Lethal Defense

by Michael Stagg

  “Objection, Your Honor,” said Jeff.

  “Overruled,” said Judge Gallon.

  Lizzy nodded. “Yes, I would.”

  I paused for a moment and looked down at my notebook. I knew exactly where I was, but I wanted to let that answer sit there for a moment before I went on to a new area. Eventually, I flipped the page and said, “Ms. Saint, Hank Braggi cowrote your first album with you, didn't he?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “That album was Ripper?”

  “It was.”

  “That album went platinum?”

  “Several times.”

  “It won a Grammy for best new album?”

  “It did.”

  “Hank co-wrote your second album with you too, right?”

  “He did.”

  “That album was Jacked?”

  “It was.”

  “That album also went platinum?”

  “It did. As many times as the first.”

  “Ms. Saint, did you fire Hank Braggi from cowriting albums with you?”

  Lizzy smiled. “I did not.”

  “What happened?”

  “I wanted him to work on the third album with me but Hank stepped back. He said I needed to find my own voice without any influence from him or others and he encouraged me to write in exactly the way I wanted.”

  “There were no ill feelings between you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “He stayed on as your sound engineer?”

  “He did.”

  “He did not have any conflict with your management?”

  “He did not.”

  “A little bit ago, Mr. Hanson asked you about Hank throwing a reporter from the Daily Turn into a swimming pool. Do you remember those questions?”

  “I do.”

  “Mr. Hanson didn't give you an opportunity to explain why Hank did that. Would you like to now?”

  “I would.” Lizzy turned to the jury with the air of someone who’s used to communicating with a lot of people at once. “We were in the first floor of the hotel, right by a pool courtyard. There was a gap in my curtains and Hank caught a reporter trying to take pictures through it while I was changing. Hank picked him up and encouraged him to try from a new, wetter angle. Then he returned the man’s camera to him.” She smiled. “Turns out soggy memory cards don’t hold up well.”

  “And the time he stepped on a fan’s foot?” I said.

  “We were trying to get into a car and people were pressing up all around it so that we couldn't even get the doors open. Hank cleared the way so that we could crack the door, get in, and leave. When he did it, he accidentally stepped on a fan’s foot.”

  “And the time he tossed a man off the stage?”

  “A fan got past security and grabbed me to say something. Turns out he had a restraining order against him from several other artists that he’d become obsessed with. Hank got rid of him without hurting him.”

  Time to shift gears again. “Ms. Saint, before the night of the incident, did you know Blake Purcell?”

  “I did not.”

  “Before that night did you know Aaron Whitsel?”

  “I did not.”

  “Before that night did you know Dillon Chase?”

  “I did not.”

  “To your recollection, did you ever give any of these gentlemen permission to inject you with heroin?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Jeff Hanson stood before I had taken my seat. “Ms. Saint, would you fracture someone’s skull to keep them from giving you heroin?”

  Lizzy Saint raised her chin. “I would.

  “In seventeen places?”

  “If I could.”

  “Would you break both of his arms?”

  “He would deserve it.”

  “You would break his ribs and puncture his lungs?”

  “Every time.”

  “You would bounce him off every piece of furniture in the hotel room?”

  “Like a basketball.”

  “Would you bite the nose off his face?”

  I stood. .“Objection, Your Honor. Foundation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Would you beat him until his nose came off?”

  Lizzy Saint leaned forward, projecting a stare that could reach the upper deck of a stadium. “If he was injecting me with heroin against my will, he had it coming.”

  “Would you leave the person like this?”

  Jeff pulled out his five-foot-tall blowup of Dillon Chase's face and showed it to Lizzy. Lizzy Saint flinched and her eyes widened. It was clear that she’d never seen a picture of what Chase looked like after Hank got through with him. She shrank backwards and it took her a moment to regain her composure before she said, “I would.”

  But she had flinched and she had blanched and she had hesitated. Only for a moment but that moment was enough for everyone to see.

  There's no way she would have done it.

  Jeff nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Saint. That's all, Your Honor.”

  “Re-cross, Mr. Shepherd?”

  “Ms. Saint, I understand you received medical treatment that night?”

  “I did.”

  “I understand you were given a toxicology screen to determine whether you had been given any drugs, is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was any heroin found in your system?”

  “No.”

  “That's all I have, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Saint,” said Judge Gallon. As Max Simpson hustled Lizzy out of the courtroom, the judge looked at the clock. “We’ll break for an hour for lunch. Members of the jury, please be back by 12:55.”

  The jury filed out. The broken face of Dillon Chase watched them go.

