The Truth Be Damned

By Janet Uhlar

When Alex Fischer receives a federal jury summons, she fears it is for the upcoming trial of notorious mob boss, Sly Devaney. She has no interest in organized crime. In her mind, it is an evil world she is unwilling to enter. Alex is the perfect juror.

After she is vetted from over six hundred potential jurors, Alex is selected to sit in on the trial of the decade. As the lengthy trial begins, Devaneys attorney declares his client guilty of most of the charges in his opening statement, leaving Alex to wonder why the jury is there. Months of testimony reveal shocking acts of government treachery where murder is rewarded and the media is strangely quiet. Traumatized by deliberations and uneasy with the final verdict, Alex begins relentless research to learn why Devaney was silenced. While immersed in her investigation, she interviews many connected to the case, including Devaney. But will she find a way to expose the injustices divulged during whispered confessions of guilt and substantiated claims of innocence?

The Truth Be Damned is a tale of courage, intrigue, and self-discovery as a juror who served on the mob trial of the decade launches her own investigation into the injustices surrounding the complex case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480855946

Janet Uhlar

Janet Uhlar served as a juror in the 2013 trial of mob boss, James (Whitey) J. Bulger. She has extensive knowledge of the foundational principles of American law and is the author of several books on the American Revolution. She believed Bulgers trial was in stark violation of these principles. Determined to discover the truth, she encountered corruption involving the FBI, DOJ, and CIA. Her communications with Bulger have revealed information never disclosed.

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Copyright © 2018 Janet Uhlar.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The Truth Be Damned is a work of fiction, based on the author’s personal experience and research. The author’s suppositions are her own. Excerpts from letters are the words and thoughts of those who wrote the letters to the author. The author did not write the letters.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-5592-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5593-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5594-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900546

Archway Publishing rev. date: 1/30/2018

Contents

In Remembrance Of

Author’s Note

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

Appendices

Appendix A Excerpts from Letters Sent to the Author by James Bulger

Appendix B Excerpts of Letters from James Bulger regarding Morris and Connolly

Appendix C Excerpts of Letters from James Bulger regarding John Martorano

Appendix D Excerpts of Letters from James Bulger regarding Steve Flemmi

Appendix E Excerpts of Letter from James Bulger regarding Kevin Weeks

Appendix F Excerpts of Letters from James Bulger regarding Jeremiah O’Sullivan

Appendix G Excerpts of Letters from James Bulger regarding MKULTRA

Appendix H Excerpt from Letter Sent to the Author by John Connolly

Appendix I Letter to Presiding Judge

Appendix J Response to the Book and Movie Black Mass

Suggested Reading

Dedicated to the memory of my beloved son,

Josiah G. Tinney

June 6, 1988–December 6, 2014

JOSIAH.jpg

and to my best friend,

Robert W. McCarthy

May 4, 1934—June 18, 2010

In Remembrance Of

Douglas Barrett

Seventeen years old; murdered by John Martorano on January 6, 1968. Doug existed; his life mattered.

Elizabeth F. Dickson

Nineteen years old; murdered by John Martorano on January 6, 1968. Liz existed; her life mattered.

Deborah Hussey

Twenty-six years old; murdered in January of 1985 by Steve Flemmi. From the innocent age of two, when Flemmi became her stepfather, Debbie didn’t stand a chance.

Author’s Note

The Truth Be Damned is a work of fiction, based on my experience as a juror in the 2013 federal trial United States of America vs. James J. Bulger. I seemed to be the perfect juror with no preconceived idea of the defendant’s guilt or innocence. Going into the trial, only the name of Whitey Bulger was familiar to me. Who from Massachusetts hadn’t heard of the notorious Irish mob boss? And, though I was from Massachusetts, I had lived outside the state for thirty years. During that time, I’d wanted nothing to do with tales of organized crime.

Going into the trial, I expected to be disturbed by the criminality of Bulger. What I certainly did not expect was for his attorney to declare in his opening statement that his client was guilty of many of the crimes with which he’d been charged. And I had no expectation of learning of the abyss of abuse and corruption that was revealed within the Boston US Attorney’s Office and the FBI.

Everyone knew it! declared those who had stayed abreast of the story through the numerous newspaper articles on the subject and the many books published by Boston journalists and law enforcement officers. But I’m not talking only about what was purported in these writings. I’m referring to more, so much more, which, following the trial, I was shocked to discover the media did not mention. I needed to know why. And, I needed to know the story behind the story.

