Lethal Defense

by Michael Stagg

  Number two – Principal: man, late 30s, married, young kids, middle school principal.

  Number three – Hipster: young man, single, no kids, beard and flannels, manager of a microbrewery.

  Number four – Single Mom: 20s, single mom of two, between jobs, grandmother watching the kids.

  Number five – Nurse: woman, married, two kids, obstetrical nurse.

  Number six – Artist: man, early 30s, single, painter and new media artist.

  Number seven – Guardswoman: woman, mid-30s, National Guard reservist, air refueling crew.

  Number eight – Retired Math Teacher: woman, mid-60s, widow, three kids, eight grandkids, taught math at Carrefour South High School for thirty years before she retired just in time to have her husband die.

  Alternate One: Maintenance Man: man, early 40s, 2nd shift maintenance supervisor at a Ford Tier Two supplier.

  Alternate Two: Admissions Officer: man, mid-40s, married, one kid, admissions officer at the University.

  It had taken the morning, asking them questions and exploring whether they had any preconceived notions about the case. Jurors usually skewed older so it was no surprise that we’d had to eliminate the bulk of the jurors in their 20s; they were so online and knew so much about the Saint case that many of them had already made up their minds. Surprisingly, the same was also true of many of our older jurors. Turns out that retired folks were on Facebook entirely too much. Most of them had seen pictures of Lizzy and pictures of Hank and one said she'd even seen pictures of me. That wouldn't normally be enough to disqualify them, but in this case, those pictures were often accompanied by all sorts of fan conspiracy theories. Since this was a capital murder case, if Judge Gallon heard even the slightest hint of potential prejudice, she dismissed the juror for cause. In the end, we were left with a jury of people who worked too hard or were too preoccupied with surviving day-to-day to follow celebrity gossip.

  As Judge Gallon charged the jury, I took a last look at the courtroom set-up. There were two tables for counsel; we sat at the one farthest from the jury and Hank sat at the far end of the table. Cyn had bought him an expensive blue suit that somehow fit his huge frame perfectly and his long hair and beard had been trimmed so that any wildness looked like a fashion choice rather than a state of mind. I sat on the inside of the table, closest to the jury and to Jeff Hanson, while Lindsey sat in the middle between Hank and me. Cyn was seated behind us on our side of the barrier from the gallery where she would manage our digital presentation.

  I looked behind her and saw a few people in the gallery, but not as many as I had expected. There were two reporters, one for the Carrefour Courier and one for the local NBC affiliate, but no cameras as Judge Gallon had kept them out. There were a couple of more people I didn’t recognize, but there were no family members for Dillon Chase and there certainly weren't any for Hank.

  Judge Gallon finished the introductory jury charge and said, “Counsel, will you approach please?”

  Lindsey and I went up on one side while Jeff came up on the other. Jeff was wearing a gray-brown suit with a yellow shirt that was, I swear, purposely ill-fitting. Jeff was trying the case by himself, with no help from the prosecutor's office, which stood in sharp contrast to all of the well-dressed people scurrying around our table. Jeff was giving exactly the impression he wanted to give: he was just a humble prosecutor doing his job with limited resources while a high-priced defense team rustled around in their fancy suits setting up digital projectors. Bastard.

  “It's 11:15, counsel,” said Judge Gallon. She peered down at us over her prop glasses. “How long are you going to be with your openings?”

  “No more than twenty minutes for me, Your Honor,” said Jeff.

  “Less,” I said.

  “Good. We'll open and then break for lunch.”

  “Thanks, Your Honor,” Jeff and I both said and we went back to our tables.

  “Counsel for the State,” Judge Gallon said. “You may proceed with opening statement.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Jeff stood, tucked a corner of his yellow shirt back into his pants, and shrugged his jacket straight on his shoulders. He picked up a plain yellow legal pad from the table and wandered over to the lectern as if he'd have forgotten why he was there. He fidgeted as he set the legal pad down, then sighed a bit, tucked in his shirt a little more, and flipped the top page of his legal pad over.

  He had the jury's complete attention.

