John Wayne Gacy (25 page)

Shouldn’t we do the same thing when it comes to those persons that repel, disgust, and scare us—all in an effort to
avoid
having more like them? Every generation has its famous greats and its infamous worst. Shouldn’t we study them both? While we are all learning about what
to
do, shouldn’t we spend a little time learning about what
not
to do?

Who the hell knows? Not me. I never smoked pot in college.

20

T
HE ONLY THING
a good lawyer is concerned about at a time like this is that which is in the best interest of the client. That’s it. That’s the job. We are not social workers or psychologists, policemen or vigilantes. Sometimes we employ such people if it is in our client’s interests, but our job is not to moralize or to judge. That is for others to do.

When a profusely bleeding patient is brought to the emergency room of a hospital, it really doesn’t matter if that patient is the president of the United States or the crazed assassin that just shot the president of the United States. They get the exact same care. A surgeon’s calling is to preserve life, to do no harm, irrespective of the patient’s station in life, the patient’s criminal record, the mistakes that the patient may or may not have made in life prior to his or her arrival in the ER. That is the oath. That is the job. A good doctor lives by that oath and performs that job.

Sometimes, it seems to me, that it is hard for certain people to grasp this concept. That is why my dad’s car needed a new paint job and my wife had to pick up the telephone in the middle of the night and listen to some anonymous cretin spit vile, profanity-laced threats into her ear. These people are controlled by their emotions, not their brains; and believe it or not, I would fight to the
death to defend their right to be so controlled and to maintain their skewed, uninformed opinions. That is my job. However, I would rather they didn’t profess those opinions over the phone at 2:00 a.m. and involve my wife and my kids, but that’s America. You have an inalienable right to be a nut, even an asshole.

Generally, people can be divided into two types: (1) those that would rather see ten guilty people go free to ensure that not one innocent person is ever wrongfully convicted and (2) those that would rather see ten innocent people convicted to ensure that not one guilty person ever goes free. It’s really that simple, and both views have validity.

Defense lawyers, by and large, subscribe to the opinion of the first of these two groups. Prosecutors often subscribe to the opinion of the second group. In order for our system to work properly, society needs both. One thing that I have found to be true, however—and you can take this little nugget of wisdom to the bank—is that no one who has ever been wrongfully accused of a crime, or accused of a crime at all for that matter, subscribes to the opinion of the second group, no matter what they thought before they were accused, wrongfully or not. In other words, the day that you get your first DUI, you tend to join the ranks of group one. It is very easy to speak abstractly in a bar or at a cocktail party about how tough one thinks the laws should be, but perhaps one should wait until they have actually been wrongfully accused to fully formulate that opinion.

__________________

T
HERE WAS A
lot to do before December 29, 1978, Gacy’s next court date. I had to file endless motions and challenges if I were to do my job properly. At this stage of the case, the work never stops. I was beginning to feel the weight of the sheer magnitude of the undertaking, together with the steady drumbeat of hatred that was being spewed by the many people—a minority actually, but a minority
among millions can still be quite a large number—that could not wrap their heads around the concept that in this country everybody and no matter what they are charged with, no matter how heinous the crime, is entitled as a matter of law, and a matter of right, to a vigorous and proper defense. It’s required by our Constitution, by our democracy.

I got wind of a planned interview that the medical examiner of Cook County, Dr. Robert J. Stein, was going to give, which was scheduled to air on WMAQ radio, the NBC affiliate. Dr. Stein was prepared to discuss whether or not a person that murders numerous people could be sane, to give his expert opinion on the subject. I had to try to stop that from happening, if I could. There was a great potential for poisoning the jury pool.

I was in my office when I received something unusual—a telegram. Gotta say, it’s not every day that I receive a telegram. Think about it, have you ever received a telegram? Probably not, unless you’re over eighty years old. So I’m interested. Maybe it’s a very creative death threat, who knows? As it turns out, that telegram happened to be a godsend.

The telegram was from an old friend—Bob Motta.

Robert M. Motta and I had worked together at the public defender’s office; plus, I had worked with Bob’s mother years earlier at Resurrection Hospital, so I knew the family. He was an honorable man and a good lawyer.

I had received previous calls and votes of confidence from lots of other lawyers I knew, some offering their help; but Bob was the only one who thought to send a telegram to express this. What a great idea, right?

All I could think about every night when my head hit the pillow were the four assistants that had been assigned to this case by our esteemed state’s attorney, Bernard Carey. I thought about the limitless amount of money that would be spent to prosecute such a high-profile case. Then there was the small matter of the endless investigatory resources available to the State of Illinois, every police officer on every police force in every corner of the state would love to have a crack at helping convict the most prolific serial killer of all time.

I was just one guy.

So I decided to call Bob. Maybe he would really like to get involved in the case. I could certainly use the help. Plus, maybe he could help fend off some of the nice people who had promised to hang me from the highest oak tree in Cook County by my genitals and gouge my eyes out with hot pokers. If you think that sounds scary, you should have heard what they were promising to do to my kids, to my wife.

I didn’t actually pay much attention to the death threats, as disconcerting as they were; they were being made by misguided cowards with a snoot full of liquid courage who didn’t have anything better to do with their time. But I was concerned about the ever-increasing magnitude of work that was beginning to pile up. Someone had to do something about this planned broadcast by Dr. Stein, and it really didn’t look like I was going to have the time.

“Hi, Bob, how are you doing?”

“Fine. Who is this?” I don’t think Bob was expecting my call.

“It’s Sam. Sam Amirante.”

