After torturous deliberations, a jury acquits John Hinckley “As to the first count, not guilty, by reason of insanity.” There
was a gasp in the courtroom. John Hinckley Jr., who had fired a revolver full of explosive bullets
at President Ronald Reagan to prove his love for Movie Actress Jodie
Foster, had been acquitted of attempted assassination. The young
drifter who shot his way onto history's center stage stood silently at
the defense table, closed his vacuous eyes, and tilted back his head. Judge Barrington Parker's flat recital continued through the 13 assault,
murder and weapons counts. “. . . On count five, not guilty by
reason of insanity.” That was for the bullet into the stomach of
Secret Service Agent Timothy McCarthy.
“. . . On count seven, not guilty by reason of insanity.” For
the bullet that tore through the brain of James Brady, the once
ebullient press secretary. “. . . On count ten, not guilty by reason
of insanity.” For the bullet into the neck of Police Officer
Thomas Delahanty. Judge Parker's voice, usually calm and assured, began
to quaver. “. . . On count twelve, not guilty by reason of insanity”—for
the illegal possession of the handgun bought for $47 in a Dallas
pawnshop. And finally, for using that gun in a federal crime: “Not
guilty by reason of insanity.” JoAnn Hinckley, the defendant's mother, covered her face. She sobbed,
embraced her husband and then, though she tried not to, she smiled. So
did her husband, the Colorado oil millionaire who last year kicked
their boy out of the house and this month wept as he testified: “I wish
to God I could trade places with him right now.” But the dull blue eyes
of their wayward son, pasted like wafers on his expressionless face,
avoided the gaze of those in the courtroom through the very end. What
emotions swirled in his twisted psyche—a mystery that neither
psychiatrists nor jury felt they could fathom—were kept inside. John
Hinckley had got off—and raised a nationwide furor about insanity and
the law. For everyone involved but the phlegmatic Hinckley, the trauma of
deciding his fate—a process that cost as much as
$2.5 million*—was a wrenching ordeal. In the end, the awesome
responsibility of sorting out the conflicting testimony and bewildering law fell
on five men and seven women. A janitor, a cafeteria worker, a garage attendant,
all but one black, they were not a jury of Hinckley's peers except in the legal
sense. For 24 hours spread over four days they vacillated until, almost
as an act of despair, they reached a decision that left them uneasy and
bitter about their experience.
