Lethal Defense

by Michael Stagg

He smiled. “Especially in winter.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  Hank raised an eyebrow, pointed at his ankle monitor, and smiled.

  “I mean in the U.S.?” I said.

  He brushed the last of the hair off an ear of corn and set it on top of a growing pyramid. “There are a bunch of Norwegians in Minnesota so the Home Guard trains with the Minnesota National Guard; every year they send a group of their National Guard to Norway to train with us and we send a group of the Home Guard to Minnesota to train with them. Been doing it since the ‘70s.”

  “I’m surprised I’ve never heard of this.”

  Hank shrugged. “If you’re not Norwegian or a Minnesotan, there’s no reason you would. Anyway, I was sent to Minnesota to train some years ago. One night at the end of our stint, we went out in Minneapolis and the bands we heard blew me away. You wouldn’t even know who any of them were and they were just killing it. And I knew I had to get back here.”

  He stripped the last husk off the last ear and topped his corn on the cob pyramid. He smacked his hands together to rid himself of the last of the corn silk, then slapped his legs. “I finished my stint with the Guard, immigrated to Minneapolis, and started my life in music. And six years later, here I am.”

  I realized something. “You don’t have an accent.”

  He chuckled. “You’ve heard Ripper?”

  “I have.”

  “I have a gift with words.”

  I decided to leave that for now and said, “Did you see any actual combat with the Home Guard?”

  Hank smiled. “Have you heard of any armed conflict between Norway and Russia?”

  “No.”

  “Then I guess you have your answer.”

  “What if I there was an incursion I hadn’t heard about?”

  “I would guess, Counselor, that there would be a very good reason why you hadn’t.”

  I decided to lay it out there. “Hank, if I can show that you had been in combat and that you had a PTSD reaction to what happened with Chase, it might help your defense.”

  “I don’t have PTSD, Counselor. And the only reaction I had was anger at seeing what Chase was doing.”

  “And a desire to protect Lizzy.”

  “Of course.”

  I sighed. “You’re not making this easy, Hank.”

  Hank smiled. “No fight ever is.”

  “I’d like to have you tested, just in case.”

  Hank’s smiled. “Test away. But you’re going to find that I’m surprisingly well-adjusted.”

  When I stared at him, silent, Hank leaned forward, elbows on knees. “It’s pretty simple, Nate. What I did was right or it was wrong. Show them I was right.”

  “But if the jury thinks it was wrong?”

  “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.” He sat up and waved at the pyramid of corn. “Wanna stay for dinner? Cade can pick up another dozen.”

  “I better get back to the office.”

  Hank grinned. “I feel more innocent already.”

  “I'll be back this weekend to prepare you.”

  “I'll be waiting.”

  I said good-bye to Hank, waved to Cade, and drove back to the office. As I went, I felt some optimism that Hank had actually been in the service but concern that it wasn’t going to do me any good. Testing was going to have to be my next priority to see if we find anything useful.

  I was halfway back to the office when I remembered what Hank had said about who else knew about his past. When I returned to my office, I opened my tablet and found an email from Olivia with Hank’s U.S. citizen paperwork attached, including the application he’d filed after he’d arrived from Norway.

  I took a look at the firm that had filed the paperwork for him and can’t say that I was at all surprised. Then I went upstairs to confront Cyn.

  24

  Lindsey was sitting at the table with Cyn in the conference room when I entered. Both looked up. “Could you excuse us for a moment, Lindsey?’ I said.

  Lindsey pursed her lips but didn't object. “Just make sure you check on the status of the autopsy blowups, okay?” she said to Cyn.

  “Of course.” Cyn flipped her red hair back from her brow as I followed Lindsey to the door and shut it behind her. Both of Cyn's eyebrows were raised as I took the seat across from her. She waited for me to speak. It was one of her most effective and most annoying traits.

  “Just visited, Hank.”

  “Good. And?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was from Norway?”

  Cyn shrugged. “I thought you knew. And it doesn’t impact whether he killed Dillon Chase.”

  “True. Your firm represented him in the naturalization process.”

  Cyn sighed. “Have you been to Minnesota, Nathan?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t swing a dead katt without hitting an immigrating Norwegian.”

  “Very funny. So you know how he first came here, to the U.S.?”

  Not a twitch. “I don’t do immigration work.”

  “No. But you know.”

  She was still before she said, “Yes.”

  “You know he was with the Home Guard.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I’ve been looking for sources of PTSD with him.”

  Cyn shook her head. “I don’t believe he wound up seeing combat.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “I’m sure if there had been a Russian incursion we’d have heard about it.”

  “Interesting. That’s exactly what he said.”

  “So there you go.”

  I decided on another tack. “You’ve mentioned Hank's family a few times. Have you met them?”

  Cyn sighed. “You know we have a trial coming up?”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I’d love to work on it.”

  “Have you ever met Hank's father?”

  “I don't see how that's relevant.”

  Again, that wasn’t an answer. “I want to ask him if Hank ever saw combat.”

