After Purcell was finished, Judge Gallon dismissed the jury for the day and then dismissed us. As people filed out, Cade came up to collect Hank and take him home. I glanced at the back of the courtroom but didn’t see Maggie White, the reporter. “Anything?” I said.
“Not that I saw,” said Cade.
Hank slapped Cade on his massive shoulder. “What’s for dinner, Tiny?”
I wasn’t in the mood for banter. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” I said and told the rest of the team we’d meet back at the office in forty-five minutes.
I drove back by myself. The day had been a disaster. Ray Gerchuk had been just as effective as I’d thought he would be describing every broken bone in Dillon Chase’s body. That had been bad enough, but the extra evidence of either beating or biting the nose right off his Chase’s face probably destroyed any argument that Hank had used reasonable force to defend Lizzy. I'd established some evidence that Dillon Chase was sober so that if he was injecting an unconscious woman, he was a knowing scumbag, and I’d established that he and Hank had fought, but I didn't see any way that an Artist or a Pepsi Driver or a Retired Math Teacher would think that they’d do what Hank had done in the same situation.
And then there was the red herring I'd chased with Blake. I’d been certain with his high-priced expenses and no source of support that he had been the connection to the drugs, that he had been selling to Dillon and that that was why he had been there. Instead, I’d looked like a jackass when it turned out his money had come from his dear departed grandpa.
Sweet Jesus. If I were Jeff, I'd be tempted to end the trial right there. It had been that bad.
It wasn’t until I was all the way back to the office that I realized the other thing Blake’s testimony meant.
Aaron Whitsel was the drug dealer.
29
“Well, that was a disaster,” said Lindsey. The four of us were sitting around the conference table munching on Potbelly sandwiches.
“How could we have missed the nose?” said Danny. He was taking that particularly hard because he'd been studying the autopsy right along with Lindsey.
I shook my head and took a bite, chewing on hot peppers and shame. “You haven't read that many autopsies, Danny,” I said. “My fault.”
Lindsey shook her head. “That one's on me.”
“Things happen at trial, guys. We learn and move on.”
“But I—”
Cyn cut Danny off. “Nathan’s right, Daniel. We have to figure out how to address it, not worry about whose fault it was. We have to make the jury believe that what Hank did was necessary to stop Chase.”
Danny stared at his sandwich. “The jury was having trouble keeping their lunch down.”
“We’ll keep playing the drug angle,” I said. “Of course, I did accuse the wrong guy of being a drug dealer today. So there’s that.”
Cyn nodded coolly. “That was a setback, but you just have to hit Whitsel with it when he’s on the stand and then beat this heroin drum until the jury is just as sick from it as it is with Hank.”
“Agreed.” I turned to Lindsey. “Your thoughts?”
“We’re in deep shit.” She wiped a little olive oil from the corner of her mouth with a napkin and crumpled it into her sandwich wrapper. “I think the jury heard more than enough today to have the state push the plunger on Hank. I think we need to take Jeff’s deal.”
I glanced at Cyn and said, “The deal is a non-starter.”
“Well, you better fucking start it because our client’s about to get the death penalty.”
“Would it even still be on the table?” said Danny.
“We need to find out,” said Lindsey.
“No way he's offering us less than life,” I said.
“That's better than death.”
I thought for a moment and then tapped the table. “I'll talk to Hank tonight and see where his head’s at.”
“If it's on his shoulders, he should take a deal,” said Lindsey. “
So what do we have tomorrow?”
I smiled. “Tomorrow the circus comes to town. Saint in the morning, Smoke in the afternoon.”
“You need to call Hanson tonight,” said Lindsey.
“I can't call Hanson the day he kicked our ass, Lindsey, you know that.” I said. “If I call today, there's no way we get less than life without parole. We’ll see if we can make some headway tomorrow with Saint and Smoke and then bring it up.”
“It doesn't matter,” said Cyn, folding her hands. “Hank won't go for it.”
I raised a hand. “We need to make some ground back tomorrow. We need to make our case to people like the parents of Lizzy Saint who would be grateful that someone prevented an amoral sycophant from pumping their daughter full of poison.”
I checked the time. “I'll go see Hank now. Lindsey, call Warren Dushane and make sure he's ready to talk about his drug tag task force on Thursday.”
She nodded.
“Danny, make sure the toxicologist is ready to go the same day.”
“What time?”
“Morning.”
“Okay.”
“Cyn, you better come with me.”
“You know what my position is on this.”
“I know. I want all my ‘no’s’ in the same place when I talk to them.”
“Fine.” She stood, somehow still as neat and unwrinkled and sharp as she had been at seven o'clock that morning.
We left and went to see Hank.
Usually, when a lawyer and his team is meeting with the client, the lawyer and the paralegal sit on one side and the client sits on the other. It's unconscious and it doesn't matter, it's just the way that people will tend to sit. Tonight, though, I was on one side of the table and Hank and Cyn were on the other. Cade had left us each a cup of coffee then gone into his family room and turned on the Detroit Tigers game.
