Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) Read online

  DIRECTED VERDICT

  The perfectly legal and seldom used,

  get-out-of-jail free pass.

  Rick Santini

  DIRECTED VERDICT

  Copyright © 2016 by Rick Santini.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: April 2016

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-606-0

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-606-8

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Jerome Prince, the late, respected and beloved Dean of Brooklyn Law School; who taught me Rules of Evidence. To my many former mentors and colleagues who showed me how to break or at least bend those very same rules. And to Marty, the best thing that ever happened to me and made me realize there are some rules you never break.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Definition. A Directed Verdict is an always requested, seldom granted, motion by defense counsel that allows a trial judge the right to override the decision of a jury if he feels the weight of evidence does not support the jury’s verdict. It is a legal fiction. It allows the court to play judge, juror, and open-gate keeper. It gives the judge the legal and unchallenged right to play God.

  It is also an absolute abomination. Yet it is done often…far, far too often.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  EPILOGUE

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  PROLOGUE

  “Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”

  The foreman of the jury, a tall, thin, gangly black man, rose to his full height of six foot four, stared solemnly at the old-time jurist and proudly replied, “We have, Your Honor.”

  “How say you?” inquired Walter A. Kolkolski, who had asked this very question at least three hundred times before. He rested his liver-spotted hands on his weak chin and waited for the reply. He already knew the answer. Or at least he thought he did. Walter Kolkolski had been on the bench, Superior Court for the Great State of New Jersey, for more years than he cared to remember. There was a time, oh so long ago, when he would have relished the power and prestige of the position.

  Those days ended when the job became just a job. The black robes hid his disgust for the legal system along with his well-worn and wrinkled navy blue suit that was in desperate need of a good dry cleaning, or more accurately, a reprieve to Goodwill. His enthusiasm for justice had been lost in the hundreds of criminal cases he had tried. What kept him going back for more was the pension. Money. Money they owed him for his long years of what he considered enforced servitude. New Jersey was known for richly rewarding those who spent a lifetime navigating miles of red tape, petty politics, and absolute bullshit.

  All for the almighty buck.

  Wally, as his old-time friends affectionately called him, glanced over at the defense table where the now frightened and shaking defendant and his all too slick lawyer stood, facing the panel of jurors. Anthony Pauli Ricardo, the junior college liberal arts student, knew damn well he was guilty. In spite of what his lawyer insisted time and time again during the course of the trial and at summation, he knew.

  “It was consensual, it was consensual, it was consensual. It was not rape.”

  The jury had heard that simple defense from Day One.

  “On the sole count of the indictment, rape in the first degree…guilty, Your Honor.”

  Anthony’s face quickly showed the anguish of knowing his life, as he had known it for the past nineteen and a half years, was now over. He would not get his associate degree from Newark Community College; he would not apply to Rutgers for his bachelor’s, never go to law school, and would never be the lawyer he promised his father he would become. His dreams were crushed because he could not take his eyes and his hands off the big busted bimbo sitting next to the now beaming ADA.

  For maybe the first time in the entire trial, Judge Kolkolski was wide wake. He wondered if the jurors had listened to the same case he had. With the usual bored and noncommittal look on his face he turned to defense counsel.

  “Any motions, Mr. Sugarman?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, we move for a directed verdict.”

  “I will take it under consideration.”

  The judge looked down at his calendar. He had already made up his mind but needed the sentencing report to confirm his thoughts.

  “Sentencing on Monday, October third.”

  Judge Kolkolski turned and thanked the jury for their effort, banged his gavel, and as the bailiff intoned, “All rise,” the judge left the courtroom and headed for his private chambers.

  He desperately needed a cup of black coffee and a cigarette.

  Idiots. God damn idiots.

  ***

  Anthony did nothing but replay the incident in his mind for the next three weeks, as if he had not thought of it every waking minute since he had been arrested. He would never, never forget the look of humiliation on the face of his saintly old mother.

  It was now Monday, October third. Sentencing day. Tony had not slept all night. How could he? He was up at six thirty and had shit, showered, and shaved by the time he heard his mother in the kitchen making breakfast. She too had risen early and spent time trying to look presentable. She was making Anthony’s favorite breakfast, one he would never be served in jail.

  Frittata.