“Hi, Sam. Jesus, how are ya?” Motta was pacing now, thinking about a conversation he had had with his young son about this very phone call. It was his son that had said, “Why don’t you call him up, Dad?” It was that conversation with his son that had led to the telegram idea.

“Fine … tired,” I said.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are. Christ, this case is unbelievable. How’s it going?” Motta could hear his own heart beating. He didn’t know what to expect, but he figured that I had called for a reason. I hadn’t called just to chat. He knew a request to help out on the case was probably coming.

“It’s going, you know. I got your telegram. Thanks.”

“Yeah … well, you’re welcome.”

“Do you know Dr. Stein, the medical examiner?” I think I sounded as tired as I felt.

“I know who he is, seen him on TV. Why? What about him?”

“Well, it seems that Dr. Stein is going to be interviewed on WMAQ radio, and he intends to give an opinion as to whether or not a person who commits these types of alleged crimes, kills this number of kids can be considered sane. This doctor will certainly be used by the State as one of their chief medical witnesses. I’d like to stop the broadcast. I don’t want him to poison the jury pool.”

“Well, I think you’re right. No question, you have to file a motion. But can you abridge the freedom of speech? Wouldn’t that constitute prior restraint?” Motta had crystallized the issue.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’d like to try. Hell, I have to try—which, by the way, is why I called, Bob. I was wondering … would you like to do it?”

Motta’s heart stopped. No matter how you slice it, this was a career decision.

“Well … ah … when … ah … I don’t know. When?” he stammered.

“Monday,” I said. We were speaking on Friday, so yeah, two days of prep.

“Monday? This coming Monday? Well … ah … can I let you know later? I think I have something else up on Monday. Can I call you later?”

“Well, Bob, I would need to know fast, you know. I need to get the research and pleadings done for the TRO by Monday in order to file and ask for an emergency hearing. The broadcast is scheduled for Tuesday. Get back to me as soon as possible, OK? Check your calendar.” I hung up.

Motta stood there, a bit dumbfounded, with a dead telephone in his hand. He slumped into his chair. “Jesus … Jesus … Jesus,” he kept silently repeating, shaking his head. He realized that he had just hesitated to be part of what was being referred to as the trial of the century because of some silly little commitment to a misdemeanor case on Monday, which could easily be continued with a telephone call.

“What the hell am I doing?” he asked himself aloud in his empty office. He began to pace, stared at the phone, picked it up, set it back down in the cradle, paced some more, mumbling. Then he stopped, stared at the telephone once more, grabbed it, and punched in my number.

“Sam, OK … of course I’ll do it. I’ll do anything I can to help. When would you like to meet?” he said.

“Well, that’s the thing, Bob. Actually, I’d like you to handle this yourself. I’m tired. I’m swamped. I’m getting overwhelmed with paper over here.”

“Alone? Ah … OK.” Bob was a bit surprised once again. “OK … ah … how will I … how do I get the facts?”

“Do you have a pen and legal pad handy? I’ll give them to you right now.” As I talked, Motta scribbled. This was a load off my mind, I had to admit. I was beginning to breathe a little easier.

The best word to describe Bob is
irascible
.
Ornery
would be another. That may sound like I’m not being too complimentary; but if you think that, you would be wrong. Those are words that describe a good lawyer, one who cares little about the opinions of others, especially when it comes to their opinions about him. Bob couldn’t care less what one person or another thinks about him, his methods, or his ways. He just puts his head down and plows through what he needs to plow through to get the job done. Another word to describe Bob—
tenacious
. You can’t stop him once he sinks his teeth into an issue.

For the next thirty hours, Bob was buried in books and research materials, reviewing and learning the fine points of the law as it pertains to the First Amendment of our Constitution and, in particular, as that First Amendment, which guarantees freedom of speech, applies to the press. These are lofty, high-minded issues that lawyers have fought over throughout the history of our republic, important issues that require a delicate balance to preserve free speech without allowing the press to overstep and do harm. Few areas of the law are more voluminous. Bob knew by late Sunday night that he had little chance of prevailing on this motion. It was an uphill battle, at best. It is almost impossible to stop someone, especially a member of the press, or a person being interviewed by a member of the press, from saying something before they say it. This is what is known as prior restraint, and it is frowned upon in a free society. However, a good lawyer does not cower from a fight just because the deck is stacked against him. That is when a good lawyer bares his teeth the brightest, and Bob was a good lawyer.

He drafted and personally typed up a complaint for temporary restraining order; and on Monday, armed with a briefcase full of case law and a bushelful of determination, he set forth to the Daley
Center to file his emergency motion for TRO in the Chancery Division of the Circuit Court of Cook County. The clerk at the counter who accepted the filing and file-stamped the documents had barely lifted the stamp off the paper—the ink was still drying—when the press, including radio station WMAQ, was alerted to the filing of these documents. The call went out to their lawyer.

Don Reuben was probably the most famous attorney in the city of Chicago. Other high-profile attorneys would dispute this, of course, out of jealousy or pride; but Don Reuben represented Fortune 500 corporations, big-name media types, the crème de la crème of the city. If you were in law school or a member of the legal profession, you knew who he was, and most of the population of the city had seen his mug on the news at one time or another even if they didn’t remember his name. When Mr. Reuben walked into the courtroom at precisely 3:00 p.m., the scheduled time for the emergency hearing, and announced that he would be representing the National Broadcasting Corporation and their affiliate WMAQ radio, Bob swallowed hard but was immediately surprised to see how slight of a man Mr. Reuben actually was. He was such a little guy—really little.