  “Hank already told you.”

  “Cyn. Answer my question.”

  Her eyes were still calm. “I don't appreciate being talked to like that.”

  “I don't appreciate it when people don't tell me the truth.”

  I got the first legitimate reaction I'd gotten out of Cyn that day. She straightened and her eyes burned. “I don't lie.”

  “I didn't say you did. I said you didn't tell me the truth. Have you met Hank's father?”

  “Mr. Skald has for sure. I'm not sure about Mr. Friedlander.”

  “Cyn.”

  “I'm just a paralegal.”

  “And that also doesn't answer my question.”

  Cyn stared at me.

  “Cyn, your firm helped him come to this country. You handled his citizenship. You’re apparently in touch with his family. If all that's true, then you know what his problems are.”

  “Hank’s problem is that he’s accused of murder.”

  “So help me solve it.”

  “PTSD is not a solution they’re interested in.”

  “They?”

  “Hank. The firm.”

  “His family?”

  Cyn didn’t answer me. Instead, she said, “Have you thought about the cost of that victory?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean PTSD, an insanity defense, the one where he’s locked up with insane people until he dies.”

  “You mean the one where he doesn’t die?”

  Cyn shook her head. “Death lies at the end of the road either way. Hank should be able to choose the path.”

  “If he’s competent.”

  “Is there really any doubt about that?”

  “PTSD does funny things to people. Are you going to tell me about him or his family so I can check for myself?”

  Cyn stared at me.

  “Then I’m going to have him examined,” I said.

  “That's not what he wants.�
�

  “It doesn't matter what an incompetent person wants any more than it matters what a three-year-old wants. If his competency is interfering with his decisions, it's my job to act in his interests.”

  “He told you what his interests are.”

  “That's what he thinks his interests are. That doesn't mean it’s true. I'm having him tested.”

  “And if he comes back normal?”

  “We don't say ‘normal’ anymore. But if he does, I'll have to do what he says.”

  “Then get it done so we can stop wasting time.”

  I stood to leave but stopped. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  Cyn’s eyes were green ice. “I’ve met his father. I know his stepmother better. They come back and forth from Norway all the time.”

  “Rich?”

  “Very.”

  “Which is how Hank ended up with the best firm in Minneapolis?”

  Cyn shrugged in a way that indicated my statement was narrow in geographic scope.

  “Where are they now?” I said.

  “Across the ocean. I doubt you can reach them. Better to focus the time you have on preparing the case.”

  I nodded and left.

  Lindsey was waiting for me in the general conference area. “What's going on?” she said.

  “Get your psychiatric evaluator over to Hank for testing,” I said. “Today if you can. Tell her we need the results right away.”

  “Want to tell me what we’re looking for?”

  “Anything that would make him generally incompetent of course but I think what we’re really looking for are any signs of PTSD that could trigger a violent reaction.”

  “He change his mind on a plea?”

  “No. But he’s so close to it, he might not even realize he’s reacting to the trauma.”

  Lindsey stared at me. “That’s true.”

  “Let me know what you find out.”

  She nodded and we went to our respective desks. It was a small office so I heard her call and make the arrangements. Meanwhile, I stayed out of Cyn's way or she stayed out of mine and we worked the rest of the afternoon.

  Later, Danny came into my office with a handful of papers. I looked up. “What have you got?”

  “Do you have a copy of the autopsy?” he said.

  I shuffled through the piles of paper on my desk that were organized by how recently I’d needed them—the longer it had been, the farther they got pushed away by the new piles. A revolutionary and authentic system. “Here you go. What's the issue?”

  “I think I might be missing a couple of lines. It looks like the text got cut off when they copied it.”

  “What section?”

  “External description of the face and head.”

  Danny held up two papers and looked back and forth. “It's the same on yours too.”

  “Compare it to the original from Lindsey’s file. If it has the same issue, re-request it from the coroner’s office.”

  “Okay. Look at the jury instructions yet?”

  “Not yet. Will soon. Working on Smoke’s cross-examination right now.”

  Danny hung in the doorway. That was always one of his issues, never being sure when a conversation was over. It was endearing when we weren't getting ready for trial. “I think that covers it, Danny.”

  My mind was back on Smoke’s cross-examination before he left.

  I was pretty tired when I got home late that night. My mind was preoccupied by Smoke’s cross-examination as I went into the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat and came face-to-face with the hole in the wall.

  The hole was the size of a fist. Its edges were ragged, with white drywall showing beneath the beige paint. A few cracks radiated out from the hole, traveling farther into the wall itself. By pure luck, the hole was between the studs with no wiring or piping behind it. Just pure empty space, a gap in the wood supports that opened like a mouth in the otherwise elegantly-designed kitchen. A mouth that screamed accusations of self-involvement and accidental ignorance and neglect.

  Most times, I didn't see it. I hadn't had much company since it appeared so I hadn’t felt self-conscious about it and, in my daily life, I’d stopped seeing it months ago. But tonight I saw that ragged mouth and I heard it screaming the headline from this morning.