Although it had only been three days since his haircut, Hank's curls already seemed to be getting as unruly as his glittering blue eyes. Cyn was all sharp angles and neat lines but her green eyes seemed just as bright and just as hard. They didn’t look anything alike, but at that moment, their gaze was exactly the same.
I didn’t give a shit.
“You know today didn't go very well, Hank.”
Hank shrugged. “Every battle line has its surge and retreat.”
Hank and his goddamn battle metaphors. Well, if that’s what it took. “They've got us fighting a rearguard action right now, Hank. They’re beating us back pretty good.”
“But we haven't had our turn to attack yet, right? When we get to put on our own case?”
“True. But today dug us a pretty deep hole.”
Hank cocked his head. “How so?”
“The autopsy was pretty bad. The jury was having a hard time looking at it.”
“But I was defending Lizzy.”
“True. But the way you did it was so brutal that I think the jury is going to have a hard time getting past that.”
“So, let me get this straight, Counselor. I'm allowed to use force to defend Lizzy?”
“You are.”
“As much force as she would be allowed to use, right?”
“Right.”
“So if she would be allowed to use deadly force, I would be allowed to use deadly force.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, bolts and balls, Counselor, that's exactly what happened. Dillon Chase was about to inject Lizzy in a way that could have killed her. So I stopped him just like she would have if she'd been able.”
I shook my head. “You didn't stop him like she would have, Hank. That jury isn't going to believe that Lizzy Saint would've broken Chase’s skull in seventeen places, they’re not going to believe that Lizzy would've broken his ribs and his arms, and they’re certainly not going to believe that she would have knocked his nose right off his face. They might believe that she was justified in defending herself, but they will never believe that she would've done all that.”
&n
bsp; Hank laughed then and it was a clear sound that was surprisingly joyful. He laughed and he laughed and he kept laughing until even Cyn started to smile, which was a fairly amazing sight. As his laughter trailed away, he shook his head and said, “So you're telling me that the jury might believe I was allowed to use deadly force, but that I used too much deadly force?”
“Yes. You would've been better off shooting him. The beating served no purpose, especially after he was dead. What it showed was that you’re brutal and dangerous.”
Hank chuckled again. “Well, both of those are certainly true. So. There you go.”
I thought. Cyn was being no help but I knew she wouldn’t be. “Hank, it's my job to tell you what the risks are. And I'm telling you that after what happened today, there's a good chance the jury’s going to convict you and there's a good chance that they’re going to impose the death penalty when they're done.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Counselor. What I’m saying is that I still want you to fight.”
“I will, Hank. But if we lose, you're going to die.”
Hank smiled then and it seemed to me that he was looking at me with glittering happiness. “That's how you know you're in a real fight.”
I stared at the two of them, my crazy client and his ice-cold enabler. “That’s insane, Hank.”
Hank smiled. “Your fancy-ass tests say otherwise.”
“Let me call the prosecutor and see if we can get you a deal. Let me see if I can avoid the death penalty for you. I think a plea is the best chance you have.”
“No.”
Finally, all I could say was, “Hank, why?”
Hank seemed amused but he listened and, it was clear, he thought. After a moment, he said, “I grew up near a long valley that Norway and Russia share. There are woods and there are rivers and lakes and it’s about as beautiful a place as you’ll ever see. I spent all my time out in it, wandering, fishing, bird-hunting.” He smiled. “Do you know the sun doesn’t set for two months in the summer there?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t. When I was sixteen, me and three friends camped out until the sun set. Two months.” He smiled. “The Midnight Sun camp out.”
The smile faded. “Nikel, Russia is just four miles from the border. You can see the smoke and filth of the smelter from Norway, a plume of ugly brown that’s always there. From our town of Kirkenes, we could see the migrating waterfowl of the Pasvik Nature Reserve and the clouds of sulphurous smoke rolling out of Russian smelts in Nikel in the same sky. On any day, if the wind was right, Russia would send acid raining down on our town from the sky.”
Hank’s normally cheerful gaze was icy-serious. “The job of the Home Guard was to fight if Russia ever sent troops over that border along with the smoke. I told you before, if Russia invaded, the Home Guard was to vanish into our woods and then do everything we could to harass and fight and hamper the Russian forces.”
“You mentioned it. Fight a guerilla war, right?”
Hank nodded. “Exactly. Our job was to fight, Nate. Against an overwhelming force. Even if it meant destroying our own bridges, our own roads, our own towns. We were to fight that Red Army until help arrived or until we were dead.”
Hank stared at me then, with blue eyes that carried the weight of centuries of Viking fury in them. “Our job was not to negotiate terms for Norway’s surrender.”
“I understand, Hank,” I said. “But we’re not talking about a country’s survival here. We’re talking about yours.”
Hank smiled then, and it was like the midnight sun in winter. He gestured with both hands. “I’m more songwriter than soldier, Counselor. You know that. It’s why I took advantage of the Guard training program to come to Minnesota, see the States, and eventually immigrate here. But I’m still both things. We’re going to fight. We’re going to meet fury with more. We’re going to win or we’re going to lose. And we’re going to write a song about it after. A proper one for Lizzy to sing, with a voice as pure as a nightingale and as rasping as a deathblow.”
