All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 25
Jeff, that’s not why—
I know, Dad, I heard you, I get it, you didn’t do it. But the fact is, if this jury comes back with a guilty verdict—
Mr. Bailis corrects me: Liable, not guilty. This is a civil action.
Okay, liable then. If the jury says he did it—even if the standard is just fifty percent and a feather, more likely he did it than not—then maybe things change in the criminal case too. Maybe the public gets interested again, maybe the DA looks at the case again. I think Dad knows all that too. He’s priced that into his offer.
I don’t know if I want Daddy in prison. I don’t want to be the cause of all that.
Thank you, sweetie.
Miranda winces at the endearment.
What do you recommend, Mr. Bailis?
Jeff, I can’t tell you what to do. It’s your decision. I can say that this discussion should not be happening here, with your father present. We should go somewhere where we can hash it out in private.
There’s nothing to hash out, Kate says evenly. I’ll take this out of everyone’s hands. I’m not settling. I know I said I wouldn’t go ahead without you kids, but I don’t feel that way anymore. I’ve come too far. If you kids want to settle, if you feel that’s right for you, then you should. I’ll love you no matter what you do. But I’m going to see this through.
Kate, that makes no sense!
She folds her arms.
I’m giving you everything. Everything I have. But you need your pound of flesh.
Yes, I do. I need my pound of flesh.
How much is that? What’s a pound of flesh actually worth? Give me a number.
I don’t know, Dan. Let me ask you: How much do you think my sister’s life was worth? Two-point-eight million plus a house? Seems a little low to me.
I’ve never gotten anywhere with you, Kate. Why did you even come today?
To watch you suffer.
Oh, stop it. There’s no talking to you, there’s no reasoning with you. You’ve always hated me, even when Jane was here. You’ve always been a bitch.
He spits the last word. It was not a mistake that he said it, the word did not slip out. He is relieved to have said it finally.
Kate brushes it off—she literally makes a brushing movement with her hand on the surface of the table, flicking away invisible crumbs with royal contempt.
Kids, she says, I can’t tell you what to do. Just don’t sell yourselves cheap.
Mr. Bailis says, I think we should all take a little time to think about it.
I say: No. I don’t need time. I’m in. Mimi, if you want to bail, that’s okay. It won’t affect anything either way now. But I’m with Aunt Kate. Let’s see this through.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. An odd, unexpected sense of relief comes over me. My shoulders and back relax. I had not even known I was carrying so much tension.
Miranda says, Then I’m in too.
You kids are making a big mistake. You have no idea what you’re starting. None!
Mimi and I exchange a nervous glance, because he is right. We have no idea where any of this is leading.
Just remember, I tried to avoid this, for all of us. There’s nothing more I can give. I have nothing left to lose.
But there is, and he knows it.
* * *
—
8:30 Monday morning. Courtroom 12B.
Waiting for the trial to begin, two court officers in uniform loaf near the judge’s bench. The clerk—a round-bellied guy with a comb-over—comes in and out of a door at the back of the courtroom. At one point, the clerk summons over a court officer, and the officer fetches a pitcher of water, which he places on the judge’s bench. They all look competent and bored.
The courtroom is modern, a little grungy, with a high ceiling. There are two jury boxes (I don’t know why—are there trials with two juries?); in the second jury box a small TV camera has been set up on a tripod. The camera has no markings to identify what station it represents.
In the gallery, there is still plenty of room on the benches. Three reporters have grabbed spots in the front row center, a TV reporter in a stylish pantsuit and two frumpy print reporters beside her, clutching little spiral notebooks in their laps.
Our group of plaintiffs—Miranda and me, Aunt Kate and Uncle Stephen, and George Bailis—sits in the corner nearest the door. In the washed-out, shot-on-video light of the courtroom, Miranda looks ashen. She hasn’t been sleeping.
In the other corner is my father with just two supporters: Alex and my grandmother, Mildred. Grandma Mildred is ninety years old. Alex and Dad sit on either side of her like Praetorian Guards.
I am shocked by her appearance. She is shrunken, rheumy-eyed, her back bent—no longer her old commanding self. But she still wears an elegant wool skirt suit and low heels with an unmissable chunky gold necklace, similar in style to a necklace she once gave my mother. Her brittle snow-white hair is still coifed. I have not spoken to Grandma Mildred in many years, since Grandpa’s funeral. My mother’s murder and our grinding suspicion of Dad created a rift that will never heal. Still, it seems unforgivable that she might die without my ever speaking to her again. She is a link to my earliest childhood. Her simple presence here opens up memories, nostalgia, longing.
We have to go say hello, Mimi.
No, we don’t.
She’s our grandmother!
Then let her come say hello to us!
She’s ninety years old! Are you mental?
We trudge like children, feeling Mom’s invisible hand on our shoulders (Kids, go say hello to your grandmother), the twenty feet or so across the courtroom gallery.
Dad and Alex glower up at us. It’s hard to take them seriously, though, not just because I don’t care what they think, but because, sitting together like this, they look absurd, six-foot-five Alex and my dad who claims to be five-eight. (On FBI surveillance tapes in the early eighties, Boston mobsters were heard talking about my father. They referred to him as “Little Hands” and “the midget.” So there you go.)