  Mystery Lawyer’s Tragic Heroin Connection.

  I had buried the story with thoughts of PTSD and the Home Guard and Smoke’s cross-examination but now the story came rushing back. I didn't care about the headline. I cared about what people who didn't know Sarah were going to think of her.

  I didn't feel very hungry then. I went into the living room, plopped down on the couch, and turned on the end of the Tigers game. As soon as I sat, my phone buzzed. A 323 area code. LA?

  I thought then answered. “Hello?”

  “Nate Shepherd?”

  “Yes.”

  “It's Maggie White.”

  I felt a surge of anger then pulled it back. “No comment.”

  “I haven't asked you for one.”

  “Can’t take chances, Ms. White. Small talk with you has a way of ending up in a story.”

  “It's Maggie and you can’t possibly be mad that I quoted our conversation. It was harmless.”

  “We do things a little differently here in the Midwest, Ms. White. You know, simple courtesies like introducing ourselves and letting people know why we're talking to them. We’re rubes that way.”

  “That's why I'm calling, Nate. To offer you a simple courtesy.”

  “And what's that?”

  “A chance to comment on my story.”

  “We’re under a gag order. Judge Gallon’s very strict about it.”

  “Not about the trial. About your wife.”

  I squeezed the phone. “May I make a comment off the record?”

  “I'd rather it was on the record.”

  “Then I have no comment.”

  A pause. “Go ahead.”

  “Leave my wife alone. She doesn't deserve it.”

  “Her story deserves to be told.”

  “My wife's story doesn't deserve to be clickbait.”

  “All the clicks mean is that people are interested.”

  “And that's all you care about. Not my wife. Not her story. Your clicks.”

  “Her story can help a lot of people.”

  “Yes, that's exactly what an entertainment reporter from Los Angeles who hangs around at after-parties and write salacious stories about attorney’s wives is looking to do. Help people.”

  There was silence for a moment. “I did not deserve that.”

  “Was there something inaccurate about what I said?”

  “No. And there was nothing inaccurate in what I wrote.”

  “And yet we would both feel better if neither had happened.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “Leave my wife alone.”

  “We probably won't release it for a few days. You can reach me at this number anytime.”

  I did the math. “To coincide with the trial? So you can help the most people?”

  “Good luck with your trial. The man your client killed was a scumbag.”

  I didn't say anything and, after a few moments, Maggie White hung up.

  I immediately texted Izzy and told her to warn the family that a reporter was nosing around. I thought that they wouldn't want to comment either, but they weren't as used to dealing with reporters as I was. I gave her a few different ways to say no comment and told her that if worse came to worse and they had to say something, just say that we love Sarah and miss her.

  Sometimes the simplest truths are the most effective.

  I went back to the kitchen and decided on an omelet. I usually made my late-night omelets with red peppers, jalapeno, and cheese, but tonight I made it with ham because it was her favorite and I’d always enjoyed the smell of the ham cooking when I made hers first. I let the eggs sizzle in the hot pan and I let the hole in the wall scream tha
t I’d failed Sarah when she’d needed me most.

  After a few minutes, the omelet was done. The hole wasn’t. I turned off the fire, slid my eggs onto a plate, and smothered them in the welcome heat of Frank’s Red Hot sauce. I took them to the family room and ate at the coffee table just as Scott Van Pelt came on for the evening. I couldn’t see the hole from the couch but tonight I heard it; tonight it offered more than just accusations of neglect and inattention, it also lamented the wrong conclusions people were going to draw about Sarah and about her life.

  Not too long after, I fell asleep.

  I agree. That kind of compartmentalization is despicable.

  Three days later, the results of Hank's psychological evaluation came back. He passed with flying colors. He was more sane and well-adjusted than ninety-three percent of the population if the off-the-record comments of the psychiatrist were to be believed. According to her, Hank was charming and he was funny and he was smart and there was absolutely no basis to believe that he was psychotic, sociopathic, delusional, schizophrenic, bipolar, or even rude to strangers.

  Except for the fact that he'd beaten a man beyond recognition until he was dead.

  She also found that Hank did not have the faintest trace of PTSD. In fact, from what she could see, Hank had never been remotely traumatized by anything in his life.

  To her credit, Cyn didn't gloat. Instead, we all got ready for trial.

  Trial

  25

  On the first day of trial, it took most of the morning to pick the jury. There had been a couple of obvious exclusions—a police dispatcher, a man who had been convicted of shoplifting as a teen and felt the justice system was a mass of conspiracies and pricks, and the woman who was caring for a sick mother and three kids under five. Other than that, Jeff Hanson and I had pretty much agreed on the rest of the jurors.

  Which terrified me.

  In the end, we were left with a panel of eight jurors and two alternates. I won’t tell you their names because you won't remember them so I’ll list the quick facts for you the way we had them on our seating chart.

  Number one – Pepsi Driver: woman, mid-50s, married, three kids, two grandkids, drove a Pepsi delivery truck.