My research has put me in contact with various individuals and has revealed facts that are quite alarming. I have communicated with Bulger since the end of the trial, through letters and also face-to-face. I have been in contact with Bulger’s girlfriend Catherine Greig, former FBI agent John Connolly, and witnesses for both the prosecution and the defense. I spoke to one of Bulger’s attorneys as well as to former law enforcement officials who were involved in investigations pertaining to Bulger.

In Bulger’s vast correspondence with me, he casually mentioned chronic insomnia and frequent hallucinations since the MKULTRA experimentation fifty years before. I sought to learn more on the subject, and obtained the Senate hearing dated August 3, 1977.

Though I present a fictional account of my experience, the reader should determine through his or her own investigation where the fiction ends and the truth begins.

In September of 2016, I was told, after waiting for over two hours in the visitation room of the US penitentiary where Jim Bulger is presently imprisoned, that I was no longer allowed to visit (I had visited him at this same prison previously). Jim Bulger waited on the other side of the doors of the visitation room for that same period of time as guards waited upon the official word of whether he would be allowed my visit.

Janet Uhlar

November 7, 2017

Chapter 1

Justice is but Truth in Action.

—Louis Brandeis (1856–1941), US Supreme Court Associate Justice

GET UP, DEVANEY! THE CELL DOOR RATTLED OPEN AS THE STARtled prisoner awoke. Before he had time to comprehend the hostile order, a guard grabbed his shirt and dragged him off the flimsy metal bed. The thin mattress and skimp bedding slid onto the dank concrete floor alongside him.

Dressed only in a T-shirt, boxers, and socks, the elderly prisoner shivered as a second guard yanked him to his feet. There were three guards crowded into the small cell. These were the special guards assigned to Devaney by the Department of Justice. Each was young, buff, and cocky as hell. Devaney had dubbed them the goon squad and suspected that they were under orders of the assistant United States attorney prosecuting the case to provide singularly ill treatment for Devaney, treatment that no one within the walls of this prison had before experienced; treatment that would shock even the ACLU, were they concerned enough to respond to Devaney’s pleas for help; treatment equivalent to that experienced by prisoners of war—probably worse than that experienced at Guantánamo Bay.

Get him out of here! one guard yelled, as another pulled Devaney out of the cell by the collar of his already overly stretched T-shirt.

Search him.

The few items of clothing Devaney had on were yanked from his body for the ritualistic strip search. It happened at least eight times a day. The guards didn’t care that this eighty-year-old prisoner was in solitary confinement with a sentry sitting outside the cell, watching over him 24/7. And they had a camera on the ceiling of the cell tracking his every move—a camera they now planned to avoid.

The purpose of the strip searches, so it seemed to Devaney, was not only to humiliate the former mob boss but also to break him. The guards, like a pack of hyenas in heat, made the most of it each time, eight times a day. Crude remarks accompanied the violation of his genitals and the penetration of his orifices. This wasn’t a standard procedure being carried out by trained professionals. These special guards seemed to take pleasure in degrading the elderly man. Devaney shuddered, as he always did, wondering if they were getting a personal thrill at his expense.

When they were done, the goon squad grabbed the naked Devaney, shoving him back into the cell and tossing his clothes after him. The heavy barred door slammed shut. The cell had been ransacked, as it always was during the strip search. The little that Devaney claimed as his own—his letters and books—was scattered on the floor, tossed into the sink with the faucet set at a steady drip, or draped across the toilet bowl, absorbing the water from within.

We’ll be back, Tommy! one guard jeered at Devaney as he boastfully sauntered past Assistant United States Attorney Carla Chavere, who had observed the entire scene from a distance—distant enough that Devaney didn’t see her, distant enough to be out of any camera’s range. Chavere was pleased with the performance of her goon squad.

~

Seventy of the original six hundred seventy-five citizens remained. We were the survivors. The ignorant would be a more accurate description. We were the last of the jury pool, sitting in a rather small federal courtroom on the final day of jury selection. It had been a long, arduous process, during which we’d been herded about like sheep being led to the slaughter.

That’s exactly how I feel, like a penned animal awaiting my doom, I thought, as I sat shivering in the overly air-conditioned room on a hard wooden bench seemingly designed to be uncomfortable.