Bent as she is, my grandmother seems unable to tilt her head up to face me, so I kneel in front of her.
Grandma, it’s me, Jeff.
Oh, Jeff. Isn’t this horrible?
It is. How are you feeling?
She shakes her head and emits a little groan.
I’m happy to see you, Grandma.
Her hands are in her lap, spotted, and knobby and gnarled with arthritis. I sandwich her rough hand between mine. It feels papery. She lays her other hand on top of the stack and says, Oh, we loved your mother. I don’t know what could have happened. I don’t know what happened.
I can’t be sure if she is rambling like an old woman or if she is playing me. She doesn’t know what happened? Really? Her eyes are unfocused, heavily lidded, and moist with emotion.
I tell her, I’d better go, Grandma. They’re going to start soon. Do you want to say hello to Miranda? She’s right here.
Miranda!
Mimi kneels and delicately embraces her grandmother, careful not to muss Grandma’s hair.
Miranda, the old woman repeats. She raises a clawed hand to touch the back of Miranda’s head. Then: Miranda, what is wrong with you? How could you do this? To your own family?
Miranda’s head draws slowly back against the weight of Grandma’s hand until she is free. She stands and says, How could I? She turns and marches directly out of the courtroom.
Aunt Kate jumps up and hurries through the swinging door after her.
* * *
—
At ten past nine, a court officer announces, All rise!
The judge sweeps into the courtroom, a woman around fifty years old, straw-colored hair, unsmiling. She is the Honorable Justice Christine Maginnis, the clerk tells us.
The whole entrance is so perfunctory and quick—and I am so taken by this judge, who has a scrappy, tomboyish, don’t-fuck-with-me vibe, but also a triple string of pearls and elegant makeup—that the whole ritual of the judge’s entrance is over before I can sort out my thoughts. I am still getting to my feet when everyone else is already sitting back down.
The clerk announces in an absent drone: Calling civil number 93-dash-0410, Jeffrey D. Larkin, Miranda S. Larkin, and Katherine A. Witner, all individually and on behalf of Jane A. Larkin, deceased, plaintiffs, versus Daniel M. Larkin, defendant. The complaint alleges that the defendant did cause the wrongful death of Jane A. Larkin by malicious, willful, wanton, or reckless actions; that the defendant did cause Jane A. Larkin to experience conscious pain and suffering prior to her death; and that the defendant did cause the plaintiffs to suffer the loss of companionship of Jane A. Larkin. The complaint also seeks punitive damages.
He looks up with a bland expression.
The clerk’s blasé, been-there-done-that manner is strangely comforting. Here, my family’s strange history—the whole amorphous, incomprehensible load of sorrow that I’ve been lugging around—fits neatly into three ancient definitions: wrongful death, pain and suffering, loss of companionship. Simply giving these things a name reduces them, uncomplicates them. This is what you have lost, no more, no less. This is the precise nature of your grief. Wrongful death, pain and suffering, loss of companionship. I never had the terms to describe it before. My injury. Or as the lawyers say, my complaint.
Counsel, please identify yourselves for the record.
Good morning, Your Honor, George Bailis on behalf of the plaintiffs.
And, Your Honor, Daniel Larkin appearing pro se, on my own behalf.
The judge regards my father for a moment without comment. Is she reacting to the fact that he is representing himself? Or something more?
Are there any preliminary matters?
Bailis says, Yes, Your Honor, there are a few preliminary motions, which you have before you. I would like to raise an additional matter, as well: I would point out for the court that the defendant acting as his own attorney in this case raises several issues. There is the possibility of his blurring the line between attorney and witness. In his capacity as a lawyer, the defendant will be tempted to speak to the jury directly, to sneak in what amounts to testimony, rather than testifying properly as a witness from the stand, under oath and subject to cross-examination. I would simply ask that the defendant be warned not to break this rule.
My father responds: Your Honor, the trial hasn’t even begun yet. Mr. Bailis is free to object at any time, to anything I do, as he sees fit.
Yes, Mr. Bailis, I will rule on any objections as we go. Is there anything else?
Yes, Your Honor, I have a motion for a ruling on the admissibility of statements of the victim in this case, Jane Larkin. Under General Laws chapter 233, section 65, statements of a deceased person are admissible and should not be excluded as hearsay so long as—
I’m aware of the statute, Mr. Bailis. Mr. Larkin, any objection?
To the statute? No. Without a proffer as to the nature of the statements, it’s impossible for me to say anything now. I would reserve the right to object at the time if I find any of the statements improper.
Good. Done. The motion is denied. I’ll rule on particular statements as necessary. Next?
Your Honor, I have a motion to bar the defendant from introducing evidence that he was not arrested, indicted, prosecuted, or convicted in a criminal case. There is a long-standing rule in Massachusetts that such evidence is not admissible in a civil action because the standards of proof and the nature of the acts to be proven are quite different in a civil setting. The fact that a prosecutor may have concluded there is not evidence beyond a reasonable doubt says nothing about whether the simple preponderance-of-evidence standard here is met.
