn’t matter in what courtroom that chair and that table were situated. It didn’t matter if my client was charged with a traffic ticket or the worst of all crimes. To me, this was like church, and Garippo was reciting gospel. I believed those words and believed in those words to my very core.

I searched the faces in the jury box for a time and then looked out into the others in the gallery. I knew what I would find. I’d seen it before. There they were, the men and women that would sit in judgment of my client. Most had the look that I needed to see, the look in their eyes that betrayed the same feelings that I felt, that feeling of pride and love of country, that misty-eyed reverence for the best system of criminal justice on the planet. There too were the others. They were the dolts, the pinheads, the adult human beings, U.S. citizens, all that Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Franklin hadn’t counted on. At least two were sound asleep; several were so distracted that you could only imagine the silly cartoons playing in their useless minds. There was the blonde bimbo playing with
her hair and cracking her gum. They fidgeted and daydreamed, they stared out into space or down at their fingernails, they wished that they were not missing their daytime soaps and had made specific arrangements with a friend to take notes so they could catch up after this stupid nuisance of having to serve on a goddamned jury was over. There were also the scary assholes, the ones that had already made up their minds. After seeing one or two reports on TV, they couldn’t wait to cast their vote to string the bastard, my client, a human being by the way, from the highest tree in the county, evidence be damned, so that they could brag about it to chicks in bars. These were the people, mostly guys, who took some sort of sick pleasure in the revenge death of another human being.

And these fuckin’ people have the vote
, I thought to myself. I wanted to stand up and go out there and shake them.

I think Garippo saw the same thing that I did. He suddenly stood up and in a loud, resonate voice, he asked, “Are there any among you that because of the nature of the crime cannot be fair and impartial to the defendant?” He continued standing, looking at the entire panel, first at those seated in the jury box and then at the rest seated in the gallery. That snapped them all to life. Something must be happening; the judge was standing. What’s up? Even the snoozers were wide-eyed and paying attention, wondering what they had missed. I had to chuckle silently.

“Please raise your hands if your answer is yes.” The judge had the attention of everyone in the room once again. He stood there waiting.

Slowly, tentatively the first hand was raised by a woman seated in the gallery. After her, others seemed to have permission to do so. Two more followed in the gallery. Then three more went up in the jury box. The judge waited. Every other person in the courtroom waited. After several minutes, eight hands were raised. When the judge was reasonably sure that he had coaxed every hand up from the panel, he addressed a woman who was seated in the front row
of the jury box. He had her name. He had the three-by-five-inch cards with the names of all the jurors in his hand.

“Your name is Mrs. James Labuda, correct, ma’am?” (The names of the jurors have been changed.)

She was clearly very nervous. She began to nod her head in the affirmative before she spoke. Her bottom lip trembled. Then came a very timid “Yes, sir.”

The judge sat down. He had achieved his purpose, and now it was time to lower the level of intimidation and tension. Everyone in the courtroom was motionless; nobody made a sound.

“As a juror, your responsibility is to be fair and impartial. Can you meet that responsibility? Can you be fair and impartial to Mr. Gacy and to the State of Illinois?”

You could see the inner conflict raging. It was there in her facial expression, in her demeanor. She sat silent, not wanting to voice her true feelings but unable to deny them. The petite woman simply blinked and shook her head. Her eyes glistened with emotion.

“Please, Mrs. Labuda, you must answer audibly for the court reporter,” the judge gently prodded.

“Well, I, I … I just think it’s too horrible.” She paused and took a breath. “I mean, what he did to those boys. I don’t think I can be fair,” she admitted.

If the judge let this go without further comment, the rest of the panel would become convinced that if they simply said that they couldn’t be fair, they would all be able to walk out and go home. He couldn’t have that. At the same time, the frail but determined little woman seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A single tear dripped from the corner of her eye as she trembled in her chair.

“Can you agree that a defendant is presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt?” The seasoned jurist was pushing her a little further.

Mrs. Labuda fidgeted and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but she was not about to relent. “Yes, I do, sir, but I just don’t think I can be fair to him.”

Garippo had been a judge for a long time. He had questioned hundreds of jurors in countless trials. In his opinion, this prospective juror was not malingering. She was sincere. He felt he had to excuse her, and did so. Mrs. Labuda stood and hurriedly walked out of the room. It had been a trying experience for her. As the courtroom door closed behind her, the judge turned to the next panel member who had raised a hand, this time an elderly man with gray tufts of thick hair poking in errant fashion in all directions. The man did not seem to be as affected by the proceedings as the first woman. He voiced his concern, said that he thought the whole matter was quite horrible, but admitted that he could reserve judgment until he heard all the evidence. He remained seated for the next phase, the lawyers’ questions.

And so it went, the judge continued his preliminary questioning of the eight persons who had raised their hands. The answers that were elicited had a common theme—the subject matter of the case was horrific, the newspaper and TV stories had been shocking, but they would listen to the evidence before deciding. Garippo’s gaze settled on an overweight middle-aged white man with a ruddy farmer’s tan, a scowl, and a buzz cut. The man wore a long-sleeved hunting shirt, buttoned to the neck, which strained and stretched to cover his huge rotund beer belly. The judge pointed at him.

“You, sir, in the second row of the gallery, please state your name,” he called out.

“My name is Vern Bergquist,” the man grudgingly offered.

The judge proceeded, “Can you be fair, Mr. Bergquist, to the defendant and to the State of Illinois?”

“He should be hanged …” The answer was mumbled and trailed off. The judge couldn’t hear any of it, but I had heard enough. I
leaned over to Bob, whispering urgently. I pushed my chair back and began to stand.

“Please speak louder, sir, so that the court reporter can hear you.” The judge was now stretching in his seat to better see past the first row of the panel.

“I think they should take him out and hang him! He doesn’t deserve—”

The guy was no longer mumbling. I’d call it screaming. He was raising his huge form up out of his chair, pointing at Gacy. I shot to my feet.

“Objection, Judge, may we have a sidebar!” I was trying unsuccessfully to make my voice heard over the rising clamor.

Bergquist bellowed at the top of his lungs. “He doesn’t deserve a trial! They should do to him like he did to those kids!”

He pointed at Gacy and shot daggers of pure hatred at him. The courtroom erupted. Garippo pounded his gavel. Uniformed sheriff’s bailiffs descended on the man causing the disruption. Bergquist continued in a frenzy, waving his arms and spewing venom. A few others in the gallery stood and began to join in as the rest cringed in disbelief.

This was life imitating art. Hadn’t I witnessed this very scene being played out in the movie adaptation of some legal thriller? I was beginning to wonder if Bergquist was about to pull out a secret pouch of animal blood and smear it all over his chest. Tension grew. Bob was on his way to the bench, as were Kunkle and Sullivan. I momentarily put a hand on Gacy’s shoulder, looked at him, and then joined the rest, screaming for a sidebar.