We had started the selection process exactly a week before. On that day, all 675 of us had been ushered into a large assembly hall with hundreds of folding chairs in neat rows facing a wooden podium flanked by two small tables. The walls in the hall were impressively inscribed with lengthy inspirational passages by renowned US justices Oliver Wendell Holmes and Louis D. Brandeis.

The jury administrator and his staff handed out packets of paperwork that included various instructions, phone numbers, a pen, and a page to fill out regarding the mode of transportation we would use to get to the courthouse, what parking lot we would use if we chose to drive, and how far we had to travel. Also within my packet was a small brooch with the insignia of the US federal court on it, as well as a small piece of paper upon which the number 104 had been handwritten. I looked at the brooch, wondering if I was supposed to put it on. Uncertain, I placed it back in the envelope and began to fill out the form. Name: Alexandra Fisher; Address: 26 Chatham Rd., Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts …

After turning in our transportation sheets, we all watched a short film on federal jury duty. When that was over, all was silent for about ten minutes. It seemed that none of the potential jurors dared talk. Some had books to read.

Why didn’t I bring one? was my frustrated thought.

I occupied my mind by reading the passages on the walls, in which Justices Holmes and Brandeis encouraged broad and open-minded discussion as a right and duty of American citizens. Somehow, I felt a distant sense of comfort in reading the words.

These passages are meant to inspire potential jurors for the deliberation process, reminding us that we have the responsibility and the power to think outside the box.

From the entrance to the hall, the voice of the jury administrator bellowed out, All rise! The shuffle of 675 bodies standing filled the room. An older man adorned in a judge’s robe entered the hall with an entourage of five. Each took his or her respective place behind the podium or at one of the tables.

The judge introduced himself as Peter Blake.

Judge Blake introduced those assembled at the tables. To his left was the prosecution team, which consisted of two well-dressed assistant US attorneys. The senior of the attorneys prosecuting the case was Carla Chavere. She was clearly nearing retirement age. A bit overweight, she presented herself with an air of dignity. Her face was perfectly made up and her nails neatly polished. Her snow-white hair, styled in a cropped bob, seemed to attest to wisdom. Chavere sat with her head tilted back just enough to point her nose upward.

Does she have a problem with her neck, or is her arrogance that obvious?

Her body language—hand on the hip when she stood to say her obligatory hello, and seemingly exaggerated hand gestures and facial expressions—led me to believe the latter was true.

Beside Chavere was Dick Altier. Although younger, Altier was introduced as the lead prosecutor. Middle-aged with a full head of neatly groomed light brown hair, he offered an immediate attraction with his purchased professionalism. Tall in stature, with a trim body and perfect posture, Altier commanded respect from innocent onlookers.

I bet he served in the Marine Corps. He carries himself with such composure; he must be a veteran officer.

The defense team was seated at the table to the right of Judge Blake. Curt Jordan was an older man of African American descent with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard that complemented a full head of matching hair. Jordan was tall, slim, and smartly dressed. His was a quiet, polite, and stoic presence.

Emotionless; almost robotic. Perfect for a defense attorney, I figured.

Then there was Defense Attorney Rob Willis, a younger man, Scandinavian in appearance with his light blond hair and pure blue eyes. He was of average height with a firmly toned form.

Expensive suit. Looks timid for a high-end attorney. Must just be starting out. He seems more afraid of the entire process than I am.

Between Jordan and Willis sat the defendant, Thomas D. Devaney. He was referred to as Sly by his enemies, of which he seemed to have many. Though I knew little about the man, I was aware that he was said to have wreaked havoc in the streets of Boston for three decades as the leader of the Irish mob, referred to as the Old Harbor Gang. The crimes he was said to have committed? You name it and he did it—allegedly.

He was quite aged, thin, and frail. He seemed weak, perhaps ill. His attorneys assisted him into the assembly hall and then into the chair between them at the table. Barely able to stand on his own, he struggled to get to his feet when allowed to offer a short greeting to those assembled. His voice was faint and barely audible.

This is the scary Sly Devaney? I don’t think he’s gonna make it through this trial!

Devaney was of average height with short gray hair. He was clean-shaven and neatly dressed in a light blue Henley shirt, dungarees, and white sneakers. Except for the greeting, Devaney was silent and still, his eyes cast downward.

