“So taking care of Zo doesn’t automatically take the lawyer outta the equation,” Ramini said. “If Zo told this lawyer how the Rubinkowski thing really went down-”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know, Don. But here’s the thing. Sounds like this lawyer isn’t so much going with this insanity thing anymore.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because remember the guy who hired us on Rubinkowski?”
Donnie thought for a moment. This could take a while. “The industrial guy. Moneybags from bumblefuck.”
“Manning. Randall Manning,” said Ramini. “Manning pays me a visit the other day. He says this lawyer Kolarich is sniffing around him. Asking questions that don’t sound so much like he’s pleading insanity anymore. More like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. And sounds like he’s getting pretty fucking warm. Warm like a fucking blowtorch.”
Donnie moaned.
“I just watched this lawyer Kolarich,” Ramini went on. “I just watched him last night, looking over the scene, trying to figure the thing out. The whole time, I’m thinking, he’s looking at this like it’s a pro job.”
“Oh, motherfuck,” Donnie moaned.
“I know all about this Kolarich. I did good intel back when Zo paid him a visit. He used to be a prosecutor, and now he thinks he’s a cowboy. You remember this thing our last governor had with the feds?”
“The governor?” Donnie turned to him. “That was Kolarich?”
“He was right in it, yeah. A fucking crusader, this guy.”
“So this crusader,” said Donnie. “This guy who ain’t afraid of nobody. Does this crusader got a family?”
Donnie might not be a rocket scientist, but he knew a thing or two. It was the right question to ask.
“Not really. Wife and daughter died in a car accident. His dad is upstate on a fraud pinch. But dad and kid are on the outs, anyway. He’s never visited him, far as we know. There’s also a brother, but he’s fucking around in the Cayman Islands.”
“That’s no help.”
“Hey, Mooch, turn right up here,” Ramini hollered to the driver, Donnie’s brother. If it was possible to be less talented than Donnie, his brother was it. “I’m going to the gym.”
“Whaddaya do, like the treadmill and Nautilus and whatnot?” Donnie asked.
“Ah, they got a track. I run, mostly.”
“I’ve been thinking about doing that myself.”
Ramini looked over at his three-hundred-pound friend. “Yeah, you might want to think about that, Don.”
The car pulled up to the gym.
“Talk to Paulie, Don,” said Ramini. “Talk to him today.”
“So nobody? C’mon, Petey, nobody we can tie to this lawyer? No one he cares about?”
Peter Ramini thought for a moment. He thought about watching Kolarich and company reenacting the crime scene. This could get complicated very quickly.
“He’s got a lady friend,” he said.
37
Tom Stoller stared at his feet, his tongue moving a hundred miles an hour over his lips. I couldn’t see his hands, but I knew the fingers were twitching as well. I knew he was living in his own world right now, thinking about a hundred things that had nothing to do with this court appearance or even this criminal case, quite possibly having to do with military service in Iraq.
And the state, part of the country that sent this guy to do its dirty work thousands of miles overseas, that put him into a dire situation, fucked him up, and abandoned him when he returned, now wanted a judge to strike his insanity defense from the case.
The docket clerk called our case. Tom didn’t even move at the mention of his name.
Today was Tuesday. We were in the final stages of trial prep. All the distractions-other clients, meetings, court appearances, depositions-were over for all of us. It was all hands on deck. Shauna was working on the experts. Bradley was preparing pretrial motions. Joel Lightner was hunting down everything he could find on Gin Rummy and Summerset Farms and Global Harvest. There was something there, I was sure. Kathy Rubinkowski had stumbled onto something.
But in the meantime, since I had no assurance I would be able to find anything in time, I had to also prepare for an insanity defense. Shauna would handle our shrink, Dr. Baraniq, and I’d probably cross their expert. Unless, of course, Judge Nash struck the insanity defense, at which point he would have no choice but to give me more time to prepare a retooled defense. That, as Shauna had noted, was one of my real motives here-to let the judge bar the insanity defense so he’d give me more time to pursue my strongest case, that Tom was innocent.
Judge Nash peered down at us over his glasses. He was in a foul mood today. He had abused the lawyers in the three cases coming ahead of us on the docket. I didn’t mind his mood or his abuse, but it made him unpredictable-read more unpredictable than usual.
“Ms. Kotowski,” he boomed. “It’s your motion.”
Wendy dove into it, arguing the inability of her experts to perform an analysis of Tom Stoller because he refused to talk about the events of the night in question. She cited case law, which I could not distinguish, that gave the judge the authority to bar a defense based on mental state when the defendant refused to cooperate with the government psychiatrists.
She had another argument as well. And it was her best one. “On the one occasion where the defendant even remotely engaged the state’s expert, Dr. Ramsey,” she said, “the defendant indicated that he had no memory of Kathy Rubinkowski’s murder. Your Honor, the law is clear that a defendant seeking excuse by virtue of a mental condition must lay a foundation that this defendant simply cannot lay. He can’t claim a PTSD defense when he doesn’t even remember what happened.”
Tom had said the same thing to me, more of a whisper, when he tackled me in the visitation room. He’d also mentioned it to Bobby Hilton, his war buddy, in my presence.
“So, Mr. Kolarich.” The judge turned to me. I approached the lectern, but he kept talking. “Your client won’t talk to the state’s experts?”
“That’s what they claim, Judge. I’m not in a position-”
“Has your client talked to your expert?”
I paused. “My expert plans to testify-”
“Is that a no, Counsel? It sounds like a no.”
“He hasn’t provided detail to Dr. Baraniq,” I conceded.
“Okay, well, does your client remember the events of that evening?”
“Judge,” I said, “I’d rather not give the prosecution a preview of my case.”
The judge frowned. “You’ll have to if you want to assert this defense, Counsel. You don’t get to sit back on the Fifth Amendment while asserting insanity. You know that.”
“Judge, I bear the burden of proof on this issue. The defense. All the state has to do is rebut my case after the-”
“Mr. Kolarich.” He shook his head. “The state is correct. The defendant can’t sustain a defense of post- traumatic stress disorder if he can’t recall the events of the crime. I’ve read the submission of the state’s expert that the defendant said he doesn’t remember what happened. And I haven’t heard any denial from you.”
“Judge-”
“Counsel, you can tell me, your client can tell me, if he’d like to testify-but this is your last chance. Does your client remember what happened on the night in question or doesn’t he?”
“Judge, as far as I am aware, no, he can’t recall, but my expert is prepared to testify that-”
“No,” said the judge, shaking his head. “No. I’m striking your affirmative defense of not guilty by reason of insanity. The prosecution’s motion is granted.”
