There's a rumor swirling. It's 8:54 a.m. on Friday, August 6, in Clark County District Court, Department 4. In eight minutes, Judge Michael Cherry will enter the packed chambers (two minutes late), seat himself and praise a summer extern before getting to the serious business at hand—deciding on prison or probation for five teenagers, alleged members of the suburban 311 Boyz gang, implicated in a July 18, 2003, attack that nearly killed Stephen Tanner Hansen.
In 10 minutes, purported 311 ringleader Steven Gazlay will make his way into the room, past families and supporters of the defendants (rows five through eight), past families and supporters of the victims (rows three and four), past the sign that declares "attorneys only beyond this point," to a seat among his four co-defendants. The last arriving defendant, he looks starkly different from a year ago, when news surfaced of 311's exploits—the drinking, the fighting, all videotaped for some sense of misguided posterity. Back then, Gazlay resembled Jason Priestly of Beverly Hills 90210 fame, with an actor's good looks and Hollywood hair. He maintained his innocence, telling a reporter, "I'm a lover not a fighter." On Friday, he looks like the former, his eyes softer than in his menacing mug shot, sandy-brown highlights speckling his hair, wearing a gray suit and pink dress shirt. As he makes his way to his seat, his face is sullen, sunken, unsure.
The room feels tense, edgy, emotional. When a bailiff informs a group of four, here for the defendants, that they are in seats reserved for the victims' supporters, the old man in the group blurts, "I'm starting to get pissed." There'd be more outbursts, each of which served to debunk the rumor.
Some of the pretrial prattle outside the courtroom hinted that the hearing was a formality, a necessary staging of the criminal-justice process, all for show. A judge had dropped the attempted murder charges against the original nine defendants. Four have walked free, three with probation and one absolved of all charges.
The prevailing sentiment was that these guys, too, would walk.
Clark County District Court, Department 17. Seventy minutes into a pretrial hearing into the six year-old Ted Binion murder case.
For a murder trial, the courtroom lacks high-strung drama, probably because it mostly centers on pretrial motions on what evidence will be admissible in the October 11 trial. As such, the atmosphere is sterile, antiseptic, detached. About 20 attendants, including media. Judge Joseph Bonaventure is the action, his outsize personality, bullhorn voice, facial expressions and body language—waving his hands like an opera conductor—breaking the monotony of the hard-to-follow jostling between the prosecution and lawyers representing Rick Tabish and Sandy Murphy, who've become celebrity defendants over the life of the bizarre case.
The quick facts of the case: Murphy and Binion were an item. So were Murphy and Tabish. Binion died September 17, 1998, a bottle of Xanax pills next to his body. Foul play wasn't suspected until, two days later, Tabish and two other men were arrested for digging up Binion's buried $6 million fortune in Pahrump. Murphyand Tabish were convicted of drugging and suffocating Binion.
In July 2003, the state Supreme Court, ruling that the evidence in the first trial was tainted, overturned the convictions. Murphy got out of jail in December, bailed out by $250,000 from mining mogul William Fuller. Tabish remains in prison on two 18- to 120 month-convictions for extortion with use of a deadly weapon in the beating of business associate Leo Casey. October 11 is supposed to set the record straight over who, or what, killed Ted Binion.
Each defendant stands as his name is called and the charge read: Chris Farley, Brandon Gallion and Jeff Hart, each guilty of battery with use of a deadly weapon resulting in substantial bodily harm; Matthew Costello, guilty of battery with the use of a deadly weapon; Steven Gazlay, guilty of battery with the use of a deadly weapon and battery with use of a deadly weapon resulting in substantial bodily harm.
As each rises, one by one, Cherry asks, why did they ruin their lives?
Gallion is the biggest of the defendants, and the worst-dressed. Everyone else is either in a suit or dress shirt and tie; he's wearing a beige, Polo-type shirt, beige khakis and no belt. The pants ride high on his posterior, wedgy-like, his backside appearing to be the only thing keeping them up. He has a roundish face, slight paunch. At times, he appears agitated, like he's got places to be, better things to do.
"I made a poor choice and poor decisions," he says, glancing at Hansen and apologizing. "I was drinking."
His attorney, Gabriel Grasso, talks about Gallion's 360: D's and F's are now A's and B's, he works at Starbucks and goes to counseling, he's compliant with house arrest—"seven months and no mistakes." Yes, he followed the mob mentality of that fateful night but, no, he doesn't deserve prison. High school starts in three weeks and football soon after. "Prison would only compound a bad situation."
Hart is next. The skinniest of the defendants, he's choirboyish is his dark-blue suit and stutters when Cherry asks if he threw a rock that night, yammering with his lawyer's help through a "No." He answers Cherry: "I saw a friend of mine get hit by a truck. That got my emotions going."
