He Killed Them All Read online

  He said, “This is New Orleans. We don’t do special treatment for the press. We’re so corrupt down here, unless you know somebody, you’re not getting anywhere.”

  “But now I know you!” I said hopefully.

  He said, “You can come to my office in the morning before the hearing.”

  I flew down alone and checked into the Saint, a boutique hotel only two blocks from the JW Marriott. My producer Tim Lauer got there before me. He met me at the Saint around 8:00 p.m. We went to Acme Oysters and I ate fried soft-shelled crabs with sweet potato fries, which I would absolutely order again. And again. And again. My mood at dinner was flying high. I was just bouncing off the walls with excitement that the judge would finally lock Durst up and throw away the key.

  In the morning, as planned, I met with Chris Bowman. It was kind of interesting going into the Orleans Parish DA’s office. They had the same kind of cubbies, the same type of coffee mugs, the piles of paperwork and hardworking, good people with family photos on their desks. It made me a little nostalgic. It didn’t matter if you were in New Orleans or in NYC, you felt the diligence of the cops and ADAs, and the pain of the victims on whose behalf they crusaded. It was comfortably uncomfortable, like having déjà vu.

  I told Chris, “You know you have the best job in the world.” He didn’t disagree.

  We chatted in his office while he drank some coffee. It was super-early, 7:30 a.m. I’d already done a hit for Fox & Friends and was in full makeup. Durst wasn’t scheduled to appear in court for another two hours.

  “My boss said he’ll talk to you,” announced Chris, and he brought me into Leon Cannizzaro Jr.’s office, which also reminded me of my old one in Westchester.

  The DA, a cool guy, went over exactly what was going on. He spoke in a language I understood. Los Angeles had an indictment for murder. Cannizzaro hadn’t yet indicted him for drug and gun charges. If he did, it would most likely delay Durst’s extradition to Los Angeles.

  If I were in Cannizzaro’s shoes, what would I do? I would love to see Durst stand trial for Susan Berman’s murder. But, then again, Cannizzaro had the bird in hand—bird in cage. Durst couldn’t finagle his way out of the gun charge if it were made against him. I hesitated to use the phrase “slam dunk,” of course.

  I told Leon about the odyssey I’d been through with Durst, from reopening the case to the present day. Cannizzaro and I had a long, good conversation. At the end of it, I said, “What do you think you’re going to do?”

  He said, “I don’t know. We can get some good time on the gun here if we indict him.” Ten years, maybe twenty if his history was taken into consideration. Durst would be eighty-two when he got out, if he lived that long.

  I said, “Well, yours would certainly be easier than the murder case.”

  We agreed on that.

  I said good-bye to Chris and Leon and joined Tim to walk over to the courtroom. I saw some of my media pals who, like me, had traversed the country chasing these stories. It was colder than expected (wasn’t Louisiana supposed to be hot in April?), but I felt a certain warmth among the producers and reporters I’d gotten to be close with over the years. They all knew what Durst’s downward spiral meant to me, personally and professionally. It felt real this time, as if nothing was going to stop the inevitable. I wasn’t the first journalist to arrive, but I got a spot in the front row.

  The New Orleans courtroom was large, with a lot of deep, rich mahogany, right out of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. On the wall was their slogan, “Union, Justice, Confidence.” The room was oddly organized. You entered behind and alongside the judge’s bench, and the counsel tables were off to the side. In front of the defendants stood a glass partition. They waited there for their turn in court. The spectators sat opposite the counsel tables. The layout was different from what I was familiar with. But who cares? It was a courtroom. I’d rather be here than anywhere else.

  I hadn’t personally eyeballed Durst since Pennsylvania in 2001. The Jinx was filmed two years ago. I was curious to see what he looked like now.

  Right on time, Durst was brought into the court with several other prisoners. They stood together behind the glass partition in their orange jumpsuits and shackles.

  Durst looked alarmingly small. Just minuscule. There was nothing to him. Had his bulimia flared up again (did he live on Metamucil or had ipecac been shipped to him from Susan Giordano?), or was his weight loss due to the cancer treatment? Either way, he appeared weak. A kitten could take him. I stared at my nemesis, this pathetic, bald, broken-down codger. He seemed to have aged twenty years since The Jinx.

