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  As a result of this news release, Quinella Poindexter, a prominent Chicago defense attorney, had come forward from her private practice, offering PUSH pro bono legal support from her LaSalle Street firm for “The Fleischman Five,” as the Chicago Sun-Times had labeled the alleged attackers of Manny Fleischman.

  When the Cook County State’s Attorney’s Office had failed in its attempt earlier in the 702 hearing to try the boys as adults, the State’s Attorney’s office had immediately petitioned Judge Parson’s court to try each individually for Fleischman’s murder. However, when the petition had come up for review another week later, Poindexter had argued and won in her preliminary hearing that the defendants should stand trial as one. A week later, she had dealt the prosecution another blow in winning the court’s rejection of the State’s 702 appeal to try the juveniles as adults.

  Once Poindexter had won these critical battles for the defense, she returned the defense of the five boys back over to Public Defender Siegel, having convinced Pick’s Aunt Della and the other boys’ relatives that this was in their best interest. Siegel’s “whiteness,” as Poindexter had called it, would be, in her words, “Beneficial to convincing the court that this is not a case about black versus white but a clear case of misidentification and misinformation on the part of the Chicago police, the Cook County State’s Attorney’s office, and by their only eyewitness.”

  Preferring to take her chances with the long-time Juvenile Court Judge Parsons, whom she knew to be a fair and honest member of the bench, Poindexter, and later Siegel, chose to downplay the racial sensitivity of the crime.

  Newspapers stories, however, had continued to dwell on the race issue, since the eyewitness was black, too. To Poindexter’s knowledge, Parson’s, also black, was beyond reproach—she had been quoted in the Chicago Tribune as having called him “an uncompromising stickler for upholding the letter of the law” and she believed in his ability to find truth and justice, a rare commodity in Cook County’s legal system. She knew him to be one of the fairest and most honest judges serving on the bench and she knew that Parsons’s judicial modus operandi would not allow his courtroom to be influenced by the cultural issues muddling this case.

  The prosecution presented its opening arguments in the Fleischman murder trial on September 1, 1975, less than two months after Manny’s interment in a family plot in Oak Woods Cemetery. Cook County Assistant State’s Attorney Ron Spencer presented the prosecution’s opening arguments. The bench trial began in front of a courtroom filled with family representatives of both the defendants and the victim at 1100 South Hamilton Avenue in the Juvenile Court Building of Cook County. But Spencer didn’t get to deliver his opening until presiding Judge Parsons had given these instructions to attorneys on both sides of the aisle as an overflowing gallery looked on:

  “Understanding the publicity that has already surrounded this trial and due to the notoriety of the victim, I am going to take great strides in precluding this court from turning into a media circus. As my first order of duty, I’m declaring a gag order on all court participants in these proceedings, prohibiting any direct or indirect interaction with the news media.”

  When the attendees loudly scowled their displeasure, the veteran judge gaveled the courtroom back to order. “I’ll have the bailiffs remove anyone in my courtroom participating in another outburst such as that. Do not test my patience!”

  Parsons understood the gravity of maintaining secret the juvenile eyewitness’s identity and his family’s safety throughout the trial. But keeping this information undisclosed had somehow been compromised when a portion of the porch at the rear of the Overstreet’s basement flat had been set on fire by a Molotov cocktail just days after a Chicago Daily News headline announced: BRONZEVILLE BOY WHO WITNESSED BLACK SOX MURDER COMES FORWARD.

  A few days later, Earl Overstreet had found a dead cat, sliced and mutilated, lying outside the door to their basement flat. Cook County Sheriff’s Deputies were baffled at how this second threat could have taken place since they had stood guard 24/7 outside the family’s apartment after the firebombing incident. But it was clear they were woefully unprepared to deal with the unique challenges brought forth by gang retribution in the ‘hood. When yet another threat was phoned in to the Chicago Tribune, deputies decided to roust the family in the middle of the night and move them to a suburban safe house. Although safer, the family found themselves residing in a run-down apartment complex thirty miles from their neighborhood and home where they had lived for the past sixteen years.

