Lethal Defense

by Michael Stagg

  Christian held out a hand, scrolled, handed it back. “That’s more views than I would expect. Let's put the home office on a response.”

  Cyn nodded. “I'll let the PR department know. They're going to want to shape this. Right away.” She handed my phone back to me. “Thanks.”

  I pocketed the phone. “No problem. One of the benefits of teenage nieces.”

  Cyn looked at Christian. “You’re under the gun on prep. Why don’t we send Nathan out on witness interviews?”

  “We have investigators,” said Christian.

  “True,” said Cyn. “But it wouldn't hurt to have a trial lawyer's view on some of them.”

  “Whatever you want,” I said. “Who are the main witnesses?”

  Christian began taking off on his fingers, “Lizzy Saint, Jared Smoke the lead guitarist, the coroner, and the victim’s two friends, Blake Purcell and Aaron Whitsel.” Christian tapped the top of his pen on the desk. “Do you have friends in local law enforcement?”

  “A few.”

  “Why don’t you have them check background on Purcell and Whitsel?” said Christian. “If we can tie them in to local drug traffic, Mr. Braggi’s story will be more compelling.”

  I felt a twist in my gut at the thought of diving into local drug traffic but I kept it off my face. “Sure.”

  “Let's start with that then,” said Christian.

  “Sounds good.” I stood.

  “What about …” Danny's voice trailed off

  Cyn stared at him. It wasn’t a glare or a stare or even the slightest bit harsh; it was just a look that was totally present and attentive and it just about made Danny crumple. He sputtered once before I said, “You can help me.”

  The corner of Cyn's mouth ticked up. “That's a good idea.”

  We went into the temporary offices on the third floor that Cyn had made up for us. “Pull everything we have on these two. We’ll read it then head over to see Warren this afternoon.”

  Danny nodded and got to it, clearly glad to have something to do.

  My stomach twisting didn't improve at all as I thought about calling Warren Dushane, the local sheriff and head of the Tri-State Drug Task Force. I forced it down and got to work.

  Warren Dushane was a burly cement block of a man. In his late fifties, his hair was still dark brown with no sign of gray. He was average height with thick shoulders, popping forearms, and the thickening waist of a man approaching the end of his career. I’d known him most of my life—he’d coached our peewee football team with my dad and he had always looked just as comfortable with a whistle around his neck as he did with a gun around his waist.

  Warren was the sheriff of Ash County, Michigan, so his jurisdiction included the Michigan section of Carrefour and the area twenty-five miles north of that. He'd been elected twenty years running, in no small part because he’d coached half of the male voters in the county. Five years ago, Warren had taken on a lead role in coordinating the cooperation between counties and states to stop drug trafficking in general and heroin in particular. Because so many spokes of transportation—train, highway, and air—ran through Carrefour, he’d become a natural choice to lead the effort. More than one bust had been made when a sheriff from a neighboring county or a state trooper had let Warren know that a packed mule was on its way. That's why I'd come to see him.

  When Warren opened the door to his office, his face broke into a grin. “Shep! It's not time for preseason practice yet, is it?”

  I coached with Warren and my older brother Tom sometimes. “No, no.”

  “Come in then, come in.” Warren pointed me to a seat. The office was the small, messily functional room you'd expect of a lifelong county official. “I wasn't going to put together the preseason workouts for a while yet but you can take a look if you'd like.”

  “Not necessary, Warren, although I’m looking forward to seeing what new torture devices you found this offseason.”

  Warren grinned. “Ropes. Fifty pound, twelve foot long, awkward ropes.”

  I laughed. “Even worse than I thought. No, Warren, I’m here on business.”

  Warren’s grinned faded and he looked away, uncomfortable, which wasn’t a natural state for him. “Shep, I'm sorry. I really don't have any other leads yet. I've had the boys working on it but—”

  I realized Warren thought I was here on my own personal case. “No, Warren, not for me. Sorry, I should've said that right away.”