  If his insides festered with evil, it showed on the outside.

  He did his usual thousand-mile stare, not making eye contact with anyone.

  I knew he had a shunt in his head to drain the fluid in his brain, but I couldn’t see it from where I was seated.

  And then I spotted Dick DeGuerin, no cowboy hat today, cheeks and nose spotty and inflamed, reminding me of every alcoholic I’ve ever known. He saw me and scowled, radiating contempt.

  I thought, This guy is still pissed off? He won his case by selling me as a “mythical character” to the half-wit Texas jury. I had every right to be furious at him. But the fact that I was still nipping at his heels was too much for his ego. He seemed to resent me, and the world that couldn’t keep women down on the farm or in the barn.

  I grinned at him, and he turned beet red. Maybe he had high blood pressure. Maybe he swilled too much moonshine. Maybe he sat in front of too many campfires. I don’t know! I did wonder if he was going to have a heart attack, and if it might be insensitive to film it for my show.

  Durst took a seat next to DeGuerin, and the hearing began.

  The prosecutor stood up and told the court that we’d gathered to determine if Robert Durst was a flight risk, a danger to himself and others, and should be denied bail.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” said DeGuerin suddenly. “May we make an opening statement?”

  The defense and the ADA went back and forth, standard bail-hearing-type stuff. I loved the ADA, Mark Burton. He could have been any one of my guys, Murphy, O’Donnell, Duffy. Sometimes, it seemed like every guy in law enforcement was Irish, whether they were in New York or New Orleans. The fighting Irish. God, I love ’em.

  Magistrate Judge Harry Cantrell, a large, tall, bald black man with a graying mustache and glasses, asked to hear the prosecution witnesses. ADA Burton said, “Well, we only have Investigator O’Hearn.” The investigator who’d worked with the team that arrested Durst.

  O’Hearn took the stand. Burton said, “Can you tell us about this case?”

  The investigator said, “Well, back in 1982, Mr. Durst’s first wife, Kathleen Durst, was listed as a missing person . . .”

  He went on and gave a brief history of Durst’s thirty-three-year crime spree. I sat there thinking, What does any of this have to do with gun charges in New Orleans? My antenna went up.

  Burton asked, “Jeanine Pirro. Who is that?”

  Oh, shit, I thought. Did I just hear my name? Why is my name even being mentioned? What is going on? I told myself to relax, it’s nothing. It’ll pass, like a bad cramp. What was he bringing me up for? I have nothing to do with New Orleans.

  Forget the antenna. The bells of Notre Dame were clanging in my head now.

  O’Hearn said, “She was the Westchester district attorney in the office at that time.”

  “And she made statements that it was going to be reopened?”

  I never made any statements! Becerra talked to the press, not me. I tried to remain calm. I had to tell myself to stay seated, because I was ready to jump up and shout, “You’re wrong!”

  The next question from the prosecutor was, “At that time, did the New York Times do an exposé?”

  O’Hearn answered, “Yeah, the Times, the Daily News, and People magazine.”

  “And it was public knowledge the case was being reopened?” asked Burton.

  At
this point, DeGuerin said, “Excuse me, Your Honor. I wasn’t aware the questioning was going to take that turn.”

  You and me both! I thought. For once, I may agree with you. Before I could give him credit for that, he proved himself to be as full of Texas horseshit as ever.

  He announced, “There is a potential witness in the courtroom—Jeanine Pirro. I’d like to have her sworn and placed under the rule.”

  Whatever does that even mean? Under the rule? Did he want me to be sequestered, like a witness?

  Apparently so. Judge Cantrell said, “All right, Mr. DeGuerin has filed a motion for sequestration. If Ms. Pirro is going to testify, I’m going to ask you to step outside.”

  You? How does he even know I’m here? Remember, the bench was in front of me. Unless he had a third eye on the side of his head, how could he know I sat in the courtroom?

  Burton said, “I’m not going to call her as a witness.”

  DeGuerin said, “Well, I am.”

