“The fourth was my favorite. What was yours?”
“Umm, I don’t know really.”
“Is it possible,” the prosecutor asked the witness, “that those writings of Mr. Kobel are merely attempts at writing a novel? Some big fantasy book.”
“I…I can’t imagine it.”
“But it’s possible, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. But I’ll tell you, he’ll never sell the movie rights.”
Amid the laughter, the judge dismissed the witness.
There was testimony about the bizarre autopsy, which Hollow didn’t bother to refute.
Bob Ringling also introduced two of Kobel’s patients, who testified that they had been so troubled by his obsessive talk about these ghosts or spirits inhabiting their bodies that they quit seeing him.
And then Ringling had Kobel himself take the stand, dressed in the part of a madman in his premeditatedly wrinkled and dirty clothes, chewing his lip, looking twitchy and weird.
This idea-insane in its own right-was a huge risk, because on cross-examination Hollow would ask the man point-blank if he’d killed Annabelle Young. Since he’d confessed once, he would have to confess again-or Hollow would read the sentence from his statement. Either way the jury would actually hear the man admit to the crime.
But Ringling met the problem head-on. His first question: “Mr. Kobel, did you kill Annabelle Young?”
“Oh, yes, of course I did.” He sounded surprised.
A gasp filled the courtroom.
“And why did you do that, Mr. Kobel.”
“For the sake of the children.”
“How do you mean that?”
“She was a teacher, you know. Oh, God! Every year, thirty or forty students, impressionable young people, would come under her influence. She was going to poison their minds. She might even hurt them, abuse them, spread hatred.” He closed his eyes and shivered.
And the Academy Award for best performance on the part of a crazed murder suspect goes to…
“Now, tell me, Mr. Kobel, why did you think she would hurt the children?”
“Oh, she’d come under the influence of a neme.”
“That’s what we heard a little about earlier, right? In your writings?”
“Yes, in my writings.”
“Could you tell us, briefly, what a neme is?”
“You could call it an energy force. Malevolent energy. It attaches to your mind and it won’t let go. It’s terrible. It causes you to commit crimes, abuse people, fall into rages. A lot of temper tantrums and road rage are caused by nemes. They’re all over the place. Millions of them.”
“And you were convinced she was possessed?”
“It’s not possession,” Kobel said adamantly. “That’s a theological concept. Nemes are purely scientific. Like viruses.”
“You think they’re as real as viruses?”
“They are! You have to believe me! They are!”
“And Ms. Young was being influenced by nemes.”
“One, just one.”
“And was going to hurt her students.”
“And her son. Oh, yes, I could see it. I have this ability to see nemes. I had to save the children.”
“You weren’t stalking her because you were attracted to her?”
Kobel’s voice cracked. “No, no. Nothing like that. I wanted to get her into counseling. I could have saved her. But she was too far gone. The last thing I wanted to do was kill her. But it was a blessing. It really was. I had to.” Tears glistened.
Oh, brother…
“Prosecution’s witness.”
Hollow did the best he could. He decided not to ask about Annabelle Young. Kobel’s murdering her was no longer the issue in this case. The whole question was Kobel’s state of mind. Hollow got the defendant to admit that he’d been in a mental hospital only once, as a teenager, and hadn’t seen a mental health professional since then. He’d taken no antipsychotic drugs. “They take my edge off. You have to be sharp when you’re fighting nemes.”
“Just answer the question, please.”
Hollow then produced Kobel’s tax returns for the past three years.
When Ringling objected, Hollow said to Judge Rollins, “Your Honor, a man who files a tax return is of sound mind.”
“That’s debatable,” said the ultraconservative judge, drawing laughter from the courtroom.
Oh, to be on the bench, thought Glenn Hollow. And maybe after a few years’ stint as the attorney general I will be.
Rollins said, “I’ll let ’em in.”
“These are your returns, aren’t they, sir?”
“I guess. Yes.”
“They indicate you made a fair amount of money at your practice. About forty thousand dollars a year.”
“Maybe. I suppose so.”
“So despite those other two patients who testified earlier, you must have a much larger number of patients you treat regularly and who are satisfied with your services.”
Kobel looked him in the eyes. “There’re a lot of nemes out there. Somebody’s gotta fight ’em.”
Hollow sighed. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
The prosecutor then called his own expert, a psychiatrist who’d examined Kobel. The testimony was that, though quirky, he was not legally insane. He was well aware of what he was doing, that he was committing a crime when he killed the victim.
Ringling asked a few questions, but didn’t belabor the cross-examination.
Toward the end of the day, during a short break, Glenn Hollow sneaked a look at the jury box; he’d been a prosecutor and a trial lawyer for a long time and was an expert not only at the law but at reading juries.
And, goddamn it, they were reacting just the way Bob Ringling wanted them to. Hollow could tell they hated and feared Martin Kobel, but because he was such a monster and the things he was saying were so bizarre, he couldn’t be held to the jury’s standards of ethics and behavior. Oh, Ringling had been smart. He wasn’t playing his client as a victim, he wasn’t playing him as somebody who’d been abused or suffered a traumatic childhood (he barely referred to the deaths of Kobel’s parents and brother).
No, he was showing that this
Like his expert said, “Mr. Kobel’s reality is not
Hollow stretched his skinny legs out in front of him and watched the tassels on his loafers lean to the side. I’m going to lose this case, he reflected. I’m going to lose it. And that son of a bitch’ll be out in five or six years, looking for other women to stalk.
He was in despair.
Nemes…shit.
Then the judge turned away from his clerk and said, “Mr. Hollow? Shall we continue with your rebuttal of Mr. Ringling’s affirmative defense?”
It was then that a thought occurred to the prosecutor. He considered it for a moment and gasped at where the idea led.
“Mr. Hollow?”
“Your Honor, if possible, could we recess until tomorrow? The prosecution would appreciate the time.”
Judge Rollins debated. He looked at his watch. “All right. We’ll recess until nine A.M. tomorrow.”
Glenn Hollow thanked the judge and told his young associates to gather up the papers and take them back to the office. The prosecutor rose and headed out the door. But he didn’t start sprinting until he was well out of the courthouse; he believed that you never let jurors see anything but your dignified self.
AT A LITTLE AFTER nine the next morning, Glenn Hollow rose to his feet. “I’d like to call to the stand Dr.
