hold monthly food and clothing distributions and have done a decent job of assimilating.
All of this got me thinking. Dr. Baraniq’s religion could be helpful at trial. If I could somehow sneak in a mention of it during his testimony, it would only bolster his credibility. The last thing a Muslim psychiatrist could be accused of is a bias favoring an American soldier.
He wagged a finger at me. “We need Tom to talk, Mr. Kolarich. He won’t talk to me. He won’t talk to the state’s doctor.” He stared at me.
“You think he’ll talk to me?” I asked.
“He’d better.” Dr. Baraniq lifted his coat off the back of his chair. “Or we have no chance of winning this case.”
9
“The key to this trial is sympathy,” I told the conference room. “Tom Stoller gave everything for his country. It destroyed him. It gave him PTSD, which triggered his schizophrenia. Things went south from there. A tragedy happened. But Tom Stoller is a victim every bit as much as Kathy Rubinkowski.”
“Well, maybe not every bit as much.” This from Joel Lightner, my private detective. His tie was pulled down and his feet were on the table. Joel joins me occasionally for drinks, by which I mean about three times a week. He is a two-time loser at marriage, a rabid skirt-chaser, and a happy drinker.
“What happened to insanity?” Bradley John, our young pup, asked. Unlike Joel, young Bradley was hoping to learn a thing or two.
“Insanity is our legal theory,” I said. “We argue it with everything we have. But it’s a tool. We use it to give the jury his background. To sympathize. So they won’t want to put one of our nation’s brave soldiers in the penitentiary for life. We have to prove insanity by clear and convincing evidence, and I’m not sure I could even get a preponderance. Tom knew right from wrong. He told the victim he was sorry. And he stole her purse, phone, and necklace afterward. So I’m under no illusion that we can make that case. What I do believe is that in the process of attempting to make our case, we put the jury in the frame of mind that they want to acquit.”
“But he was flashing back to Iraq, right?”
Lightner turned his head lazily-read: condescendingly-toward young Bradley. “You think he apologized to the Al Qaeda guerrillas when he shot them?”
“Maybe he did.” Shauna was smartly dressed today for court. Her blond hair, which she’d grown out some, curled around the curves of her face. And she had the naughty-librarian black horn-rimmed glasses that made Joel squirm. “Seriously,” she said. “Maybe he felt bad about killing people. What’s odd about that? I mean, isn’t that why war screws people up so much?”
I raised my hands. “That’s all fine, people. I agree. We use that. We embrace what he told the police in the interview. But at the end of the day, the jury’s looking at an instruction that says that we have to prove that his mental defect prevented him from appreciating that what he did was a crime. We have to make them disregard the law and walk him because they view him as a victim.”
I paced the room for a while. I would have preferred to have a football in my hand, but I’d misplaced it in my office. “Joel,” I said. “I need fresh interviews on everybody who served with Tom overseas. I need someone to testify about what kinds of things happened over there. And anything specific to Tom. If Tom won’t tell us, maybe they will. Hopefully-and I can’t believe I’m saying this-hopefully he killed some people over there.”
“And I assume the home run would be if he killed a woman in her twenties while she pulled a gun on him after getting out of her car?”
“Yeah, Joel, that’d be super.” It was a reminder of what a stretch this case would be. PTSD flashbacks, according to Dr. Baraniq, were typically spurred by circumstances similar to the traumatic event in your past. It was hard to see how encountering a petite, well-dressed young woman could have flashed Tom Stoller back to Iraq. But it was all we had.
“Bradley,” I went on. “Hit the books. I want every court decision ever published on PTSD. The PD’s office did some research, but I want you to double-check it. I want to know what factors can vitiate the defense, the use of hypotheticals versus actual firsthand accounts, anything. I want examples where the defendant refused to talk about the event but still managed to pull this off. Keep in mind some jurisdictions follow M’Naughten or irresistible impulse, not the modified ALI. Preferably, I want something on point in a jurisdiction following ALI like us. But I’m not greedy.”
“Got it. Got it.” Bradley seemed pumped for this case.
“Shauna,” I said. “Take a look at the forensics and the blood spatter and the medical examiner reports. We don’t have to accept that the shooting happened exactly the way the prosecution claims. If we need to hire that guy-what’s his name, Peters? — then let’s talk and we can do it.”
“And when you’re done, Shauna,” said Joel, “come over to my place. We’ll open a bottle of wine and talk about it.”
Shauna rolled her eyes and nodded at me. “What’s your assignment?”
“Me?” I stretched my arms. “I’m going to get Tom Stoller to talk to me,” I said.
10
Lorenzo Fowler was a married man, so when he visited Sasha, he had to go to her place. It was more accurately described as his place, as he bought the condo and paid the utilities and assessment. It was one of the ritzier places on the blossoming near-west side of the city. Sasha could have had her pick of spots, but she fancied herself an artist and liked the feel of this part of the city.
Fowler parked his car down the street, got out, and pulled up his coat collar. It was dark and cold, and before he trudged forward, he took only a quick look about him for immediate threats.
He didn’t see any.
He didn’t see Peter Ramini, sitting in a different car down the street, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets.
It was nine-forty when he arrived at Sasha’s condo. Anyone trying to predict Lorenzo’s movements would estimate that he would spend about four hours at her place before returning home. He always returned home. He never spent the night at Sasha’s.
Just over four hours later, Lorenzo emerged from the elevator in the building’s lobby. He nodded to the man at the front desk with no trace of embarrassment or guilt. He always felt better after an evening with Sasha. For a Ukrainian gal, she could make a plate of sausage and peppers. And in the bedroom, she performed feats of gymnastic agility that could earn her a gold medal in the Olympics. He was a bit lightheaded after a half-bottle of wine and the food and the sex. It was a welcome break.
The early-morning air was a harsh return to reality. Things had been tough for Lorenzo of late. That strip club owner Lorenzo had disciplined with an aluminum baseball bat had died two days ago. The police had come looking for Lorenzo today at the lumberyard. They’d be back again tomorrow. Paulie would be nervous.
Paulie was always nervous these days. It wasn’t like how it used to be. The feds had always been around, but the surveillance was so good these days that it was impossible to know where you were safe. Nowadays, Paulie wouldn’t communicate with anybody other than a whisper directly into his ear.
So what would Paulie think of the cops wanting to talk to Lorenzo about a dead strip club owner?
Lorenzo shuddered. He thought about his conversation the other day with that lawyer, Kolarich. He seemed like the sort that wouldn’t shy away from helping him. Some lawyers, they heard the Mob was involved, they’d back off. Kolarich seemed like the kind of guy who would get off on it. And the kid had brass; Lorenzo hadn’t met that many people who, knowing that Lorenzo worked for the Capparellis, told him to fuck off. Despite what he’d said, Kolarich would be there for him, he figured, if he needed him.
Trading the identity of Gin Rummy could do it, he felt certain. The feds would jump in and walk him on the strip club owner’s death and probably anything else for which they charged Lorenzo. You take away Gin Rummy,