Before jury selection even began, the media was referring to this trial as the trial of the decade. It was expected to last at least four months: the United States of America vs. Thomas D. Devaney. Upon learning that the US Attorney’s Office had issued an indictment against him, Devaney had vanished. He remained on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list for eighteen years. It turned out that all the while he was hiding in plain sight. He’d rented an apartment in McLean, Virginia, only twenty miles from FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC.

That was all I knew of the sickly old man seated between his attorneys at the table to my left. I was seated in the front row, no more than twenty feet from the notorious Sly Devaney. It was hard to believe that this aged man could have inflicted such horror. Also hard to believe was that he was a cold-blooded murderer. In my mind, he wasn’t.

Innocent until proven guilty, the right to legal counsel and representation, and the right to a trial by a jury of one’s peers are foundational principles in the United States. As a US history teacher, I was keenly aware that those who had fought in the American Revolution had understood, firsthand, the horror of what not being granted these civil liberties meant. They were willing to die to obtain these basic rights. How can I, no matter the inconvenience or fear, evade this sacred duty? How can I evade this sacred right of the defendant, no matter how vile he’s said to be? Regardless of the noble argument within my head, I was still afraid, and hoped to be set free.

After introducing the key players, Judge Blake read the long list of indictments against Devaney, which fell under the complex Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. This act, referred to as RICO, was enacted in 1970 by the federal court as a means of controlling organized crime. The charges against Devaney consisted of twenty-five counts and twenty-eight predicate acts, which included racketeering, money laundering, extortion, weapons violations, and numerous murders. It was overwhelming.

As soon as he completed reading the indictments, the judge instructed us to stand and raise our right hands. He began to read an oath, which we didn’t have the opportunity to review or refuse. In the controlled chaos, before I knew what was happening, I, along with the others, completed the oath.

My thoughts were chaotic. What happened? I’m not even sure what I just swore to!

The judge, attorneys, and defendant then left the room, and we potential jurors began the vetting process. For this we were instructed to fill out a lengthy questionnaire. I answered honestly, even made certain to mention that I had a book under contract, thinking they might not want a juror who they suspected might turn around and write about the case. As for the possibility of my writing about this trial, as a high school teacher with a book to be published on forgotten heroes of the American Revolution, I had no desire whatsoever to write about United States vs. Devaney. Organized crime just wasn’t my thing.

We all turned in our questionnaires and were told that we could leave for the weekend. That evening we were to call a particular phone number contained in the packet of paperwork, for further instructions.

I fought the rush hour traffic out of the city as I headed to my home in Manchester-by-the-Sea, located thirty miles north of Boston. During the off-season, this quaint coastal town, located on a rocky promontory known as Cape Ann, is serene. It offers few attractions for tourists, so even throughout the summer months it is spared a full influx of vacationers. The small New England town’s natural beauty with its picturesque harbor, unique beach, and historic homes is calming to the soul. A walk along the half-mile stretch of the town’s shoreline known as Singing Beach was an almost daily routine I’d started when we first moved here ten years ago. My children would often join me, and we’d enjoy the almost musical squeak of the sand beneath our feet. On those rare occasions when my husband was home on leave, he would too.

I had grown up in neighboring Salem, where my mother and siblings still lived. When the older of our two children neared high school age, my husband, Paul, a career army officer, insisted we purchase a home close to my family. He felt the children needed stability in their teen years. Though I grieved the fact that in doing so we would all see less of him, I understood. Except for the frequent and often lengthy separations from Paul, I never regretted the move.

On my way home, I drove by the beach, hoping to find a parking space in the small lot. There were none. Disappointed, I went straight home.

I parked the car and walked to the house. The summer sun felt good on my body, which was still chilled by the frigid temperature of the courtroom. Once inside, I used the bathroom, poured myself a glass of merlot, grabbed my laptop, and went out on the deck to soak up the rays of the June sun. Still shaken by the vow I’d sworn to earlier, I was determined to pull up the Juror’s Oath on the computer. I discovered that the oath was usually given when jury selection was complete, but subject to the individual judge’s discretion, it could be administered at the start of jury selection. The oath itself could not be found, which frustrated me.

