The Battle of Big John

On the way to work in his gleaming Lincoln Continental, Defense Attorney Edward Bennett Williams, 54, might glide by a straining bicyclist named Frank Tuerkheimer, 35, heading in the same direction. After putting in a morning's work in his spacious suite of Washington offices, Williams may lunch at the Sans Souci. Tuerkheimer brown-bags it in his cramped, spartan office, where he works as a Government lawyer.

This odd pair would probably have remained nothing more than adversaries in the rush-hour traffic were it not for the trial of Big John Connally, which opens this week in Washington. Williams is defending Connally, three times the Governor of Texas, and Secretary of the Treasury under Richard M. Nixon, against charges that he accepted a $10,000 bribe in return for using his influence to secure a 1971 hike in milk-price supports. The lawyer heading the Government's three-man team of prosecutors is Cyclist Tuerkheimer. Outwardly, the case seems to be a classic example of a storied defense attorney pitted against an obscure Government lawyer. Occasionally, say legal experts, such mismatches have helped give criminal lawyers inflated reputations. This time things may be different.

By any standards, Williams is formidable, being legendary for his ability to mesmerize a jury. Some of his clients have been the late Senator Joseph McCarthy, Labor Boss Jimmy Hoffa, and the Washington Post in the case of the Pentagon papers.

Tuerkheimer's record is not flamboyant, but it is impressive. As an Assistant U.S. Attorney for the southern district of New York, he rose to become chief of the securities-fraud unit. He brought about 25 cases to court and lost only three. Tuerkheimer took three years off to teach law at the University of Wisconsin, then sent a resume to the Watergate special prosecutor. He was quickly snapped up and assigned 15 months ago to the "milk fund" investigation. His skilled performance led to his selection for the Connally trial.

Knowing whom he is up against, Tuerkheimer has been readying himself for battle six, even seven, days a week. Williams, too, is cramming. Says his close friend, Columnist Art Buchwald: "He has gone into training for the past eight weeks. He's surly, he won't drink, he won't go to parties. He's miserable."

Pretrial Points. Williams feels that he has cause to worry. Fighting the Government, he says, is not easy: "Doors open everywhere to the majesty of Government. I can't call everyone I think knows something about a case before a grand jury; the prosecutors can, and in the Connally case, they have -- including the defendant twice." Williams also claims that the prosecuting attorneys can concentrate on a single case, while "I never can."

But as the trial begins, Williams has already scored points. In pretrial motions, he convinced District Judge George Hart that two perjury charges against Connally for allegedly lying under oath should be tried separately from the bribery counts. Hence if Connally wins a bribery acquittal, the perjury counts would most likely be dropped. Williams also got the court to agree that the jury would not be sequestered for the three-or four-week trial -- a confinement that can lead jurors to take frustrations out on the defendant.

What comes next may be more than skills or resources. Williams argues that an attorney's role in a trial is subject to firm limits. "Ability has some effect on the outcome," he says. But Williams, who is also president of the Washington Redskins, adds: "A lawyer is somewhat like a football coach -- circumscribed by the material he has to work with." If so, then the deeds of John Connally, not Williams or Tuerkheimer, will decide the outcome.

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