 | |
| The courtroom looked like this, but back then the tables were smaller and sat cross wise and the visitor's gallery much closer. I also don't remember a sky light. |
Note: A
version of this first appeared in two parts on the Third City Blog
The Dirksen Federal Building was just a few
years old back in 1973. It had replaced
a large and imposing pile of stone in the Beaux
Art style of the Columbian
Exposition that had been reduced to rubble.
In a city that prided itself on architecture, the “glass curtain” sky
scraper by superstar Mies
van der Rohe was a source of civic
pride.
As I approached it from
a Subway staircase on Clark Street
it loomed in the gray morning like a giant black shoebox stood on end. It rose from a bleak and then as yet unadorned
plaza balancing on its central bank of elevators. A skirt of floor to ceiling clear glass encased
the first floor exposing an expanse of marble floor and a stone wall with
aluminum letters reading The Everett McKinley
Dirksen United States Court Building.
In those days there was no
visible security. Doors on all side were
open and hoards poured through on the way to their destinations. A lone figure stood at a desk under the stone
wall. His function was mainly to direct
visitors to the correct elevator.
After receiving the correct
instruction, I squeezed into a packed elevator was zoomed to a courtroom
floor. I was supposed to meet my lawyer,
the esteemed Jason Bellow, outside the courtroom a few minutes early for
a last consultation. I was early. He was not.
I fidgeted in a charcoal gray
pin striped three piece suite that I had acquired in high school and not worn
since, a pair of highly polished western style side zippered boots that I had
borrowed from my father and which did not fit well, and a recently acquired
pearl gray Stetson, my new dress hat. I
wanted to look respectable.
Moments before the court call a
bailiff stepped out and announced that anyone with business should come
in. My lawyer was still not there.
The court room was dimly lit,
much darker than I had expected. It had
a large seating area totally vacant that day.
In front of a rail were two tables.
On the left sat two, count them two prosecutors, although only one of them
would actually speak. Several piles of
documents and legal pads littered the table and on one corner a thick file
marked FBI laid conspicuously. A
dark wood judge’s bench loomed impressively in front of a Justice Department
seal on the wall. A witness box was on
the right. Off to one side in the space
between the bench and the counsels’ tables and a woman in a tight, short skirt
sat as demurely as possible behind a stenography machine. Just like in the movies, only darker.
Moments before the bailiff was
set to call the Court to order, Jason Bellow ambled in casually, a friendly smile
on his face. Natty as when I had first
seen him, he carried a slender black attaché case. After shaking my hand, he clicked it open and
retrieved a single slender manila file.
So slender, in fact, that it contained nothing but a copy of the
indictment. He laid it on the table and
leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Are you sure you don’t want to plead?”
Shocked, I could only shake my
head before the court was called to order.
Judge Sam Perry was a small, elderly man dwarfed by his bench. He had served on the Circuit Court since
being appointed by Harry Truman in 1951 and was officially retired to
Senior status, hearing a few overload cases each month. He was most famous for presiding over the
epic trial for civil damages against the law enforcement officials who had murdered
Black Panther Fred Hampton in his sleep.
After the longest trial in the history of the circuit, Perry had dismissed all charges.
He was overturned on appeal.
Despite this, he was no Julius
Hoffmann and had a reputation for lenience in draft cases.
When asked by the judge, Bellow and I rose together and when asked, “How
does the defendant plead? I replied as firmly as possible, “Not guilty, your honor.”
About that time my girl friend Cecelia
arrived and settled into a seat in the visitors’ gallery directly behind the
defense table. This was a surprise to
me. At breakfast she said that she was
busy and couldn’t make it. I guess she
changed her plans.
After a few formalities one of the prosecutors rose to make his opening
statement. “On the [blank] day of
December, 1972 the defendant, Patrick
Mills Murfin did willfully refuse to submit to a lawful order of induction
into the service of the United States of America…” Blah, blah, blah. He laid out the facts of that day which were,
as he pointed out to the judge “irrefutable.”