  31

  Jared Smoke’s grand entrance into the courtroom was a stark contrast to Lizzy’s. Where Lizzy had made the concession from rock singer to hard-edged corporate raider, Smoke decided to stay full on Rocker. His hair was black, of a shade that indicated he was hiding gray hair or brown. He had the drawn, weathered look of someone who'd smoked a lot and slept less but hadn't quite taken the hard turn into Keith Richards-territory yet. He wore black pants, a black shirt, and a long black coat, and if they weren't leather, they were some sort of leather-adjacent material. You know, exactly what you wear in the summertime. He took the stand with the certainty of one who knows their shit absolutely, unequivocally, does not stink. He leaned back, slouched a little bit, and rested his elbow on the handrail as he raised his hand to be sworn in.

  When that was done, Jeff said, “Could you introduce yourself to the jury, please?”

  “I’m Jared Smoke.” He appeared to be used to pyrotechnics when that was announced.

  “And Mr. Smoke, are you in Lizzy Saint’s band?”

  Smoke sat a little straighter. “We’re in a band together.”

  “My apologies. And how long has that been the case?”

  “About two years.”

  “And did you know each other before then?”

  “It's a small community. We’d run into each other. Jammed a bit here and there.”

  “You were on the most recent tour with Ms. Saint?”

  “We toured together, yes.”

  “So you were at the concert at the University the night Dillon Chase was killed?”

  “I was.”

  “Had you met Mr. Chase before that night?”

  “I had.”

  “How?”

  “Chase had been around for a while. He's a big music fan and he knew bands and he knew management and venue operators.”

  “Was that helpful?”

  “Very. If you were looking to find someone to fill in on bass for a leg of a tour, or looking to play a certain kind of club to work out some kinks, or even wanted help finding a producer at a label, Chase always knew someone, or knew someone who knew someone, to help you solve the problem.”

  “Did you invite Mr. Cha
se to the concert that night?”

  Smoke smiled. “Chase didn't need me to invite him to a concert. He probably had about nine different connections that would've given him tickets.”

  “But you saw him afterwards?”

  “I did. It was always good to see Chase. I didn't know he was coming and when I saw him at the meet and greet after, we started talking and catching up.”

  “I understand Mr. Chase had a couple of friends with him that night?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Did you meet them?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Does Blake Purcell and Aaron Whitsel sound familiar?”

  Smoke smirked. “Not really. Party was a little loud.”

  “I want you to assume that those were the names of Mr. Chase’s two friends, okay?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Had you ever met either of them before that night?”

  “No. Or if I did, I don't remember.”

  “Was Lizzy with you when you were catching up with Mr. Chase?”

  “Here and there. She had some obligations with meet and greets where you shake hands and take pictures with special fans. My guess is that she was in and out.”

  Jeff raised a hand. “I’m going to spare Mr. Shepherd the trouble of getting up and objecting. If you don't know something, Mr. Smoke, you need say so. Please don't guess about whether something happened or not. It's very important that the jury understand what you know and what you don't.”

  Smoke looked like Jeff had just told him not to walk to Borneo. “Okay.”

  “So the four of you spent some time at the after-party?”

  “We did.”

  “Did Ms. Saint eventually join you?”

  “She did.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The party was winding down so we decided to head on up to the suite and keep it going for a little bit.”

  “Mr. Smoke, was Ms. Saint intoxicated by this point?”

  “We were all intoxicated some by this point.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  He raised an overly dark eyebrow. “We grabbed more beers and a couple of bottles and went to the suite.”

  “Could Ms. Saint walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she know what she was doing?”

  “Seemed to.”

  “Now, before you left to go to the suite, did Hank Braggi ever join your conversation?”

  “No.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “No. Hank and I don't hang around much.”

  “Is there a reason for that?”

  “Not from my end. Seemed like he stopped hanging around once Lizzy and I became a thing.”

  “I see. You and Lizzy are a thing?”

  “We are.”

  “You'll have to excuse me, my daughters mock me most days for not knowing the right terminology anymore. Does that mean the two of you are in a relationship?”

  Smoke smiled. So did the jury. “It does.”

  “Are you exclusive?”

  “That seems pretty nosy. Did the Daily Turn put you up to that one?”

  The jury chuckled, as did Jeff. “No, sorry about the rudeness, but it's somewhat important to the case. Are you in an exclusive relationship with Lizzy Saint?”

  “I am.”

  “Does that mean you care for her?”

  “It does.”

  “Does it mean you look out for her?”

  “Every day.”

  “So you and Lizzy and Dillon, Blake, and Aaron all went up to your suite. What happened next?”

  “Well, we hung for a while and talked and drank and Dillon was giving us the lowdown from some of the other tours and we were talking about our plans for the next album once this tour was over. Basically having fun. We knew we didn't have to travel the next day so we were able to cut loose a little bit.”

  “How was Lizzy during this time?”

  “Fine. She was a little tired like you would expect after a two-and-a-half-hour concert and she was a little lit, but all in all, she was fine.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “So Dillon and Lizzy were talking about what it would take to add a couple of northwest dates around Labor Day because she had always wanted to be in Seattle and Portland for the fall, and the other two guys had gone to get some more beer because we were running low and I had to use the head so I got up and left.”