The passion in Hank's voice almost made me believe it was true. I looked to Cyn for help and found none. Finally, I said, “Okay, Hank. I won't call Hanson about it. But you know this is probably our last chance, right?”
“Our last chance for a deal,” said Hank. “Not our last chance to win.”
“Fair enough.” I stood. “Sorry Hank, but I had to bring the idea to you.”
“Every commander has unpleasant tasks to manage. You're just handling yours.” He turned to Cyn. “Love to my stepmother?”
“Of course,” said Cyn smoothing her already smooth skirt. “Anything for your father?”
Hank grinned. “Hell no. Just tell him we’re still fighting. He’ll like that part.”
“He will.” Cyn put a hand on his shoulder and made to leave. I extended my hand and he shook it with those big powerful sledgehammers that felt like they could grind bone.
Which, of course, they could.
“Goodnight, Hank,” I said and we left.
Cyn and I were driving back to the office in my Jeep. “Thanks for nothing,” I said.
“My company is not nothing.”
Very true. “You could at least try to convince his family to talk to him.”
“I already told you, I have and they agree with Hank.”
“Is that the truth?”
A passing set of headlights revealed a flash of green eyes as she glared at me in the dark. “The truth is the only thing I deal in.”
“Then the truth is that Hank is fucked. Excuse me, I mean screwed.”
“No, he’s fucked. Unless you can get the jury to see the truth of what he did. Of what was at stake.”
I shook my head. “It's a good thing you're so talented at trial.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re no help otherwise.”
We didn't talk the rest of the way back to the office.
It didn't seem to bother Cyn at all.
30
When we pulled into the court parking lot the next day, six news trucks had beat me there. There were the three local affiliates and some unmarked satellite trucks that I assumed were local stringers that had been hired by national outfits to broadcast. There were people lined up on the courthouse lawn, four and five deep on either side of the walk. The police department had erected some temporary rope and positioned a few officers along the path to keep it clear. One of them nodded and waved me over. “Come with me, Mr. Shepherd. We’ll take you straight up.”
Lindsey and Cyn seemed to take it all in stride but I thought Danny's eyes were going to pop out of his head. There was a little bit of shouting, but not much, and instead a sea of phones went up into the air as we passed and there were shouts of “Over here!” and “Nate! Nate! This way!” It was a circus and a far cry from what you normally saw at the Carrefour courthouse.
Lizzy Saint had come to town.
Rick Reynolds, the big security guard with the black earrings and the crow’s head tattoo, was the first one to testify. He seemed even bigger in the confined space of the courtroom than he did mingling with rock stars and crowds. Jeff put him on the stand, led him through the basics of where he worked and what he did and how long he had worked with the tour before he asked, “Mr. Reynolds, were you working the night Mr. Chase was killed?”
“I was.”
“Where were you?”
“I was working the door to the main party.” He looked at Hank. “Our security was a little different then.”
“So you didn't follow Ms. Saint around?”
“No. I just made sure people had a credential to enter the banquet room.”
“Did you see Ms. Saint and Mr. Chase that evening?”
“I saw just about everybody that evening.”
Jeff nodded as if he meant to elicit that response even though we both know he hadn't. “I understand. Did you see Ms. Saint leave the main banquet room that night?”
“I did.”
<
br /> “How did she seem to you?”
“She seemed fine.”
“Did she leave under her own power?”
“How else would she leave?”
“Good point. By that I mean did she walk on her own.”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone helping her?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did she leave by herself or with a group?”
“With a group. That's why I wasn't concerned about it. She was with Jared, like she usually is, and there were a couple of other people with them.”
“By Jared, you mean Jared Smoke?”
“Yes.”
“Can you identify any of the other people who were with her?”
“I couldn't at the time. Now I know that one of them was Dillon Chase.”
“How do you know that?”
“By seeing his picture on TV.”
“You recognize him from his picture?”
“I do.”
“Do you recognize any of the others she left with that night?”
“I don't.”
“So you saw them leave?”
“I did.”
“Mr. Chase didn't have his hands-on Ms. Saint?”
“No.”
“He didn't appear to be pulling her away or coercing her?”
“No.”
“And is Jared Smoke Ms. Saint’s boyfriend?”
Reynolds smiled. “I don't know if that's exactly how they’d describe it.”
Jeff smiled. “Fair enough. They’re together?”
“You'd have to ask them that.”
Jeff looked at the ceiling for a moment as if he was a father trying to figure out just who his teenager was dating. “You have observed Jared Smoke and Lizzy Saint spending a lot of time together?”
“I have. Same as the rest of the band.”
“It's not unusual for them to leave together though?”
“No.”
“It was common enough that, as a security guard, that didn’t bother you, right?”
“That’s true.”
“As a security guard for Lizzy Saint’s tour, you also know Hank Braggi?”
Lethal Defense Page 23
