Chapter 33 Opening Statements
Thirty-Three
Opening Statements
I dressed myself in the dark. In a pencil skirt and cowl-neck sweater. I wanted to look respectable for the trial and, at the same time blend into the background. Be invisible. If only I had a cloaking device to activate. Like the spaceships in Star Wars.
Outside, my mom was waiting for me. When we arrived downtown, we parked in the courthouse’s underground parking garage.
We took an elevator and stepped out. A glass-ceilinged atrium spanned the distance between two building towers. In the center, a water fountain surrounded by spaced-apart trees burbled steadily. An indoor oasis in contrast to the Minnesota tundra outside.
Mom headed toward the tower to our right, where a line of people waited to get through security.
My stomach rolled.
“How long do you think the trial is going to last?” I asked Mom.
“I’m not sure. The lawyer said it will take the rest of the week, maybe more.”
We took the elevator up, and as we stepped out, there was Dad. He was dressed in one of his game-day suits, his hair neatly arranged, debonair and stately.
There were other people too. Some with bound notepads.
Dad took a sip of his coffee and noticed me. “Ade.” His deep voice sounded bright, cheerful, and he walked straight over to give me a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I gave him a stiff hug.
“So sorry about the other day,” he whispered into my hair. “So sorry about everything I’ve made you live through this past year.”
My heart leaped, and I squeezed him. So was I.
Gray Holton appeared next. Taller than my dad, he looked regal in a gray suit that matched his hair and, of course, matched his name. He patted my dad on the back. “Are you ready, Coach?”
Gray took my dad aside and started talking to him in a low tone. Mom went in search of a bathroom, so I was stuck all by myself.
The people with the notepads kept staring at my dad, so I drew back into the corner. I didn’t like them.
My mom came back from the bathroom.
“Who are those people who keep looking at Dad?” I asked her.
“Reporters. They’ve been lurking all week.”
A slight chill crawled up my arms. “They don’t have cameras, do they?”
“No. Cameras aren’t allowed.”
That was right. Gray had told me before. Thank God. The last thing I needed was to be plastered all over television or in a newspaper.
“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.
Finally, she ended by telling the jury, “This, members of the jury, is what corruption in college hockey looks like.”
Gray stood, and I straightened.
He buttoned the top button of his jacket, came out from behind the table, and stood there, somber, engaging. He had a presence about him. A you-can-trust-me-to-tell-you-what’s-really-going-on-here posture.
“Thank you, members of the jury, for coming today.” Gray took the time to make eye contact with each person in the jury box.
“We know there are other places you would rather be, but your service this week is greatly appreciated and wholly recognized.” He paced away from the lectern and then back again.
“Let me start this morning by stating something that needs clarification. I’m not going to waste everyone’s time pretending that money was never wired to families of athletes.
Because it was. There is evidence. What I am going to explain to you is that the NCAA has rules, created by members of their organization.
But these rules—these NCAA-derived rules—are not the laws of our country.
The NCAA is run much like a youth soccer league, if that soccer league brought in millions of dollars each year.
Millions of dollars they have no interest in sharing.
And these rules…they are equivalent to the rules in your homeowners association.
If you break them, you haven’t broken the law. ”
I straightened a little. It was a good start. I’d give him that.
As I scanned the jury, I noticed they were all middle-aged except for one girl who looked like she’d just stepped out of an EDM nightclub with her fake-animal-fur collar, tight dress, and dark eye makeup.
“Because, members of the jury”—he raised a hand in the air and shook it—“that is exactly what happened here. My client, David Bianchini, may have broken the rules of an athletic organization, but he did not commit a crime.” Gray walked to the table and picked up a white sheet of paper.
“The boosters who were mentioned by the prosecution just now weren’t from a youth booster club raising money from raffle tickets.
The mentioned booster is a billion-dollar company.
While the NCAA allows colleges to be sponsored by Fortune 500 athletic companies, they do not allow athletes being recruited by the college to be paid by the sponsors to play.
Sure, there are the name, image, and likeness contract rules now in place, but those NIL rules cannot induce an athlete to enroll in or stay at a particular school.
So, let’s sift through this. What kinds of companies are we talking about here, who sponsor colleges?
” He looked down at the piece of paper to read names.
“Nike, Adidas, Under Armour. As you very well know, these companies are interested in the athletic success of the colleges they sponsor.”
He waved the paper in the air. “What happened here is exactly that. Achilles Incorporated, a billion-dollar company and sponsor of Minnesota University, wired money to families of top players so they would attend a specific school. It was a win-win-win situation that benefited all parties involved—the university by securing highly ranked athletes, Achilles Incorporated by placing top players at Achilles-sponsored schools and the athletes and their families by receiving the money.”
He returned the paper to the table.
The jury stared back at him, seeming mesmerized. He really did know how to speak to them to keep their full, on-the-edge-of-their-seats attention.
“Of course a coach might appear to be culpable in some way. Coaches are the ones trying to find talent for the team, but they’re also the ones who care deeply about the welfare of their players.”
He paused and shifted his weight from the front of his toes to his heels.
“Let’s be clear here, folks. The money given to these families wasn’t David Bianchini’s money.
He never asked anyone for money. It wasn’t university money.
The evidence will show that the money that was wired or attempted to be wired to the families of players was from Achilles Incorporated. ”
My face was burning, hot and steamy. Wow. Could the overachieving prosecutor be wasting everyone’s time and public resources on my father? Could it be the big, bad, wealthy corporations that were to blame?
“Members of the jury”—Gray’s voice was louder now—“if my client never gave his recruits money, never asked anyone to give his recruits money, then how can he be guilty?” He lifted his arm and pointed at Dad, which also meant he was pointing at me and my mom. I sank back a little.
“Rather, he is a loving husband, a supportive father, and a devoted coach.”
I kept my face as motionless as I could. Supportive father was debatable.
Gray squared his shoulders and turned back to the jury, who were now looking at me as I shrank in my seat. “My client isn’t guilty of a crime. The only thing he is guilty of is trying to be the best coach he could possibly be.”
He walked back to his chair and sat down with a flourish.
Dad pulled his shoulders back into place.
My immediate instinct was to stand and cheer. Let loose a shout and a whistle. I loved Gray.
But wait. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Quickly, I tamped down my emotions like I was being rolled over by heavy machinery used to flatten dirt.
There was a lunch break. The jurors retired to whatever room existed behind the wall, and the judge went to her chambers.
Mom whispered to me, “I think things are going really well.”
I nodded. I didn’t know what to think, what to feel. The district attorney’s opening had been convincing, but Gray’s had been so good.
After lunch, court resumed. The jury looked refreshed and ready to do their job. Judge Thomas looked on passively.
The prosecutor stood up at her table. “Your Honor, the US would like to call our first witness to the stand.”
The judge nodded.
I heard the doors creak open.
“The prosecution calls Mr. Dallas Reynolds.”