Judge Lynett McGough -- August 4, 1994
Her left hand trembled slightly as she grabbed the envelope. Opening it, the judge removed the verdict forms and checked them twice for inconsistencies, noisily flipping through the pages as she read them. With so much media attention, she could not afford any missteps, no matter how minor. She took a deep breath and surveyed her small courtroom—litigants and their attorneys sharing one large trial table, the victims’ parents filling one spectator bench while the defendants’ families and friends jammed into the other. For now, they were all silent and edgy, each side tormented by what they did not know but soon would.
In a moment, she’d announce the jury’s decision in open court and lives would be forever changed. But for that short interval between her silent reading and her public pronouncement, the judge was caught in a powerful feeling, both exhilarating and humbling, something that she’d only experienced at times like this.
For Judge Lynett McGough, this criminal trial had been like no other. The police and the prosecutor had claimed that preschool children participating in the Lorain Head Start program had been periodically raped and molested by one of the school’s female bus drivers and her male companion at an unknown location. By the bad luck of the draw, Judge McGough had been assigned this emotional, high-profile case where her every ruling would be scrutinized not just by the attorneys but by the community as a whole. It would have been a challenging case for any judge, but particularly for the county’s only female judge, who was finishing her first term and battling for re-election.
Setting down the verdict forms, she asked the defendants to rise. They quickly complied, joined by their attorneys. The defendants were decidedly an odd pair. Joseph Allen, a middle-aged, African-American housepainter, was dressed in a loose-fitting short sleeve shirt and casual slacks. Nine days earlier, he had initially refused to shed his orange jail garb for civilian clothes, but had eventually relented after his attorney convinced him that jail clothing would mark him as a guilty man to the jury. The other defendant, Nancy Smith, was a neatly groomed white woman, dressed in a suit jacket and skirt. The thirty-seven-year-old mother of four teenagers stared at the wall above the judge, fear evident in her eyes.
The three attorneys were also studies in contrast. Still seated, the prosecutor, Jonathan Rosenbaum, was known for his blunt and slashing style—an attorney who didn’t care if he offended or alienated others. In his early forties, the balding prosecutor seemed to bound about the courtroom as if constantly in search of prey. Well prepared and instinctively agile in cross-examination, Rosenbaum pounced on witnesses’ mistakes and drove them home, often humiliating them in the process. Strong-willed and unwavering, he could win over reluctant jurors by the force of his personality.
Smith’s attorney, Jack Bradley, possessed Hollywood good looks and an affable personality that could charm both jurors and clients alike. Now in his midforties, he had quickly become one of the most sought-after criminal defense attorneys in the county. The likeable Bradley connected with jurors, and his smooth style often caused jurors to overlook the holes in his defenses. However, during this trial, she had seen another side of him. An intense competitor, he’d become irate in chambers several times, erupting at Rosenbaum, who he claimed had failed to timely disclose trial witnesses and exculpatory evidence. Each time, she had sympathized with Bradley but refused to grant the mistrials he’d requested. Instead, she’d devised compromises that she believed permitted the prosecution’s case to go forward without trampling upon the rights of the defendants. She was convinced that her skillful solutions had inexorably pushed this case to the finish line and off her docket.
Standing next to Joseph Allen was Joseph Grunda, the former Lorain County prosecutor, who’d been assigned to defend the indigent Allen. The sixty-one-year-old Grunda was lean and athletic looking—a street-smart lawyer who’d seen almost everything. In his navy blue suit, he looked authoritative, while his gray hair and tightly clipped mustache gave him the stature of a distinguished statesman. In the courtroom, he combined elements of both attorneys: at times, gruff and hard-hitting, while at others, controlled and beguiling with his smile and mischievous glances.
Holding the verdicts in both hands, the judge cleared her throat. “‘In the matter of the State of Ohio versus Nancy Smith, we, the jury, find the defendant Nancy Smith guilty of count one of gross sexual imposition.’”
The judge could hear a collective gasp flow from Smith’s followers and loud whispers of “yes” coming from the victims’ families. Almost immediately, Nancy Smith broke into heavy sobs. Startled by the defendant’s reaction, Judge McGough stopped reading the verdicts.
Before the judge could continue, Nancy Smith pointed at Joseph Allen and whimpered, “I never met this man. I never saw this man. I never touched those children. Ever.” She turned to face Bradley and buried her head into his shoulder. Over Smith’s muffled crying, the judge finished reading the verdicts. The jury had found her guilty on all six charges: two counts of gross sexual imposition, two counts of complicity to rape, attempted rape, and rape.
