Chapter Twenty
BEN HAD ONLY heard rumors about the only Student Government official to be put on actual trial for his behavior during campaign season. This official was responsible for displaying false and misleading documents across campaign about the opposition’s presidential candidate.
The threat of a trial had sped up his timetable for becoming Student Body President, and may have in fact contributed to the struggle for change that happened while Ben was involved in campus politics.
Fortunately for Ben, that trial of the century occurred before his time, and allowed him to witness a much more conciliatory campaign style. This, of course, allowed the Establishment to reunite, but also extended the life cycle of everyone’s careers, forcing them into Law School, graduate school and even multiple degrees in order to get what they really wanted – a feeling of power and importance.
But some politicians-in-training were a bit impatient for that. Their drive for political power sent them off doing things they never thought possible, and left bitter proverbial after-tastes in the mouths of their older, now former friends….
GAINESVILLE’S NEWLY RENOVATED Court House was nothing like how Mike remembered it. In the intervening years since his college days, the Court House had been greatly enlarged, with many more meeting rooms and computer workstations. As a “victim” in the legal sense, Mike was asked to sit in a “green room” of sorts away from the main theater. Fortunately for him, a closed-circuit video feed provided him with the next best thing to being there.
The courtroom, where the trial was being held, was filled with pine-colored wood, befitting the Florida setting. Otherwise, it appeared just as any courtroom did. The audience, minimal for this particular trial, was relegated to the back of the room. The jury sat off to one side – the side closest to the witness stand. The prosecution and defense sat at tables just in front of the audience, and the judge sat, mirror-like, across from them.
Mike was too nervous to watch. Even so, the trial became background noise that was all too loud to ignore. It was just too important to ignore. His sense of justice compelled him to pay attention to that background noise.
“ALL RISE!” the bailiff instructed. “Judge Winston Hornesberry III, presiding.”
An imposing figure emerged from his office behind the courtroom. The judge clearly let himself “go” in all those hours sitting on the job, but it was his height – easily over 6 feet tall – that made his physical presence so intimidating for defendants and lawyers alike. Added to that, his demeanor suggested a no-nonsense sort of individual. Perhaps this is because Winston, at nearly 50 years old, is still a bachelor. Or, rather, the cause and effect is reversed. Either way, both lawyers knew they could not play their usual tricks with this judge, which made the defense team clearly nervous.
After sitting down in his big chair, he cleared his throat right into his microphone. He then spoke slowly, in a southern drawl. It only compounded his image, which is the way Winston preferred it.
“In this matter, the United States versus George Avelli, how does the defense plead?”
THE LAWYERS ARGUING the case could not be more different. In style, in substance, and in appearance, the choices were pretty stark. The artist painting pictures of the trial had a field day during opening arguments.
The prosecutor was one of the best district attorneys available. Third in his class at the University’s Law School, he looked the part of a sleek urban lawyer – except he’s on the government payroll, not a corporate retainer. Still, Robert F. Graham wore clearly from the Armani line, and was proud of it. His hair was greased up and styled for show. His silver Rolex hung nicely off his left wrist. His silk tie was similarly elegant. He spoke articulately and intelligently, and pulled no punches in his argumentation.
On the other hand, Larry Jenkins was the embodiment of a scuffed country lawyer. Complete with a bow tie, cheaply made striped blazer, and a pocket watch, Larry let his nervousness interfere with his gestures. To make matters worse, his southern “twang” made it difficult for some of the more urban jury members to understand what he was saying. That being said, he was clearly intelligent and did have a few tricks up his sleeve; it’s just that they’d come as a shock when he used them.
Most people in the room were glad when the opening arguments were finished. It meant a lunch break, which was then followed by presenting evidence and not rhetoric. The lawyers themselves were happy because it meant they could rest their overworked jaws.
“JUDGE HORNESBERRY, THE prosecution calls Michael Adams as its first witness,” Robert said confidently, even though he could predict the pandemonium that would ensue with that announcement.