Craig Lefevre was speeding east on Canyon Run Drive on July 18, 2003, when rocks crashed into the window of his truck, a large boulder disfiguring Hansen's face and shattering his arm. He, Hansen and Sean Quinn were fleeing a party in Canyon Gate, a tony subdivision of half-million-dollar homes just west of the Rampart Casino. According to testimony in previous trials, Lefevre and Co. were attacked after Hansen was seen talking to Gazlay's girlfriend. A mob scene ensued. The trio hopped in Lefevre's truck and sped off, striking the exit gate—and apparently grazing a friend of the defendants'. Several boys hopped the wall and hurled rocks at the truck, including the nearly 5-pound stone that hit Hansen and made the 311 Boyz a household name.
Hart's attorney, Sean Sullivan, says his client makes restitution payments, has letters from people with Ph.D's attesting to his character and has already paid a price, serving 56 days in jail, 42 of them in solitary confinement. Turning to the Hansen clan, Sullivan says he likes Hansen's mother, feels for the family and empathizes with their son's pain because, he, too, knows pain. Not pain like Hansen will feel later this year when doctors break all the bones in his face to reconfigure it to something resembling normal. But pain like an athlete's pain—he had reconstructive surgery after tearing his anterior cruciate ligament in his leg, a common football injury. At best, a tepid attempt at empathy.
A dusty blond kid dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, Farley sounds like a scared little boy. Cherry says he's the only identified rock-thrower among the group. Barely audible, he's told to speak up. He's not much louder the second time around.
"Why?"
"I let my emotions take over."
"Why did you throw the rock?"
"I was watching one of my close friends of four years get hit by a truck that had no intention of stopping."
Farley's lawyer, Robert Draskovich, says his client is sorry, sincerely sorry, and that the young man's apology carries more weight than that of a typical criminal, like the person who apologizes for the kilo of cocaine in his trunk. He's an Eagle Scout not a gangster, he didn't stab or shoot anyone, he's a good kid who made a serious error, which, Sullivan says, "is common for someone his age." Cherry muffles a response.
"I like him ... my client will not let you down."
Costello says he wishes he could turn back time to change what happened. He was doing what any friend would do upon hearing that someone attacked a girl he knew. "I overreacted." His lawyer, Daniel Albregts, says he's reformed, responsible, a high-school graduate with a job.
Gazlay is giving reporters a hand-ache. The charges against him are voluminous, as is the time he's facing—a possible 20 years on four counts. In addressing the judge and the Hansen and Lefevre families, he's articulate, confident, professing to neither be a leader or member of the 311 Boyz. Cherry doesn't buy it.
"I think you started the whole thing."
Several folks in the back row gasp. A lady in gray moves to the edge of her seat.
Gazlay: "I didn't start it. This has been a nightmare."
Cherry, half-shouting: "Look at Mr. Hansen, that's a nightmare ... I don't understand what you were thinking. Were you drunk or on drugs?"
"No."
Gazlay stands through the inquisition, losing confidence with each answer, sitting only when his attorney, Louis Palazzo, takes over. Gazlay didn't chase the fleeing truck, Palazzo says, and to show he was concerned about what happened, stayed until police arrived. He's been unfairly flogged in the media, has already served time and, according to prosecutors, shouldn't do any more.
Cherry's pissed: "Why can't I send him to jail with a special condition for probation?"
It's in the agreement, Palazzo says.
Prosecuting attorney Christopher Laurent eases his mind: "Judge, I wouldn't tie your hands like that."
Finally, some action.
"All the state wants to do is paint him as a bad man and paint her as a bad woman."
Anna Ling, one of Tabish's lawyers, is accusing the prosecution of character assassination. Tabish is two seats from Murphy. He looks at ease, cool, his broad shoulders filling his suit. For someone who's spent the last five years in prison, he's surprisingly well-coifed and well-kept. There's a rapport between defendant and defense team. During a recess, Tabish, who's rather tall in person, is jovial, smiling freely. Murphy projects the opposite image. She's stonefaced in her dark-blue business suit, working hard to suppress agitation. At the break, she briefly chats with her defense and leaves the courtroom. She doesn't return.
Things turned testy because of this statement from the prosecution: "Ted Binion was murdered in his house," prosecuting attorney Christopher Lalli says. "Sandy Murphy was there when it happened."
He was just getting started. Points out Tabish's rocky finances, the defense's ineptitude—they think "1 + 1 = 7"—and says ligature wounds on Binion's wrists resemble restraint marks, likely made by thumbcuffs found in a bag behind a nearby television. "They (Murphy and Tabish) had a romantic relationship that they lied about and hid from Ted Binion. It's from this conspiring that the murder was born."
But the heated tempo isn't sustained, as the lawyering is ramped up, both sides playing up the Supreme Court decision that mandated a retrial.