Picking up the verdict forms involving Joseph Allen, the judge announced eight guilty verdicts, five for rape. When she’d finished reading them all, Allen was looking at the floor and shaking his head, his demeanor quiet and stoic.
The judge then began polling each of the individual jurors to confirm that this was their verdict. When each had, the judge addressed them. “I know these cases were very difficult. This has been a long trial. I want to thank you again for your service. At this time, you are released from jury duty and are free to discuss this case with whomever you wish. Bailiff, please take the jurors to the jury room.”
Although the judge pretended to watch the jurors as they filed from the room, she constantly glanced at Nancy Smith, who looked like she might collapse into an anguished heap at any moment. Determined to carry on, the judge kept her voice firm and resolute. “We are going to take a brief recess. I will ask that the sheriff deputies take both defendants to the basement holding facility. We will go forward with the sentencing in thirty minutes but we will give Ms. Smith a chance to compose herself before we do that.”
Before a sheriff’s deputy could escort Smith from the courtroom, she glared at the prosecutor. “I didn’t touch those children and you know I didn’t touch them.” Smith’s head drooped as she said her final words: “Oh my God.”
The judge stood and turned. Before she could open the sliding door to her chambers, she heard the spiteful voice of a spectator talking to someone else in the courtroom. “Your mother did this to my daughter. She got what she deserved.”
The judge had heard enough. She retreated into her chambers, shut the door, and lifted its only window about six inches above its ledge. She tapped a cigarette from a pack, lit it, and took a long drag. Smith’s emotional outburst had been unnerving, but, in Judge McGough’s experience, criminal defendants routinely maintained their innocence long after they’d been convicted. Why should this defendant be any different?
She was not surprised by the jury’s guilty verdicts. Yes, the jurors could have dismissed the children’s incredible accounts as products of their imagination and acquitted the defendants, but the jury had believed the children—that much was certain. But, of course, there was more than just the children’s stories to support the verdicts.
This case was a parent’s nightmare and a permanent stain on the community. How could these things have happened to children enrolled in the Lorain Head Start preschool program? At trial, four children, now five and six years old, had trooped forward like little soldiers and told the jury about the shocking things that had been done to them while they were supposed to be in school. They all testified that their bus driver, Nancy, had kept them on the bus and not allowed them to leave with the other children when they’d arrived for the school’s afternoon session. Instead, she’d driven them to the home of a man named Joseph, where they were sexually molested and forced to do unspeakable things.
Judge McGough once again thought about the evidence that linked Nancy Smith to Joseph Allen. Although the defendants vehemently denied knowing each other, the prosecution had presented several witnesses who testified that they’d seen the two together. When they’d testified, she hadn’t found any of them to be overly convincing, but it was the jury’s role to assess their credibility, not hers. The jury had obviously believed them, and in the end, it all made sense. The only way Joseph Allen could have had access to the children was through a Head Start employee. The children had identified Nancy Smith as that employee. If Joseph Allen committed these crimes, then Nancy Smith had to be his gateway to the children. It was that simple.
As a judge, she’d developed an unshakable confidence in jurors and their collective ability to ferret out the truth. When twelve people from widely different backgrounds arrived at a unanimous decision, she trusted the result. This case would be no exception.
She decided to smoke another cigarette while she finalized her decisions about sentencing. As she exhaled the smoke slowly, she picked up a paper that outlined the potential sentences for each crime, something her law clerk had prepared in advance. As a mother of four, a former city prosecutor, and now a judge elected to protect everyday people, she had no doubt what she would do. The jury had concluded that Smith and Allen had committed horrible crimes and she would hand down maximum sentences.
She was well aware that many of her early critics believed that she was not qualified to be a judge, and at every stage of her first term, she had proven them wrong. This sentencing was just another opportunity to demonstrate that.
She’d come to the law later in life. At age thirty-eight, she’d graduated from law school, passed the bar exam, and begun her practice. Lawyers soon learned that she did not hesitate in taking on a variety of challenging cases. Criminal defense, divorce, personal injury, probate litigation—she shied away from nothing, eventually landing the job as North Ridgeville’s city prosecutor and law director. After practicing law for only seven years, she’d surprised the legal community by seeking a newly created judgeship in Lorain County. During her campaign, she’d promised to be a judge who cared about victims of crime, particularly women and children. By her energy and hard work, she’d prevailed in a crowded field of Democratic hopefuls in the primary. A few months later, she’d defeated her Republican and independent opponents in the general election by garnering 44 percent of the vote, thus becoming the first woman ever to be elected judge in the county.
