The Bomb Maker's Son (33 page)

Silence is like a gas: formless, capable of indefinite expansion, sometimes toxic, sometimes stable, sometimes inert—and sometimes, like the silence in this courtroom, volatile. I say, “No further questions,” because I’m not about to furnish the igniting spark, and I hope that Marilee Reddick won’t do so. All Reddick has to do to avoid the conflagration is follow the old saw that a lawyer shouldn’t ask a
why
question on cross-examination.

It’s not to be.

“How convenient that you show up at the last minute and try to rescue your friend,” Reddick scoffs. “Why didn’t you tell this to the FBI in nineteen seventy-five, when Holzner was charged? Why didn’t you come forward during the trials of Charles Sedgwick or Belinda Hayes or Rachel O’Brien? Why, Ms. Diaz, didn’t you at least come forward when Holzner turned himself in?” She’s so agitated that droplets of saliva spew from her lips as she speaks.

“I didn’t because I was afraid,” Diaz says.

“Afraid of what?”

“Of being arrested. You see, I was the one who helped Ian escape. I hid him in my apartment, and then I drove him to a women’s commune in Scottsdale, Arizona, that sheltered him. I was active in the women’s underground railroad until nineteen seventy-seven. I’ve come forward now because I won’t sit by another second and watch Ian sacrifice himself for me. He’s an innocent man. I saw his face, I heard him sob. He had no idea that there was a bomb at the VA.”

Lovely exhales a “Holy crap.” Lou Frantz lets out a noncommittal grunt. I glance back at Holzner, who’s resting his head in his shackled hands. When he looks up, he shakes his head at me in reproach. There are tears in his eyes.

Over the din coming from the gallery, Judge Gibson hollers, “
Silencio!
Everyone be quiet! Especially you, Ms. Diaz. Do
not
say another world. Marshals, get the jury out of here
pronto
!”

When the jurors are out of the courtroom, the judge says, “Mr. Stern, before you called this witness, did you advise her that this testimony could incriminate her as an accessory to murder? That there is no statute of limitations on that?”

“I’ll answer that, Judge,” Diaz says. “That’s exactly what Parker told me. Which he didn’t have to, because I consulted a lawyer years ago and knew the risks already. That’s exactly why I didn’t come forward until now.”

“I would advise you to consult a lawyer before we go any further,” the judge says.

“I want to finish my testimony,” Diaz says. “It’s the truth. Ian didn’t murder anyone.”

Judge Gibson takes off his reading glasses, bows his head, and pinches his nose hard. “Okay, Ms. Diaz. It’s your funeral. Marshal, get the jury back in here.”

When the jury is seated again, Reddick conducts a scorched-earth cross-examination, forcing Diaz to tell the story of how she let Holzner hide in her apartment for three weeks while she arranged with her contacts to find a place to protect him, and how she drove him to the Arizona desert in her Volkswagen van. Over and over, Diaz is forced to admit that she knew that Holzner was charged with murder, knew that he was a fugitive from justice, knew that helping him escape was a crime. The cross is intended less, it seems, to attack Diaz’s testimony than to put her behind bars. Marilee Reddick has always been a vindictive shit.

When Reddick finishes, I tell the judge I have no further questions. He excuses the jury again, and as soon as the jurors are out of the room, a marshal approaches Diaz and informs her that she’s under arrest as an accessory to murder. He actually puts her in handcuffs.

“This is bullshit,” Holzner calls out. “You government pigs haven’t changed a bit since nineteen seventy-five.”

The judge says, “Ms. Diaz, this is unfortunate. But you made your own decision. I suggest you get a lawyer.”

“I’m Ms. Diaz’s attorney,” Lou Frantz says in a voice that can probably be heard three floors up. “This is a travesty, a miscarriage of justice. Don’t worry, Ms. Diaz, I’ll have you out in an hour.”

The marshals escort Diaz out of the courtroom to the accompaniment of Louis Frantz’s taunting.

“We’re in recess,” the judge says.

Holzner comes over to me and says, “Why did you do it? I didn’t want that. I never wanted that.”

Emily Lansing suddenly appears. “It doesn’t matter what you want, Dad. Parker’s doing want
we
want. He’s trying to save your life.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

On this morning, Ian Holzner, surrounded by a phalanx of marshals’ vehicles, drives with me to court. The media reporters on the courthouse steps seem almost festive, as if a man’s last chance to avoid the death penalty is a spectator sport. Holzner pauses for a moment, but I drag him away before he can launch into another polemic.