  He raised his head and smiled then, appearing as calm and as cool and as comfortable as a man who had tried hundreds of cases. Which he had.

  “Members of the jury,” he said. “This is normally when I tell you what this case is about. When I tell you that this is a case of murder, where a defendant purposefully and brutally killed a man and attempted to kill another. It's normally the time when I tell you that the victim was beaten severely, with a brutality seldom seen outside of truck accidents and falls from thirty-story buildings. It's when I would normally tell you about a life cut tragically short without remorse and without honor.”

  Jeff hadn't looked at his notes a single time.

  “But I’m not doing this in the usual order because this is not the usual case. Instead, what I'm going to do is tell you first what this case is not about. This case is not about self-defense. It is not about the defense of another. It is not about heroin and its effect on lives or our community.” Jeff paused to look at each of the jurors. “Mr. Shepherd is going to tell you about those things. He's going to try to tell you that that’s what matters in this case. But it doesn't. It doesn't matter at all.” Jeff circled around to the other side of the podium.

  “What matters is that on a Saturday night after Lizzy Saint and her band played at the University Arena, defendant Hank Braggi went up to Lizzy Saint’s hotel room without an invitation. That night, Mr. Braggi opened the door and went into a room that wasn’t his and found Lizzy Saint and Dillon Chase. He found them doing heroin.”

  Jeff came out from behind the podium and walked a little closer to the jury.

  “There are many reactions Hank Braggi could’ve had to that scene. He could've called the police. He could've gotten Lizzy's manager or the hotel manager or some crewmembers. Or, God forbid, he could have simply told them to stop.” Jeff put his hands in pockets and looked up in the air as if he was thinking. Then he waved his hand and said, “He could've pushed Dillon Chase to the side, knocked him down even. Mr. Braggi is a big man. Bigger than me and that's saying something.”

  A slight chuckle from three of the jurors.

  “He could have picked Mr. Chase up by the scruff like a puppy and set him down on a chair in the next room.” Jeff shook his head. “But that's not what Mr. Braggi did. That's not what he did it all.”

  Jeff had a set of 3 x 5 blowups in a big, zippered case. He turned his back to the jury as he unzipped the case, pulled one out, and flipped it onto an easel.

  The ruptured face of Dillon Chase looked back. I knew what was coming and I still had to work to keep an expression off my face. Instead though, I nodded, agreeing that’s what Hank had done.

  Jeff tapped the picture once. “No, Mr. Braggi rushed Dillon Chase and punched him in the back of the head. We know because two of Mr. Chase’s friends, Blake Purcell and Aaron Whitsel, interrupted the attack. Mr. Whitsel tried to defend his friend but Mr. Braggi punched Mr. Whitsel in the head and knocked him aside, breaking his arm. Mr. Purcell and Mr. Whitsel will tell you about that attack and tell you that they were afraid for their lives and ran away.”

  “There’s a gap then where we don’t have any witnesses. There won’t be anyone who will sit in that witness chair and tell us what happened.”

  Jeff straightened the picture on the easel. “But Mr. Chase’s autopsy will tell us what happened. It will tell us that Mr. Chase’s skull was fractured seventeen times by at least six blows. It will tell us that Mr. Chase’s right arm was broken above the elbow and the left arm below. It will tell us that Mr. Chase had eigh
t fractured ribs and a cracked sternum. It will tell us that those injuries killed him.”

  “We’ll hear from Jared Smoke, the lead guitarist in Lizzy Saint’s band. Mr. Smoke returned to the room just as Mr. Braggi was finishing the job on Dillon Chase. He’ll testify to the damage, to the blood, and to Mr. Braggi throwing Dillon Chase’s limp body around the room.”.

  Jeff took down the picture of Dillon Chase's face and replaced it with a diagram of all the fractures in Dillon Chase’s body, just like Lindsey said he would. It was a good move to keep the jury from getting used to the carnage. “We’ll bring in the coroner,” said Jeff. “He’ll testify all about the fractures so that you know exactly how it was that Mr. Chase died and the agony he suffered. The evidence will show that the police talked to Lizzy Saint that night, and to Jared Smoke, and even to Hank Braggi, and you'll hear from Carrefour’s own Chief Detective for Serious Crimes, Mitch Pearson, about the results of his investigation. And you’ll hear from Lizzy Saint and Blake Purcell and Aaron Whitsel and Jared Smoke about what happened that night before Hank Braggi charged in.”