  The potatoes, onions, green and red pepper, and celery had been sliced and diced. The hot Italian sausage was frying in a separate pan on the ten-year-old gas burner stove. All Carmela needed to do was mix in the egg batter and be careful i
t wouldn’t burn. She kept the flame on medium low. Her mind was on other things this morning, but she had made frittata since she was eleven at her mother’s side in the old country. It was now second nature.

  “Morning, Mama.”

  “Good morning, Anthony. You look very handsome today. Pour yourself some fresh coffee and be sure not to spill any on your shirt. I washed and pressed it yesterday so you would look like a gentleman.”

  Carmela did not have to add why.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  ***

  “All rise, the Honorable Superior Court Judge Walter Kolkolski now presiding.”

  “Be seated.”

  Walter had two cups of coffee and had just put out his third cigarette of the day. It was only ten a.m. He tried his damnedest to look concerned and judicial. It wasn’t easy.

  After the bailiff called the case and Angie the court reporter signaled she was ready, the defendant and his attorney stood to face the court. The room was dead quiet. The jury, including Bill Johnson the foreman, leaned forward to hear how many years the rapist would get. The inside betting was three to five. Maybe as much as seven. And he would be forever registered as a sex offender. That was the important thing. Wherever he lived, no matter how many times he moved, the neighbors would know.

  Anthony Pauli Ricardo was a convicted rapist.

  “Mr. Ricardo, I have listened carefully to all the witnesses. I have watched your demeanor and remorse for the past four and a half days. I have also observed the whispers and denials made between the complainant and the assistant district attorney. I do not know what the jury was hearing or thinking, but I simply cannot find her testimony to be credible. She purposely went back to your room that night looking for sex, and she found it. When you did not lavish her with compliments and praise, and refused to drive her back to her car, she cried rape.”

  Bill Johnson, the jury foreman, was almost out of his chair. Rage and disbelief were splashed across his entire face.

  “I am granting Mr. Sugarman’s motion for a directed verdict. I find the defendant not guilty. Mr. Ricardo, you are a free man, and I apologize for the overzealous behavior of the district attorney. Court adjourned.”

  With that, the gavel banged down. Judge Kolkolski assumed that was the end of the case.

  Far from it—very far from it.

  “You can’t do that, Judge. You simply can’t do that. We heard the evidence. We believed the complainant, Ms. Cummings. We rendered our verdict, and you just can’t let that rapist bastard go scot-free.”

  Kolkolski turned and stared hard at the foreman of the jury.

  “You’re damn lucky I banged the gavel signaling the court was no longer in session, or I would now be holding you in contempt of court. You did your job; I did mine. Good day to you, sir.”

  Walter needed another cigarette, and he needed it now.

  The courtroom was in a state of panic.

  Anthony was hugging his lawyer. There were tears streaming down his cheeks.

  His mother Carmela was trying to get to the other side of the docket to hug her now innocent son.

  Bob Sugarman may have been the only one in the courtroom who was not surprised. He had known Judge Kolkolski for years. He had tried dozens of cases before him over the last ten, twelve years. They both belonged to the Essex County Republican Club, and Walter was one of the good old boys. Besides, many years ago, Wally’s oldest son Stanley was convicted of rape. He had been shanked in prison and swore to his dying day the sex had been consensual.

  By all rights, Judge Kolkolski should have recused himself, but no one except Sugarman knew about it. It was Wally’s way of getting back at the very system he swore to uphold.

  Victoria Cummings was in a state of shock. She looked at the assistant district attorney for some type of explanation. She had been raped, she had repeatedly said no. The jury believed her, and now that pompous old prick on the bench told the world he believed she was lying and let her rapist go. This would not be the end of the matter; in fact, it was just the beginning.

  “He won’t get away with this. He will rue the day he allowed this travesty to happen.”

  Jury foreman Bill Johnson was speaking to no one in particular but all the jurors and the court clerk heard him. The clerk later repeated the comment to the judge, word for word.

  No one could ever imagine how the motion for a directed verdict would affect the lives of five very distinct and determined individuals. Those lives would never be the same again.

  CHAPTER 1

  PART ONE

  TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

  William Lincoln Johnson was proud of who he was and what he had accomplished. He was an African American. At six foot four and a solid one ninety-five, he could have played small forward at the semi-pro level. Some said he was good enough for the pros. Although he ran five miles before work every morning, he had no intention of ending up as just another frustrated jock. Good health was the key to a good life, and running was always good health.