The judge quickly saw it too, and before the crowd could pop the noise level up a notch, he banged his gavel twice. “Order, order in the court!” he demanded and swiftly received. “Bailiff, bring in the witness.”
Without any help, both large doors leading to the hallway outside swung up, revealing the witness. Mike cautiously made his way through the middle of the crowd. His entrance still caused a stir, but the judge’s preemptive order kept much of the raucous to a series of whispers.
After being sworn in to testify before the court, Mike settled into the witness stand, and watched as the prosecutor perused its notes for a few seconds. Finally, Robert glanced up at Mike and approached him.
“For the record, what is your name and occupation?”
“Michael Adams. I am currently president of Adams Consultants, which is based in D.C. I am also producer and consultant for the Paramount Pictures film production of “A True Gator Party,” based on the book I wrote with the same name.”
“What is your relationship with the defendant?”
“George and I were close friends during my senior year at the University of Florida. We have rarely spoken since.”
“Why is that?”
“I guess it’d be the same excuse any two former college friends have. We lost touch after I graduated and moved most of my things up to D.C. for Law School.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“Well, once I gave up my extracurricular activities, there was little George and I had in common. I chose to keep in touch with those friends that I had things in common with.”
“What did you and the defendant have in common?”
“We were both members of the Student Government at UF. We shared a lot of the same goals, and worked together on an election campaign. We were part of a small band of dissidents within the SG establishment.”
“And you said you lost that commonality with him?”
“Well, once I left UF I swore off campus politics. I was going to Law School up in D.C., where I could participate in the real thing. I no longer had an appetite for the amateur sport that is Student Government.”
“Jumping ahead a bit,” Robert said as Mike took a tiny sip of ice water. “You wrote this book called “A True Gator Party,” Robert noted. He reached back onto his table and held up a paperback copy of the novel. “Your honor, I note that this is Prosecution’s Exhibit A.”
“So noted,” the judge said with a huff.
“What’s this book about, Mr. Adams?” Robert asked.
“It’s something of a parody.”
“A parody of what?”
“Student Government politics.”
“What made you choose that topic? After all, you began writing your book even before your single term in Congress.”
“Right. Well, I always found it fascinating that so many people were involved in an organization and took it quite seriously, despite its lack of genuine power and influence. And I decided I wanted to explore some of the humor I witnessed back at Florida. The best way to look at obsessive, humorous people was to make fiction out of my Student Government experience.”
“But not everyone enjoyed your satire.”
“Well, no. It was a bittersweet parody. Some people saw the worst in themselves in the characters I developed for this book. But
not too many people, because it sold very well.”
A small chuckle in the audience broke an otherwise orderly silence. The lawyer tried to ignore the commotion.
“Indeed. So well that you have a major studio turning it into a Hollywood movie right now. But production has had its problems, correct?” Robert asked as he took a moment to flip through his legal pad, which was chocked full of scribbled notes.
“Well, not too long after we began filming on location here in Gainesville, a few well-publicized incidents took place involving our principal actors.”
“Can you briefly describe each one, for the record?”
“Well, one actor fell sick with an allergic reaction to hazel nuts. Another slipped and fell down some stairs. And our lead was a victim of a hit-and-run. All 3 were playing the main characters of the film.”
“Yet that wasn’t all that happened during filming?”
“No. I began receiving by anonymous mail several disturbing messages that seemed to be predicting danger ahead.”
“Your honor, those messages have been recovered and placed into the record as Exhibit B,” Robert said professionally. He then leaned in closely to Mike. “If they predicted danger, why didn’t you contact anyone to warn them of what was about to happen?”
“In most cases, I was given literally minutes notice. It was very unfortunate; we even suspended filming after the third incident.”
“And that is when you flew off to Portland?”
“Yes. I had planned an event with my sister’s mayoral campaign, and felt that I could use the departure. But shortly thereafter, the incidents began following me. First, my sister’s garage. Then a friend’s car and apartment in D.C. It quickly became clear the person behind the production accidents was after me. The messages even grew personal –bitter in their angst against me.”