  Warren looked distinctly relieved and I realized I got that look a lot.

  “Oh,” he said. “I assumed…”

  “No, it's for a new case. I wanted to see if you know if someone has any associations I should be aware of.”

  Warren leaned back in his chair. “With drug trafficking?”

  “With heroin trafficking. It’s for a new case in south Carrefour.”

  “Ohio side?”

  I nodded.

  “You should be talking to an Ohio officer then. Pearson probably.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. But I thought with all the cooperating you’ve been doing, you’d be a good place to start.”

  “Sounds like you ought to get me up to speed then. Coffee?”

  I nodded and, as he poured us a couple of cups of coffee, told him about Hank Braggi’s killing of Dillon Chase.

  “You’re on that? You don't do criminal cases.”

  “Local counsel only on this one. Just doing a little research for the guy running the show. Ever hear of the victim?”

  “Chase? Doesn't ring a bell but that doesn't mean anything. There are a lot of scumbags I haven't run into.”

  “He was with three other witnesses that night—Jared Smoke, Blake Purcell, and Aaron Whitsel. I don’t expect you to have anything on Smoke but if the other two have a connection to dealers, I want to know what I'm getting into.”

  Warren sipped his coffee. “That's easy enough. Part of what the task force does is share info with each other on known traffickers and dealers. Doesn’t hurt to check for connections. I have a county commissioners’ meeting right now but I can let you know after.”

  “Perfect. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” He tapped his pen on his coffee mug. “How have you been?”

  “Fine.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shifted his weight. “We’re still working it.”

  I didn’t have to ask what he meant. “That's what you said.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  “I'll let you know if anything turns up. On either.”

  “Sounds good.” I stood and shook his hand. “I'll let you get to that commissioners’ meeting.”

  “Aren't you a prince. Hey, why don't you stop by for dinner this week? Diane would love to see you.”

  I also got a lot of those kind of dinner invitations, although they’d slowed down some. “This case is going to keep me hopping a while. After though.”

  “All right. She'll be disappointed, but she has been married to me for thirty-two years so that's a state she's gotten used to.”

  “I imagine so.” I smiled, shook his hand, said goodbye, and left.

  I decided it was time to see the Blake Purcell.

  8

  There had been three outsiders in Lizzy Saint’s suite on the night of the killing, three men who weren’t part of the tour, weren’t part of the record label, and weren’t part of the band’s management or families: the victim, Dillon Chase, and his friends, Blake Purcell and Aaron Whitsel. According to the police report, the three had found their way backstage and then managed to get invited to the main star’s suite. After which, Dillon Chase had wound up dead.

  Blake Purcell's address was listed in the police report and it took me to the Ohio side of Carrefour, south of the University, to a row of upper-end brick townhomes. I checked the report again and saw that Purcell’s occupation was listed as “student” but this didn’t look like student housing to me. The townhomes were expensive, the ki
nd you find young professional couples in, and the cars in the spaces were far too new and undented to be driven by undergrads. I checked the report for the number, went up to the second floor, and knocked. A young man with overly-moussed hair answered.

  “Blake?” I said.

  “No. I'm his roommate.”

  “He in?”

  “No.”

  “Will he be back soon?”

  Mousse Guy gave me a droopy-eyed look that was more cautious than sleepy. “Don't know.”

  Fortunately, the complex numbered its parking spaces. Both spaces for 219 were full. “Tell him I'll be waiting by his car. Is he the Wrangler or the Mercedes?”

  “I've already talked to you guys three times,” came a voice from inside the apartment. “This is harassment.”

  I raised an eyebrow but Mousse Guy didn’t even twitch. “I won't take much of your time,” I called back.

  “I've got it, Teddy,” said the voice and a young man took Mousse Guy’s place. Blake's hair had even more product in it than his buddy’s and that was saying something. Blake Purcell was on the lean side, a little taller than average, and wore tight tan pants and a tighter green shirt that probably rose to the level of formalwear when attending a college class. He stepped outside the townhouse and closed the door.

