Lucky 11 Get Chance to Witness Historic Event

There was room for just 11, “one short of a jury,” said a man in the small crowd that began forming outside the Edward R. Roybal Federal Building hours before dawn Saturday.

Their destination was a single hard wooden bench in the back of the courtroom, the only space set aside for the public to watch the Rodney G. King civil rights trial.

The 11--six white and five black--had come from downtown Los Angeles, Irvine, even Winslow, Ariz., for a chance to witness the climax of one of the most closely watched legal dramas of the century.

Nearly all were rooting for convictions.

Their line began at 2 a.m. Keith Goffney, a young Los Angeles attorney who was one of the first to queue, volunteered his steno pad as a sign-in sheet so there would be no who-came-first arguments when the U.S. marshals finally opened the doors.

By 5 a.m., the scrawled signatures included those of an aspiring actor, a medical student and a 60-year-old retiree wearing a “Choose Peace” T-shirt.

To help pass time, the retiree, Jaime Green, who had attended half a dozen other days of the trial, was giving an animated analysis of the closing statement of Michael P. Stone, the attorney for Officer Laurence M. Powell.

“Bored ‘em to tears,” Green said, as TV crews began to assemble behind them and men in “Federal Agent” jackets and riot gear fanned out from the courthouse. “. . . I think his guy’s in trouble.”

The aspiring actor, Mark Ragland, 22, said he had attended last weekend’s closing statement of Harland W. Braun, who represented Officer Theodore J. Briseno. Like most of those in line, he was hoping for convictions. His main worry was a stout juror with a bushy beard, whom Ragland alternately called “the biker” and “the Deadhead” because of a Grateful Dead T-shirt the man sometimes wore to court.

“The Deadhead looks like he’s stubborn,” Ragland said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was holdin’ out for the cops.”

“If he’s a Deadhead,” Green interjected, “he’s probably not pro-police.”

With that, a marshal opened the door to the courthouse and announced, “One single line, please. This will be orderly.”

Each got a number on a slip of paper before filing through the door and then through a metal detector. They were led to the lobby and asked to sit along a row of windows, behind a red felt rope. It was 6:15 a.m.

The group now included several ministers, a proofreader from a downtown law firm and the Irvine medical student, Andre Lopez, 27. There were far more would-be spectators than there was room in court.

Behind them, flashbulbs popped and voices cried, “Here they come!”

Photographers outside the courthouse were pressing their cameras against the glass, clicking away, as defense attorney Ira Salzman strode through the lobby.

It was time.

One by one, a marshal called the numbers. The first 11 got cherished clip-on passes. The ministers didn’t make it.

At 7:06 a.m., they entered a courtroom that was already full. The side rows were filled, as always, with sketch artists and reporters busy taking notes. The first three rows in the center aisle were filled with VIPs and associates of the prosecution and defense.

Almost as soon as they were seated, Judge John G. Davies spoke. “I ask that the marshal bring in the jurors and we will unseal the verdicts.”

The 11 listened intently as the clerk read the judgments: Stacey C. Koon, guilty. Laurence M. Powell, guilty. Theodore J. Briseno, not guilty. Timothy E. Wind, not guilty.

At the second “guilty,” Lopez, the medical student, clenched his fists and yanked them down. “Yes!” he mouthed.

Twenty-five feet in front of him, Stone put an arm around his client, Powell, now facing up to 10 years in prison.

From where he was sitting, Green, the talkative retiree, could see the quiet defendant, Wind, lower his head, then take a deep breath when the clerk said “not guilty” after his name.

They were in court perhaps 10 minutes in all. Then they were ushered out, like the official witnesses at an execution. One asked if he could keep his pass, but was told no.

Down in the lobby, Tim Gould, 29, the legal proofreader, said there was some talk among the “regulars” of getting together later, to relive the trial. He took down the phone number of Barbara Strode, who had been No. 8 in line.

Strode, 53, a photographer, had journeyed from Winslow to make the trial. She described herself and the other lucky spectators as “Americans who want to see their court system work. I think that’s why they came.”

One young woman who had sat among them was standing glumly off to the side, clearly unhappy with the trial’s outcome.

But the others were exhilarated, almost in a celebratory mood.

“We got what we wanted,” Goffney said as the 11 dispersed. “To be a little part of history.”