My initial thought was to call an attorney friend and ask him what exactly I had sworn. I picked up my cell phone, found his number, and pressed Call. As my finger pushed the button, I realized that I, along with the other potential jurors, had been cautioned by the judge not to discuss anything with anybody. Quickly, I moved my finger to End, canceling the call. Apparently, it was too late. My phone instantly rang, and caller ID displayed the number I had just canceled. I answered.

Alex! You hung up on me! Bob’s voice called out.

Dialed accidently, I lied.

I’ve got someone on call waiting. I’ll see you at the board meeting Tuesday.

Don’t think I’ll make it, I shot back, having totally forgotten about the meeting.

You okay?

Yeah. Committed to something else. That certainly wasn’t a lie.

Free for dinner that night?

Sure.

I’ll pick you up at seven. Bob hung up.

Sighing, I stared at the phone for a moment. Damn! Why did I commit to having dinner? I have no idea what to expect next week, I said to no one, disgusted at myself for being so easily pulled into situations. First the oath, now dinner with Bob. I needed to figure out a way to cancel. That thought added to my frustration. Not only had I allowed myself to be easily manipulated, but also I was searching for lies to correct my inability to obtain control.

After making a sandwich, I sat down to watch the news. Every station was talking about the Devaney case. I turned off the television, ate my sandwich in silence, and then took a shower. When I got out of the shower, there was a message from a friend. Alexandra! It’s Nancy! You never answer the phone anymore. I’m having a pool party next Friday. Just us girls. Give me a call!

I erased the message. Next Friday? My life was on hold. I couldn’t make plans, or explain why.

Pouring myself another glass of merlot, I considered that it wasn’t good to drink alone. But I am alone, so who gives a damn? I mumbled, toasting the air. After taking a sip, I dutifully dialed the number to the courthouse. As anticipated, I was instructed to report back on Monday morning. I took a gulp from the wineglass.

I determined to put jury selection out of my mind and to enjoy the weekend as much as possible. The weather promised to be warm and sunny. My son was to arrive home from West Point tomorrow. Ilona had already told me that she would come down from New Hampshire with little Paul to visit her brother. It promised to be a perfect weekend, with my children home and my grandbaby to spoil.

~

Monday came all too quickly. Our numbers had significantly dwindled. My estimation was that there were only about two hundred potential jurors present. On that day of jury selection, the attorneys would eliminate certain members of the jury pool through a process known as removal for cause. We were herded into a large courtroom. Every twenty minutes or so, the jury administrator entered the room and called out assigned numbers of particular jurors. These jurors were escorted to a different room, where Judge Blake and the attorneys would ask specific questions to clarify answers on the questionnaire. Depending on the responses, the juror would be dismissed or instructed to return to the courtroom. In all, about forty potential jurors were singled out of the group. Few returned. I likened undergoing the private questioning to entering a star chamber. Except for the opportunity to personally meet the attractive attorney Dick Altier, I dreaded the thought of being summoned.

The hours passed slowly. I remembered to bring a book and a warm sweater, but I wished I had a cushion for the hard bench. My number was never called, which meant they had no problem with my answers in the questionnaire—not even the fact that I was an author. Not a good sign, I realized. Finally, when I felt certain that I could no longer sit on the bench, those of us who remained were dismissed for the day, and again told to call that evening to learn our status.

I called, and was told to return the following day. Dammit!

~

Here I was among the 70 remaining out of a jury pool of 675. We assembled in the jury hall and were escorted to the elevators. An assistant to the jury administrator ushered us into the elevator on the second floor, and another greeted us as we exited the elevator on the fifth. We were then led to the open foyer, which accommodated five courtrooms. Up until now, we had entered courtrooms through side doors. This was the first time we were taken to the main entrance. The marble floors and oak-paneled inner wall gave the foyer a majestic feel. Each courtroom had large, heavy oak doors. The outer wall was of glass, offering a stunning view of Boston Harbor. The water glistened under the brilliant sun; boats sailed softly upon the shimmering water.

Here, we were lined up according to our jury pool number. Today I felt like a prisoner, ordered about and watched over by guards. A young woman was behind me. We struck up a conversation. She shared her concern about being put on the jury. With three young children at home, she felt it would be a great hardship. Thus far, the judge and attorneys hadn’t agreed. The young mother was emotionally distraught. We were abruptly ordered to be silent.

How many have a similar story? I wondered.