  What the fuck is he going to call me about? I had no knowledge of the gun at the Marriott.

  It was completely surreal. Was I in a New Orleans courtroom or the Twilight Zone? I knew some voodoo shit was going on.

  The judge asked DeGuerin, “You are?”

  Dick straightened himself up and said, “Yes.”

  I was stiff with rage. I’m a witness for the defense? Fucking A!

  Everyone in the room was looking at me, so the judge knew where to turn his head to actually see me. He said, “You’ll have to leave the courtroom.”

  Well, I grabbed my Chanel bag, smiled, and walked out, thinking, I’ve been thrown out of better courtrooms than this sideways dump!

  I kept my head up, maintained an air about me, and went outside into the hallway. Immediately, I started working my phone. I called Dianne Brandi, a lawyer for Fox, and got her voicemail. I called Bill Shine, the head honcho under Roger Ailes, and got his voicemail. Then I called Rich Weill, my former chief ADA, who knew this case inside and out and now worked with one of the most famous attorneys of our time, David Boies, and got his voicemail. Pick up your phones, people!

  Dianne called back and I explained what had happened, not that I had any clue what the hell had just gone down in there. She asked, “Why would they call you?”

  I said, “I have no idea! I can’t take the witness stand right now. I have to look at reports! I have to refresh my memory!”

  Dianne said, “Leave the courthouse. They may very well serve you.”

  “No!” I was not going to be chased out of there by Dick DeGuerin. He’d tried to make me a witness in the Galveston trial and he was doing it all over again. Why does this guy have so many issues with me? That time, I was ordered to stay quiet. This time, I was not going to be silenced. I wasn’t afraid of them, and I was not leaving. I’d come down to see Durst and to cover the story. This was my job.

  She said, “Jeanine, leave the courthouse.”

  “I’m not leaving!”

  This went back and forth for a while.

  She said she’d send local Fox lawyers to the courthouse to help me.

  Meanwhile, Rich Weill called back. He said, “They can’t throw you out. They have to serve you. And if you’re a former prosecutor or member of law enforcement, you’re entitled to a certain number of days’ notice. And you’re there as a reporter, so you have First Amendment rights.”

  I said, “Absolutely.” You go, Rich!

  There was a commotion in the hallway. DA Leon Cannizzaro was walking toward the courtroom door, surrounded by ADAs, bodyguards, the whole entourage I used to travel around with. I shouted “Leon!” to him, but he breezed straight into the courtroom. I assumed he’d gotten word of what had just happened and came to check it out for himself.

  A reporter from ABC approached me with a camera crew and asked for an interview right now. So did a crew from NBC.

  A reporter from the Los Angeles Times popped up and asked for an interview, too.

  I said, “I’m not talking to anybody until the judge makes a decision.”

  She said, “We can go right outside! We can go in a corner!”

  My adrenaline was skyrocketing. I politely told them all I had other things to deal with at the moment.

  Tim Lauer, the producer, was on his first trip with me. He didn’t know what to do. “Here’s my credit card,” I said. “Buy me some chocolate, a Peppermint Pattie, Junior Mints, anything, just get me chocolate!” He turned his head to leave and I yelled, “Tim! Forget the chocolate. Get in the courtroom and find out what they’re saying!”

  Right about then, the local attorneys hired by Fox, a woman named Mary Ellen Roy and a gentleman by the name of Dan Zimmerman, found me in the hallway.

  “What do you want to do?” asked Mary Ellen. “You have a right to be in that courtroom. Do you want to go back in?”

  I said, “Of course!”

  Chris Bowman suddenly appeared in the mayhem, and said, “I have an application for the court!” He held up a few sheets of paper. “I’m going in, right now,” he said, ready to present his hastily composed memo to the judge. The guy was my knight in shining armor.

  He let me scan the paper. It was a thing of beauty. He made four main points:

  1. There is no indication that the putative witness has been served with the motion. Basically, that means that I hadn’t been properly served.

  2. The information sought from Ms. Pirro does not constitute “essential” information. That means that whatever I knew about the far-reaching history of Durst’s crimes was irrelevant to the issue of whether Durst should be denied bail.

