“Sorry for his troubles.”
“Not if you knew the asshole, you wouldn’t be.”
I thought it was possible that I could learn to like Lorenzo Fowler.
“Okay, so it’s an aggravated battery, maybe an attempted murder,” I said. “And one day soon it could be a murder.”
Fowler shuddered at the thought.
“What do you have to trade?” I asked.
That made him shudder all the more. His shoulders closed in. “Maybe there was another murder. A whole different kinda thing. And maybe I know about it.”
“Maybe you know who did it?”
“Say I do.” His expression didn’t betray his thoughts. It was probably a trait he’d developed over years of slinging bullshit.
“Okay, say you do. You can solve a murder for the police? That would be worth something. Probably not immunity, but something.”
He was listening very closely. “I wouldn’t walk?”
“From beating the strip club owner? I doubt it. An aggravated battery, if this guy lives? And murder if he doesn’t? It would be a stretch. It all depends on the circumstances.”
“Even if the name I’m trading is Gin Rummy?”
I didn’t catch the reference. I could see from the expectant look on his face that he thought I’d recognize the name.
“Who’s Gin Rummy?” I asked.
A brief smile crossed over his mouth. “There’s five people in the world that know that. You wanna be the sixth?”
I shook my head. “That’s up to you. I take it Gin Rummy is somebody significant?”
“To the coppers? Oh, yeah. The federal types, too. And to Paulie, for sure.”
Paul Capparelli, presumably, the top guy in the crime family now.
“Paulie always says, ‘Gin Rummy’s the man.’” Fowler laughed to himself.
“Gin Rummy’s a hit man?” I asked.
Fowler stared at me for a long time. Finally, he said, “Close enough.”
“An assassin,” I said.
“Right.”
“You see a difference between ‘hit man’ and ‘assassin’?” It wasn’t a helpful question I was asking, but this guy was starting to annoy me.
Enough of the cat-and-mouse. “Is that it, Lorenzo? Just Gin Rummy’s real name? Or do you have proof that Gin Rummy committed this other murder?”
He showed those hideous teeth again. “I got proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Proof,” he said.
I was a few years out of date in what little knowledge I possessed, while a prosecutor, about the Mob and its assorted characters. But it sounded like this Gin Rummy was significant. And that could mean special consideration.
“You’re wondering about witness protection, that kind of thing?” I asked.
“Right. Problem is, this thing, this other murder I got information on, it’s stateside. Not federal.”
The state doesn’t really do witness protection programs per se, but the feds will cooperate with the locals if the payoff is good enough. I told Lorenzo all that.
“Oh, it’ll be worth it,” he assured me.
I’d have to take his word for it for the time being. “You’re not ready to pull this trigger yet, I take it?”
“Right. But here’s another question. If I wanna do this, can I go through you and keep it quiet and all?”
“I think we could work that out, Lorenzo.”
He leaned forward in his seat. His skin was flush. “And this thing we’re talking about, you won’t repeat it.”
“It’s a privileged conversation, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m not
asking
nothin’.” His eyes went cold. He had quickly resorted to the bravado of the Mobbed-up thug. “I’m tellin’. You won’t repeat this. We understand each other?”
I have this thing where, whenever I get agitated, I try to count to ten before speaking. On occasion, I’ve been known to say inappropriate things, and it was a New Year’s resolution of mine to get along better with people. But that was two New Years ago, and it didn’t take.
I got all the way to four in my count. “Don’t threaten me, Lorenzo, and don’t ever contact me again,” I said. I got out of my chair. “And
now
we understand each other.”
Lorenzo Fowler turned right when he left his appointment and stood at the curb to hail a cab. He gave up after a few minutes and decided to walk through the commercial district.
From across the street, Peter Ramini stood with his hands in his coat pockets. Always, these days, with his hands in his pockets. He watched Fowler disappear down the block. No need to follow. It didn’t matter where Lorenzo was going next. All that mattered was where he’d just been. Ramini carefully removed his cell phone and punched a speed-dial button. Within four minutes, a black town car pulled up at the curb.
He got in the backseat, next to another man named Donnie. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. He waited until the Lincoln moved into traffic before he spoke.
“That appointment Zo made with that lawyer,” he said. “Name of Jason Kolarich. Well, he just had the meeting. Ask Paulie what he wants to do about Zo.”
Donnie was a big man with deep-set eyes and a midsection that looked like he was hiding an inner tube under his shirt. “Anything else?” he asked.
Ramini thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Ask him what he wants to do about Jason Kolarich, too.”
