DEATH SENTENCE

The days just dragged. Tuesday...then Wednesday. We thought it would end on Thursday, but it didn't. Back again on Friday. Twelve hour days. Long and tedious.

We were waiting for the jury to complete the penalty phase of a murder trial on Long Island. They had already turned in a Guilty of Murder One a few weeks earlier. Stephen LaValle had been tried for the rape/murder of a young mother of two whom he had accosted while she was out for a jog. He stabbed her over 70 times. Now this same jury had to decide on his punishment. Ever since NY State re-enacted the Death Penalty a few years ago, the jury that convicts now has to set the penalty. They have two options. Three, actually. They can decide on death by lethal injection or life in prison with no parole. And, it has to be a unanimous vote. If they can't come to a unanimous decision, by a quirk in the NY State law, the judge them must impose a 20 or 25 year to life imprisonment sentence. And the convicted murderer is eligible for parole. Strange.

At any rate, I was assigned to the case in Criminal Court in Riverhead on Tuesday morning. It's about a 45 minute drive from my apartment, heading east into the rising sun. It's a pleasant enough drive, though, because the traffic is heading the other way, towards NY City. I always stop and pick up a paper and I get to the courthouse about an hour before it opens. So, I sit in the car and relax and read the paper. If there's time, I do the crossword and the crypo-quote puzzles. At 9 AM, I grab my camera bag. If I know the court officers at the entrance, they wave me through the metal detector. I know most of them, but sometimes I get a new guy and have to ask for a hand search of my stuff.

The courtroom is on the 2nd floor. I get my camera out of the bag, load up with 800 ASA Fuji and click on the flash. Now I'm ready to go. Our reporter, Olivia Winslow arrives. I ask her help in pointing out the players in this drama. Even though I have covered bits and pieces of this story during the trial part of the case, I cover so many similar stories, that I don't always remember who is who. I have to get my photos as the families enter and leave the courtroom since NY State is one of the few in the country that doesn't allow cameras in the courtroom.

I know the defense attorney. And the Assistant District Attorney who is prosecuting the case is a young man I have know for years of court house coverage. Both men always stop and pass a pleasant greeting with me. This pisses off the tv crews who are looking for a smooth transition shot of the attorneys walking down the hall and into the courtroom. They hate it when they stop at the courtroom door and chat with a still photographer. Too bad. I usually get a good expression close-up of them while they talk to me.

The mother of the convicted man hasn't been talking with the media and she usually brushes right past us without comment. So, I only get a millisecond or two to get a clean shot of her each time. The husband of the victim mutters something to me as I crank off several frames of him walking into the courtroom on Tuesday. It was something to the effect of "Stop harassing me." I'm sorry that he feels that way, but I don't really think that what I am doing is harassment. I try to do my job without being too much "in your face" if I possibly can. Later that afternoon, I find myself in conversation with the murder victim's father. He is a pleasant man, about my age. I avoid any talk of the tragedy and we pass some pleasantries about what it is like being single again, at our age, after many years of marriage. We are both divorced senior citizens.

The jury is brought in and the lawyers for both sides sumup their stand on the death penalty. Then the judge explains the law regarding sentencing and the jury breaks for lunch before deliberating. They have lunch brought in. I drive down to Micky D's for a Big Mac with cheese and a shake which I eat in the car while I read a magazine. Then it's back to the second floor.

Whowever designed the benches that line the corridors of that courthouse should be sentenced to death by lethal injection for inflicting cruel and inhumane punishment on the media who have to endure long waits for jury decisions. They are flat, backless contraptions. So, you have to lean back against the hard and unyielding wall. And, there is no lumbar support. After a few hours, it is impossible to find a comfortable position. Well, it is for everyone but the intern who was working with the local cable news crew. He finds an empty bench and stretches out. His snores resound throughout the corridor and the camera man becomes so embarrassed by him that he throws a copy of my newspaper at him to wake him up.

