Brain Storm (11 page)

“You understand the charges the government is bringing against you?”

“Sure,” said Whitlow. “Government bullshit. Murder ain’t enough. It’s murder and what? Discrimination, I guess? I shoulda waited till my wife was being raped by a white guy.”

“This is a federal crime. Federal prosecutors who work for the U.S. Attorney’s office are going to be trying to convince a jury that you should get the death penalty.”

“Shit,” said Whitlow, swatting away another tear.

“If the jury decides you killed this man in the heat of the moment, because he was … let’s say, sleeping with your wife,” said Watson, “that’s voluntary manslaughter. That’s anywhere up to ten years in prison. If they find that you planned it, or that you stopped first and had time to think about it, and then deliberately, or willfully, or maliciously killed him anyway, that’s first-degree murder, thirty to fifty years.”

Whitlow shook his head bitterly and looked at his manacled hands, splaying white fingers on the black tabletop.

“This bullshit was not supposed to happen,” said Whitlow.

“If the jury finds that part of the reason you killed him was because he was black or deaf … that’s a hate crime.”

“DEAF?” shouted Whitlow. “What’s
deaf
got to do with it?”

“The statute …” began Watson.

“What statute?” said Whitlow, “the same that says you get extra for killing niggers?”

The n-word temporarily locked up Watson’s central processing units and triggered a series of automatic professional behaviors. He reached into his briefcase and extracted a photocopy of the relevant federal statute.

“It’s a sentencing guideline,” explained Watson. “So it assumes that the jury has found the perpetrator guilty or he has pleaded guilty or nolo contendere to a crime against person or property.” He fished a yellow highlighter out of his suit coat and deftly marked the relevant passage as he read it aloud: “ ‘If the finder of fact at trial’—that’s the jury—‘determines beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant intentionally selected a victim … as the object of the offense because of the actual or perceived race, color, religion, national origin, ethnicity, gender, disability, sexual orientation, or viewpoint on the issue of reproductive rights of any person, increase by six levels.’ ”

“I never heard of nothing like that,” Whitlow complained. “Where did they get that from?”

Watson took the question literally and avoided admitting that, until his appointment, he had never heard of the statute either.

“It’s from the United States Code Annotated, Title Eighteen. From the looks of it, it’s modeled on the California Hate Crimes Act. But all fifty states have some version of bias-crime legislation. You’re being charged under the federal version. See where it says ‘disability’? That’s where the deafness comes in. The government is charging that you allegedly killed this man, in whole or in part, because he was black. And if that doesn’t work, they’ll try to prove you killed him in whole or in part because he was deaf. And if they succeed at either, or both, then the maximum penalty for, let’s say, voluntary manslaughter is enhanced under the terms of the statute six levels, or even twelve levels, since the enhancements are cumulative, then the maximum penalty gets boosted up to the maximum penalty for first-degree murder, which, as you know, is death.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Whitlow, “musta been a nigger thunk up that law.”

Rachel Palmquist’s warning about how bad facts gum up the case had revived a dim memory from a law school exam in Ethics and Professional Responsibility, an alarm bell, something about not allowing the client in a criminal case to commit to a version of the facts until you decide whether you are going to call him as a witness.

“What the fuck would you do?” he asked, sudden red splotches burning in his white cheeks. “The nigger was goin’ after my wife! She’s screamin’ for help. She said so when she called 911! I was standing there! I heard her!”

“That’s what the police report says,” Watson interrupted. “But then, it seems, she changed her story and said you found her—” he paused “—in your home with her sign language instructor.”

Whitlow’s eyes flushed red. The muscles in his neck arched under his waxy skin. “He’s a fucking sign language instructor?” said Whitlow. “Then I’m Martin Luther King.”

“Then who was he?”

“Never mind,” said Whitlow. “You’re my lawyer, right? If it ever looks to you like I’m going down for death or in for natural life, I want you to tell me, understand? Before trial, got it? Because I ain’t going alone. Swear to God I’ll take her with me! Understand me?”

Good forceful eye contact
, Watson thought,
probably had a firm handshake as well, when uncuffed.

Whitlow sniffled and whipped his head to one side, wiping his nose on the short sleeves of his jumpsuit. “As for deaf,” he said, “are we gonna get to cross-examine her?”