  As a result, James was not able to continue his last year at the Jackie Robinson Language Academy. His dream of attending DuSable High School, where his deceased friend Manny Fleischman had taught for so many years, would also vanish.

  As well, Earl Overstreet was forced to give up his part-time job at Comiskey Park for the remainder of the season. That was because he spent most of his time at the State’s Attorney’s Office, driving his son back and forth, and helping him prep for the trial.

  Once the actual trial started, the county provided transportation for the family as they made the daily commute from the distant suburban location to court. Deputies picked them up at eight in the morning in order to make sure they arrived in plenty of time before Judge Parsons gaveled the court to order promptly at ten a.m. each day for the next thirteen weeks.

  As things would turn out, the number thirteen would be an unlucky number indeed for the Overstreet family.

  CHAPTER 20

  THIRTEEN WEEKS LATER

  Promptly after Judge Parsons announced the “Not Guilty” verdict, acquitting Pick and four other defendants of the murder of Manny Fleischman, the Cook County Juvenile Courtroom erupted. Looking over the aisle at the defendants and their families as they celebrated their victory, James Overstreet couldn’t help but feel utter disbelief. More so, though, he felt betrayed by the law and order system. James wasn’t sure why these killers were set free—a “loophole” is what he would later hear it be called by the main prosecuting lawyer, Ron Spencer.

  How could these guys get away with murder? he asked himself, knowing they were guilty. He had seen them commit the crime himself. The other lawyers on the prosecution’s team, as well as the cops, had all told James and his family the case was “a dunker.” James had seen the gang stop Fleischman in broad daylight, the lawyers had reminded the family, and observed the crime firsthand a very short distance from the attack. The prosecutors had the bat with traces, albeit minute, of Fleischman’s blood type on it when police found it in Pick’s possession less than forty-eight hours after the crime had been committed. And, James had positively IDed the weapon as his own Dick Allen bat, the bat Pick had taken from him a week before the Fleischman attack.

  James also didn’t understand why the confessions of all the boys had been thrown out of court and made inadmissible. All he remembered was how angry his father had become when Assistant State’s Attorney Dushane, who was in the room when Pick was interrogated and had personally heard his confession, called Earl Overstreet several weeks before the trial started and told him that the killer’s statement would not be admissible in court. Pick’s defense attorney had successfully argued in pretrial hearings, Dushane said, that the confessions be declared inadmissible since an attorney, nor parent or guardian, nor anyone from the Chicago Police Department’s Youth Division—which was required by law if the previous two parties were not available—had not been present when he and Detective Boscorelli had questioned Pick.

  “Not admissible? Not admissible?” Earl had shouted, banging the phone’s handset down on the receiver after speaking to the assistant state’s attorney. He circled the living room where his family sat watching TV.

  “What’s not admissible?” Eva asked him. “Who was that, Earl?”

  “Dushane. He called about that gangbanger Pick’s confession. Judge Parsons threw it out. Ruled it was ‘illegally obtained.’ Says that killer’s ‘rights were violated.’ Legal mumbo jumbo. That’s all it is!�
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  “How could they let this happen?” Eva asked, the news bringing a crackling sound to her voice. “My boy, Earl. They gotta protect my baby!”

  James had remembered his daddy—a big and proud man, not afraid of anything or anyone—shaking his head as he lowered it to his chest, muttering to himself as he walked out of their basement apartment, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him so hard that it shattered its glass.

  “Yes!” the acquitted Pick shouted and pumped his fist into the air. Tyrone Witherspoon, Pokie Turner, Bertrand Jones, and Bobby DeSadier all jumped up, too. Once again free, they shouted and hugged each other, as did those from their families, who had taken seats in the gallery directly behind them throughout the entire trial.

  “Rangers rule! Rangers rule! Rangers rule!” supporters shouted.