“How did you come to identify the defendant as the culprit in this incident?” Robert asked.
“Ya honor, I object to this line of questioning!” Larry said, bolting from his chair. “It’s misleading to have subjective opinion represented as fact.”
“Sustained,” Winston said. He tilted his large head to turn toward Robert. “Rephrase your question.”
“Fine,” Robert said with a shrug. “Mike, what makes you think the defendant is guilty?”
“Well, I originally suspected a reporter friend of mine, Ashley Woodard, because she seemed to be following me wherever I went. But it was too big of a coincidence, and I saw her at the reunion at the same time the FBI had tracked down the suspect in a linked case. That same night, I was given another message that noted that the suspect was an “independent” – which is the nickname my band of dissidents at UF called ourselves. And that fit George’s description, as I remembered him. My suspicions were confirmed when I found out his house had been blown up and he had shot and killed a police officer.”
“Thank you. No further questions, your honor.”
“It’s your witness, Mr. Jenkins,” the judge said.
“Now, Mr. Adams, ain’t it a bit odd that you are relying on a bunch of notes for your accusations against my client?”
“Some might think so.” Mike then turned to look at the jury. “But most criminology studies out there show that a premeditated serial attacker can leave unhelpful clues to try and prove how much he has out-smarted the police. And once I became convinced I had made a serious enemy with my book, it was only a matter of time before the pieces of the puzzle were put in place.”
“Come now, Mr. Adams! It’s easy to build a puzzle when you’re making the pieces from scratch! Do you really think my client is capable of doing what you are alleging?”
A sigh. “I never thought it was possible. He was a congenial, sensitive guy in college. It is definitely heartbreaking to me to see this change in him.”
Larry was clearly pleased. He just hooked himself a winning counter-argument, from the prosecution’s own witness! “Is it not possible that my client is only guilty of self-defense against hostile police, despite whatever grudge he held against you?”
“As a trained lawyer, sure, I’ll concede your point,” Mike said as a few gasps from the audience were uttered. “If – and this is a big if – George is innocent of the conspiracy to do me and my film harm, then sure, he’s only guilty of what happened at his green house.”
“No further questions, your honor.”
“Mr. Adams, you may step down. This court will recess for a short bathroom break. These proceedings will resume in fifteen minutes.” Winston banged the gavel twice in the middle of an otherwise silent courtroom.
MIKE SAT BACK on the sofa in the green room. It was the third day of the trial. Most of the second day was the prosecution questioning other witnesses. Adam Ruppesberger was the star witness for that day, much to Adam’s own chagrin. Yet, who could forget his comment about acting? “I know acting. This guy’s messages were not an act. He is pissed off at Mike. I just don’t know why,” he had said against pressure from the defense to suggest otherwise.
Today, however, was the heart of the prosecution’s non-technical, non-expert witness testimony. In exchange for a lighter sentence – conspiracy to commit murder, instead of the countless acts of property damage and the supposed killing of an FBI agent – Blake was going to testify today against her former boss.
Too bad I don’t have any popcorn, Mike said with a laugh. Either way, he was going to be listening intently to her testimony.
“FOR THE RECORD, what is your name and occupation?” Robert said from behind the prosecution’s desk.
“My name is Blake Watson, and I have been a freelance security and threat assessment consultant.”
“That is, until recently, right?” Robert began moving closer to the witness stand.
“That’s correct.”
“Can you explain why?”
“I was recently hired to conduct espionage and other activities for an individual who felt he could not do them himself.”
“Why is that?”
“He was worried he would be identified by his target and summarily arrested.”
“Who was your employer?”
“He called himself Walt. At least that was the name he asked me to call him during any contacts we had over cellular phones.”
“So it wasn’t his real name?” Robert asked while pretending to act surprised by this revelation.