  I smiled. The police had indeed been here three times and the kid had learned—never let the police in your house.

  “I don't have anything else to say.” His annoyance was clear. “I've talked to that detective three times already.”

  “Which detective?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Peterson? Paulson? Don’t you guys know each other?”

  “Pearson? Mitch Pearson?”

  “That’s the one. Tall, arrogant fuck. Must be a treat to work with.”

  “I don’t work with him.”

  “Well, I gave him all my info already. Talk to him.”

  “I'm not with the police.”

  Blake's eyes narrowed. “No comment.”

  The kid was sharp despite the crusty hair. “I'm not the press either.”

  “Then who the fuck are you?”

  “I'm a lawyer and I'd like to ask you about what happened the night that Dillon was killed.”

  “I already told the prosecutor I’d testify. He’s supposed to give me a date.”

  “I represent Hank Braggi. I'd like to know what happened.”

  Blake turned and opened the door. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I'd like to hear what you saw.”

  “You'll hear it in court.”

  “I just want to know the truth of what happened. That's all.”

  “I'll tell you what happened. Your client is fucking crazy is what happened.”

  He made to shut the door. I stopped it, leaving it open a crack. Blake pushed back but it didn’t move as I said, “What do you mean? The beating?”

  “You’re his lawyer. Did you see the pictures?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you know your client is fucking nuts.” He pushed on the door again. “I have to get to class. Don't be waiting by my car.”

  I let off the pressure and Blake shut the door, leaving me staring at the black 219 for inspiration.

  Blake Purcell might have a point. Our best defense might be that Hank was crazy.

  When I got back to the office, I dumped my things on my second-floor desk and went up to the room on the third floor that I was beginning to think of as the war room.

  Danny was gone, but I could hear Christian’s voice coming from the conference room. “Yes, we have time to put it all together,” he said. A pause. “Last week. Yes. He seemed fine. No, he agrees. He ordered me to do the same thing.”

  I peeked in and saw Christian sitting at the table, straight and unwrinkled as always. Cyn was next to him, leafing through a folder. She saw me and nodded.

  “Three weeks now,” Christian continued. “No, I think we have everything we need. I'll email you a progress report at the end of the week. Sure. Hang on a second.”

  I watched as Christian handed the phone to Cyn. I didn't like the sound of that conversation at all. Conversations between an attorney and client stay confidential. Reporting to someone else, though, that can be a problem.

  “Yes?” she said and paused, listening. “Everything is progressing as it should. Of course. That's always my priority.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. But I was coming to learn that Cyn projected an air of competence that made one absolutely believe that everything was in fact progressing as it should.

  “Right,” she said. “Goodbye.”

  Cyn hung up the phone and the two of them looked at me. “Good evening, Nathan,” said Christian. “You're working late.”

  “I could say the same. Who was that?”

  “Home office,” said Christian. “The partners like to keep tabs on what’s going on.”

  That made me feel better. Conversations within the firm would stay privileged. I nodded. “I was worried there for a moment.”

  Cyn gave me a look that questioned my competence because I would question her competence.

  “Right,” I said. “Silly.”

  Christian smiled. “We have done this before, Nathan.” He glanced at Cyn. “Many times.”

  I smiled and nodded and the two of them moved to go back to work, Cyn placing a manila folder in front of Christian.

  “I saw Blake Purcell today,” I said.

  The two of them looked up. Christian set the manila folder down on the desk and said, “I thought you were going to do background with law enforcement?”

  I shrugged. “I did but I had time and thought we ought to know what he's going to say.”

  Cyn crossed her arms. “And what is he going to say?”

  “That Hank is crazy.”

  Cyn arched an elegant red eyebrow. “And why would he say that?”

  “Besides the fact that he saw Hank beat his friend to death?”

