When I looked up from the piece of paper, Chilly was smirking at me. He was almost my height, with reddish-blond hair and a spray of freckles across his rosy cheeks. He looked like a leprechaun on human growth hormone.
“So you met Aunt Deidre,” he said. “She’s a persistent one.”
I folded the instructions and put them in my jacket pocket. The door opened on six. The guards, a man and a woman, sat behind a desk. Above them, in a thick, boxy font, were the words:
DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS
PRETRIAL DETENTION SERVICES
SEGREGATION UNIT
The walls were painted a dull orange, with a large clock and a photo of our governor, Edgar Trotter, smiling broadly. Three windows allowed mid-morning sunlight that angled across the tile floor. It had the sedate, antiseptic feel of a medical facility.
Bryan, who was counsel of record, filled out the paperwork. Case name, docket number, relationship to inmate, that kind of thing.
“We had you down for an interview room,” the female guard said to Chilly. “If he’s not counsel of record, it’s no contact.”
“Right. That’s fine.”
They made me sign a form indicating I understood the visitation etiquette and a waiver absolving the state of any liability for any damages resulting from this visit. We emptied all of our pockets and gave up our cell phones and wristwatches.
“Anything you want to transfer to him?” the guard asked.
Chilly looked over at me. “You want to give him your business card?”
I slipped one out of my pocket and into the round plastic container. The guard made sure that was all we wanted and then closed it up.
The male guard stood up. “You gentlemen have any questions?”
We didn’t. The guard handed us visitor badges and walked us down a hall. We passed through a metal detector and another guard picked us up.
“Our guy was an Army Ranger in Iraq,” said Bryan. “First lieutenant. An honorable discharge, nothing indicating any problems, nothing but good stuff on his record. When he gets home, he has a break with reality, as they say. He drops out of college, can’t hold down a job, and finally goes to ground. He’s arrested a couple of times on vagrancy and shoplifting, nothing that really sticks. But as far as anyone can tell, he’s been living on the street for over a year when the murder happens.”
“Combat fucked him up,” I said.
“It would fuck me up.”
Me, too. “So he shoots a woman getting out of her car in Franzen Park,” I said, recalling Bryan’s summary yesterday. “On Gehringer near Mulligan, by that shoe store. And your guy says this was post-traumatic stress? A flashback? He thought the woman was some soldier in Iraq and he opened fire?”
“Basically.”
“And our client told the cops that the victim pulled a gun on him?”
“In the interrogation, he committed to it. He said he told her to put the gun down. He said it over and over again to the detectives. ‘Put it down. Drop the weapon. Put it down.’”
“But you don’t buy it?”
Chilly let out a low moan. “The victim didn’t own a gun, and there’s no evidence she had one. No GSR on the victim, no embedded bullets found at the scene, other than the one in the vic’s skull. Point being, if she had a gun, there’s no trace of it.”
“But if he was flashing back, it was just him hallucinating, anyway. So who cares if he was accurately perceiving events?”
“That’s the argument, Counselor. It just would have been nice if she actually had a gun. It would make the whole thing feel more real to the jury.” Chilly hit my arm. “Oh, and I haven’t told you the best part: Our guy told the cops he apologized to the victim. ‘Please don’t die,’ ‘I’m so sorry,’ that kind of thing.”
It was my turn to moan. Seek forgiveness and you might spend your afterlife in heaven. But you’ll spend your mortal life in a state penitentiary. Our state followed the modified ALI on insanity. The defendant had to show that he suffered a mental defect that prevented him from appreciating the criminality of his conduct. Basically, that means he has to prove he didn’t know what he was doing was against the law.
It’s a bit difficult to claim you didn’t know you’d done something wrong when you immediately apologized to the victim after you shot her.
We reached the room. The guard unlocked the door and reminded us that we’d be monitored at all times with video but not audio.
The room was partitioned with thick glass. On our side, besides a dingy floor and peeling paint, there were two chairs and a shelf that ran along the partition. The smell of bleach hung in the air.
We sat in the chairs and waited for the arrival of Bryan’s client.
“There’s a wrinkle,” he said, his voice lowered.
I looked at him. “What’s the wrinkle?”
And then the door on the other side opened, and in walked Thomas Stoller.
4
Tom Stoller was led in by an unarmed guard. He moved awkwardly, as if the guard were helping him put one foot in front of the other.
“Hey, Tom,” said Bryan.
Stoller was wearing a gray pullover, blue jeans, and slippers on his feet. He had hair to his shoulders, an unshaven and scarred face. His eyes were unfocused and his expression was, well, void of expression.
“How’s it going, Tom?”
Stoller rolled his head back and forth. He licked his lips incessantly, his tongue playing peekaboo.
“They had eggs this morning,” he said.
“Yeah? That’s good. You look like you could use a good meal.”
He nodded at Bryan’s comment and looked off in the distance.
“Tom, this is Jason Kolarich. Remember we talked about this lawyer I wanted you to meet?”
Stoller was on the young side, probably not even thirty, and the bright redness of his lips from his persistent licking made him look even younger. He was gaunt, but he had wide shoulders and looked like it wasn’t so long ago that he was in pretty good fighting shape. If he was an Army Ranger, he must have been.
“Tom, you remember I told you that I was leaving the public defender’s office? That I’d need someone to take the lead on your trial?”
Stoller’s eyes dropped for a moment, like he was concentrating. After a time, he said, “You told me you weren’t gonna be my lawyer anymore.”
“That’s right. But I wouldn’t turn over the case unless I found a really good replace-”
“You were… wearing that tie with stripes. Red.”
Bryan paused for a moment. He seemed to be accustomed to disorganized conversations with his client.
“Was I? I don’t-”
“’Cause I said I liked it. And you said your mom bought it for you.” Stoller scratched his jaw.
Chilly sighed and put his hands on the table. “Okay, Tom-”
“You think it’s okay if I wear a tie at my trial?”
“Yes, Tom, but listen to me, okay? Can we talk about the case for a minute?”
The client’s eyes wandered again. He didn’t answer.
“I wanted you to meet Jason. He’s a lawyer like me.”
Stoller was in full motion now, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together. This guy was suffering from more than post-traumatic stress disorder.
“It’s hot in here,” he said. “I take off my clothes at night to sleep, but they don’t like it when I do that. I’m hot all the time.”
“Lieutenant Stoller,” I said with some force. I can make my voice count when necessary.
His eyes popped up to meet mine. He stopped fidgeting.
“I’ll be your lawyer if you want. Is that okay with you? It’s your choice, Lieutenant.”
He broke eye contact after a moment; it was too much for him. He went back to his habitual comforts, his tongue stabbing out and his hands in constant motion. “I just want this to be over,” he said. “Can you make it colder in here?”
I looked over at Bryan, who nodded toward the door.
“Think about it, Lieutenant,” I said. “You don’t have to decide now.”