THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 5, 1995 TAG: 9502030191
SECTION: CHESAPEAKE CLIPPER PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Random Rambles
SOURCE: Tony Stein
LENGTH: Medium: 88 lines
I hate to boast about it, but in August of 1951 I may have been the dumbest court reporter in the entire state of Virginia. What I knew about courtroom trials you could have stuffed in a flea's fanny pack with room left over.
But I was so dumb I didn't know I was the dumbest. Hey, I had seen lots of trials on TV. I knew the guilty person would break down on the witness stand and confess with enough tears to float Noah's Ark. Or the surprise witness would burst into court and prove that the beautiful woman didn't kill the evil executive because she was working her job as an Avon Lady at the time of the murder.
I knew that even without a confession or a surprise witness, the defense attorney would make such an impassioned speech that the jury would not only acquit his client but would slash the tires on the prosecutor's car. TV convinced me.
The first time I covered a trial, I found out that real life and TV trials are as far apart as Newt Gingrich and Ted Kennedy. I say that as advice and warning to those of you who plan to spend the next semi-eternity watching California vs. O.J. Simpson.
Yes, there will be moments of high drama. But there will also be stretches duller than six hours of crop reports from southern Siberia. On TV, they must wrap up the drama before the final commercial. In real life, they might go on until Chelsea Clinton is a grandma.
I do not envy Lance Ito, the Simpson case judge. He's in that cage with a pack of snarling big cats, just dying for a chance to slash each other. For that matter, I don't envy any judge. They are refereeing human lives. In their place, I might second-guess myself until I stuck my hand in my coat and went off to fight the Battle of Waterloo.
I was lucky enough to spend most of my reporting time in Norfolk's federal court. Lucky, because the judges were a great group, articulate and witty along with the necessary legal smarts.
One of my favorite moments happened in 1974 when I got a new set of hearing aids. I was having trouble adjusting them in the courtroom, and there was an occasional feedback whistle. At recess, one of the marshals said the judge - John MacKenzie - wanted to know if I had a recorder. They weren't allowed.
I told him the squeals were my hearing aids. During a recess the next day, Judge MacKenzie called to me. ``By the way, Tony,'' he said. ``If you gotta squeal, go ahead. Squeal.''
Another time, Judge Walter E. Hoffman was on the bench. There was no jury, so I sat in the jury box along with the late Jim Henderson, a superb reporter and a wonderful man. I was covering for The Ledger-Star, Jim for The Virginian-Pilot.
The trial had hit one of those dreary stretches I told you about. Jim and
I were lolling in our chairs, and he leaned back. All of a sudden, his chair went over backward. Jim's legs were waving in the air, and I was doing a clumsy job of trying to pull him off the floor.
Judge Hoffman held up his hand. ``Off the record,'' he told the court stenographer. Then, in a tone that was an equal mix of anxiety and amusement, he bellowed, ``Save Mr. Henderson!''
But two of my all-time favorite courtroom tales I heard from other reporters. One was the time a witness told a state court judge in Norfolk ``Your honor, if I'm not telling the truth, may lightning strike me.'' The judge thought about that a minute and said, ``Would the witness kindly move his chair a little farther from the bench?''
And years ago, The Ledger-Star had a court reporter who wore a hearing aid with an amplifier that fit in the pocket of her blouse. The judge was wondering how the jury was doing and asked her to put the amplifier against the door of the jury room.
She told him what she heard: ``One of the jurors just said, `I wonder when the old coot is going to let us go to lunch.' ''
That's funny, but jury duty isn't funny. It's one of the ultimate responsibilities of a democracy. More than 40 years ago, I got an impressive lesson in how 12 ordinary people sitting in judgment can rise to a kind of nobility.
The man on trial for murder had already been convicted of one brutal killing. He gave off waves of snarling viciousness.
Even with a bailiff standing guard over him, he made you edgy. And the jury, mostly salt-of-the-earth farmers, surely wanted to convict him.
But they didn't. Their collective wisdom and integrity told them there just wasn't enough evidence to convict. However reluctantly, they found him not guilty.
I've got my private opinion about the Simpson case and about the way the legal system can sink into a swamp of bickering and maneuvering by hot-shot lawyers. But in my years as a reporter I've also seen the system pretty much work as it's supposed to. I hope it does in that circus ring of a California courtroom. by CNB