  On the opposite side of the aisle the silent James sat between his mother and father. Eva had cried out when the judge read aloud his decision to the packed courtroom, joined by her husband, Earl. James turned and stared into the jubilant crowd across the aisle. His eye caught sight of Julius Clark, Pick’s older cousin. As their gazes locked on each other, Julius drew a finger under his throat in a slitting motion. James wasn’t sure if anyone had seen the threatening gesture. Then Cook County Sheriff’s Deputies grabbed him and whisked him out through the front door of the courtroom.

  “This is an outrage!” cried Bobbi Fenton, Manny’s daughter, right before her husband, Lars, caught her as she collapsed in his arms. The rest of Fleischman’s family sat stunned. Newspaper reporters dashed from the room, no doubt in an effort to reach the nearest pay phone, hoping there still might be time to meet the deadline for the late evening editions of their respective papers. Electronic news media people, too, began to set up lights in the hallway to capture footage for their evening broadcasts. During the commotion, deputies hustled the remainder of the Overstreet family out of the courtroom and toward a doorway to a small room across the hall.

  “What will happen to James?” a reporter shouted as the underguard family pushed their way through the crowd of reporters and spectators who had jammed the hallway.

  “Where are you taking them?” shouted another, jabbing a microphone out in front of Earl.

  “No comment, no comment,” fired back Assistant State’s Attorney Ron Spencer, leading the entourage.

  “Out of the way folks. Out of the way,” one of the deputies said, shoving aside reporters so he could open the door to the room.

  Once they were all inside, Spencer stood in front of them, straightened his red silk tie, and addressed the family. “Folks, I’m terribly sorry about this but I don’t have time to discuss what went wrong. The most important thing right now is to get James to safety. I don’t think it’s a good idea for anyone to go back to either apartment tonight. We’re going to get a van and have it waiting for you in the lower-level garage.”

  “You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say is ‘you’re sorry?’” Eva yelled. She then turned to her husband with venomous eyes. “It’s your fault, Earl. It’s your entire fault. I told you James should keep his mouth shut. Police never been good to any kin of mine,” she shouted. “Now what? We can’t even go back to our home. Now what, Earl?”

  James watched his daddy pace back and forth on the room’s terrazzo floor, his heels clicking a tedious tap. Spencer’s emotionless words had quickly vanished against the room’s bare plaster walls, still echoing from Eva’s tirade.

  The attorney had blown the case. James knew it. Moreover, he knew his parents knew it.

  The only option left for Earl was to get his family to safety. He realized, though, that Spencer still controlled the destiny of the Overstreets, leaving the once proud and doting father feeling emasculated.

  As Spencer dragged on his filter-tipped cigarette, beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. He turned and moved toward one of the sheriff’s deputies, standing a few feet behind him. The man, Chester Borwinski, had been the Overstreets’s main bodyguard during the trial. It looked to Earl, as he paced on the other side of the room, that Borwinski wanted to be as far away as possible from the losing attorney. As Spencer came up to Borwinski, he leaned in close toward him and spoke through his exhale of smoke. Earl overheard Spencer tell Borwinski, “I think it would be best if we moved them right away. I’ll go call my office to get the paperwork going. Like I said, I don’t even want them going back to their apartment for their stuff.”

  In a still small voice barely above a whisper, James’s eight year-old sister asked, “Daddy, when can we go back to our home?”

  After the girl’s faint plea to her father, Spencer dipped out of the room, leaving Borwinski alone with the family.

  Borwinski took a deep swallow and then spoke. “Okay, folks, just sit tight now. Mister Spencer will be back in a moment. Can I get anyone a glass of water?”

  Over the thirteen weeks of the trial, Earl felt the sheriff’s deputy had become more caretaker than protector of the patriarch’s family. Borwinski had become very close to the Overstreets inasmuch as one could during the omnipresent tension of a murder trial. Earl had watched many times throughout the last few weeks of the trial how his youngest daughter had often played a game with the deputy, tugging on his nose.

  “Missus O, ma’am. How ‘bout you? Can I have one of my men bring you a cool drink? Would you like that?”

  Eva looked up and shook her head, barely mouthing the words, “No, thank you.”

