Sorry, folks . . .
. . . . I figured that since John and John had so ably written the story, I'd let it rest there. By all means, let the tale continue.
Well, when we left our hero, he was in the witness chair being grilled by his attorney and, if you'll recall, the judge was acting by turns bored and angry. Things were not going at all well--or so we thought.
Next it was the Prosecutor's turn. She was a young woman, probably not that much older than Roderick or I. She asked Roderick the basic questions: did he admit that he'd had a handgun in his car? Did he admit that he'd had "bullets?" How many?
Then two odd things happened. First, she got into a bit of a debate with Roderick as to whether the gun was between the seats (as the police claimed) or under the seat (as Roderick claimed.) Now, Illinois law makes no mention at all of the location of the gun--it can literally be anywhere in the car, including on your person, as long as it is encased and unloaded and your FOID is valid. Thus the point of that little argument was lost on your intrepid scribe, but then, I'm not a lawyer.
The second odd thing was either more amusing or more sinister. At the end of the cross-examination, the Prosecutor asked Roderick: "And where were the bullets when you were pulled over?"
Roderick replied "In the magazine."
"They were in the magazine?"
"Yes."
"Nootherquestionsyourhonorthepeoplewillnowrest!" and she plopped into her seat with an odd urgency.
Her attitude was reminiscent of a fox grinning at a rabbit, and I leaned over to John and asked him "Do you think she thinks she just got him to admit the
gun was loaded?" Remember, neither magazines nor ammunition are mentioned in the statute, so the fact that the magazine was loaded is entirely irrelevant. It's like asking whether he had a round stuck up his nose.
We thought it over a bit (don't forget that there was an inch of glass between us and the court, so we weren't being disrespectful) and decided that she surely couldn't think that. Frankly, I'm still not sure on that point.
At any rate, Mr. Maksym stood and delivered his closing statement. I won't lie to you; it wasn't Matlock. But then, who out there can live up to Matlock? He's the best that ever was. Never lost a case, you know. He summarized the case pretty well, I thought, making it pretty clear that essentially the judge was being asked to send a good young black man to prison on no more evidence than the word of one white Chicago police officer who had done highly questionable things (do honest officers send passengers walking home through bad neighborhoods at night before they have any reason to suspect an arrest will be performed?)
The Prosecutor, when her time came, first told the judge that the people would rest without a closing statement. It was the first time I saw the judge act as annoyed at the Prosecutor as he had at Mr. Maksym. "No, no, no. Argue!" he told her.
"Well, Your Honor, the people. . ."
"ARGUE!"
And so argue she did. It was pretty unremarkable for the most part, like Mr. Maksym's argument displayed in a mirror. The police officers, she said, had no reason to lie in this case. Mr. Pritchett had every reason to lie. Since the case came down to credibility, who would the judge believe? I couldn't quite believe she put it in those terms, as that seemed to me to be an admission that she had no actual evidence. Also, "who are you going to believe?" is a phrase that we in this culture are constantly taught to associate with liars. Think about how many times you've seen someone say that on TV or in a movie--how many times was that character telling the truth? Not often.
Then she sprung her cunning trap--right on her own nose.
"And if you don't believe all that, Your Honor," she told the judge, "believe the defendant. His own words convict him. You heard him admit under oath that the gun was loaded--he said it himself. '
The bullets were in the magazine.' The magazine was full of bullets. The gun was loaded. The people ask that you sentence the defendant fairly."
This caused a minor stir in the audience chamber, as you can imagine. I don't have to tell THR that a loaded magazine is not a loaded gun. And in Illinois, there is case law (
Bruner and
McDade for instance) which states unequivocally that Illinois law will not treat the two as the same. This leaves two possibilities:
1. She had not even read the statute or applicable case law or, having read it, was still too ignorant of firearms to realize that magazines and guns are not the same things.
2. She knew all that, and was hoping that the judge would not! This would mean that she was deliberately lying to the judge and everyone else. I guess I shouldn't be shocked--I've told enough lying lawyer jokes in my time--but somehow I still find this possibility infuriating. Lying to put a man in jail? When the fact that she resorted to the lie would prove that she must know that he was actually innocent according to the law? Not nice.
The more I think about it, the more I think she had to be lying deliberately. For one thing, I just can't really believe that she didn't at least read
McDade or
Bruner while preparing for this case. Even a cursory skimming would have told her that her argument was bogus. For another, the more I think about it, the more suspicious I find it that she felt she had to wrap up immediately after asking that question and not mention it again until her closing, at which point I assume Mr. Maksym is not allowed to correct her (because I
know Walter knew enough to shoot that one down.)
Anyway, feel free to discuss that one amongst yourselves.
In the end, the judge didn't even have to leave to deliberate. We were all sitting back looking pretty low, convinced Roderick was about to be convicted. Judge Linn started in with a lecture to Roderick about how he ought to be careful who he took well-meaning advice from, as there seemed to be lots of people in the courtroom who had given him well-meaning but very misguided and foolish advice about when and where to have a gun.*
But then, his tone changed. "However, without more evidence to support the state's case, I have to say I don't think they've met the burden of proof for a criminal conviction, and in view of that, I have to give you the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Pritchett, you're dismissed."