  “Mr. Shepherd might present evidence to you suggesting that Mr. Braggi was protecting Lizzy Saint.” Jeff shook his head. “But protecting Lizzy Saint would have involved saving her, getting her out of the room, calling the police, getting her help. Instead, what happened was that Hank Braggi brutally killed one man, Dillon Chase, and attempted to kill another, Aaron Whitsel.”

  Jeff turned the diagram around now so that all that faced the jury was the blank white back of the poster board, hiding the injuries on the other side. “At the end of the case, when you’ve heard from all of these people, we’re going to ask you to convict Hank Braggi of the murder of Dillon Chase. We’re going to ask you to convict Hank Braggi of the attempted murder of Aaron Whitsel. And because of the brutal nature of this killing and the attempt on another man's life, if we obtain those convictions, we will ask you to impose the death penalty.”

  Jeff paused and looked at them all again. “I appreciate your time and the sacrifice you’re making to be here. Dillon Chase deserves it.”

  Jeff picked up the yellow notepad that he’d never looked that, flipped back the pages that he’d never read, and coolly ambled back to his seat. The man was a silky-smooth, portly assassin.

  When he had taken his place, Judge Gallon said, “Mr. Shepherd?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  I circled around Hank’s side so that I could put a hand on his shoulder as I went to the podium. The Nurse, the Hipster and the National Guardswoman all looked at me expectantly. The Pepsi Driver, the Single Mom, and the Artist all scowled and looked sick while the Retired Math Teacher’s face was so sour that I thought she might actually hold her nose when I came up to speak.

  I put my trial notebook on the lectern and stood to the side. I paused for a moment, then said, “Lizzy Saint is a rock star so she’s surrounded by people all the time. At her concerts, she’s surrounded by fifteen thousand people, all watching her, all listening to her. Her band surrounds her when she’s on stage. When the show’s over, she has fans that wait in line to be near her for just a few seconds and when she’s done with that, she’s surrounded by record executives and acquaintances and friends of friends who all wonder if she can spare just a minute.”

  “It seems incredible, doesn’t it? Singing and playing a guitar for a living. Having thousands of people screaming and cheering every day when you do your job. Having parties after every show where you’re surrounded by throngs of people who say that you’re great and that they love you and that they can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next.”

  The jury was listening. A couple nodded. Only the Retired Math Teacher was stuck, staring at the back of the bloody photo that Jeff had turned around.

  “And yet, after Lizzy performed here in Carrefour, she wound up isolated and alone. Somehow, this rock star who’s always surrounded by fans or friends or management, was alone in her suite with Dillon Chase. The evidence is going to show that Lizzy had never met him before that night. The evidence is going to show that Mr. Chase knew her boyfriend, Jared Smoke, and that Mr. Smoke got him into the party that night with the band. The evidence is going to show that the band partied more than usual that night because they knew they didn’t have to perform the next day and that Lizzy Saint got after it just as much as the rest of them. The evidence is going to show that Lizzy drank a lot that night and that by 3:45 a.m., she was so drunk she was barely conscious.”

  Drunk rock stars are interesting. The jury was paying closer attention now.

  “The evidence is going to show that as the party wound down, there came a time when none of Lizzy's friends or Lizzy’s fans or Lizzy’s management or even Lizzy’s boyfriend were with her anymore. It was just Lizzy and this man she’d never met before that night. Alone. In her suite.”

  I moved to the other side of the lectern. “My client, Hank Braggi, is one of Lizzy's oldest friends on the tour. He knew her before she was famous, had worked with her when she was struggling, and co-wrote songs with her when she was on her way up. The evidence is going to show that Hank was worried when he saw Lizzy leave the party with Smoke and three strangers. The evidence is going to show that, after a few minutes, Hank went up to her suite to check on her. Hank knocked, and when there was no answer, went in.”

