Winter 1980

The court officers led John Reilly and Thomas Marcano into the crowded court room, both defendants walking with their heads down and their hands at their sides. They were wearing blue blazers, blue polo shirts, gray slacks and brown loafers. They nodded at their attorney, Danny O'Connor, and sat down in the two wooden chairs by his side.

The court stenographer, a curly-haired blonde in a short black skirt, sat across from them, directly in front of the Judge's bench, her face vacant.

The chairs of the jury box were filled by the twelve chosen for the trial.

Michael Sullivan sat at the prosecutor's table, his open briefcase, two yellow legal folders and three sharp pencils laid out before him, his eyes on the stenographer's legs. He was in a dark wool suit, his dark tie crisply knotted over his white shirt.

I sat in the middle of the third row. Two young men, both of whom I knew to be part of the West Side Boys, sat to my left. Carol Martinez, eyes staring straight ahead, was to my right. She held my hand.

Judge Eliot Weisman took his place behind the bench. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a square face topped by a cleanly shaved head. He appeared trim and fit, muscular beneath his dark robes. He was known to run a stern courtroom and allowed scant time for theatrics and stall tactics. Criminal attorneys claimed his scale of justice almost always tipped toward the prosecutor. The assistant district attorneys themselves called him fair, but by no means an easy touch.

Michael knew that Judge Weisman's initial take on John and Tommy would be one of disdain, a response that would be further fueled by the facts of the case. Michael also knew that the evidence against the two defendants would be so heavy that, combined with their history of violence, it would prod Weisman to try to avoid a trial. He expected Weisman to pressure both sides to work out a plea-bargain agreement.

Three times the Judge privately asked both counsels for such an agreement and three times they refused. John and Tommy stuck to their not-guilty plea and the Judge stuck to holding them without bail. Michael insisted that the people, as represented by his office, would want these men prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. As the case entered the jury selection phase, Judge Weisman did not appear pleased.

At no time during those early weeks in that uncomfortable courtroom did Michael give any indication of what he planned to do. He interviewed and selected his jury carefully, as well as any young assistant district attorney would, asking all pertinent questions, attempting to weed out, as honestly as possible, any juror he felt would not or could not deliver a fair verdict. Both counsels settled on a jury of eight men and four women. One of the women was Hispanic as were two of the men. Two other men were black. Three jurors, two men and a woman, were Irish.

When mentioning the defendants, Michael always referred to them by their names to establish their identities and so move them beyond a pair of anonymous faces. He insisted that prospective jurors gaze at the two men on trial while he cataloged their reputations and asked anyone fearful of those reputations not to feel compelled to serve. John and Tommy always made a point of looking at Michael, but he carefully averted their gaze, not willing to take the chance that some spectator would notice even a hint of their relationship.

Michael's vision on where he wanted this case to go was very clear.

He was aiming for a guilty.

A charge of guilty against the Wilkinson Home for Boys; a charge of guilty against Sean Nokes, Adam Styler, Henry Addison and Ralph Ferguson.

Michael sat impassively through Danny O'Connor's unemotional opening statement, listening to the grizzly voiced attorney refer to John and Tommy as two innocent pawns, quickly arrested and just as quickly prosecuted on the slightest threads of evidence. O'Connor would prove, he insisted, beyond any reasonable doubt, that John Reilly and Thomas Marcano did not kill Sean Nokes on the night in question. That, in fact, they were nowhere near the Shamrock Pub at the time of the shooting.

No one was impressed by O'Connor's performance, least of all Judge Weisman who fidgeted throughout the fifteen minutes it took for his statement. The few reporters covering the case, scattered through the front rows, stopped taking notes after O'Connor's initial remarks. Veteran spectators, accustomed to more volatile defense attorneys, shook their heads in boredom.

'He's not exactly Perry Mason,' Carol whispered.

'He got their names right,' I said. 'For him, that's a great start. Besides, if he wins this case, he'll be bigger than Perry Mason.'

Michael stood up, unbuttoned his suit jacket and walked in front of his table, toward the jury box. He had his hands in his pockets and a friendly smile on his face.

'Good morning,' he said to the jurors. 'My name is Michael Sullivan and I am an assistant district attorney for the county of Manhattan. My job, like most jobs I suppose, seems, on the surface, an easy one. I have to prove to you and only to you that the two men who stand accused killed a man named Sean Nokes in cold blood, without any apparent motive. I will present to you evidence and offer into account testimony to prove that. I will place them at the scene of the crime. I will bring witnesses to the stand who will confirm that they were there on that deadly night. I will present to you enough facts that you can then go into the jury room and come out with a clear decision that's beyond a reasonable doubt. Now, I know you all know what that means since you probably watch as much TV as I do.'

Three of the women on the jury smiled and one of the men, a postal employee from the Upper West Side, laughed out loud. 'I hear that,' he said, pointing a finger at Michael.

'Let me remind one and all that this is a courtroom,' Judge Weisman said in a somber tone. 'Not a living room. With that in mind, will the jurors please refrain from making any further comments.'

'My fault, your Honor,' Michael said, turning to face the judge. 'I gave the impression that a response was required. It won't happen again.'

'I'm sure it won't, counselor,' the Judge said, relaxing his tone. 'Proceed.'

'Look at their faces,' I said to Carol, nudging her attention toward the jury box. 'Their eyes. They're falling in love with him.'

'That's not a hard thing to do,' Carol said.

'The past history of these two young men is not important and not an issue in this case,' Michael said, turning back to the jury, his hands on the wood barrier, his eyes moving from face to face. 'Violent or peaceful, criminal or honest, saints or sinners. None of it matters. What does matter is what happened on the night of the murder. If I can prove to you that these two men were the men who walked in, had two drinks and shot Sean Nokes dead, then I expect no less than a guilty verdict. If I can't do that, if I can't put them there, put the guns in their hands, put the body before them and make you firmly believe that they pulled the triggers, then the weight of guilt is cleanly off your shoulders and on mine. If that happens, I will have failed to do my job. But I will do my best not to fail you and not to fail to find the truth. I will do my best to seek justice. And I know you will too.'