John Wayne Gacy (40 page)

Terry turned back to the jury. He walked to the jury box and placed his hands on the wooden dividing railing. He peered at each juror.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the decision of guilt or innocence is now yours. You have the opportunity to prevent the future slaughter of other young men and boys by that sadistic animal. You saw him laugh at me. You are the only ones who can tell him loud and clear, ‘We refuse to be used or manipulated by you, John Gacy.’ The snows of winter are fleeing, and the miracle of spring will soon arrive here, folks, but you can tell him that ‘you, John Gacy, will not partake in that annual miracle, not this time, because we find you guilty.’”

Terry paused. He walked to the prosecution table. He picked up the stack of 8½” × 11” pictures that the State had compiled for their gallery of grief, which they had been using throughout the trial. He had a plan for those pictures. He walked over to the empty easel, which stood in plain sight of the jury.

“You have, on the other hand, the choice of finding John Gacy not guilty,” he said quietly.

He paused again.

“If you find him not guilty, that is your choice. If you find him not guilty, then do so. Do so remembering that eleven unidentified male bodies are still in the Cook County morgue.”

As he said this, Terry placed eleven pictures that were mere question marks with only the known vital statistics of those victims into slots that secured them to the board. These were the unidentified victims. He then turned back to the jury. He went on.

“If you do so, do so in spite of body no. 2 medical examiner no. 1065 found with a clothlike material on his throat. Male, white, five nine, 150 pounds. Last seen July 29, 1975, Chicago, Illinois. Identified December 29, 1978, as John Butkovitch.”

Terry placed John Butkovitch’s picture into the slots that secured it to the board.

“If you find him not guilty, do so in spite of body no. 29, medical examiner no. 494, clothlike material on throat. Male, white, five foot five, 140 pounds. Last seen April 6, 1976, at Chicago, Illinois. Identified November 18, 1979, as Darrell Sampson, age eighteen.”

Terry placed Darrell Sampson’s picture into the slots that secured it to the board.

“If you find him not guilty, do so in spite of body no. 6, medical examiner no. 1274. Male, white, five foot six, 145 pounds. Last seen alive May 14, 1976, Chicago, Illinois. Identified November 14, 1979. Sam Stapleton, fourteen.”

Again, Terry placed the picture in the slot.

“If you find him not guilty, do so in spite of Sheriff’s body no. 7, medical examiner no. 1277, clothlike material in throat. Male, white, five foot nine, 145 pounds. Last seen alive May 14, 1976, in Chicago. Identified in the spring of 1979 as Randall Reffett, age fifteen. Student.”

Again, the picture went up.

“If you find him not guilty, do so in spite of body no. 18, medical examiner no. 1379, ligature around the neck. Male, white, five foot seven, 150 pounds. Last seen alive June 3, 1976, in Chicago. Identified, January 6, 1979, as Michael Bonnin, seventeen.”

The picture went up.

“If you find John Gacy not guilty, do so in spite of Sheriff’s body no. 23, medical examiner no. 1452. Male, white, five foot six inches tall, 130 pounds. Last seen alive August 6, 1976, Chicago, Illinois. Identified December 29, 1978, as Rick Johnston, seventeen. Student.”

Picture added.

“If you find John Gacy not guilty, do so in spite of body no. 22, medical examiner no. 1439, clothlike material on throat. Male, white, five foot eight inches tall, 160 pounds. Last seen alive June 13, 1976, in Chicago. Identified March 17, 1979. That’s William Carroll, sixteen, a student.”

William’s picture went up.

“If you find him not guilty, do so in spite of body no. 4, medical examiner no. 1122. Male, white, five foot nine, 140 pounds. Last seen alive August 6, 1976, in Chicago. Identified December 29, 1979, as Gregory Godzik, seventeen, student.”

One by one each picture went up on the gallery of grief.

Terry continued, naming and describing each victim in the same manner, giving each the full respect they deserved. When finished, their picture was reverently placed with the others.

John Szyc.

Jon Prestidge.

Matthew Bowman.

Robert Gilroy.

John Mowery.

Russell Nalson, Robert Winch.