  I paused.

  “The evidence is going to show that when Hank entered the room, Lizzy was barely conscious. She was sitting in a chair, head rolled back, mouth slightly open, eyes half-closed. Her boyfriend, Jared Smoke, wasn’t there. No one was there except Lizzy and Dillon Chase.”

  I shook my head.

  “The evidence is going to show that when Hank entered the room, Dillon Chase was on one knee holding Lizzy's arm in one hand while he was jamming a syringe into her vein with the other. This woman, this star who was always surrounded and never alone, was passed out in her hotel room with a stranger injecting something into her arm.”

  I paused. “Hank stopped him.”

  I spoke faster now. “You’re going to hear from a toxicologist who’s going to tell you that what was in that syringe was heroin. You’re going to hear from multiple witnesses that Lizzy Saint is not a drug addict and doesn’t use heroin. You’re going to hear that there was no one in the room to stop it until Hank arrived.”

  “The evidence will show that Hank charged into that room to protect his unconscious, helpless friend. The evidence will show that Blake Purcell and Aaron Whitsel returned from getting beer and tried to stop Hank and that Hank punched Aaron Whitsel right in the chest, driving him back. The evidence will show that Hank knocked Dillon Chase aside and got the needle out of Lizzy’s arm but that, before he could check on her further, Chase punched Hank. Hank made him stop that too.”

  “The prosecutor is going to present you with a bunch of evidence about the nature of Mr. Chase's injuries. In fact, that’s probably what Mr. Hanson is going to spend the most time on, the injuries. ” I shrugged. “It's all true. And it was justified. Hank Braggi protected Lizzy Saint in the same way that Lizzy was allowed to protect herself, if she’d been able. Hank protected Lizzy when no one else—no who listens to her or manages her or makes their living off of her—was there. She was all alone and Hank was the only one there to protect her. So he did.”

  “For that reason, at the end of this case, we’ll be asking you to return a verdict of not guilty on all counts. Thank you.”

  I wasn’t registering the jurors individually just then. I knew I got some nods and I got some stony stares but at that moment I was treating the jury as a group, as an entity that was feeling things collectively. If I started focusing too soon on one juror, I risked ignoring someone else, someone who might be the key vote. So I nodded back generally to all of them and went back to the table.

  Hank nodded and I believe he gave me a low growl. Lindsey didn't look at me but instead kept her eyes focused on the jury, taking notes. Just because I couldn't watch the indi
vidual reactions didn't mean somebody shouldn't.

  “Members of the jury,” said Judge Gallon. “We have a strict legal tradition when an opening statement ends at this hour.”

  The jurors looked at Judge Gallon expectantly.

  “It's called lunch.”

  The jury chuckled.

  Judge Gallon glanced at the clock. “It's 12:05. We’ll go back into session at 1:05.” The judge then instructed the jury not to talk to each other about the case and not to be offended if the lawyers didn't talk to them. She hesitated for a moment then, and said, “This is an unusual case. Normally, I would admonish you not to look things up, not to investigate or do independent research about things like property lines or people's histories. This case is a little different. I have to ask you not to check your feeds or hashtags for things that might be related to this case. Some of the people involved are famous and have followings. It is vital that you do not review those items. The only thing you may consider in reaching your verdict is the evidence that is presented right here in this courtroom. Much of what you read on social media is false. It needs to come through the filter of the courtroom for you to consider it. Any questions?”

  The jurors looked around, looked at each other and collectively shook their heads.

  “Good. You're dismissed until 1:05.”

  We stood as the jury filed out of the room and, once they were gone, I waved to Danny, who was sitting in the first row of the gallery. “Take Hank to get something to eat would you?” I said.

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Anywhere you can get him back by ten ‘til.”

  “What about me?” said Lindsey.

  “Do you have the injury diagram?”

  “All loaded.”

  I look to Cyn, who'd been running the presentation software. “Any problems?”

  She shook her head. “All set.”

  “You two are free to get something to eat too then.”

  “What about you?” said Lindsey.

  “I'm going to go over my cross one more time.”