John Wayne Gacy (47 page)

T
HERE IS A
secret that has been passed down from lawyer to young lawyer for over a half of a century. The secret is kept from even the young lawyer until he or she is deemed ready, deemed worthy. It is the secret of Jean’s.

Only after a young lawyer has been bloodied in battle is the secret revealed. Then, and only then, will the young upstart truly appreciate the secret that has been shared by criminal defense lawyers that practice in the hallowed halls of the Criminal Courts Building at 26th and California and, now, has been passed down to him or to her. It is a time-honored tradition, a rite of passage; and when the secret is passed on, it signifies the official acceptance into the small club of courtroom brawlers that prowl the dark wooden churches where criminal justice lives and breathes.

Jean’s is a bar, a dark tavern where battle-scarred warriors wait for their juries to return. They wait with glasses full for the thumbs-up, or the thumbs-down. They sit in relative quiet, licking wounds and second-guessing their opponents and themselves, under a picture of Clarence Darrow and others who have honored the tradition before them.

Why is Jean’s such a well-kept secret? Well, it is a twenty-foot-wide-by-thirty-five-foot-long dark wood-paneled room without a
front door. Its only entrance, its only access is off an alley a block away from the towering courthouse. It is the antithesis of the courthouse—a place to relax, a clubhouse where ties are loosened and wounded opponents sit together, drink together, and wait together. When you enter Jean’s for the very first time, you know that you are a lawyer.

On the way to Jean’s, we were all laughing and trading Gacy stories. The prosecution team and the defense team, both prepared to wait, both prepared to console the other when the other received the bad news. Only one side could win the trial of the century.

I bought a round as soon as we walked in the door. Kunkle promised that the next round was his. He never got to buy it. The jury was back.

One hour and fifty minutes after they had been charged, they were ready.

This was not good …

___________________

J
UDGE
L
OUIS
B. Garippo addressed the court:

“All right, before bringing the jury out, I have to announce that this jury, depending on the verdict, may not be finished with its duty. Therefore, it is possible, depending on their verdict, that they may be called upon to deliberate again on this case.

Therefore, any visible reaction from the audience could impair and could prevent an orderly hearing, if this jury is called upon to deliberate at any future time.”

His eyes peered across the entire length and breadth of his personal domain with a look that said,
Everybody got that?

“Then call the jury.”

The jury filed in. Nobody looked at the defendant.

“Mr. Foreman, has the jury signed thirty-five verdicts?”

“Yes, we have.”

“Would you pass them to the bailiff who will pass them to the clerk.”

“Each verdict is in order.”

“Will you read them please?”

“We, the jury, find the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, guilty of the murder of Robert Piest.”

I was thunderstruck. The room was thunderstruck. Emotions poured silently out and turned into electric energy. The collective gasp was respectfully silent, but as heavy as a sledgehammer. Some of the relatives held hands, and tears began to flow. Over the loud silence, the clerk continued.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, guilty of indecent liberties with a child upon Robert Piest.

“We, the jury, find the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, guilty of the murder of John Butkovitch.”

“We, the jury, find the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, guilty of deviant sexual assault upon Robert Piest.”

“We, the jury, find the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, guilty of the murder of Darrell Sampson.”

“We, the jury, find the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, guilty of the murder of Samuel Stapleton.”

And so it went on—each of thirty-five verdicts were read in full, with furtive shrieks and silent sobs accompanying the drone of the clerk.

When the clerk finished, the judge went on, “The attorneys will be seated, please.” We all sat. Gacy remained standing. The judge continued.

“Ronald Geaver, did you hear all the verdicts as read by the clerk?”

“Yes.”

“Were they your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Are they now your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Mabel Loundenback, did you hear the verdicts as read by the clerk?”

“Yes.”

“Were they your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Are they now your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Dean—what is the last name?”

“Johnson.”

“Dean Johnson, did you hear the verdicts as read by the clerk?”

“Yes.”

“Were they your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Are they now your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

Again the drone of the voice of the judge continued like that of the clerk’s before him, and the continuing recitation of name after name only served to heighten the drama and the sheer emotion.

