Chapter 57
I MET WITH SONEJI/MURPHY half-a-dozen times over the next two weeks. He wouldn’t let me get close to him again, though he claimed this wasn’t so. Something had changed. I’d lost him. Both of him.
On the fifteenth of October, a federal judge ordered a stay, temporarily halting the commencement of the kidnapping trial. This was to be the final of several delaying tactics by Soneji/Murphy’s defense lawyer, Anthony Nathan.
Within one week, lightning speed for this kind of complex legal maneuvering, Judge Linda Kaplan had denied the defense requests. Requests for injunctions and restraining orders to the Supreme Court were also denied. Nathan called the Supreme Court “a very organized lynch mob” on all three TV networks. The fireworks were just beginning, he said to the press. He’d established a tone for the trial.
On the twenty-seventh of October, the trial of the State v. Murphy began. At five minutes to nine that morning, Sampson and I headed for a back entrance into the Federal Building on Indiana Avenue. As best we could, we were traveling incognito.
“You want to lose some money?” Sampson said as we turned the corner onto Indiana.
“I hope you’re not talking about wagering money on the outcome of this kidnapping and murder trial?”
“Sure am, sweet pie. Make the time pass faster.”
“What’s the bet?”
Sampson lit a Corona and took a victory puff. “I’ll take… I say he goes to St. Elizabeths, some hospital for the criminally insane. That’s the bet.”
“You’re saying that our judicial system doesn’t work.”
“I believe it in every bone of my body. Specially this time around.”
“All right—I’ll take guilty, two counts kidnapping. Guilty, murder one.”
Sampson took another victory puff. “You want to pay me now? Fifty be an acceptable amount for you to lose?”
“Fifty’s fine with me. You got a bet.”
“Get it on. I love to take what little money you have.”
Out front on 3rd Street, a crowd of a couple of thousand surrounded the main courthouse entrance. Another two hundred people, including seven rows of reporters, were already inside. The prosecutor had tried to bar the press, but it had been denied.
Somebody had printed up signs and they were everywhere: Maggie Rose Is Alive!
People were handing out roses at the trial site. Up and down Indiana Avenue, volunteers circulated with the free roses. Others sold commemorative pennants. Most popular of all were the small candles that people burned in the windows of their homes as remembrances of Maggie Rose.
A handful of reporters were waiting at the back entrance, which is reserved for deliveries, as well as for a few shy judges and lawyers. Most veteran cops who come to the courthouse, and don’t appreciate the crowds, also choose the back gate.
Microphones were immediately pushed at me and Sampson. TV camera lenses gawked. Neither instrument fazed us anymore.
“Detective Cross, is it true that you were cut out of the case by the FBI?”
“No. I have an okay relationship with the FBI.”
“Are you still seeing Gary Murphy at Lorton, Detective?”
“That makes it sound as if we’re dating. It’s not that serious yet. I’m part of a team of doctors who see him.”
“Are there racial overtones to this case, as it relates to you?”
“There are racial overtones to a lot of things, I guess. There’s nothing special here.”
“The other detective? Detective Sampson. You agree, sir?” a young dude in a bow tie asked.
“Well, sir yourself, we’re going in the back door, aren’t we? We’re the back-door men.” Sampson grinned for the camera. He didn’t take off his shades.
We finally made it to a service elevator, and tried to keep the reporters out of the same car, which wasn’t easy.
“We have a confirmed rumor that Anthony Nathan is going for a temporary-insanity plea. Any comment on that?”
“None at all. Ask Anthony Nathan.”
“Detective Cross, will you take the stand to say Gary Murphy isn’t insane?”
The ancient doors finally shut. The elevator started to rumble up toward the seventh floor, “Seventh Heaven,” as it’s known in the trade.
The seventh had never been quieter, or more under control. The usual train-station scene of policemen, young thugs and their families, hardened crooks, lawyers and judges, had been stemmed by an order restricting the floor to the single case. This was the big one. “Trial of the Century.” Wasn’t that the way Gary Soneji wanted it?
In the absence of chaos, the Fed Building was like an elderly person rising from bed in the morning. All the wrinkles and bruises were visible in the early-morning light that streamed from cathedral windows on the east side of the floor.
