Page 91 of More Than Chemical
“Also, Gray told your father and me that we—the family—should not speak to the media at all. Even if they ask questions. We need to walk away or say ‘No comment.’ Gray has told them that we are hands off, but he says to be careful. He’ll be our spokesperson if he has to be.”
Fine by me.
Finally, we—Gray, Dad, Mom, and I—walked into the courtroom together. Two bailiffs were already inside and barely glanced at us. A clerk sat at a desk to the side of the bench, typing away on a computer. Gray and Dad headed to the defendant’s table to take a seat. My mom and I settled in directly behind them.
The notepad lurkers sat behind us.
When I’d imagined attending the trial, this wasn’t what I’d pictured. The courtroom was smaller, more intimate. Like a classroom, not a place to decide a man’s fate. Even the jurors’ chairs—two rows, one behind the other—were not so far away from us.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and looked to my left. The prosecuting attorney was standing next to her table. I hadn’t noticed her walk in. She was young and gave off a type A vibe with her small, eagle-like features, boring black pant suit, and intense expression.
A bailiff called out, “All rise.”
I looked around as everyone got to their feet, and I scrambled to mine.
The deep voice spoke again. “The Honorable Eleanor Thomas presiding.”
A woman in a black robe came floating in, her glasses sitting low on the bridge of her nose. She sat down with a sigh, tucked in her chin, and scanned the room over the top of her lenses. “Please be seated.”
She was probably in her mid to late fifties and seemed no-nonsense, but at the same time, I could see some warmth in her eyes.
“Today we start with opening statements, and hopefully we can make good headway into testimony. Before I let the jury in, I want everyone to understand that this is a court of law. Please keep quiet during proceedings and out in the hallway during recesses. We do not want any of the jurors hearing something they should not. Also, make sure your cell phones are turned off.”
She paused.
I pulled out my cell and turned on airplane mode. It was nine-oh-six a.m.
“Good, please let the jury in.”
My mouth went dry. Things were moving too fast.
Dad was writing down notes. Gray stood and tapped him on the shoulder. My dad joined him, and as the jury filed into the room, both Dad and Gray smiled at them, Gray even nodding a hello to each juror before he and Dad sat back down.
I scanned the seven men and five women who held my father’s fate in their hands. They would decide his innocence or guilt. It made me feel faint.
The judge spoke to the jury, and then the prosecutor stood to give her opening statement.
I chewed on my hangnails.Ick.I knew. I was just that nervous, and I didn’t understand why. I wasn’t supposed to care about any of this. My dad’s future didn’t matter to me.
But it did.
The prosecutor began, her voice monotone and slow. “Deep down inside us, in the moral fiber of our community, we believe it to be true that athletic coaches are role models who hold important positions in schools and universities.”
She was hitting on the point that had kept me up at night all these months. Unable to fall asleep, tossing and turning because I’d always believed my dad to be that kind of man. Even if he had found himself in a desperate situation, didn’t he have the kind of embedded moral code that would tell him bribing people was wrong?
“But this is not what the defendant, Coach Bianchini, embodied in his tenure,” she continued. “What he did was conspire to funnel money to families of recruits, and then conceal the scheme.”
I slid down in my seat. Put that way, it sounded bad.
“Members of the jury, you will hear testimony and evidence proving guilt in the charges of bribery conspiracy, solicitation of bribes, honest services fraud conspiracy, honest services fraud, and conspiracy to commit wire fraud. The defendant”—she glanced my dad’s way—“was a popular university hockey coach for over ten years. He wasn’t just popular within the university, but also statewide, where he had, in his relatively short career, won more games season over season than any other coach in school’s history. But how he won those games, it was discovered, was more than on his coaching talent—he won those games by bribing the best hockey players and their families to come play for him.”
Mom looked at me, her face pale. I was trying hard not to feel anything, but there was no denying the nausea churning in my stomach.
“You will hear testimony that Mr. Bianchini directed payments to be made to families of recruits from a booster group and had the money wired to families as a consulting fee. Then he would instruct the families not to say anything to the university.”
I couldn’t imagine what was going through my dad’s head. But somehow he appeared unaffected. Solid, statuesque. I wondered what Gray had up his sleeve, because if I were a juror, I’d believe everything the prosecutor was saying.
She kept talking, hashing and rehashing the points she’d already made. I thought if she’d stopped earlier, her statements would have been more effective. But how should I know? I was no lawyer. I was an engineering student on the verge of failing.