“Her?” asked Watson.

“My wife,” he said bitterly. “I seen in the paper where she’s supposedly the queen of sign language now. Fuck me five times every Friday if that’s the truth.”

“It’s not true?” asked Watson.

“My boy’s deaf. Born that way. Couldn’t hear the space shuttle if it took off in the backyard. Deaf as a box of rocks, which means he can’t talk neither. So, the oral school here in town, they teach deaf kids to talk and read lips and they don’t use sign on them. Now, we coulda sent him there, or we coulda sent him up to Fulton at the residential school. Let him be with his own kind and learn sign. What would you do?”

“I don’t know,” said Watson with a frown.

“Some doctors and teachers claim you ain’t supposed to use sign language on your kid if you ever want them to learn to talk. They had a
deaf girl on
60 Minutes
who learned to talk. And as soon as I seen the girl talking, that was what I wanted. So I decided to keep him away from sign and give the oral school a try.”

“OK,” said Watson, studying his client’s twitching facial muscles and trembling hands.

“That girl on
60 Minutes
was happy,” said Whitlow, “because she could lip-read and talk.”

This sounded like one of those syllogisms from a formal argument. But a premise seemed to be missing, and Watson was therefore uncertain of the conclusion. Either the sudden ability to lip-read and talk had made the girl happy, or happiness was impossible for her until she could lip-read and talk. More important, for Watson, either sign language had something to do with homicide, or his client was nuts.

“I decided about the oral school and I paid for it,” said Whitlow. “Mary don’t care about nothing but cold beer and
Days of Our Lives.
According to her, Charlie was deaf because my uncle was deaf, so it was my problem. She didn’t give two turdballs either way. Now, all of the sudden, she’s Miss Sign Language with a sign language instructor? I shoulda seen it coming,” he said, banging the table. “Then Charlie flunked out of the oral place. Next thing I know, all this bullshit happened.”

“Because he flunked the oral school? Because of the sign language instructor?” asked Watson, trying not to sound like he needed some serious help with the story.

Whitlow sneered and nearly spit sideways. “He weren’t no fuckin’ sign language instructor, lawyer. I told you that.”

“Well?” asked Watson. “Then who was he?”

Whitlow took a deep breath, as if about to tell him, then shook his head in disgust. “Forget it.”

“Maybe you were defending yourself or your wife against an intruder in your home. You didn’t sign a confession, did you? You didn’t give them a statement, did you?”

Whitlow shook his head. “I ain’t dumb enough to talk to the cops. Only the Queen of Sheba, Mary Whitlow, is dumb enough for that. She’s trying to fuck me good and proper,” he said, squaring his shoulders and hyperventilating through his nose. “She’s trying to fuck us all! We’ll see about that.” He pointed at himself in bitter triumph. “We’ll see about that.”

Watson sat up and pushed the computer aside.

“At this early stage,” said Watson carefully, “I don’t really want to know if you did it—and if you did it, I don’t want to know why you did it, yet.”

“If I did it?” cried Whitlow. “What would you do?”

What would you do?
There it was for the third time. The cardinal inquiry of the nonprofessional. Clients and patients routinely asked this question; doctors and lawyers did not answer it. It was an oral invitation to a professional malpractice suit.

“If we decide you should take the stand in your own defense,” said Watson, “the Rules of Professional Responsibility will not permit me to … A lawyer cannot knowingly present perjured testimony to the court.”

“I think I just got amnesia,” said Whitlow with a sharp, scared laugh.

“That’s entirely possible,” said Watson brightly. “Severe psychological trauma can induce amnesia to concurrent events. Which brings me to my next proposition. There are expert witnesses, doctors or psychiatrists, who can test you for certain mitigating factors. Medical, or psychological disorders, which may have manifested themselves in uncontrollable behaviors.”

“I have amnesia,” said Whitlow. “And I’m nuts.”

“I’ll find out more about the medical or psychological defenses,” said Watson, “and then I will advise you about whether the tests will help us. I’ll need your medical history. Any psychiatric treatment? Are you taking any medications?”

“Dilantin,” said Whitlow. “I used to have fits awhile back.”

“Fits?”

“Seizures,” he said. “Epilepsy, I guess, but not bad. Only twice, I guess.”