  “Okay. Well then bathroom’s back there on your left. Like I said, State’s Attorney Spencer’ll be right back. He had to make a call. Long trial for all of us, I know. Just ain’t right what happened in there. Just ain’t right.”

  Earl appreciated the deputy’s heartfelt expression. Yet, his stilted words were not quite adequate for the job. Earl knew the deputy had spent extra time, much of it on his own, to get to know each one of them as he and his men shuffled them back and forth, morning and night, from their apartment. He had watched Borwinski pay close personal attention to the individual needs of his family and knew the old-timer’s heart ached for all of them, particularly for James.

  “Just sit tight now. I’ll be right outside the door here with the other deputies. You’re safe in here now. Okay?”

  Borwinski left the room, closing the door behind him. Outside in the hallway, his two deputies had taken their places, rigid armed sentinels, guarding the room’s only entrance. He spoke to them. “It’s a cryin’ shame what’s happened to these folks. State’s attorney really screwed the pooch on this one. I seen a lotta things in my forty years but this one tops them all. The system’s broke when it lets killers get away scot-free and the eyewitness gets the shaft. Just ain’t right.” Borwinski shook his head and rubbed his chin, then placed both hands on his hips. “I’ll radio the office to bring up an unmarked van and we’ll take ‘em all outta here as soon as Spencer gives us the order of where to move them. I want you to take them down through the basement,” he instructed his men.

  Spencer, cigarette dangling from his lips, returned from his phone call and met Borwinski and his men in the hallway. “Okay, here’s the plan. You’re gonna drive them to O’Hare. I’ll meet you guys out there at the airport and take over from there. I’ve got a Chicago blue-and-white en route to escort your van.”

  “Just ain’t right what’s happening to these folks, Ron,” Borwinski told him.

  “Just do your job, Borwinski, and I’ll do mine. Okay?”

  “Well, maybe if you did your job, these folks wouldn’t be in any danger and those gangbangers would be behind bars right now.”

  “I did my job. The police didn’t do theirs so there’s not much I could have done. I can only try the case with the evidence presented and the CPD screwed up this one royal.”

  “You’re blaming the cops? You’re supposed to be a team. You think someone in your office would have listened better to the boy’s story, taken him back to the scene of the crime—”

  “Don’t you think I feel
terrible we lost this case? That an innocent man died and now an even more innocent boy’s life will never be the same? I don’t have time to spar with you, Deputy. Just have the van ready and get these folks down the back stairway. And keep ‘em away from those fucking reporters out front.”

  Spencer reentered the cramped, stale-aired room. Earl paced the floor in front of his family with his arms folded tight across his chest, shaking his head left and right. Tears streamed down Eva’s face. James sat next to her, as he did throughout the entire trial, but now slumped in his chair. Earl watched his family’s wounded faces stare at the attorney as he closed the door behind him.

  “How you gonna protect my boy now?” Earl demanded. “Where will my family be safe? Where are we gonna live?”

  “That’s complicated,” Spencer replied.

  “Complicated? What the hell do you mean, ‘complicated’?” Earl demanded. “I tell you what’s complicated. Explaining how my fist ended up in your face.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mister Overstreet?” Spencer asked, picking up his briefcase and holding it in front of him as if to shield himself from Earl’s imminent attack.

  “Where are you takin’ my family?” Earl demanded.

  “Arizona. We have a very safe place we can relocate you and—”

  “Arizona?” Earl eyes popped. “What in the name of the sweet lord Jesus you talkin’ ‘bout?”

  Without answering, Spencer turned and rushed out of the room. In the hallway, Borwinski shouted into his handheld radio for deputies to bring a van to the front of the courthouse where he would meet them. Hearing this, the reporters left the hallway, following him as they pushed to be the first to meet the vehicle at the curb. Borwinski’s decoy statement did its trick. With the hall-way cleared of reporters, Borwinski’s other two deputies opened the door to the room holding the Overstreets and escorted them out to a back staircase that led down to the building’s basement garage.