“No. He had a fascination with a Walt Whitman quotation that seemed to fit his needs for this activity,” Blake said. She then shook her head. “I don’t remember what quote exactly, but I do remember it was a Whitman saying.”
“Your honor,” Robert said as he jogged back to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. “This is Exhibit H. We found it in the defendant’s green house the day after his arrest. It’s a normal sized paper, tan in color, with the following quotation printed in black across the center of the page: “The past – the dark unfathomed retrospect! The teeming gulf – the sleepers and the shadows! The past! The infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?”
“Ms. Watson, is this the quotation in question?”
“Yes! Yes, it is! He seemed obsessed with something about his past. He never explained what that was to me, but he explained it had something to do with Mike Adams. And my primary goal was to interfere with anything Mr. Adams was doing that involved that new movie of his.”
“Did you have to wear any kind of disguise?”
“Actually, all he wanted me to do was to wear some sunglasses and keep my hair kind of blonde. I could wear just about anything I wanted, as long as I looked inconspicuous.”
“Why blonde hair?”
“Quite simple. With it, I would look a lot like some of the reporters trying to chase down Mike for a quote on whatever was the breaking news of the moment.”
“Such as Ms. Ashley Woodard?”
“Exactly.”
Robert stepped back, giving Blake a chance to see the whole courtroo
m from her vantage point. “I only have one last question for you. Is your boss, Walt, in the court room today?”
“Yes.” She pointed at George Avelli. “That’s him!”
ROBERT GRAHAM TOOK an unprecedented step with his choice for his last witness. Having taken testimony from Mike Adams, Mike’s friends and colleagues, some actors involved in the film, and even George’s accomplice, there was only one more person left to call on to highlight the prosecution’s case against the defendant.
“Your honor, if it pleases the Court, the prosecution will now call on, as our last remaining witness, Mr. George Avelli himself!”
The resultant noise from the crowd could be described as chaotic surprise. Even pandemonium. Yet, even that would be an understatement.
“PLEASE STATE FOR the record your name and current occupation.”
“My name is George Avelli. I am a researcher with the University’s School of Natural Environment.”
“You mean that you tend to the greenhouse.”
“No,” he said with a shiver of fear in his facial expression. “I do a lot of odd jobs with the School. I help them conduct tests on a lot of their new equipment. I just use the greenhouse as the place for many of those tests.”
“You’ve been with the University quite a long time.”
“Yeah. Most of my time since college.”
“What else have you done prior to your current occupation?”
“I worked with the Dean of Students office, and I worked in the Division of Housing. But I spent most of my time within the NRE school,” George said earnestly.
“Would you say you are happy with the way your career turned out?” Robert was hoping to ease his witness into the line of fire.
“I did okay.”
“Just okay?”
“It could have been better. Others had it better.”
“Like Mike Adams?”
“Do you mean, am I jealous of him?”
“Are you?”
“Who shouldn’t be? The guy is arrogant and a poor public speaker who has managed to turn his boring-ass life story into a best-selling story – all while saying, basically, “go to h-e-double-hockey-sticks” to the rest of us.”
“Could you tell the Court how you saw your relationship with Mr. Adams, while both of you were in college?” Robert said, keeping his distance.
“He was the public voice behind the New Democracy Party. But I founded it, gave it all of its candidates. I was responsible for keeping the independent spirit alive. He just kept his ego growing.”
“But you guys were close at one point.”
“Sure, we were friends. We fought the same, lonely fight, when all Mike’s other friends deserted him. Only he deserted me when I needed his help the most.”
“Are you saying you felt hurt and angry when he graduated and moved on?”
“Well, not exactly. It finally put me as the leading, credible voice of those not in the Student Government system. I was powerful, more powerful than Mike ever thought he was.”
“But that’s not how your colleagues at UF described you. Your honor, Exhibit L. The campus paper described you as the “most overrated, self-centered SG official in history to be denied admittance into the leadership honorary known as The Circle.” Robert began inching back toward the witness stand. “Now tell me, did you like being called that?”