  “Yes, besides that.”

  “No reason I guess.”

  “Hardly enough to say he’s crazy then.”

  “We could though,” I said.

  “We could what, Nathan?” said Cyn.

  “Say it’s enough. Say that Hank’s crazy.”

  “Insanity is not an option, Nathan,” said Cyn.

  “I don't think people think of it as an option. It's something that is.”

  She shook her head. “Mr. Braggi is not insane.”

  Christian waved a hand. “It doesn't matter. Not guilty by reason of insanity isn't an option in this case.”

  “It's always an option if the person actually is insane.”

  “He's not.”

  “You know he's up on aggravated murder, right?”

  Christian’s eyes grew hard for the first time since I'd met him. “I’m very aware of the legal issues in this case, Nathan.”

  “And you know that he's facing the death penalty?”

  “Yes.” There was winter in that clipped affirmation.

  “And that not guilty by reason of insanity does not carry the death penalty?”

  “Yes, but it carries a lifetime of institutional care, doesn't it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is not something that our client is interested in.”

  “He'd rather die?”

  “He'd rather that we win.”

  “I don't think his ‘rathers’ are going to carry much weight with the jury.”

  “Then we'll have to convince them.”

  “Listen I know I'm just local guy but—”

  “Yes, Nathan. You're just the local guy.” Christian’s eyes were still, blue ice. “We’ve discussed this with our firm and with our client. If the strategy changes, we’ll let you know. But right now your job is to help us implement it.”

  His gaze softened and he went back to being a polite, charming lawyer from a movie. “Still, Purcell’s comments are good to know.” His gaze softened further. “Thank you, Nathan. I didn
't mean to seem harsh, but our client's directive is very, very clear so we’ll be doing everything we can to execute it.”

  “No, I'm sorry. It’s your case. Execution is just what I was trying to avoid.”

  “Touché.” Christian smiled and waved a hand at the manila folders. “This is the prosecutor's file. Let me get through the rest of it tonight and we’ll talk about what else you can do in the morning.”

  “Sounds good. I'll see you then.”

  The two of them made no move to resume working. Instead they looked at me, obviously waiting for me, and it wasn't until I was walking out the door that they resumed talking, in lower voices this time.

  I still wasn't crazy about the strategy. Hank was facing an aggravated murder charge so to me the priority was to eliminate the risk of execution. That meant arguing that he was insane, trying to eliminate the aggravating factor of attempted murder on Whitsel, or taking the plea deal. The strategy of simply winning seemed the least likely at this point. Still, my orders seemed pretty clear—help Christian implement the strategy they'd decided upon.

  Meanwhile, I decided to implement my own strategy of going home. I got in the Jeep and left.

  9

  We were three weeks out from trial, in that time where you’re not preparing for the trial exactly but you’re preparing to prepare. I spent my time digging out from under emails, answering pleadings and motions that would be due in the next few weeks, and otherwise clearing the decks to make sure nothing fell through the cracks while we were in Hank Braggi’s trial.

  Most of a lawyer's life is boring like that. I'm not the first one to call it legal whack-a-mole but that's exactly what it is most of the time. You manage one crisis so that you have time to deal with the next one, which inevitably pops its furry little head up as soon as you think everything is managed.

  That also meant that I spent very little time on the Braggi case that week. That didn't worry me either. Since I was just the local guy, Christian was going to be doing all the heavy lifting and it appeared that Cyn had the details more than managed. I fielded the odd question about how many copies the Court wanted, whether we should send things to the judge directly or just give an extra copy to the clerk, and other little local customs that vary from court to court. I read Hank’s file, I was conversant with it, and I had a general understanding of what was going on, but I really wasn't involved in the day-to-day management of the case. So when my phone buzzed at 8:30 a.m. one morning and the caller ID showed that it was from the Carrefour Courthouse, I didn't have any expectation of who it was when I answered. “Nate Shepherd.”