He could have sat down then. But he
strolled from around the table and neared the bench, “Your honor,” he said
pointing to the thick FBI file on the table, “The facts will show that the
defendant was not motivated by religious conviction or pacifism, but by an
abiding hatred of the government of the United States as shown by his willing
and boastful membership in a known subversive organization.”
This was the point when I expected my lawyer to leap to his feet and
object. He did not. And when it was his turn to give our opening,
he said, “The Defense has nothing to say at this time.” I must have looked alarmed.
“Don’t worry, an opening would only prolong the trial and irk the judge.” He
whispered to me.
The Prosecutor called his first witness, the Clerk of my local Draft
Board in Skokie. He asked for a detailed history of my
registration and history. Of course,
that included the episode of the returned draft card and the letter from me
requesting a new one. He covered my
student deferment and asked if I still had any deferment. The answer was no. “So, Mr. Murfin was lawfully subject to the
draft when he received his induction notice?”
Yes, came the reply.
O.K. I figured that this is where we would make our case. The draft and resistance councilors at the American Friends Service Committee had discovered
that I was removed from the eligibility pool for over a year while the FBI
assembled that thick file on the prosecution table, and had then returned me to
the pool with my “window of eligibility” clock set back to the date I was
removed. And they never informed me that
my eligibility was “suspended.” Based on
that, the Quakers believed, I could
argue that I refused induction in good faith on the grounds that I believed my
eligibility had lapsed.
I had informed Bellow about this in our one brief consultation and provided
him documents from the Service Committee and even given him their phone number
for further consultation. I expected him
to rise and ask the Clerk the critical questions. Instead he rose and simply said, “The Defense
has no questions, Your Honor.” The
witness was dismissed.
The prosecution brought two more witnesses, one of the NCOs who witnessed my actual refusal to step forward to accept
induction, and one of the FBI agents who arrested me that day. Bellows had no questions for them. Neither was on the stand for five minutes.
With that the Prosecution rested. I
figured maybe Bellow planned to call me and get the eligibility issue out that
way. “The Defense has no witnesses, Your
Honor.”
I was now in a state of shock.
The Defense got to make the first closing argument. Bellow finally stood up and had something to
say. “I met this young man and found him
charming and articulate.” Charming and
articulate? “He comes from a good home and his father was a decorated hero of the
Second World War. He is idealistic. Young men are idealistic.” He smiled warmly at the judge as if the two
of them were together on some secret.
And then he sat down. Our entire
defense was that I was a nice, naïve young man.
The Prosecutor got in his last lick.
A scornful portrait of a dangerous subversive. That was it the trial was over in about a
half an hour.
The judge announced that he would retire to his chambers to consider his
verdict, but instructed us to stay close.
As near as I could tell, “considering the verdict” consisted of taking a
leak. We were hardly out of the
courtroom and I was still trying to roll a Prince
Albert cigarette with shaky hands when the Bailiff called us back.
I stood in front of the judge with my attorney on one side and Cecelia, who
for some reason was allowed to join us, on the other. “I find the Defendant, Patrick Mills Murfin
guilty as charged…” I squeezed Cecelia’s
hand.
“At this point,” Judge Perry said, “We usually release the prisoner on bail
pending a pre-sentencing investigation into his character and chances of
rehabilitation. That will not be
necessary in this case. We know what
kind of young man this is.” He waved at
that damn FBI file. “I have read the
documents you filled out at your induction and was shocked by your
disrespect. This is no laughing matter,
as you are about to find out. I sentence
the Defendant to 36 months of confinement in a Federal Correctional Facility.”
I think my knees may have actually buckled.
The Judge did allow me to be released on my own recognizance for two
weeks to, “get your affairs in order.”
He stood up and left the bench.
It was over.
Did I mention it was St. Patrick’s
Day? My 24th birthday.