  3. The defendant has made no affirmative showing that the purpose of the subpoena is not to harass Ms. Pirro. The dream team did this throughout the Morris Black pretrial and trial (and are still doing it).

  4. The defense has made no affirmative showing that the information cannot be obtained through practical alternative means. This point is that DeGuerin was trying to keep me out when he simply didn’t have to, just to be a blowhard.

  It was splendid. In Galveston, I’d been used and lied about by the defense. The jury, the judge, and the media bought it. As I looked around at all these people in New Orleans who refused to let DeGuerin pull his stunts in their city, I realized that the tide had turned.

  I couldn’t wait to get back into court. I said, “Let’s hit it!”

  Tim was stunned by me in general, and he sure hadn’t seen anything like this before. He looked terrified. I told him he could now go to the newsstand and get those Peppermint Patties.

  I followed Chris back into the courtroom. A half hour had gone by since I was ejected.

  As I came through the door, the court officer whispered to me, “You’re not allowed in here.”

  I said, “Watch me,” with a smile.

  Since I entered behind and alongside the bench, it took a while for the judge to realize I was there. They were in the middle of testimony. I walked around to the front so he could see me and said, “Your Honor, my lawyers are here. We need to have a legal argument.”

  Judge Cantrell looked over his glasses at me and said, “Didn’t I order you out of the courtroom?”

  I said, “Yes, but I’m a lawyer. I’m here to argue.”

  He said, “No you’re not.”

  My Fox lawyers from Phelps Dunbar came forward and said, “Your Honor, I’m Mary Ellen Roy. I represent Jeanine Pirro.” I liked her. She stepped right up like she owned the place. My kinda gal.

  Chris Bowman piped up, too. “And, Your Honor, Chris Bowman for the state of Louisiana. You had sequestered Ms. Pirro. The state of Louisiana is objecting to any subpoena or order to call her as a witness because the defense has not followed the code of evidence.” I made eye contact with Leon Cannizzaro in the bullpen. He nodded at me.

  At this point, Judge Cantrell said to me, “You have to leave.” There he goes again!

  I got thrown out. Twice in one hour. It was a record.

  Seriously, I’d never been t
hrown out of court in my life. But I ran a court and knew how I would have handled this. I would have listened to the arguments and made a thoughtful decision. I hoped this judge would do the same.

  I went back into the hall for another twenty minutes, angling my way as close to the door as possible to try to hear something, while my two lawyers and chief assistant Chris Bowman were arguing inside. Meanwhile, I fielded calls from a few Fox executives who didn’t want me to be served and therefore unable to cover the hearing or any of Durst’s upcoming trials.

  The courtroom door opened, and Mary Ellen came out. She said, “The judge is off the bench. He’s considering our request.” She told me that DeGuerin argued that I’d been “dogging Durst,” and had to be put on a leash. I needed to be on a leash? Is that how he thinks women should be treated?

  Another twenty minutes went by before the judge returned to the bench. He called all the lawyers up and he announced, “Ms. Pirro has a First Amendment right to be here.”

  Word got around. The doors opened.

  I grabbed my Chanel bag and walked back in, with, as ABC’s David Muir said the next morning, “the faintest of smiles.” That was for DeGuerin’s benefit. (He looked straight ahead, too chicken to look at me.) I took my seat in the front row and arranged my skirt just so. And then the court went back to the hearing.

  I sat there, writing everything down, scribbling away on my notepad as if nothing had happened. My heart was racing, though.

  I stared at Durst. He leaned back in his chair as if he were barely paying attention, probably thinking, I’ve got another sixty million to get through this.

  At the end of the session I walked up to the judge’s clerk and I whispered, “Just tell the judge I said, ‘Thank you.’ ”

  He gave me a little nod and a smile and said, “I will.”

  It was only forty minutes between my being thrown out and my being invited back in. But those forty minutes felt like a microcosm of the last fifteen years on this case.

  One of my favorite moments in a long time was walking into that courtroom in the middle of testimony and just saying, “Your Honor, I’m here to argue.” I walked straight into the well of the courtroom.