Everyone from the attorneys to the court officers and the media were expecting a quick decision. A month or so earlier, the first death penalty decision on Long Island was heard in this same courthouse and it only took the jury a matter of hours to come back with the death sentence. Everyone in this case expected the same thing.

But, at 5 PM, the jury passes a note to the judge stating that they are not unanimous and request that they resume again the next day. The jury is sequestered for the night and I drive back to my office to process and scan.

Wednesday morning I am back again. The paper has run two photos of the prosecutor and the defense attorney.

The jury resumes deliberation and I find my spot on the demon bench in the hall. Members of the families of the victim and the convicted man take benches in the hall from time to time. I leave them alone, after I had made a few shots of each. If there is no decision by the jury again, I would need something for the next day's story. I try to get some candid shots, but every time they see the camera pointed their way, they turn away.

There is a courtroom artist who is used by the media on Long Island. I have to photograph her sketches, each day, in case the paper wants to use her stuff. It galls me that an artist can work in a courtroom but photographers can't. And, to rub salt into the wound, we have to photograph her work for the paper. I have nothing against her. She's just doing her job. It's the system that pisses me off.

She does a pretty competent job, and she tapes her work on the corridor walls for me and the cable news tv guy to copy. After we are done, the family members, attorneys and court officers come by and try to see if they can recognize themselves in her drawings. The comments they make are really funny. Obviously they don't feel that her work is very flattering to them. I like to tell them that they should write to their Assemblymen to re-institute cameras in the courtroom.

A crew from NBC-TV local shows up. Ahhh. Someone new to swap war stories with. Everone was getting tired of hearing the same old thing after two long days of togetherness.

Another lunch break and I didn't want another limp burger. So, I go to the Riverboat Diner at the traffic circle and have a really good diner burger and it is a bit cheaper than the one yesterday at MacDonald's. The NBC reporter joins me so at least I had some company. She is a pretty, young lady. I ask her if it is possible for a sound byte to leave a hickey. She is polite. She laughs. She is also happily married and tells me all about the summer place she and her husband have out on Fire Island.

In spite of everyone's feelings that the jury would be back with a quick decision, the jury asks to be excused for the night, once more, after another long, long afternoon. Back to the office to soup and scan. I had managed to get a good candid shot of the convicted man's mother, standing at a window, looking out at the late afternoon scene, as the second day dragged on. We run that the next day.

Thursday. I didn't get much sleep the night before. My butt and my back are so sore from that damn bench. I resolve to walk around more, and maybe sit in the courtroom on seats that are a little more comfortable.

Another long morning. Both families have accepted my presence and they know that after I have a few shots of them in the bag, that I will leave them alone.

More speculation at the art wall about who is who in the courtroom sketches. The hours drag. I enjoy talking with the DA and the defense council. We trade tales about interesting cases we have been involved in. NBC doesn't send a crew, today. The cable news intern snores loudly. That kid can sleep anywhere. I envy him.

I go to the Maple Tree Deli and get a swiss cheese on a roll and I take it to a park on the Peconic River to eat and read my book. I now bring novels, magazines and crossword puzzle books with which to pass the hours. There is a small jazz combo playing in the park. I sit in my car with the windows down so I can listen while I eat and read. It's very pleasant until the first loud crack of thunder startles everyone. It is followed by many more, in rapid succession and then the first fat drops splatter against my dusty windshield and everyone in the park runs for cover. We have been in drought conditions for most of the summer and haven't really had more than a couple of very isolated rain showers for months. Today, forecasters predict a front to move through with heavy rains and dangerous lightning.

I drive back to the courthouse and since I still have 20 minutes before the jury resumes deliberations, I sit in the car as the rain pelts down and the thunder booms its' basso symphony.

When it seems to abate somewhat, I pop my trunk, grab my gear, and run the 100 yards to the courthouse. I am drenched by the time I get there, but I am not the only one. I grab some paper towels from the mens room and dry what little hair I own and wipe down my camera gear. And worry about catching a dreaded summer cold with the air conditioning chilling my wet self.