“Tommy Boling. Twenty years old, married, wife, Jolie, and son, Timmy.”

David Talsma. William Kindred. Timothy O’Rourke. Frank Landingin and James Mazzara.”

Finally, Terry was holding one last picture.

“And, ladies and gentlemen, if you find him not guilty, do so over the body No. 30, Medical Examiner No. April 231, paper-like material in the throat. Male white, five foot eight inches tall, a hundred forty pounds. Last seen alive December 11, 1978, in Des Plaines, Illinois. Identified April 9, 1979, as Robert Piest. Student. Birthday is Sunday.”

Terry put Robert’s picture up on the board. He addressed the jury from in front of the gallery of grief. He spoke softly at first. Then his voice rose in volume.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have proven John Gacy to be criminally responsible. We have proven that he has committed the crimes charged, and we have proven this beyond a reasonable doubt.

“Justice is the very reason we’re here. They—they deserve justice.” He pleaded, pointing at the board, “That gallery of grief deserves justice! Society deserves justice! John Gacy deserves justice!”

Sullivan approached the easel. He pointed to each picture as he spoke. Each point was a poke that landed with a quiet thud on the board. He bellowed.

“This was murder! This was murder! This was murder! This was murder! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder! This was murder! So was this! Murder! This was murder! This was murder! This was murder! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder! And this was murder!”

Sullivan faced the jury, and in a controlled but shaking voice he said, “Justice implores you to find John Gacy guilty of murder—murder in the worst degree! Thank you.”

Terry Sullivan took his seat.

The air had been sucked from the room. It was like a vacuum—not a sound, not a peep, no movement. People felt exhausted.

Even the judge could only muster a quick statement: “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now recess and resume at three o’clock.”

35

A
FTER
T
ERRY
S
ULLIVAN’S
closing argument, Motta and I let the courtroom empty out before we stood and headed toward the doors. As we walked, I looked at Bob. He knew me. He immediately said that he was going to go get a sandwich, which was his way of saying that he was going to leave me alone to get ready. He knew that was exactly what I needed just then. I was going to have to walk back into that courtroom in an hour and a half and give my closing argument. No problem.

Welcome to the private practice of law, Sam.

I pushed past screaming reporters poking microphones and scribbling furiously on notepads, back to the little office that they had provided us during the trial and shut the door. I was surrounded by boxes and files and pictures and exhibits, by chalkboards and dry-erase boards and corkboards. On those boards were notes and strategies, lines and arrows, pictures and plans that had accumulated over the protracted weeks of trial. It was all a bit of a blur.

I thought about the buffoonery that my client had displayed time and again during the long days and nights of the cockeyed, erratic course of this crazy trial. I thought about the insanity that I had witnessed over the past year, beginning with that night just before Christmas in my office. What a heart-stopping memory. I was
preoccupied by the illness of my son, distracted by the Christmas season, pissed off about the fact that I had to waste time talking to this weirdo. But he was my client, my very first client, and I felt I had to do it. There I was, waiting patiently for this nut job, making small talk with Leroy Stevens. Then he walked into the office with all of his apologies and his bullshit. I just wanted this silly, unnecessary little meeting to be over so I could go home to my wife and kids. Then he opened his mouth.

I got the chills just thinking about that night. Never in my life had I seen, or would I even have believed that there could exist, such a deranged individual. There have been few like him in all of human history. He was in a very small club, the members of which make our skin crawl.

 I saw the whole scene replayed in my mind, the insanity of it all. This human being, this man, my client right in front of me, right before my eyes, pacing, grunting, sweating, spewing pure horror. I was in a small room with pure evil. I was looking at it. I had met the true-life incarnation of Mr. Hyde. I knew at that moment that my life had changed forever. The Christmas season disappeared. My petty worries dissolved. I suddenly had a purpose that few men could claim.

I chuckled to myself, thinking about the two sworn officers of the law, Albrecht and Hachmeister, thirty feet away behind a plate of glass, one trying to catch a quick nap on the floor of my reception area. Who would believe it? What a ride this had all been.