Then the judge abruptly stopped the repetition. He said, “All right, ladies and gentlemen, this concludes this portion of the trial. You will be returned to your quarters. You will be returned to this courtroom at one thirty tomorrow afternoon. You are not free to answer any inquiries at this time from anyone making any inquiries relative to your deliberations. You understand that? See you tomorrow at one thirty. This case is adjourned until 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. The lawyers are expected to be in court at ten tomorrow for the purpose of preparing for the subsequent hearings.”

I blinked my eyes, and I was back, standing next to my client. I really cannot tell you what happened during that blink. It all runs together as a continuous memory.

The judge was talking again …

“Call the jury.”

“Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached and signed a verdict?”

“Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

“If you will pass it to the bailiff to pass it to the clerk. The clerk will read the verdict if it’s in order.”

“We, the jury, unanimously conclude that the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, attained the age of eighteen years at the time of the murders and has been convicted of intentionally murdering the following individuals: Matthew H. Bowman, Robert Gilroy, John Mowery, Russell O. Nelson, Robert Winch, Tommy Boling, David Paul Talsma, William Kindred, Timothy O’Rourke, Frank Landingin, James Mazarra, and Robert Piest. That these murders occurred after June 21, 1977.

“We, the jury, unanimously conclude that the court shall sentence the defendant, John Wayne Gacy, to death.”

The judge looked solemn. This was not his favorite part of the job. He began to poll the jury.

“Ronald Geaver?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear the verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Were these your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Are they now your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“David Osborne?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear the verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Were these your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Are they now your verdicts?”

“Yes.”

“Ross Putman?”

“Yes.”

And so it went.

Tears flowed from every eye in that courtroom—tears of sadness, tears of defeat, tears of triumph, tears of joy, tears of satisfaction. Mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers looked up at the high ceiling, then through it toward the sky. Tears of relief cascaded down their faces.

But most of all, there were tears of pride. Every person in that room had witnessed our system of justice at its finest. Everyone knew that they had witnessed a fair and just trial. Justice had spoken. Justice had won. The Constitution had won; just as its writers, our founding fathers, had envisioned it.

I looked at Bob. We both had tears streaking down our faces.

The flood of emotion was incredible. Every person in the room had shared the experience. It was not an easy moment. It was an overwhelming moment. People looked at the defendant. There he stood, right there, twenty feet away.

We had condemned him, everyone in the room. We all had acquiesced. Did we have that right?

The judge spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this concludes your jury duty. I spoke with the alternates before you. I spoke to them privately because I could not speak to them in open court. But on behalf of the Circuit Court of Cook County, I wish to first commend you for what you have contributed by your service.”

The judge had removed his trademark gold-rimmed glasses. He was wiping his eyes.

Only one person in the room was dry-eyed, only one. John Wayne Gacy stood at the defense table, bewildered and lost.

The amount of emotion that flowed forth was like a flood that washed over one and all, even the strong; the ones that thought they would enjoy this could not escape it.

The judge continued, his voice cracking, clearly moved, “A couple of months ago,” he said, removing his glasses once again,
“a group of prosecutors from another country came and couldn’t understand how in the United States you could try a person who was arrested of this type of situation. A lot has been said about how much this case has cost, and I don’t know what it cost. I don’t know if anyone could put together the cost, but whatever the cost was, it’s a small price. My voice is cracking because I really truly feel it’s a small price that we paid for our freedom. What we do for the John Gacys, we’ll do for everyone. I thank you. You are now excused.”

The judge wiped his eyes one last time. His job was not over. He had a task yet to perform, the hardest task of all.

He looked at Gacy.

“Step forward,” he said.

“Under the laws, as I interpret the law, this jury verdict, I have interpreted it as not binding on the court. The statute is written in such a way as to indicate that it is binding on the court, but I find it is not binding on the court. Does anyone have anything to say before I impose sentence?”

Bob was first to speak.

