John Z. DeLorean is found 100% not guilty


Los Angeles - August 16, 1984

A tremor ran through the land back in the dog days of '84! Not an earthquake, mind you, nothing so plebeian. No, this was a tremor of pure, unadulterated spectacle. The kind that tickles the very ganglia of our celebrity-besotted, headline-huffing, status-seeking souls. I speak, of course, of The Acquittal! Yes, that three-syllable thunderclap that echoed from the hallowed halls of the Los Angeles courthouse, proclaiming one John Zachary DeLorean, the man with the stainless steel dream machine and the panache of a Medici prince, 100% Not Guilty!

Oh, the drama of it all! Here was a man, see, who had zoomed onto the American scene like a god Mercury on a skateboard. A titan of torque from the gritty, gear-grinding factories of General Motors, a man who dared to dream of a better car, a sexier car, a car that would gleam like a freshly minted dime in the suburban driveway – the DeLorean! A vehicle so futuristic, so now, that it practically hummed the theme song from some as-yet-unmade sci-fi flick. And the man himself! With that silver hair slicked back like a pompadour on a marble statue, the tailored suits that screamed Power! Success! and a wife who looked like she'd just stepped off the cover of Vogue. He was the very embodiment of the Entrepreneurial Übermensch, a creature perfectly adapted to the gleaming, go-go Eighties.

But then, whammo! The Feds, those relentless, gray-flannel-suited avatars of bureaucratic rectitude, swooped down like vultures on a Sunday picnic. Cocaine! They cried. Millions of dollars! A sting operation so elaborate it could have been scripted by Christopher Nolan on a triple espresso bender! Our gleaming hero, the stainless steel savior, caught in a tawdry tableau of duffel bags and Colombian marching powder. The headlines screamed. The television screens flickered with grainy images of DeLorean looking less like a titan and more like a bewildered tourist who'd wandered into the wrong movie set.

And the trial! Ah, the trial was a happening! A three-ring circus of legal eagles preening their feathers, witnesses sweating under the harsh glare of the klieg lights, and DeLorean himself, cool as a cucumber in a snowdrift, his eyes fixed on some distant, chrome-plated horizon. The prosecution painted a picture of a desperate man, a fallen idol grasping at straws (or, more accurately, kilos) to keep his dream afloat. But the defense, oh, those clever devils, they spun a yarn of entrapment, of government agents playing puppet masters, dangling the illicit lucre like a carrot in front of a very stylish, very ambitious donkey.

And then, the verdict. NOT GUILTY. Those two little words, delivered with the solemnity of a papal decree, sent a jolt through the nation. Cheers erupted in the courtroom. DeLorean, that magnificent enigma, allowed himself the faintest of smiles, a flicker of triumph in those steely blue eyes. The jury, bless their collective heart, had bought the story. The Feds, those paragons of morality, had been outmaneuvered, outsmarted, and they were just plain OUTATIME!

The DeLorean, that symbol of Eighties excess and audacious ambition, may not have conquered the automotive world, but its creator, against all odds and amidst a white blizzard of bad press, had pulled off the ultimate comeback. He had stared into the abyss of federal prosecution and emerged, blinking, into the southern California sunlight. A testament, perhaps, to the enduring American belief in second chances, or maybe just a damn good lawyer. Whatever it was, it was pure, unadulterated Theatre, and in the grand, ongoing, never-ending pageant of American life, John Z. DeLorean had just delivered one hell of an encore.


Location: Los Angeles, CA, USA

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