As a judge, she projected confidence and rapidly adapted to her new position. Mentored by one of the senior judges, she was counseled not to dither on decisions and to keep her docket moving. She consciously made rulings that pushed cases toward earlier trial dates, and if an attorney requested more time for anything, she was reluctant to grant it. Her steely blue eyes could wither an unprepared attorney—something she used effectively to communicate her impatience and reproach. Because she demanded so much of herself, she expected the same from others. However, her courtroom persona was in sharp contrast to the quiet woman who could spend hours watching birds and squirrels in her backyard sanctuary or cheering on her beloved Cleveland Indians.
She rubbed out her cigarette, closed the window, and called her bailiff to gather the attorneys and their clients. She was ready to proceed to sentencing and bring this long trial to an end.
After opening the sliding door that separated her chambers from the courtroom, she took her seat behind the bench. She surveyed the courtroom and found that it was packed with the same people as before. Peering down at the trial table, she glanced at Nancy Smith, who sat stiffly with her attorney. Smith was more composed than when she’d last seen her—no longer crying, but her face was puffy and red.
“I will begin with my sentencing of Nancy Smith.”
Smith rose from her chair, helped by her attorney. The defendant looked straight ahead as her attorney guided her to a spot in front of the bench.
“Before I pronounce my sentence, what would you like me to consider in mitigation, Mr. Bradley?”
Bradley looked at his client and then at the judge. Usually smooth and unflappable, Bradley hesitated before responding. “Your Honor, this lady has never been in trouble in her life. She has never harmed any person in her entire life.” Bradley stopped, searching for his next thought.
The judge set down her pen and rubbed her chin, waiting for him to continue. It was obvious that the verdict had deeply unsettled him.
“Your Honor, we ask that the Court not sentence her and that the Court grant her a new trial immediately. The jury obviously lost its way in this case.”
The judge drummed her fingers on her legal pad. Although she didn’t interrupt Bradley, this was not the time to request a new trial. Unlike Bradley, she hadn’t been surprised by the verdicts and did not view them as grave miscarriages of justice as he apparently did.
“It was not fair to have a trial jointly with Joseph Allen. I asked for separate trials and I still believe that should have been done.”
He was rehashing an old issue. The prosecutor had requested that Smith and Allen be tried together rather than separately—something within the judge’s discretion after considering several factors. She’d allowed joinder and she would not reverse that now, particularly after she’d invested two weeks of her valuable time in a trial.
Joinder had made sense. It had promoted judicial economy and had protected the vulnerable children from being forced to testify twice. Bradley had argued that his client could not receive a fair trial if she shared the courtroom with a previously convicted child molester. Now he argued that this was the principal reason why she’d been found guilty. In effect, he was blaming her for his “innocent” client’s conviction. She bristled at the suggestion but did not interrupt him.
“This lady has gone through a nightmare. She continues to go through a nightmare. I would ask that the Court grant us a new trial.”
Judge McGough tapped the back of her pen against her notepad. She’d asked Bradley to offer his thoughts about mitigating circumstances and he’d taken it as an open invitation to attack her earlier ruling and ask for a new trial. What was he thinking? The prosecution had presented evidence on every element of the crimes and had obviously convinced the jurors. With her strong belief in the reliability of juries, she would not summarily cast this jury’s verdict aside.
“Mr. Rosenbaum, do you wish to speak on this issue?”
Rosenbaum stood quickly and looked with disgust at Bradley. She knew his remarks would be sharp and direct. “This lady has had a fair trial. Her nightmare does not compare to the ordeal that these children and their parents have experienced and will continue to experience.” His voice took on an exasperated air. “The evidence was overwhelming against her. Obviously, the jury didn’t have much trouble. From this side of the table, we feel that she is guilty of the crimes charged and should suffer a heinous penalty for it.”
Without ruling on the motion, the judge nodded and then looked to Nancy Smith. “Ms. Smith, this is your opportunity to address the court.” Realizing that she had bypassed her attorney, the judge added, “Mr. Bradley, do you wish your client to speak at this time?”
Bradley nodded and a distraught Nancy Smith began to speak. “All I can tell you is I did not commit these crimes.” Her voice shook and she could not hide her anguish. “I don’t even know this man. I have never ever seen this man before. I have never gone with a black man.”
The judge realized that Smith was going to repeat the same things that she had said on the witness stand—claims that the jury had rejected.