We could hardly believe it. We looked at each other with open mouths. It was a little gross. Then we all clapped, and . . . . "WHAT ARE THOSE PEOPLE DOING? That's it! All of you are in contempt of court! Escort those people from this building! I'm not going to have protests and demonstrations in my court! I'll . . . . ." that's all I recall, and we all headed out about the time that the main theme became clear, that theme being "Get the Hell out of here!"
Most filed out and just kept going. Four of us waited for the Deputies to come escort us out. I wanted to shake Roderick's hand, and besides, I thought it would be funny for the deputies to come up and find four people who would cheerfully follow them wherever. I'd heard the bailiff call for an escort for 30 "demonstrators." Roderick was there in the hallway, but there was no question of approaching him just then. He was ferociously hugging his mother and kissing his girlfriend while his son danced around his legs. It was truly overwhelming to watch. Soon enough, though, the Deputies arrived--eight of them--and it was time to leave. Disappointingly enough, these guys had apparently seen it all. Being tasked to throw four excessively polite, well-dressed people out of the courthouse didn't even merit a smile. Oh, well. We were a merry band, nonetheless, and when we got outside, the rest of the rabble rousers were waiting on the steps. We laughed and had great fun until Roderick came down, then broke again into spontaneous applause. We hung out, chattering at each other, congratulating Roderick, and talking to Eric Zorn of the
Tribune. Not long after that, Mr. Maksym came out to another round of applause. It turned out he'd been delayed because he was getting the chit for the return of the bond Mrs. Pritchett had posted for her son. It was another beautiful moment. Mr. Maksym leaned down to look Roderick's boy in the eye and told the kid "Hey, you've got a whole new life now, buddy!"
The rest of the group eventually dispersed to a bar somewhere in the suburbs. I say "somewhere" because I never found it. The old Chicago hands told me to go north on Cali until I reached the Eisenhower Expressway, then take it until it split. I was then to to take the split marked for Roosevelt Road and exit at Highway 83, at which point I would see the bar.
I never did see it. I did find out that if you follow California Avenue north, you discover that there are worse neighborhoods than the one in which the courthouse is located. People sell crack right in front of you. Garbage is everywhere. Every male has a brown paper bag in his right hand. People jump in front of your car and stare at you. Eventually, you come to a dead end that's nothing but a wall.
Foolishly, I backtracked and continued to look for the route rather than going back to I-55 and getting out of Dodge. That was dumb. I'd never seen a gas station where the entire store was sealed behind bulletproof Lexan--literally, the customer had access only to a four-foot wide bulletproof corridor and a steel drawer. I bought a Dr. Pepper and got the hell out when a guy came in who twigged my meter straight to orange. When I left, he was shouting that the clerk had sold him stale cigars that morning and telling the clerk what he would do if the next box were stale, too. The clark didn't seem too concerned, but I guess if I were inside a bulletproof box with a year's supply of junk food I'd be pretty cocksure, too. Since I wasn't, I exited with a quickness. Driving in that place was a revelation. Chicago has several mob killings per year when people accidentally hit someone in a poor neighborhood and are dragged from their vehicles and beaten to death by the outraged neighbors, and I wouldn't want to hit someone anyway. But people in that city seem determined to get run over! They darted out in front of the car, they rode bicycles slowly in and out of 30 mph traffic so people had to slam on brakes--and every time I stopped to let someone cross the street, someone was on the horn behind me, as if all they had to do was honk loudly enough and I'd just shrug and run down the three pedestrians right in front of my hood.
I eventually found every landmark and road I was supposed to find, but the bar was nowhere to be seen. I finally gave up, picked up a couple of Portillo's hot dogs with everything for my Chicagoite wife, and got out.
In short, the whole thing was insane. Chicago is a chaotic, garbage-strewn, violent third-world nation plopped down on the edge of a fairly nice state, and if I never go back, that's OK by me. The Cook County Courthouse literally feels evil and frightening--I can't even explain it. Everyone in the group got the same feeling from it. Leaving it was truly a relief. In the end, we won, but we didn't dominate. We're working on it, though, and it was another important step. And there's one great thing about this case that no one, not even John Birch, has yet mentioned in my presence: unlike the Vana Haggerty and John Horstman cases, this one creates precedent in Cook County! Anything that strikes back at Cook County, however feebly, is progress. Cook County is our Mordor. . . the source of 99% of our problems, and yet the strategy for decades has been to ignore Chicago because it seems so hopeless to fight there. That, however, is exactly why we've GOT to take the fight to Chicago. IMHO, that's John Birch's greatest contribution. He understands and attacks Chicago almost to the exclusion of the rest of the state.
I did give Roderick a THR business card in case he felt like posting here, but I don't believe he has taken advantage of it yet. Maybe one day he'll tell the story himself.
* Just for the record, NO ONE in that courtroom, aside from Roderick's mother and girlfriend, had met Roderick or communicated with him before his arrest. He found John and Concealed Carry, Inc. by searching the internet after his public defender advised him to plead guilty to a felony he didn't commit.