We arrived just in time to see the prosecutor enter the courtroom. Mary Warner was a diminutive thirty-six-year-old U.S. attorney from the Sixth Circuit. She was supposed to be the courtroom equal of defense lawyer Anthony Nathan. Like Nathan, she had never tasted defeat, at least not in any significant case. Mary Warner had a glowing reputation for tireless preparation, and faultless, highly persuasive courtroom demeanor. A losing opponent had said, “It’s like playing tennis with somebody who always hits it back. Your best spin shot—back it comes. Your gamer—it comes back. Sooner or later, she beats you into the ground.”
Supposedly, Ms. Warner had been handpicked by Jerrold Goldberg, and Goldberg could have had any prosecutor he chose. He had chosen her over James Dowd and other early favorites for the job.
Carl Monroe was there, too. Mayor Monroe couldn’t stay away from the crowds. He saw me, but didn’t come over, just flashed a patented smile across the broad concourse.
If I hadn’t known exactly where I stood with him, I did now. My appointment to divisional chief would be my last upgrade. They’d done that to prove I had been a good choice for the Hostage Rescue Team, to validate their decision, and to cover up any possible questions about my conduct in Miami.
Leading up to the trial day, the big news around Washington had been that Secretary of the Treasury Goldberg was working on the prosecution case himself. That, and Anthony Nathan being the defense attorney.
Nathan had been described in the Post as a “ninja warrior in court.” He had regularly been making front-page news since the day he’d been retained by Soneji/Murphy. Nathan was a subject that Gary wouldn’t talk to me about. On one occasion, he’d said, “I need a good lawyer, don’t I? Mr. Nathan convinced me. He’ll do the same for the jury. He’s extremely cunning, Alex.” Cunning?
I asked Gary if Nathan was as smart as he was. Gary smiled and said, “Why do you always say I’m smart when I’m not? If I were so smart, would I be here?”
He hadn’t strayed once from the Gary Murphy persona in weeks. He’d also declined to be hypnotized again.
I watched Gary’s super-lawyer, Anthony Nathan, as he obnoxiously swaggered around the front of the courtroom. He was certainly manic, widely known for infuriating witnesses during cross-examination. Did Gary have the presence of mind to select Nathan? What had drawn the two of them together?
In one way, though, it seemed a natural pairing—a borderline madman defending another madman. Anthony Nathan had already publicly proclaimed: “This will be an absolute zoo. A zoo, or a Wild West frontier justice show! I promise you. They could sell tickets for a thousand dollars a seat.”
My pulse was racing as the bailiff finally stood before the assemblage and called the room to order.
I saw Jezzie across the room. She was dressed like the important person that she is in the Service. Pinstriped suit, heels, shiny black attaché case. She saw me, and rolled her eyes.
On the right side of the courtroom, I saw Katherine Rose and Thomas Dunne. Their presence brought even more of an aura of unreality. I couldn’t help thinking of Charles and Anne Morrow Lindbergh and of the world-famous kidnapping trial that had taken place sixty years before.
Judge Linda Kaplan was known as an eloquent and energetic woman who never let lawyers get the best of her. She had been on the bench for less than five years, but had already handled some of the biggest trials in Washington. Often, she stood during entire proceedings. She was known to rule her courtroom with complete authority.
Gary Soneji/Murphy had been quietly, almost surreptitiously, escorted to his place. He was already seated, looking well behaved, as Gary Murphy always did.
Several well-known journalists were present, at least a couple of them writing books about the kidnapping.
The opposing lawyer teams looked supremely confident and well prepared on the first day, as though their cases were invincible.
The trial began with a small flourish, opening-bell theatrics. At the front of the courtroom, Missy Murphy began to sob. “Gary didn’t hurt anybody,” she said in an audible voice. “Gary would never hurt another person.”
Someone in the courtroom audience called out, “Oh, give us a break, lady!”
Judge Kaplan smacked her gavel and commanded, “Silence in this courtroom! Silence! That will be enough of that.” Sure it will.
We were off and running. Gary Soneji/Murphy’s Trial of the Century.