“I am a mother,” Smith continued. “I just want my children. Oh God, I didn’t do these things. I never touched those children. I never touched them. Never.” There was no hiding her desperation. “That is all I can tell you. I never touched them. I never did. I never hurt them in any way. Oh please, I never did anything wrong in my life. I’ve always tried to be a good mother.”
The judge responded, “Ms. Smith, the jury has found you guilty.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
The judge had not intended to spar with the defendant, but she needed to inject some reality into their exchange. “There is little or no way that this codefendant could have had access to these children—"
Before the judge could say “without your help,” Smith interrupted her with what was becoming a familiar mantra. “I didn’t even know him, Judge. I swear on my life, I don’t know this man. I have never seen this man. That is all I can tell you.”
When Smith did not continue, the judge realized that she had nothing more to add. With the preliminaries out of the way, the judge cleared her throat before announcing the sentences. She looked at the defendant and said, “On count one, it will be the judgment of the law and the sentence of this Court that this defendant will serve a term of two years at the Ohio Reformatory for Women at Marysville.
“On count two, this defendant will serve a term of not less than five nor more than fifteen years.” For the four remaining crimes, the judge also set minimum and maximum prison terms. When she’d finished, the total sentences amounted to a minimum of thirty years in prison and a maximum of ninety years.
Bradley helped his unsteady client return to her seat while Joseph Allen and his attorney, Joseph Grunda, rose to stand before the judge. Unlike Bradley, Grunda had realized that a jury could convict his client. The man had three strikes against him: he was a convicted child molester, he was black, and he hadn’t testified in his own defense.
Grunda began, “My client has always maintained that he did not know Nancy Smith or any of these children. The first and only time he saw Nancy Smith or any of the children was in this courtroom. I understand that the jury found both of them guilty. Without a doubt, he knows none of these people. After all of our conferences together, I believe him. Based on that, I would ask the Court to impose minimum sentences for my client.”
The judge looked at Rosenbaum, who was shaking his head. “Mr. Rosenbaum, do you wish to be heard on this?”
The prosecutor rose quickly and took a deep breath. “Your Honor, unfortunately, this is the second time that I’ve stood in a courtroom at the sentencing for this convicted jackal. He deserves the maximum sentences. He needs to be placed away so that he can never harm another child again.”
The judge liked the prosecutor’s brevity. “Mr. Rosenbaum, do any of the victims wish to be heard at this time?”
“It is my understanding that they do not, Your Honor.”
“All right then,” the judge said, and then shifted her gaze to Joseph Allen. “Mr. Allen, this is your chance to speak if it is not against the advice of your attorney. Do you want to be heard?” Allen nodded and said, “I’m standing here accused of crimes that I didn’t commit, nor do I know the victims.” He spoke slowly and calmly in a slow Southern drawl. “I wasn’t present when these crimes occurred. I know I might have had a record, but I’ve cleaned up my life.”
The judge knew that Joseph Allen had first come onto the radar of police investigating this case after he’d allegedly propositioned four runaway girls, ages thirteen through fifteen. She briefly considered confronting him with this bald contradiction but decided not to interrupt him.
“If I’d committed these crimes, I wouldn’t have put this Court through a trial. I would have done pled to the charges. I have a daughter myself. I have a son myself. I have a grandson myself. I haven’t abused them, and I never abused no one’s kids. I never tied no one up.”
Judge McGough sat impassively as Allen rambled on. He was conveniently ignoring that for three years he’d sexually abused a neighbor girl beginning when she was six years old. He’d pled guilty to that. Did he think she’d forgotten about his previous conviction?
He next launched into a recitation of his living arrangements at the time that the crimes allegedly occurred. The prosecution had claimed that he’d abused the children at least four times between January and early May 1993.
“I lived with my family until the middle of March of 1993. I didn’t move into my apartment until after that. Now, how am I supposed to have done these horrible things from January to June when I wasn’t even living there for most of that time?”
The judge raised her eyebrows before she cut him off. “Mr. Allen, your trial is over.”
“Yes, I know.”
The judge took a deep breath and launched into her sentencing. “The jury has found you guilty of a forcible rape of children as young as four years of age.” She did not raise her voice, but disgust was evident from her tone and piercing stare. The jury had done its job and now she would do hers. When she’d completed her sentencing, she’d imposed five life sentences that were to be served one after the other—if such a thing were possible.
After advising both defendants of their right to appeal, the judge struck her gavel. “We are finished here today.”
But as later events would reveal, this case was far from finished. It would surface and resurface for the next three decades, stoking controversy every time it did.
