Since I ended up taking Columbus Day off, there will be no new column today. Instead, here’s chapter 16 from Presumed Guilty in which I described my brief testimony before the grand jury.
A grand jury hears only one side – that of the prosecutor. – Donella Meadows
On the plus side, Tony Valukas’s (my attorney) presence completely shut down the FBI which ushered in a welcome peace that reigned from Christmas through January of 1982. Let’s just say my theory in regard to 1981’s passing was, “don’t let the screen door hitcha where the good Lord splitcha.” I’d stack my “annus horribilus” up against the British royals 1992 anytime. And they brought that one on themselves!
But the small solace from the federal silence was rapidly being eroded by the increasing anxiety as my appointment with those 16-ish jurors drew nearer. Let’s just say I wasn’t looking forward to boarding the Evanston Express to the Loop.
It didn’t help that Tony was so nonchalant about it either. It’s not that he was cavalier, but he’d been through the process with so many other clients that it was old hat. I called him looking for reassurance in the form of being more prepared for what might happen, but he told me not to worry about it. He said it was just another intimidation tactic and nothing would come of it. I was supposed to meet him in the jury room hallway 30 minutes before the proceedings.
So much for strategizing! But the reality is, the grand jury system, which should be abolished, is so stilted that the defendant’s attorney can’t even be in the room to advise or defend their client. The defendant can go out into the hallway to ask their attorney’s advice, but that possibility can get easily lost in the heat of a veteran prosecutor’s “cross examination.”
Needless to say, I put on my only cheap suit, walked the 3.5 blocks to the South Boulevard CTA stop on a frigid February morning, boarded the “El” to downtown Chicago, walked a few more blocks to the Dirksen Federal building, purposefully strolled up to the elevators, hit the button, and exited to a waiting Tony Valukas.
We exchanged pleasantries, shook hands, and then he handed me a typewritten paragraph on a lined three-by-five notecard. It read:
On the advice of my attorney, I respectfully assert my Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.
“The Fifth Amendment?,” I exclaimed in a rather startled manner, “Isn’t that what guilty people do?”
“No,” he said, “That’s what you’re going to do. You can state your name when they ask, but the response to any other question is right there on the card.”
Okay then! So, we sat in some uncomfortable plastic hallway chairs waiting for my turn to be called.
A scant ten minutes later I was sitting in a brown padded chair on a small dais in a smaller-than-expected non-descript harshly lit white and grey grand jury room. The sixteen or so jurors were sitting in a series of fixed white-ish swivel chairs with a short prosecutor in a brown suit to my right and their left.
Of course, I walked into the room as if the ceiling was about to cave in on me, but I was strangely reassured by a series of rather diverse faces smiling at me. It wasn’t at all what I expected. I’m probably reading WAYYYYY too much into it, but I got the sense that even they knew this exercise was every bit as futile as I did.
The prosecutor introduced himself and said, “Mr. Ward. Would you please state your name for the record? “Jeffrey Nowell Ward,” I answered.
Then he added, “What’s your address, sir?,” and I sat there for a couple of seconds before requesting permission to step outside and consult my attorney. When the prosecutor replied “Absolutely,” I dashed out to the hallway and asked Tony if I could give them my address and other basic details. “No,” Tony said, “If you’ve provided your name, read the card.” So, I went back in and read the card.
The next question was “How old are you, Mr. Ward,” and after I read the card a second time, he asked me, “Is this how you will respond to all questions, Mr. Ward?” When I replied, “Yes, sir,” he issued a swift “You are dismissed.”
I literally floated out of the courtroom. Talk about getting your underwear in a bundle for no good reason.
“They let me go after three short questions?,” “Yep!,” Tony said, and we headed for the elevator. “What was the point?” “Since you won’t talk to the FBI, they thought you might be willing to speak to the grand jury, but that would be even worse than talking to the feds.”
“And pleading the Fifth,” I added, “That was beyond bizarre, I thought only guilty people pled the Fifth.” “Nope!,” Tony answered, “Innocent people who don’t want to be falsely convicted do, too. When they think you’re guilty of a crime the worst thing you can do is talk to anyone.”
“I get it,” I said, “But that had to be one of the most surreal moments of my life. “Well now you can tell your children you appeared before a grand jury,” Tony said chuckling. “Great!” I answered as we headed to the elevator.
Years later John Larsen would tell me that pleading the Fifth had convinced the ordinary local agents that I was, indeed, the Junkyard Bomber. But the strange paradox was the big Chicago bosses were nonplussed by it. In fact, one of them would tell John, “That’s exactly what I would have done.”
I’d soon learn that incongruity phenomenon was unique to federal law enforcement agencies. Perhaps it’s a consequence of their size, but there’s a massive divide between the “ordinary” agents and their supervisors which invariably leads to the left hand rarely knowing what the right hand is doing. Those agents have always enjoyed a certain amount of investigative independence, too. So, even though a number of the directors were convinced I wasn’t a serial bomber, that thought never quite filtered down to the front line and they continued to pursue me – some even after Ted was caught.
It didn’t help matters that the case consistently changed hands, either.
Bill and Ray had also hired attorneys, and they, too, pled the Fifth when it was their turn. As for Greg, if I recall correctly and I’m not sure I do, since the feds have to pay your transportation costs to get to downtown Chicago, I believe they waited until he was on spring break or he came home in May to force him to appear. That’s when he asserted his Fifth Amendment rights as well.
I have no idea if Paul M. was subpoenaed because once he went home, we never heard from him again. And that sad distancing dynamic would play out throughout the rest of the investigation.
Ah! But the best part of the grand jury absurdity – if there was a “best part” – was Dave White. Oh! To have been a fly on the wall for that one.
This was Dave’s big chance to be the Davinci Code hero he so desperately wanted to be.
Per the podcast, he couldn’t wait to tell the prosecutor and jurors about Sweet Revenge, my father’s radio control airplane (not cars) workshop, and his general theory of my unequivocal guilt. But when he went to testify, the prosecutor completely shut him down.
It had to kill him to be denied this “moment of glory.” Considering his conspiratorial proclivities, I’m sure he thought I’d somehow gotten to the prosecutor.
John and Joe would later explain that, after he’d been subpoenaed, head prosecutor Luke Coleman found out about Dave’s turkey costume lie detector performance and told his office and the FBI that he “didn’t want that nutcase anywhere near the case.”
But that stark reality wouldn’t stop Dave from pursuing his vendetta, something he’s doing to this very day.