I looked at the clock. It was almost time. I had given this closing argument to the walls of my bedroom, to the showerhead in my bath, and to the windshield of my car at least a hundred times. Now, it was time to give it for the jury.

 I walked into the courtroom and was immediately struck by the fact that the lunch break had not cured the quiet that followed Terry’s closing argument. There was a perceptible hush in the over-packed gallery.

I felt the eyes of everyone in the room on my back. I walked up to my partner, who looked me in the eye and simply said, “You good?”

 I smiled a quick, serious smile at him, sat down next to our client, leaned back in my chair, and crossed my legs.

“All rise,” the bailiff called.

Judge Garippo swept into the room and up the steps to the bench.

“Court is in session,” he said as soon as he was seated. “All right, you may call the jury.”

The jury filed in. It was as quiet as an empty church.

The judge looked at me. “You may proceed, Mr. Amirante.”

I stood up and approached the jury box.

 I had lived with this case every single day and night for thirteen long months. It was in me. I had no notes in my hands. I didn’t need any. What needed to be said was etched in my psyche. As I approached the lectern, I began.

“May it please the court, distinguished gentlemen of the prosecution, Mr. Motta, Mr. Gacy, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”

I pulled the lectern backward from where Terry Sullivan had left it.

 “Excuse me while I move this back. People tell me I look too short here if I stand right up in front there.”

The muffled sound of its base dragging across the carpet cut through the stillness. It was the only sound in the overpacked, standing-room-only courtroom. Then when I stopped, incredible silence. The expression “You could hear a pin drop” was created for that moment in time. I smiled a grim, serious, but still pleasant smile at the jury, taking in the faces of each and every member.

“The first thing I would like to do is thank you. Thank you for, first of all, all the time, the listening, the patience you have had with us, especially during, as Judge Garippo said, 4:30 lawyer talk and
4:30 arguments. I want to thank you for listening to that, and I want to thank you for listening to all the evidence.

“I also want to commend and congratulate Mr. Sullivan for giving you—for giving all the people in this courtroom—a fantastic and brilliant, persuasive closing argument; but I must remind you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that that’s what that was, a closing argument. It is not evidence. That is the way Mr. Sullivan—that is the way the prosecution sees the evidence in this case.”

 I cleared my throat a little. I felt myself settling in. I was beginning to catch my stride. I continued.

“He made a number of inferences. He speculated a lot. As a matter of fact, he very rarely talked about the evidence. Think about it. Think about his argument.

“He told you how manipulative Mr. Gacy was. He told you how Mr. Gacy planned the insanity defense. He told you how he fakes heart attacks. Did he plan the insanity defense all the way back in Iowa when he attacked Lynch back then? Did he plan to call himself Jack Hanley for this purpose in 1980? When he told Mike Ried that his portrait on the wall was his twin brother Jack, was he planning that far ahead?

“But I can tell by the way you look, I could feel the tension in the courtroom in the last part of Mr. Sullivan’s argument. He pointed to all the pictures. He slowly went through them: murder, murder, murder, murder. All that is to arouse your sympathy, and what did Mr. Motta ask you way back in the beginning of this case? Please, ladies and gentlemen, you must not, you should not, you must not consider sympathy in making your verdict.

“He attempted to arouse your emotions. That is manipulation. He didn’t talk about the evidence. He just … he tried to get your emotions aroused, your basic emotions, your sympathy, and your anger.

“I felt anger and tension in this whole courtroom, this whole courtroom.”

I swept my arm across the room, casting my gaze around. My assertion was verified in the eyes of many. There was anger in that room. I walked away from the lectern and never returned to it. I had been told that because of my size, when I stand behind a lectern, it looks like just a head is talking, no body attached. I began to pace, to prowl. I was in my element.

“He tried to get you to really hate my client. He tried to make him into an evil, vile, premeditating, rational, evil man.”

 I thought I saw at least one of the jurors nod ever so slightly, as if to tell me she agreed with Terry.

“Mr. Gacy is not an evil man. He has done some evil things. He has done some incredibly horrible things, but he tries so hard, so hard from when he was a little kid. He tried so hard to be good. He tried to please his father, and he kept doing it throughout the course of his life. He kept trying and trying and trying.