Imperfect Justice_ Prosecuting Casey Anthony - Jeff Ashton [162]
As soon as the press conference was over, I was off to New York to break the silence that we had held for three years. Since then, I haven’t stopped talking about the case.
When I returned from New York, I took a few days to wrap up and pack up my desk. People throughout the office came up to me to express their frustration in the “not guilty” verdict, and to let me know that they were on my side, Caylee’s side. Then, I left the office I had worked in for thirty years for the final time. Where I was headed, I couldn’t say.
Disappointing though the verdict was, I refused to let it overshadow what I’d accomplished with the State Attorney’s Office. As with any retirement, there was a bittersweet air to things. I had used every skill I’d developed in my thirty years to get the jury to see the big picture. The team of investigators, prosecutors, and assistants did all that was humanly possible to do the same. Once that is done, all you can do is rest with the knowledge that you did everything anyone could do. As they say in sports, we left it all on the field.
A few weeks later, Linda and another friend, Sara Freeman, organized a retirement party for me at a local establishment. Many old friends from my homicide days in the nineties were there, men and women who had since retired. Seeing all those old and familiar faces, it was great to reminisce—not only because of how much fun it was, but also because it reminded me that this was not my only murder case. There were many other stories that I’d told to juries, many other crimes that I’d taken pride in bringing justice to. Looking at everyone from throughout my legal career gathered together, I was reminded that, in spite of all the difficulty this case had put me through, it might not have even been my hardest. And as much as it felt like an end, it might not even be my last.
During one of the rare moments I had to myself that night, I sat down at a small table on the periphery of the party. Glancing over the crowd, I thought back to that lunch with Linda three years before at the Daily News Café. In retrospect, it would have been so easy for me to simply turn her offer down, to say I wasn’t interested and quietly wait out until I’d hit my thirty years. It would have been so easy for me to pass the case on to someone else and simply coasted by. I certainly would have saved myself a lot of frustration.
But I’d wanted the case then. Now, sitting at my going-away party and knowing the outcome, I still understood why. I hadn’t wanted the case because of the spotlight. I hadn’t wanted the case for a shot at glory. In my past cases, I’d had both of those things. Alone, neither was enough to get out of bed in the morning, and they certainly weren’t enough to justify putting up with Jose Baez for three years.
No, I’d wanted the case because I thought it was worth fighting for. I was going to go out either way, and I can’t think of a better way to go out, than fighting for little Caylee Marie Anthony.
EPILOGUE
In the wake of the verdict, a lot has been said about every aspect of the Casey Anthony case. Most vocal are the people expressing outrage at how this verdict was possible, reserving a uniquely powerful ire for Casey and, in at least one poll, naming her the most hated person in America. Perhaps a bit less loudly, people have criticized the jury for the decision they reached, wondering how it was possible for them to hear the evidence and reach such a surprising conclusion.
Likewise, people have found room to criticize our efforts in the prosecution. As a prosecutor who has taken part in cases like this before, I try not to put too much stock in the Monday-morning quarterbacking that goes on, but at the same time, I know it’s inevitable. In listening to the anger and the frustration that people have displayed, it’s been hard for me not to chime in in agreement, but I also know that these decisions and the forces that create them never have any easy answers. People around the country who passionately believe