In silence, we were led into a small courtroom. Judge Blake was at his bench before us, and the attorneys and Mr. Devaney at their respective tables. Two well-dressed men hovered near Devaney and his attorneys.

Probably US marshals, I surmised.

They all were standing and staring at us as we entered. The benches in the gallery to our right were already filled.

Reporters? I wondered.

A sketch artist stood in the front row, her back resting against the wall as she balanced her large pad in her left hand and busily worked at capturing the moment with the pencil in her right. Another sketch artist was positioned similarly in the front corner of the gallery to our left. We were ushered into specific rows.

Again, we waited, but this time, we were subjected to the irritating scratching sound of a noise machine utilized to cover the conversations between the judge and the attorneys as they worked to eliminate members of the jury pool through strike for cause and peremptory challenges. It was obvious that the stakes were high; the stress and emotion of the attorneys came through loud and clear in their body language.

My purposeful ignorance of anything to do with organized crime, a decision I’d made years before, not wanting to fill my mind with stories of thugs, might now prove to immerse me into this dark world.

Ignorance is supposed to be bliss, but not in this case. But there’s still a chance. I’ll probably be dismissed. I knew that only 1 percent of the state’s population is called for federal jury duty. From this, 675 were plunged into the jury pool of the Devaney case. Now, 18 from the 70 remaining would be seated. The odds are in my favor, I told myself. But it’s not looking good.

I’d stopped buying lottery tickets long before, as my Irish blood was less than pure and, therefore, never seemed to bring me any luck. Now, somehow, I knew my number—Juror 104—would play out. Somehow, I knew I wouldn’t be released from my civic obligation this day. A shiver ran through my body. From the frigid temperature of the courtroom or from fear? I couldn’t tell. Probably a bit of both.

Whatever happens today, Alex, you’re a part of history in the making. These constant worries are keeping you from living in the moment. I determined to clear my thoughts and to watch, learn from, and experience this event as it unfolded before me, shivering all the while. I once heard a yoga instructor say that a lengthy exhalation encouraged calmness. I took a short breath in and released it slowly. It seemed to work. Yoga classes might be a good idea, I told myself.

The four attorneys involved in the case gathered at the judge’s bench like merchants at market buying and selling their wares. Their animated squabble, though silent to us, was interesting to observe. Each carried a legal pad to which they frequently referred. After a few minutes of what appeared to be quarrelling in unison, they went to their assigned seats at the tables before the judge’s bench. The prosecution was to the right of the judge; the defense, to the left.

Of course, I was drawn to Dick Altier. I wonder if he’s married? The thought immediately prompted guilt. It had only been three years since my husband died. Every time I found myself attracted to a man, I felt I was betraying Paul.

It was only strong, powerful men who caught my attention, and Altier was certainly that. Though even he would not hold a candle to Paul. A retired army colonel, Paul had proudly served in the Green Berets for twenty-eight years. It was difficult, given the lengthy separations and secrecy his position demanded. Paul’s retirement began for us a second honeymoon that promised to last forever. The kids would soon be out of the house, and we would have all the time in the world to ourselves. But happily ever after was just in fairy tales, and my life was no fairy tale. Less than a year after Paul retired, he was killed when his car plummeted off the road into a deep ravine during an ice storm. Paul’s death was instant. He didn’t suffer. We who loved him did.

My gaze remained on Altier as my thoughts wandered. He, along with the other attorneys, was writing hurriedly on a legal pad. Suddenly he stood, distracting me from my morbid thoughts. The four attorneys marched to the side of the judge’s bench again. Once more the noise machine came on, and the quarrelling in unison began.

What if I am seated? Financially I’m good, between my pay and Paul’s pension, but I’d be out for the remainder of this school year. Will I be able to return to class by the end of August for the next school year? The questions weren’t new; they were ever present, and silently screaming to be answered once more. So much for clearing your thoughts and living in the moment, Alex.

Will I be in danger? Will my family be in danger? What if we’re sequestered? Being on a jury that might declare a head mobster guilty could be a problem, to say the least. If we’re sequestered, I’d have no time with my son on summer break. And little Paul is growing by leaps and bounds each day. I’d miss so much! Family and friends want me to lie and get out of this jury pool. I understand their concerns; I have them too. But how can I lie?

How can I shirk this duty, and teach my students about the