The jury keeps sending notes to the judge asking for clarifications on the law and it becomes obvious that there is at least one holdout. And people become concerned about the loophole in the law that might allow this convicted killer to be out on the streets in the near future. The judge explains the law to them, time and time again and urges them to keep trying to reach a unanimous conclusion. But, the day ends the same way as did the previous two days.

It's back to the office. Soup and scan. I don't't get home until after 7:30 PM and I am so beat that instead of my usual workout with the exercise bike and then dinner, I pour some scotch on the rocks and sit outside in the courtyard of my garden apartment. Sometimes my neighbors join me and we chat until dark when the mosquitoes drive us in. I grab a light snack and do some eMailing and get to bed early.

Friday, we gather outside the courtroom and everyone knows that today would end it. Sequestered juries will do anything to avoid being made to work on weekends. From time to time, the attornies for each side ask to see the judge and try to come up with a solution to the obvious impasse. But, nothing works. I am getting so whacky that I suggest to the Assistant DA that he offer a plea bargain of 72 hours of community service and get it over with. It is a lame attempt at humor and certainly not appropriate to the seriousness of what is going on. In one family, a young woman is dead. In another family, a young man is fighting for his life. I apologize for my lack of taste.

No NBC crew again, today. I go back to the diner and have an omelet. Late in the afternoon, the judge receives another note from the jury. He calls everyone back in and reads the note in the jury's presence. Their notes are getting weirder and weirder. One of the things they want is a definition of Murder. The judge tells them that they needn't worry about that. They had already taken care of that when they convicted the accused during the trial part of the case. He is convicted of Murder One and now they have to decide on the penalty. Their other two questions involve a lot of legal mumbo jumbo and the judge tries to explain the law to them and only succeeds in confusing everyone, including the lawyers. I call my office and tell them that I would work the next day, even though Saturday is my day off. I am certain that nothing would happen this day.

At four-thirty, the cable crew goes outside to get ready for their live shot at 5 PM. Their microwave truck is parked, mast up, in the parking lot. They had to forego their live shot the evening before when the lightning threatened to fry the truck and the crew who promptly lowered the mast.

At four-fortyfive, there is a flurry of activity as lawyers rush back into the courtroom.

"Another note?" I ask the assistant DA.

"THE note," he responds.

I grab my gear and made sure that my film is loaded properly and that my flash battery shows a good charge. The cable crew is nowhere in sight. They are oblivious of the latest development. I ask one of the court officers with whom I am very friendly, if someone could run outside and alert them to what is happening. He obliges and soon, a very out of breath cameraman and reporter (and snoring intern) take their places beside me, just outside the courtroom door. For a moment, it is quiet within the courtroom. And then there is a shriek from the mother of the convicted man as she hears her son sentenced to die.

It is another ten minutes before anyone leaves the courtroom, and then it is a blur. I chase the defense attorney and get a couple of shots of him before I have to turn to photograph the condemned man's mother who is being helped from the courtroom. Everyone is leaving in a hurry and I turn in time to get the murder victim's father. They are all just grab shots and soon everyone is gone and now the attorneys are allowing the tv and Newsday reporters to interview them. I am able to frame some better shots at this time and then it's back to the office. Another late day, but, at least it would be the last for this story.

Today is Saturday. I sleep late, get up and work out, at last on the bike. After a shower, I go up to the stationary story and get the paper. Over coffee and an english muffin, I see what ran with the story. There are photos on Page One. Not mine, though. They are file shots of the victim and a mug shot of the killer. On page three they run my shot of the killer's mother being helped down the hall. They were walking away from the camera. And the curtain had been rung down on this portion of the drama.

Judy LaValle stares out of the second floor window of Criminal Court in Riverhead where she has waited for many long hours as a jury ponders the life or death of her son, Stephen LaValle. The jury, which had already found LaValle guilty of the rape and stabbing death of Cynthia Quinn, has been hung up on legal issues in the penalty phase of the trial where they must decide whether he is to be sentenced to death or life in prison.

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