“Well,” the doctor said, almost smiling, “I don’t mean to sound insensitive. But we actually have a term for that.”
“What is the term?”
“Sympathy hanging.”
Jack thought again of the story he’d told Xavier about Ray’s son—the teenage boy who didn’t really want to kill himself.
Beckham asked, “What does that mean, Doctor? A sympathy hanging?”
Jack sprang from his chair to object, but the judge overruled him. “There’s no jury here,” the judge said. “The witness may answer.”
“It’s like the person who takes one too many sleeping pills and then dials nine-one-one before dozing off. They don’t really want to die. They do it for sympathy.”
Jack objected again. “Your Honor, we are way beyond this witness’s sphere of personal knowledge, and ever futher beyond his area of medical expertise.”
The judge peered out over the top of his reading glasses, toward the scattering of victim supporters in the gallery, as if to assure them that he’d allowed the prosecutor to go as far as legally permissible. “I have to say I agree with the defense,” he said with some reluctance. “Mr. Beckham, if your goal is to convince me that this was all a stunt to set up a claim that Mr. Khoury is mentally incompetent to stand trial, this witness isn’t going to do it for you. No offense to you, Dr. Phillips. Counsel, let’s schedule this matter for a proper hearing.”
“Very well,” said Beckham. “To that end, the state requests that the court appoint a psychiatrist to conduct a full competence evaluation of the defendant.”
“I’ll say it again,” said Jack. “The defense has made no claim that Mr. Khoury is mentally incompetent.”
“The rules also allow for evaluation at the request of the prosecution,” said Beckham. “Why wait for Mr. Swyteck to make his request two hours before the start of trial, which will only delay justice? Let’s do it now.”
“The state’s request is granted,” the judge said.
“Thank you,” said Beckham. “We ask that the court appoint Dr. Howard Meed.”
Jack and every other defense lawyer in Miami knew of Meed. In Meed’s judgment, Beckham’s hypothetical defendant—the one who thought the judge was a kangaroo and the prosecutor was from Mars—was not only competent to stand trial but also quite qualified to operate his own think tank. “Judge, I suggest that the court direct the prosecutor and defense to confer and select a mutually agreeable psychiatrist.”
“More delay,” said Beckham. “Dr. Meed is eminently qualified.”
“He is, indeed,” the judge said. “Dr. Meed’s evaluation shall take place as soon as Mr. Khoury’s treating physician clears him. Anything further from counsel this morning?”
There was nothing.
“Then we’re adjourned,” the judge said, with a crack of his gavel.
Lawyers and spectators rose on the bailiff’s command, and the judge exited to his chambers. Jack approached his opposing counsel while Beckham was at the table and packing up his trial bag.
“There’s still a way to avoid all this,” said Jack. “Offer me a plea that doesn’t include the death penalty, and I will do everything in my power to make sure my client gives it serious consideration.”
“I have no reason to change my mind,” said Beckham. “If hanging himself was a stunt pulled purely for sympathy, your client is evil and manipulative. If it was a genuine attempt to kill himself, it shows consciousness of guilt. Either way, he deserves death.”
Jack glanced toward the friends and family in the gallery. Some were making their way toward the exit in silence. Others just sat there, staring, as if still coming to terms with the fact that someone they loved was gone, that nothing that transpired in this courtroom was ever going to bring them back.
“I wish I could convince you that this isn’t about sparing my client,” said Jack. “It’s about sparing them.”
“You keep on telling yourself that, Swyteck, if it helps you live with yourself.”
Beckham turned and exited through the swinging gate at the rail. Jack started back toward the defense table to gather his belongings, glancing once more toward the friends and family who’d come to support the victims, feeling the weight of one woman’s stare from the back of the courtroom. Jack averted his eyes—then he stopped and did a double take, his gaze shifting back toward the double-door exit.
The young woman was gone, but Jack suddenly realized that it hadn’t been a glare from a total stranger. It had taken a moment for his mind to sift through the confusion and recognize the face beneath the broad-brimmed hat she’d been wearing, but he was certain that he knew her, that he’d met her before.
That it was Maritza from the coffee shop.
Jack grabbed his computer bag from the table, hurried to the exit, and pushed through the double doors to the lobby. He was caught in the nine a.m. rush with hundreds of lawyers and jurors trying to be on time for the start of another day in the justice mill. Jack saw no sign of Maritza in the crowd, and he wasn’t sure which way she might have gone. He took two quick steps in one direction, then changed his mind and started in the other, running head-on into a Miami-Dade cop who had apparently missed his calling as a Miami Dolphin running back. He hit Jack so hard that the collision sent his laptop flying right out of his computer bag. It landed with a distressing crack on the floor.
“Oh, man, I’m so sorry,” the cop said. He helped Jack gather up the pens, Post-Its, and other tools of the trade that had scattered across the floor. “You got it all, pal? Hope you didn’t lose nothin’.”
Jack glanced toward the escalators at the end of the long hallway. No sign of Maritza.
“No telling what I lost,” said Jack.
Chapter 29
Andie didn’t want her husband in the room with her.