Around this time, a man in the back row, to the right of the bailiff, starts writing on a yellow legal pad. The top word on the page is "thumbcuffs," a reference to an instrument allegedly used to restrain Binion. The man hands the paper to a suit in the front row, who hands it to Michael Cristalli, Murphy's attorney, who holds it while making a statement. By now, Cristalli's unnerved by the prosecution's attempt to admit evidence previously stricken by the Supreme Court; the court ruled that news of Tabish's attack on business associate Leo Casey in July 1998 prejudiced the jury. Cristalli interrupts three times, irking Bonaventure.
"Now you're starting to get me a bit agitated. You don't interrupt me."
That's as dicey as it would get, the rest of the hearing focusing on how Tabish can afford a six-person legal team. His parents and charity; several attorneys are offering their services at severely reduced rates.
"I'm innocent of this," Tabish tells the court, "and my parents think I'm innocent."
Clark Lefevre took the oath, sat down and was ready to recount the hell that's been his son's life since July 18, 2003. He doesn't get the chance. Palazzo cites a statute excluding a representative of the victim from testifying if the victim is present. A victory for the defense. Up comes Craig Lefevre, tall, lanky, long sideburns. As he begins testifying, everyone but Gazlay looks at him. Gallion stares.
Lefevre glances at each, just long enough to make eye contact. "We didn't deserve this ... I'm sure you guys haven't changed ... afterward, people were calling and threatening the girls we were with, saying we got Tanner and we're going to get Craig ... you're only sorry because you got caught."
He reads a letter from his brother, which describes his attackers "hard-hearted" and "upper-class heathens."
There's commotion in the back of the room. "Get him out of here," a bailiff booms. "That's witness intimidation."
Two bailiffs swarm a young man, escorting him out of the hearing. "He's shaking his head," one bailiff says aloud, not directly to the judge, but aloud, "like he's telling him, 'Don't say that.'"
As the door closes, the guy, who looks like Gallion's brother Anthony, one of the original defendants, feigns ignorance: "What did I do? I didn't do anything."
It's a near repeat of the June 1 trial of Scott Morse, when a bailiff accused Janette Gazlay, Steven's mom, of coaching her daughter's testimony by making signals.
Tanner's turn. Even from 20 feet away, you can see the results of the rock attack, a left eye half its normal size, lumpy flesh marauding the eyebrow, a deformity he'll take with him to the grave. Tanner is tall and angular. On the witness stand, he's articulate and opportunistic, adroitly counterpointing statements from each lawyer.
To Hart's attorney, who says his client didn't wake up that morning with violence on his mind: Well, Hansen didn't wake up that morning thinking that going to a party would forever change his life.
To Farley's lawyer: Getting hit with a nearly 5-pound rock while traveling 90 mph is just like being shot. If he didn't block the rock with his arm, "this would be a murder trial."
To Gazlay's counsel: "I know personally that he is the ringleader of this. I've seen him when there are no cameras."
The ousted young man is let back in.
"There's been no apologies," Tanner says. Friends of the defendants threw a party on June 18, a Red Rock party, to commemorate "the blood from my face on the rock ... It's not fair that they get a trial. I didn't get a trial."
Cherry had heard enough. Sentencing time.
Three young men in the back move to the edge of their seats. A young girl bites her nails. Reporters straighten their posture. Photographers and videographers ready their equipment. Nervous eyes hone in on Cherry. Bailiffs focus on the defendant's supporters. An unnerving silence slices the room; it lasts only seconds but seems longer.
First up is Gazlay: 325 days in the Clark County Detention Center, $6,370 in restitution, five years of probation upon release.
The clink of the handcuffs underscore the reality. Gazlay's face reddens and his shoulders slouch as he's cuffed. Scanning the back of the room, he sees bewildered looks and watering eyes.
"You're the ringleader," Cherry lashes, "and there's been no remorse on your part."
Next is Costello. Cherry tells him: "You are going to jail." He gets 362 days in CCDC and five years probation. Seated, Costello leans back, hits his head against the wall, struggling not to cry.
A lady cries out, "This is a travesty." Bailiffs hush her. Another lady rushes out, muffling whimpers. As each young man is cuffed, his defense attorney gathers materials and walks away, defeated. No helping them now.
"This is nothing but a hate crime," Cherry tells Farley. He's not sending him upstate because "I bet you can't make it in prison." Farley's sentence: 357 days in CCDC and five years probation.
Cherry thanks Hart for being cooperative and truthful. It's little solace as Hart closes his eyes and slumps his head when the sentence is announced: 309 days in CCDC and one year of house arrest. Of everyone, he's seems the most awestruck, his face the most ashen.
Now it's Gallion's time. Cherry says this decision is the most difficult. Because he's the youngest, is still in school, has the most upside and is the least culpable of quintet. He escapes with $664 restitution, five years probation and one year under house arrest.
"Oh, God!" wails a man in the back, chest heaving, tears streaking his face.
"No threats better come to Tanner or Craig," Cherry warns Gallion. "If you so much as look at a probation officer wrong, I will send you to prison."
Gallion promises to fly straight and asks if he can say something.
"No," the judge retorts, "You better quit while you're ahead."