“No! Who does?” A welt of tears began forming.
Robert inched closer. “And that you were driven to bouts of anger and rage?”
“Of course!”
Ever closer now, Robert asked, “And you were willing to do anything to get the respect you felt you deserved?”
“All anyone wants is respect!”
Robert was now leaning on the rail just in front of the witness stand. “And the leadership honorary denied you that hard-earned respect.”
“Despite everything I did for them.”
“Why?” Robert asked softly, peering into George’s eyes.
“Because,” George growled, causing a jurist to gasp. “The bastard killed my chances!”
“Who did that to you?” Robert asked softly.
“He black-balled me!”
“Who?” Another whisper.
“MIKE!” George let out a blood-curdling scream.
“Mike.”
“YES!”
“Why?”
“The establishment hated him. They hated his annoying ability to use their own laws against them. They blockaded anyone tied to him from getting in to The Circle.”
“But why was this honorary so important to you?”
“Don’t you know? Once you’re in, you’re set for life. My career, my family, my friends. All would be taken care of, if I had access to that kind of network of people to call on for help. And he denied it for me! All because he didn’t know when to quit his idealism!” George’s growls were beginning to grate his teeth together.
“You were willing to do anything – anything – to get in?” Robert repeated his question.
“Yes,” George said as he curled into a ball in his seat, lowering his volume significantly as he did so.
“What happened after you were denied admission?”
Speaking softly again, George said, “I spent a year looking for jobs. Any decent job would do. No one would have me. Until I came back to the University as a receptionist for the Dean of Students.”
“But that wasn’t the end of it, was it?”
The room had seemingly shrunk in size. It was only the two of them now. Robert and George, having a conversation about life. And that made things easier for George. The entire room was watching in a hushed anticipation.
“No. I struggled to get every promotion I could, to make my life better. But I kept being passed over for someone who was recognized in college as someone important. I kept being denied the life I deserved just because of the leadership honorary.”
“Okay.”
“I finally got a job with the NRE School. That was about the time Mike’s book first came out – before he became famous.”
“And that anger came boiling over again?”
“I couldn’t stand it. The guy who had everything going for him since he left here was now making millions off the misery of others. He did nothing to help The Circle and yet he turned out as well as they did. Others who had the audacity to fight for what they believed in, or against those they didn’t trust. In his book, he made fun of them. He made fun of ME.”
With a gritted of his teeth and a fierce grab hold of the railing on the witness stand, George continued. “I couldn’t stand it any longer. I knew when he made that deal with Paramount, that it was just too much. My past had haunted me all my life. And now someone else was becoming successful off it. He had to be stopped. He could not be allowed to life off my misery any longer. It just wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. I could just see his smug face as he told his amusing anecdotes. The ungrateful tone in his voice.”
“And that’s when you decided to see him dead. You hired Blake to do your bidding. And you sought to avenge your past.”
“YES! Are you happy now! YES!!!” he said with a low growl. “What more could anyone else expect from me? It wasn’t enough he went off to Georgetown when I needed him; he then used me and every memory he had of me and his friends. He was not the guy I knew in college. He needed to pay for the corruption he now favored. And only then, would he pay for the sins he committed here.”
Speaking quite calmly, but certainly quietly and cautiously as well, Robert spoke in a new direction. “Your honor, I have no further use for this witness.”
George wiped away some of his tears, but couldn’t fight the new ones coming, for he finally remembered where he was, and discovered the implications of what he had just done. In a bout of anger, he had confessed to everything. The slick urban lawyer was clearly proud with himself, but others weren’t so happy. Robert had broken the poor guy. And the silence that hung in the atmosphere of the room was not going to break
for anyone, or anything.
But it didn’t change the facts of this case. And that was certainly not a good thing for the country lawyer. In what had to be record time, the jury returned a verdict later that day.
George Avelli was guilty as charged, on all accounts.