“Judge, at this point, I’d asked for—make a motion, just perfunctorily, for judgment notwithstanding the verdict by the jury, based on what I consider to be mitigating circumstances that exist in the record.”

I was next. “Just all over the record, Your Honor, there is no question. If anybody ever fit the extreme emotional or mental disturbance in this statute, it’s John Gacy. We’d implore Your Honor to give a judgment notwithstanding the verdict of this jury.”

Judge Garippo looked at us. He was resolved. He had no choice.

He looked at John Wayne Gacy, who stood before him.

“On the twelve indictments, 79-2382, I sentence the defendant to death; 79-2399, I sentence the defendant to death; 79-2393, I sentence the defendant to death; 2391, I sentence the defendant to death. On all other indictments, I impose a sentence of natural life. I set an execution date of July 1, 1980.”

There was a quick discussion about the date. A statute required the date to be in excess of ninety days.

“Oh yes, I have the wrong date. I have the wrong month. June 2. I set the execution date on June 2, 1980. Execution is stayed automatically. Mittimus to issue. Are there any other motions?”

Bill Kunkle moved to dismiss three lingering misdemeanor cases that had been filed against the defendant. It seemed silly.

Garippo said, “Allowed.”

And that, as they say, was that. Gacy was taken from the room.

38

J
OHN
W
AYNE
G
ACY
died on May 10, 1994, as a result of a lethal injection administered on behalf of the People of the State of Illinois at Stateville Correctional Center, Crest Hill, Illinois. It has been reported that his last words were, “Kiss my ass.” Sounds like him, doesn’t it? I don’t know if those were his last words. I wasn’t there.

By the time he died, Gacy had repudiated everything that Bob and I did on his behalf and in his defense. He used ineffective assistance of counsel as one of his many issues on appeal. By the time he shuffled loose this mortal coil, he was not only claiming that he never killed anybody, but I am pretty sure he believed that claim. Crazy people firmly believe their delusions.

There are certain individuals that have lived throughout history that elicit an immediately negative and profoundly visceral response in everyone who hears their names spoken. Just the mention of the name will often launch an argument. John Wayne Gacy has most certainly joined the ranks of these individuals. For a time, Gacy was the most hated man in America. He has since been replaced many times over. America has plenty of “most hateds” to go around. Thousands of people attended parties celebrating his death all across the nation on the night that he died. You’ve heard
of the Macy’s Day Parade? Well, on that day in May, there were Gacy’s Day Parades all over America.

For me, I didn’t celebrate, as you might imagine. Neither was I sad, exactly. It is a hard emotion to describe, actually. I certainly wasn’t losing a friend. I never considered John a friend, although I did spend more time with him during the year 1979 than I spent with my wife and kids. I never really even liked him much. He was too much of a braggart and too goddamned weird for me. But John Wayne Gacy did grow on people over time, in spite of his foibles and peccadilloes. Just ask the guys that followed him around the city of Chicago for weeks. If you focused on what he did, of course, he was the worst human being on the planet, no question. But if you actually knew him, it was somehow different. It was oddly possible to look past the monster that the world saw and see the sad excuse for a human being inside—the damaged, broken individual that spent most of his waking hours on earth confused, ashamed, bewildered, totally lost, and still trying to please a father that was both long gone and not able to be pleased in the first place, because he too was a waste of human space. John’s aura, if he had one, was not evil—it was pathetic and sad.

Most of all, and in spite of everything else, John Wayne Gacy was my client. When someone hires you to be his lawyer, he or she puts total faith in you. It is a very special and complicated relationship, somewhere between a doctor and a priest, certainly not one to be taken lightly. It is a privilege to have a person seek counsel from you, to put unconditional trust in you. That is no simple thing. You owe that person a duty that is higher than most, and yes, a bond is formed. So I guess I had a bond with John—a singular and convoluted bond, but a bond, nonetheless. I fought for that man’s life for over a year, like a medic on the battlefield, knowing full well that the effort would not likely be rewarded. And like that medic on that battlefield, I didn’t stop to judge him. I just fought with everything that I had in me.