It was Tuesday morning, and Andie’s deposition in the school’s lawsuit against her was scheduled for nine a.m. at the law offices of Cool Cash. Jack had assured her that he was fully on board with President Lincoln’s view, as amended by Theo Knight, as cleaned up by Jack Swyteck, that “the lawyer who represents his wife is an effing lunatic.” But on the morning of the deposition, before they left the house, he seemed to be wavering.
“Hannah will appear as the attorney of record,” said Jack. “I’ll attend strictly as an interested observer.”
“You won’t just observe,” said Andie.
“Only Hannah will speak on your behalf. I promise.”
“You lie, Jack.”
“Come on, Andie. What can it hurt if I’m there?”
“You said it yourself when we agreed you were not going. All I need to do is tell the truth. The only way for me to get into trouble is if I start worrying how you might react to my answers to Fitz’s questions.”
Andie had him there. His own words. Jack went to his office like any other workday. It was Andie and Hannah at the deposition—unlike any day Andie had ever experienced.
“Agent Henning, have you ever been deposed before?” asked Fitz.
Duncan Fitz, lead lawyer for the plaintiff, was seated across the conference table from Andie and Hannah, his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view of Biscayne Bay. With him on his side of the needlessly long table were a Cool Cash junior partner, a Cool Cash senior associate, a Cool Cash junior associate, and two Cool Cash paralegals. Andie wondered if the deposition of President Clinton had been this overstaffed.
“I have not,” said Andie.
Fitz launched into a five-minute explanation of the rules of a deposition, which included everything she’d already heard from Hannah in their prep session the day before. Hannah had also told her that background questions would come next—education, employment history, current employment, and the like. But Fitz surprised her—as Jack had warned her he might—by going straight to the heart of the matter.
“Agent Henning, you are familiar with the ‘Run, Hide, Fight’ protocol in response to an active shooter in schools, correct?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Let’s focus on step one, ‘run,’” said Fitz. “I’m reading from the Riverside safety pamphlet that is part of the school information package given to all parents. ‘If there is considerable distance between you and the gunfire/armed person, quickly move away from the sound of the gunfire/armed person. If the gunfire/armed person is in your building and it is safe to do so, run out of the building and move far away until you are in a secure place to hide.’”
Fitz handed the pamphlet to Andie and her counsel. “Does that comport with your understanding of ‘run,’ in the ‘Run, Hide, Fight’ protocol?”
Andie read it to herself, then answered. “It does.”
“The protocol dictates that you run away from the sound of gunfire, correct?”
“That is what it says here.”
“And that if the shooter is inside the building you run out of the building, correct?”
“Yes.”
“In fact,” said Fitz, “on the morning of the Riverside shooting, that’s exactly what the head of school directed every parent in the rec center to do: follow her away from the shooter and out of the building.”
“That is my recollection,” said Andie.
“Let me ask you this,” said Fitz. “If one of the other mothers in that room had decided to run anywhere but out of the building and away from the shooter, you, as an experienced FBI agent, would consider that a violation of the ‘Run, Hide, Fight’ protocol. Would you not?”
“Objection,” said Hannah, though it wasn’t at all clear to Andie what the objection was. “You can answer,” said Hannah.
“No other mother in the rec center was a trained law enforcement officer,” said Andie. “I thought I could help.”
“You were off duty and unarmed that morning, correct?” said Fitz.
“Yes.”
“So, let’s be honest. Did you really think you could help? Or did you think you were special and that the rules didn’t apply to you?”
Hannah objected again, but it all seemed pointless to Andie. “You can answer,” said Hannah.
“I didn’t think I was special,” said Andie.
“Well, did you think it was okay to disobey the explicit directions of the head of school to exit the building and follow her to safety?”
“Like I said, I thought I could help.”
“All right,” said Fitz. “Let’s talk about how much help you actually were. After you exited the rec center, did you confront the shooter?”
“No.”
“Did you throw anything at him to distract him?”
“No.”
“Did you call out to him to confuse him?”
“No.”
“The fact is, you did nothing more than run to your daughter’s classroom and sit outside the door, correct?”
Andie paused, not liking the way Fitz had phrased it. “I waited outside the door and prepared myself as best I could to confront the shooter if he tried to enter the kindergarten classroom.”
“I see. In your view, you committed an act of bravery.”
“I think it was pure instinct.”
Fitz smiled insincerely. “Well, don’t sell yourself short, Agent Henning. We’ve all seen the diagrams of the shooter’s path prepared by the Miami-Dade Police Department. You agree that you ran toward the shooter, not away from him. Correct?”
“That appears to be the case.”
“You were putting yourself in danger, right?”
“I suppose so. I wasn’t thinking about that.”
“Did anyone follow you down the hallway as you moved toward the shooter?”
“No.”
“How do you know that?”
Andie understood the question, but she still puzzled over it. “I didn’t see anyone follow me.”
“So your answer is you don’t know if anyone followed you because you didn’t see anyone.”
“Right. I didn’t see anyone.”
“Someone might have followed you, right?”
Hannah interjected. “Please don’t ask the witness to guess.”