Lovely is already in the courtroom, setting up our computers and exhibits. I don’t ask where Frantz is, because I don’t want to know. This is my show. I sit down at the defense table and remind myself of the basic rules of oral advocacy: speak slowly; tell a story; ignore distractions from the prosecution or the gallery; don’t use notes; make eye contact with each juror; and most importantly, believe what you’re saying. I let a wave of fear pass over me, don’t try to outswim or dive under it. I was no more than ten years old when I came to believe I’d never learn my father’s identity, fifteen when I decided I didn’t want to know a man who’d abandoned me. The belief had become so engrained that I stopped thinking of the elusive “him.” Then he appeared, and now I understand that my resentment and anger were so strong because I’d never truly given up. So as any son should, I’m giving my father the benefit of the doubt. I just hope the jury does, too.

Judge Gibson takes the bench. It’s one of those rare occasions when he proves he can master the art of judicial solemnity. “Members of the jury, we are ready to proceed with the last two stages of trial, which are the closing arguments of counsel, after which I’ll instruct you in detail with respect to the law that governs in this case. Because the government has the burden of proof, you will hear first from counsel for the government, then from counsel for the defense. After that, counsel for the government has an opportunity for a rebuttal argument. Following all of the arguments, I will instruct you on the law. Please remember that it is important that we give full consideration to the arguments that are made by counsel in the case. And we’ll proceed, then, and hear from counsel for the government. Ms. Reddick.”

Reddick stands, pulls down the hem of her short blue jacket, and adjusts the lectern so she can speak directly to the jury. “May it please the court, counsel, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Good morning. On December seventeenth, nineteen seventy-five, people in Playa Delta, California, were working, or watching their children, or doing their Christmas shopping, or celebrating birthdays. But for Ian Holzner, December seventeenth, nineteen seventy-five, was the day when his hatred for the United States of America turned him into a mass murderer. On that day, Ian Holzner carried out his plan to wreak death, destruction, and chaos in Playa Delta, the very city in which he was born and raised. That afternoon, a bomb he built exploded just as he planned, killing four innocent men and women and injuring scores of others. As I discuss the evidence with you, bear three things in mind: Holzner’s words; Holzner’s deeds; Holzner’s unique abilities. By his words, I mean his repeated calls for escalating violence against our government. By his deeds, I mean the pattern of increasingly violent assaults against his perceived enemies. By his abilities, I mean his talent for assembling and planting bombs designed to keep him safe and to kill others.” If Reddick was shaken by Diaz’s testimony yesterday, she doesn’t show it. Her delivery is somehow coldly logical and impassioned at the same time.

I look only at the judge, and Lovely looks only at the jury to gauge reactions. We don’t take notes, because nothing that Reddick says is important. We don’t look at Reddick, because she’s not worthy of our attention. At least, that’s the game we play, a game that will last for hours.

Reddick’s underlings put up on the courtroom monitors a slideshow setting forth every violent, anti-American statement Holzner made in speeches and underground communiqués—a call for the public execution of the president of the United States; boasts about blowing up public property; ever more vicious pleas for blood in the streets and vengeance against the Establishment for its oppression of the poor and minorities. She recounts Holzner’s frequent quotation of Thomas Jefferson: “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” She reminds the jury that, nearly twenty years after Holzner spouted these words, Timothy McVeigh had them embossed on the shirt he was wearing when he was arrested for bombing the federal building in Oklahoma City. It’s an improper, inflammatory statement, but I’m not about to validate it by standing up and objecting. Reddick has us immobilized in a rhetorical chokehold. Just wait, I repeat like a mantra. But wait to say what? Although I should remain impassive, I can’t help glancing over at Emily Lansing. Her hands are clasped so tightly that the tips of her fingers have turned an ugly purple. I’m pretty sure she’s trying hard not to twist her hair.

In a jackhammer cadence, Reddick next reminds the jury of Holzner’s evil deeds—the many bombs he built and detonated; the brutal beating of Craig Adamson; his delight in provoking violent confrontation with the police; and his successful flight to avoid prosecution.

“Ian Holzner hid for almost forty years because he didn’t want to be punished for the evil he’d done,” she says. “His running away was the cowardly act of a guilty man.”