Watson opened the file containing his notes from his first meeting with Dr. Palmquist. There it was: “If we’re lucky there’s a history of epilepsy or seizure activity.”

Watson retrieved the medical release form Dr. Palmquist had given him, put a pen on it, and pushed it across the table to Whitlow.

“How often do you take Dilantin?”

“Every day,” he said. “Sometimes I forget, but I generally take it. And they give it to me in here, too. I had the bottle on me when they brought me in.”

“And how long have you been taking it?”

“Since my one year at the community college. My first seizure. Six, seven years.”

“How about medical records of these seizures? Where can I find those?”

“Seen lotsa doctors,” said Whitlow, “mostly at Doc-in-the-Boxes. Can’t remember them all. I guess I went to the clinic at Southwest Tech the first time. Then … Hell I can’t remember them all. You want me to sign this,” he asked, “for the medical records?”

“Yes,” said Watson. “Did you take your medicine on the day … of the murder?”

Whitlow looked over Watson’s shoulder. “Would that be good? Or bad? Or do I have amnesia?” Watson held the paper for him, while he signed the release. “I’ll try and remember whether I took my medicine. This seizure shit might be important, huh?”

“I don’t know,” said Watson, placing the form back into his briefcase. “Maybe. I’ve talked to one doctor. She seemed to think seizures might be important.”

“In that case,” said Whitlow, “I still have amnesia. I can’t remember why I’m nuts. I don’t know if I took the medicine or not, and maybe I forgot a lot of jumbo seizures.”

“How about the infection you complained to the guard about?” asked Watson.

“Oh,” said Whitlow, looking off the edge of the table. “That’s some other medicine I’m needing. It’s personal. It’s got nothing to do with seizures or being crazy. It’s just a piss infection. No big deal. They said I can have medicine once they get done testing my piss.”

Watson typed
“urinary tract infection”
into the computer.

“So, you got
‘Lucy Martinez’
written down in your computer?” asked Whitlow.

Watson nodded.

“And my car’s a ninety-two Ford Taurus. Gray. No plates, like I said.”

“And you need to know what?” asked Watson, typing in the information.

“Just tell them you are the owner and can you come pick it up,” said Whitlow. “Fort Sheridan Base Towing and Vehicle Impound Lot, Craig, Missouri. If it’s being held for evidence, they’ll tell you no you can’t get it. If they say bring the title in, register her, and she’s yours, that means it’s in the general impound lot.”

Watson typed. “And this helps us do what? Get you some money?”

“Never mind money,” said Whitlow. “Let’s say it will help me get some evidence for my side of the story.”

“Which is?”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to know if I did it,” complained Whitlow, “and then you said that if I done it, you don’t want to know why I done it, yet?”

“Right,” said Watson, chagrined. “Never mind. I’ll try to find out about the car.”

“That would really, really help,” said Whitlow.

He squirmed again in his chair. “Fuck me,” he scowled, “I gotta piss right now.” He picked up the phone and tucked it between his chin and his shoulder.

“Piss,” he said angrily. “I gotta piss again.”

He lifted his chin, let the receiver drop back into his hands, and hung it up. Then he raised his manacled hands, put the unlit cigarette in his mouth, and steadied it.

“Are you gonna light this?” he asked.

Watson saw the tattoo on the left forearm, which was now facing out and lit by the fluorescent ceiling fixtures: a mauve heart spidered in black coronary arteries, which zigzagged around the heart and unfurled in a small bouquet of snake heads spewing forked tongues around the purple text,
JESUS HATES NIGGERS
.

Watson stared at the tattoo and panicked. He heard the sage and seasoned voice of Arthur Mahoney within him:
This is a bad client.

“Match,” said Whitlow. “Hello, lawyer?”

Watson, still staring at the tattoo, lit the match and held it to the end of the cigarette. Whitlow took a drag and blew out the flame with a puff of smoke and foul breath. Watson dropped it in a round steel ashtray and watched a white fume rise from the charred tip.

Why had he, a fairly bright bulb, ignored the advice of a senior partner with forty years on him? Watson wondered. The head of the litigation department at Stern, Pale & Covin, one of the best lawyers at the best law firm in St. Louis, Arthur Mahoney was right. The sun rises in the east, water flows downhill, this is a bad client.