  Bill had been in the executive trainee program with IBM for the past five months and knew that was where his future lay. He had the brains, ambition, and personality to make it in the corporate world.

  I’m happy in what I do. That’s important.

  Being selected to be on a jury was a childhood dream. It was the American way. Being named as its foreman, a major vote of confidence, was the icing on the cake. Bill knew he had to be alert every second and not be swayed by the others on the panel. He watched, he listened, and he mostly observed body language.

  Involuntary eye and body movements cannot be faked.

  There was no question in his mind the girl was telling the truth and the defendant was guilty as hell. Why, Anthony couldn’t even look her in the eyes. He was constantly twitching and fidgeting. There was even a smell, a body odor the defendant emitted, that Bill could pick up when Anthony crossed in front of him to counsel table. He actually reeked of remorse and guilt.

  Of all the things he was grateful for, being an American citizen was what he was proudest of.

  I would bet my life that man is guilty.

  He was not the only one who came to that conclusion. When the jury finally got the case, Bill suggested a straw vote just to see where everyone stood. He opened and read aloud the results handwritten on small pieces of paper. Twelve for conviction, zero against. That was as clear cut as it could get. Foreman Johnson was not interested in any rush to judgment. He insisted each and every juror let the rest of the panel know why they felt that way.

  Nothing changed. He was lying, she was not. The only thing that puzzled Bill and the rest of the jurors was the cavalier attitude of the judge. He had a difficult time concentrating, keeping his eyes open and his hand from twitching. It was as if the judge were merely going through the motions—which, of course, he was. This bothered Bill, but it was his first trial. He assumed the judge had heard it all before. Bill was one hundred percent correct in his assumptions.

  “Guilty, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Ricardo, I have listened carefully to all witnesses. I have watched your demeanor and remorse for the past four and a half days. I have also observed the whispering between the complainant and the assistant district attorney. I do not know what the jury was hearing or thinking, but I simply cannot find her testimony to be credible.”

  Bill Johnson had not believed his ears. The judge had to be joking—or someone was rigging the system.

  “You can’t do that, Judge. You simply can’t do that. We heard the evidence. We believed the complainant, Ms. Cummings. We rendered our verdict, and you can’t just let that rapist bastard go scot-free.”

  For a moment, he had forgotten who he was talking to. He was enraged. He was furious. This was not fair; this was not just; this was not how he was brought up; this was not the American way.

  “He won’t get away with this. He will rue the day he allowed this travesty to happen.”

  Bill didn’t care who had heard it. He wasn’t sur
e what to do or how to do it. He would file a complaint with the Chief Judge. He would write an article in the Letters to the Editor of the Star–Ledger. He would hire an attorney to see what other avenues were open to him. There was no way in hell that judge should be allowed on the bench ever again.

  This is not Russia. This is the United States of America. This simply cannot be allowed to happen.

  Bill was livid.

  ***

  Victoria Sasha Cummings detested the fact that she had a big chest. To many, it defined who she was. To her, she was a freak of nature. In her sophomore year of high school, she was called Little Ms. Big Boobs behind her back.

  Vicky was only five foot one, no more than one hundred five pounds, long chestnut hair, big brown eyes and huge breasts. She was so top heavy, a good wind could have knocked her over. No one could take their eyes off her chest. The boys loved it; the girls hated it. She took to wearing oversized sweat shirts, men’s dress shirts not tucked in, or anything to hide them, usually to no avail. She was mortified during gym class when she had to wear a standard size t-shirt.

  I hate all those crude remarks. Don’t they know I have feelings and can’t do anything about my breasts?

  If there was ever a daddy’s little girl, Vicky was it. Her father was some kind of big shot official for the Teamsters Union in Utica, New York. The town had quite a reputation for making their own rules and breaking all others. Not one high school boy was willing to date her. It wasn’t worth a quick feel to have both their kneecaps cracked. As to even thinking of having sex with her, one would sooner move to Siberia or commit suicide rather than subject himself to what Alexey Cummings would do to them.

  It was reported before Alexey moved to New York State he had lived in Leningrad and carried the last name Kummovitch. Cummings was far more American.