  “To go to the bathroom?”

  Smoke nodded his head.

  “You need to answer out loud, Mr. Smoke.”

  “I got up and went to the bathroom.” He drew out the syllables in ba-th-a-roooom.

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Just a couple of minutes at first. But then I got a text from our tour manager saying that the plans had changed and that we needed to leave before noon the next day and so I was texting him back telling him to fuck off because there was no way in hell we were getting up before two-thirty.”

  The court went silent.

  “Mr. Smoke,” said Judge Gallon. “You will watch your language.”

  “What?” He looked around and honestly didn’t seem to know what had just happened.

  “You can't swear, Mr. Smoke.”

  “Except to tell the truth, right?”

  The joke fell flat and no one laughed. Smoke ducked his head and muttered, “Sorry.”

  “So you got a text,” said Jeff, “and you answered it?”

  “I did.”

  “How long do you think that took?”

  “I don't know, maybe five or six more minutes? The bastard—the manager wouldn't let up.”

  “And did you return to the room?”

  “I did. “

  “And what did you find?”

  “When I opened the door to the bathroom, I heard a crash and a scream. No, not a scream, more like a bellow, like one of those wildebeests you see on the Discovery Channel, and I hear another crash so I run down the little hall from the bathroom to the main room.” Smoke paused. Like on cue.

  “And what did you see?”

  “Blood. The first impression I had was blood. On the wall. On the fridge. On the counters. Everywhere. And then a body flew by and hit the wall right next to me.”

  Jeff looked surprised. “A body?”

  Smoke nodded. “Right through the air. Then right behind it was this crazy-eyed man, covered in blood. In his beard, on his arms, everywhere. “

  “Did you recognize him?”

  Smoke nodded. “It took me a second but he was so damn, so darn big, it was easy to tell. It was Hank Braggi.”

  “The defendant?” Jeff pointed.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, I didn’t know who the body was and I didn’t see Dillon or the other two guys, so I assumed we’d been attacked by some nutjob so I looked for Lizzy right away. When I found her on the chair across the room, I ran over to her.”

  “Was she conscious?”

  “Not exactly. Her head was lolling around a little bit and she was muttering but she wasn’t really focusing on me either. I was scared that something had happened to her.”

  “Mr. Smoke, what was Ms. Saint wearing that night?”

  Smoke looked confused. “What was she wearing?”

  “Her top or shirt in particular.”

  Smoke’s face cleared. “Oh, she was still wearing what she wore at the concert. Black leather vest, no shirt underneath. She likes to show off the guns.” He smiled as he said it, but only a couple of jurors smiled with him.

  “Mr. Smoke, this is important. Did you find a needle in Ms. Saint’s arm?”

  He shook his head. “I did not.”

  “Mr. Smoke, I want you to assume that when someone shoots heroin, they tie tubing or string or a belt around their arm, okay?”

  Smoke smirked. “Okay.”

  Lindsey started
jotting a note. I nodded that I understood.

  “Did you find tubing or string or a belt tied around her arm?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did you find it on the floor next to her?”

  “I did not. “

  “Did you find a syringe on the floor next to her?”

  “I did not.”

  “Did anyone use heroin in the suite in your presence that night?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone say they wanted to use heroin in the suite that night?”

  “No.”

  Jeff nodded and let that sink in a little bit as he walked back to the podium. He tapped it twice with his thick fingers before he said, “What happened next?”

  “Well, I was worried about Lizzy and I didn’t know if something had happened to her so I was checking her out and I think I was yelling for security but I’m not sure. It was kind of a blur.”

  “What was Hank doing?”

  “Well, remember, I thought that someone had attacked us. Hank was handling it.” He shook his head and paused.

  “What is it, Mr. Smoke?”

  He shook his head again. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Hank picked up the body so that he was holding it lengthwise and smashed it over his knee. Then he raised it over his head and slammed it to the ground but it hit a coffee table on the way, right in the side of the head, and there was a pop like a melon or something.”

  “Was the body moving?”

  “No. It was flopping around like one of those blow-up balloon advertisements you see outside a car dealership. Just arms and legs everywhere.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then Hank kicked it a few times and I’m yelling at Hank what the hell is going on”—he paused and looked at the judge—“that’s what I said, Judge.”

  “That’s appropriate testimony, Mr. Smoke,” said Judge Gallon.

  “And Hank just ignores me and he says something that sounds like gibberish and picks up the body and holds it close to his face and slams it down on the ground one more time.”

  “He held the head close to his face?”

  Smoke nodded.

  “Is that a ‘yes?’”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he hold it close to his mouth?”

  “I can’t say that for sure,” said Smoke. “His back was to me. He might have.”

  “I see.”

  “And this time Hank stops and the body’s laying there and it’s a bloody mess, bent every which way and I can’t tell who the he—heck it is, and then I recognize the boots.”