She breaks from her theme and goes into a two-hour discussion of the evidence against Holzner. In meticulous detail, she summarizes the testimony of Agent Roudebusch and the forensics experts and Gladdie Giddens and even Craig Adamson. She projects on the courtroom monitors the map of the Playa Delta VA found in the gang’s apartment and leaves it there for the jury to see. She characterizes Carol Diaz as a liar who wants to save an old childhood friend and argues that even if Diaz is telling the truth, Holzner was pretending to be hysterical to give himself an alibi and find a patsy to help him escape.

To conclude, she turns to what she calls Holzner’s
abilities
. “He was a practitioner of the black arts,” she says. “He could use his charisma, his good looks, his fame as a star athlete to corrupt the minds of the weak and the vulnerable. He could seduce people and convince them to commit violent acts. Most importantly, he could make sophisticated, destructive bombs. If Ian Holzner didn’t make the bomb that exploded in the Playa Delta VA, then who did? There’s no answer because no one else could’ve done it. No one else had the know-how. Of course Ian Holzner is the Playa Delta Bomber.” With that, she sits down. But she isn’t finished. She’ll have a rebuttal, and for an attorney the last word is more valuable than platinum.

“Thank you, Ms. Reddick,” the judge says. “We’ll hear from the defense. Mr. Stern.”

Lovely glances up and gives a nod of encouragement. She can’t hide her concern that I’ll suffer a bout of glossophobia. When I stand, I do feel the overwhelming lightheadedness, the wobbly limbs, the nausea. But all that miraculously goes away when I walk over and lay my hand on Holzner’s shoulder.

“May it please the Court, Ms. Reddick, members of the jury,” I say. “Mine is the last voice you’ll hear from the defense. The government has the last word because it has the burden of proof. You’ve heard the evidence. You are the final arbiters of Ian Holzner’s fate. You’ve taken an oath of office that you’ll decide this case only on the facts and not based on bias or prejudice or likes or dislikes or speculation. That’s a hard thing to do, but it’s also essential to justice.”

I move away from the podium and look each juror in the eyes. All are stone-faced except for Joey, who’s wearing that permanent sneer. Why did I leave him on the panel? But he’s there, so I speak directly to him first. “The renowned attorney Clarence Darrow once said that great ideas and new truths come from the men and women who have dared to be rebels. Very often such people are despised. Ian Holzner was a rebel, an outlaw, and because of that you might find his words and actions despicable. I, myself, find what he did back then despicable. But if you follow your oath of office, if you resolve to reach a just verdict, you simply cannot convict him for those actions or based on your feelings about what he did or said. You can only convict if the government has proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he committed the Playa Delta bombing. And members of the jury, the government hasn’t come close to meeting its burden.” Inadvertently channeling the bombastic Moses Dworsky in his prime, I point my index finger skyward and bellow, “There’s almost nothing that you heard in the courtroom that’s
free
from doubt.”

I give them my own view of the evidence. Gladdie Giddens didn’t know which Holzner brother was which and was led by an overzealous FBI agent to identify Ian Holzner as being present at the crime scene. Craig Adamson was out for revenge. FBI agent Roudebusch admitted that his partner, Hilton, disagreed about who was on the missing tape recording. The government didn’t call Charles Sedgwick or Rachel O’Brien. Risking criminal prosecution, Carol Diaz testified that the bombing so shocked Holzner that he became hysterical.

I describe Martin Lansing’s exemplary life and remind the jurors that he turned himself in—not the actions of a guilty man, especially one with a young daughter. I argue that none of the government’s experts could say with certainty that Holzner had made the bomb, which was of the type constructed by a number of other radical cells, including the Baader-Meinhof Group in Germany, and that the prosecution had presented no fingerprint or DNA evidence. I remind the jury that a woman’s earring was found at the scene.

“Let’s talk about why Ian Holzner fled,” I say. “Let’s look at what was happening in our country at the time. There were the conspiracy trials of the Chicago Eight and the Seattle Seven, both travesties of justice where the defendants were wrongfully convicted, and both reversed on appeal. There were COINTELPRO’s investigations of the Weather Underground, so fraught with illegality that people like Mark Rudd and Bernardine Dohrn and Bill Ayers basically served no time in prison. Ian Holzner fled not because he was guilty, but because he was innocent and couldn’t have gotten a fair trial back then. But now, members of the jury, you can give him the fair trial and the just result he deserves.”