Mr. Larkin?
Your Honor, the adequacy of the evidence against me is the entire issue in this case. It will be impossible to defend myself if I am barred from discussing it.
The motion is allowed, as far as it goes. However, the defendant may discuss the sufficiency of the evidence against him provided he does not suggest that the lack of a criminal prosecution argues for his innocence here. Agreed? Good. Next?
The remaining motions are Mr. Larkin’s, I believe.
Yes, Your Honor, I have several motions. The first is to exclude evidence that I refused to take a lie detector test. Such evidence is incompetent in Massachusetts—
The motion is allowed.
There is also a motion before you to exclude statements taken that relate to a lie detector test, which might open the door to such evidence.
Denied for now. I’ll rule on objections at the time.
I have filed a motion to exclude all references to the term “murder” in the plaintiff’s opening statement.
Denied.
I have a motion to exclude evidence concerning my own financial situation or the possibility of an inheritance.
Denied.
I have a motion to exclude evidence of a Caribbean trip.
Denied.
Motion to exclude evidence of other bad acts.
Denied.
Motion to exclude evidence that I invoked my Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination.
Denied.
I renew my objection to the use of television cameras in the courtroom.
Denied.
A beat.
Is that all?
Mr. Bailis organizes his little pile of papers, tapping the edges on the table to neaten the pile. He has not even had to argue against any of the defense motions. Just stood there. Snick, snick, snick, go the papers on the tabletop.
Sitting behind my father, I watch him glance across at Mr. Bailis. He flips open his suit coat and props his right fist on his hip. His posture is straight, shoulders square, head high, like a Prussian general. Just by looking at his back, I can tell: he is pissed.
Good. Fuck him.
The judge asks, Is there a request to sequester the witnesses?
No, Your Honor.
No, Your Honor. I want the witnesses here. I want my children to see how absurd this is. I want that second jury.
Mr. Bailis, just for reference, is it your intention to call Mr. Larkin to the stand?
It is, Your Honor.
Mr. Larkin, I presume you’re aware of that? And of your Fifth Amendment rights?
I have every intention of testifying, Your Honor. I have nothing to hide and nothing to fear.
All right, then. If there’s nothing else, Mr. Clerk, you can bring in the jury venire. Let’s get moving.
* * *
—
Next morning.
I have already learned, after sitting in the back of the courtroom all day yesterday through interminable hours of jury selection, that trials are like baseball: most of the time, nothing much happens; the action is all concentrated in a few moments. My father with his balled-up fist on his hip, glancing across at Mr. Bailis—that was a moment, a tell.
The next moment comes during opening statements.
Today, the courtroom is full, like the premiere of a Broadway show. The spectators are a professional, wised-up crowd; they knew not to waste time yesterday watching the dull work of jury selection.
The district attorney himself is here with his first assistant, the same two men we met a little over a year ago who refused to prosecute this same case. If they feel any embarrassment over the decision, they are not showing it.
Mr. Bailis has finished what seems to me an unexceptional speech. He is not a natural performer. He is a technician, doubly burdened by his duty, as plaintiff, to lay out the facts of the case methodically.
He began, One afternoon in November 1975, a little girl named Miranda Larkin came home from school to find her mother missing….
For the next twenty minutes or so—it felt much longer—the jury watched him, poker-faced, attentive but unmoved.
Now my father is before the jury, and he is everything Mr. Bailis was not: theatrical, bombastic, passionate. A “hot” personality after Mr. Bailis’s cool one.
He overacts in ways that seem very familiar to me:
There is not one iota of evidence, not one scintilla of real, direct proof. Where are the witnesses? Where is the witness who saw or heard any of the things you would expect to find in a case involving bloody murder? Where is the witness who heard the victim scream? Where is the witness who saw a body? Where is the witness who saw the murderer running from the scene? Where is the witness who heard a confession? Where is the policeman who found blood on the defendant’s hand? Where is…
It is all predictable TV-lawyer stuff. Only my dad’s strutting, preening style makes it interesting.
Unfortunately for Dad, his evident ego seems to put off as many jurors as it impresses. One man in particular—back row, far left—smirks and looks away, as if Dad’s bombast has set off his bullshit detector.
Still, I admit I feel a perverse pride in my father’s performance. In all these years, I have never actually seen him in court, and it is instantly obvious why he is so good at his job. He is a murderer, a liar, and a virtuoso lawyer, and these things seem not unrelated. Am I crazy to be a little proud of him? (Answer: yes. I know this.)
Then comes the moment. Dad has exhausted the subject of the insufficiency of the evidence against him—the not one iota, not one scintilla business. It is time to close the deal. With a little less bravado, in a softer tone, he makes eye contact with each juror in turn and tells them:
At every moment of this trial, ask yourself: Who among you would stand up, step out of that jury box, and trade places with me? Who would be accused of a violent murder based on…nothing? How would you prove your innocence when there was never any proof against you in the first place?
At that, Mr. Bailis starts getting up to object, but the damage is already done. He crouches over his chair a moment then drops back down without saying anything.