Fitz didn’t give up. “Agent Henning, are you going to tell me that it is impossible that someone followed you?”
“I would say it’s possible.”
“More than possible, wouldn’t you say? A child is caught in a hallway during an active shooting. Gunfire is popping like an exploding brick of firecrackers. Bodies are on the floor. Students are screaming and scattering in every direction. A lost and confused child doesn’t know what to do. The child sees an adult running down the hallway with purpose. The child follows the adult. Wouldn’t that be a natural thing for any child to do?”
“Objection, calls for speculation.”
“I don’t know,” said Andie.
“You don’t know?” asked Fitz, his tone more aggressive. “As an FBI agent and a mother, you have no view as to whether or not a terrified child who doesn’t know where to run would follow an adult? That’s your testimony under oath?”
“Objection, asked and answered,” said Hannah.
Andie was struggling. She did have an opinion. But clearly her lawyer was sending her a signal not to answer Fitz’s question. “I really can’t say,” she said.
Fitz leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, forcing Andie to look into the eyes of an experienced litigator who knew exactly how to control a witness. He didn’t shout. He didn’t get nasty. He simply gave the witness no option but to say what he knew, in her heart, she believed to be true.
“Agent Henning,” he said in a firm voice. “Let’s see if we can agree on this much: if any child followed you down that hallway instead of running for the exit, you put that child at greater risk. Didn’t you?”
“Objection,” said Hannah. “Counsel, now you are simply harassing the witness. Agent Henning, as your lawyer I’m directing you not to answer that question.”
“That’s completely improper,” said Fitz. “If you stick to that position, I will take it to the judge and seek sanctions against you and your client.”
The Cool Cash associates at the end of the table were feverishly tapping the keys on their laptops, probably at work on the motion already.
“Do as you think you must,” said Hannah. “But move on.”
Fitz turned his attention back to Andie. “Agent Henning, are you going to follow the instruction of your counsel? Or are you going to give me an honest answer to a question that you know is fair and proper: If any child followed you down that hallway toward the gunfire instead of running for the exit, that child was at greater risk. Agreed?”
“I object,” said Hannah, “and I repeat my instruction to my client.”
Andie was thinking—but not about her lawyer’s instruction.
“How about it, Agent Henning?” asked Fitz. “Your answer, please?”
Hannah jumped to her feet and said, “That’s it. We’re leaving. Come on, Andie, let’s—”
“Yes,” said Andie.
The room was silent.
Then Fitz followed up. “Yes, what?”
He may have been out of line, but Andie felt the need to answer. “If any child followed me, that child would have been at greater risk.”
“Thank you,” said Fitz. “Now, Ms. Goldsmith, if you will retake your seat, I’d like to ask your client about her educational background and employment history.”
“I think my client would like a break,” said Hannah.
Andie swallowed the lump in her throat. In the first ten minutes of the deposition, Fitz had drilled to the very core of her own second-guessing of her response to the gunshots that morning.
“Yes, thanks,” said Andie. “A break would be good.”
Chapter 30
Jack worked through dinner and wasn’t home until nine. The house was quiet. He assumed Righley was asleep, so he chose not to tap into his half-Cuban roots, play Ricky Ricardo, and announce Looo-cy, I’m home! with all the volume of “Babalú.” He went quietly to the kitchen, heat
ed up leftover spaghetti Bolognese in the microwave, and took a seat at the counter.
It had been a wasted day at the office. One of Theo’s many buddies happened to be a top tattoo artist who’d created one-of-a-kind images for NBA players. Sports video companies paid the players big bucks to use their likeness in their games, and the graphic artists copied the tattoos with impressive precision. Theo’s friend thought the video company should pay him for copying the tattoos he created. Jack was no copyright expert, but like most sole practitioners, he thought of himself as a “Jack of all trades,” no pun intended. This claim, however, was dead by sundown. Jack found lawsuits over tattoos on LeBron James and other NBA stars, all decided against the artist.
He switched on the TV but kept the volume low. The Miami Heat were battling the Los Angeles Lakers. LeBron was at the free-throw line.
“Nice tats,” said Jack.
He ate about half his bowl of spaghetti and cleared the rest into the trash can. It was then that he noticed the empty bottle of wine on the counter. Andie’s voice got lower when she was drunk, and Jack heard that voice coming from the dark living room.
“Jack? Is that you?”
She was lying on the couch. Jack went to her and gave her a kiss. She could barely lift her head to meet his lips, and she was still wearing the silk blouse and pants that she’d worn to the deposition. At least she’d removed her shoes. Jack sat at the end of the couch, put her feet in his lap, and massaged the ball of the foot the way she liked.
“Ahhh,” she said, almost purring.
“You’re drunk.”
“Ya think?”
“Did you finish that whole bottle of wine yourself?”
“Yup.”
“When we talked on the phone, you said the deposition went well.”
“It did. I was the perfect witness. I’m celebrating!”
Jack’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he could see pain in her expression, feel it in her toes as the phony exuberance faded. “Tell me what happened,” he said.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Jack.”
Twenty Page 17