Dr. Sofian Baraniq leaned back in his chair in our conference room. He was on the young side for an expert—his CV put him at forty-four—but he looked distinguished, with the gray that peppered his hair and his thick beard. He looked foreign but had not the slightest trace of an accent, which suggested he was American-born. Either way was fine with me. I didn’t know his ethnicity, but the origin of his name suggested India or someplace Middle or Far Eastern, and most juries tended to give weight to experts with such backgrounds. Call it reverse racism or favorable racism or ignorance, but it seemed to matter. Juries were less likely to find bias with, and more likely to respect, experts who were Asian or Indian. Like any lawyer, I would take whatever advantage I could grab.
“It’s a complicated case,” said the doctor. His dress shirt was stained and his tie was drab. “He suffers from PTSD and schizophrenia. The accompanying symptoms of either could have manifested themselves at the time of the shooting.”
I was ready for that. Bryan Childress had discussed it with me. Tom Stoller could have been experiencing a flashback to Iraq from PTSD or a hallucination brought on by his schizophrenia.
“Does that matter, for your purposes?” he asked me.
It was the right question to ask. “I have to prove a mental defect,” I said. “Both are recognized mental defects. In theory, I could say that it was either PTSD or schizophrenia, take your pick. But that doesn’t look good to a jury.”
I really wanted PTSD. Because it gave me license to tell the jury all about Tom’s harrowing experience as a combat veteran in Iraq. But I didn’t want to say that to Dr. Baraniq.
“I’ve far more experience testifying in the field of PTSD,” said the doctor. “But the problem is that I can easily diagnose Tom as a disorganized schizophrenic. It doesn’t matter what he and I talk about. I can observe him and I can read the observation and lab reports. The state is treating him with antipsychotic and mood-stabilizing medications, which is consistent with my diagnosis. So I feel comfortable with my diagnosis. But PTSD? I have to know what was happening to him at the time of the shooting. And I have to know what happened to him in Iraq. And for that, Tom has to talk to me. He has to talk about that night. He has to talk about Iraq. And he won’t.”
I deflated. Childress had given me a sense of this problem, but hearing it firsthand from my expert was like a needle through my balloon.
“You can testify generally about PTSD,” I said.
“Of course I can.”
“I think we all could presume that combat in Iraq was less than enjoyable.”
“Especially for an Army Ranger, yes.”
“And the night in question—Tom won’t talk about that, but you have his videotaped interrogation.”
“Yes. And I believe we saw an episode of PTSD there.”
I nodded, feeling a head of steam. “And it’s fair to presume that because he was looking at the victim’s photograph, you could infer he suffered the same PTSD episode when he shot her?”
The doctor looked at me. So much for the steam.
“It’s… certainly a real possibility that he did,” said the doctor. “But can I say to a reasonable degree of scientific certainty that Tom was suffering from PTSD when he shot that woman?”
He didn’t answer his own question. Which was an answer in itself.
Shauna Tasker cleared her throat. “You said the state is medicating Tom as if he were a schizophrenic?”
“I said the medication is consistent with that diagnosis.” Dr. Baraniq smiled, as if apologizing. “I’m not trying to split hairs. They are using antipsychotic medication that would have the effect of controlling delusions
and hallucinations. They are using mood-stabilizing drugs that essentially tranquilize him. This is how I would medicate a disorganized schizophrenic. But these drugs are used in other contexts as well. So they are not necessarily conceding that he is schizophrenic.”
Shauna nodded dutifully, thinking this over. In my experience, it could be frustrating to talk with medical experts, who qualified almost everything they said. You needed a flowchart to follow their reasoning. It was how most people felt after talking to a lawyer.
“Has Tom suffered delusions or hallucinations at Boyd?” I asked.
Dr. Baraniq shrugged. “Not that I know of. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. It means he might have but didn’t share it with anybody. Disorganized schizophrenics are typically very withdrawn individuals. Tom could be sitting in a chair, listening to you talk, and inside his mind is racing in a hundred directions. Then, throw in the medications he’s taken, which essentially suppress his emotions, and the symptoms probably wouldn’t manifest.”
“Especially if no one’s looking for them,” I said.
“Exactly.” Dr. Baraniq pointed at me. “The correctional system, especially at the pretrial stage, wants him to be sedate and compliant. They aren’t interested in solving his problems.”
“They’re not curing Tom,” said Shauna. “They’re just putting Band-Aids on the wounds.”
“Absolutely. Tom needs medication, but he also needs psychotherapy. He needs social and vocational training. He may need electroconvulsive therapy.” The doctor shook his head. “He’s not getting any of that in pretrial detention. Almost by definition, pretrial lockup is a temporary thing. The state doesn’t commit resources to long-term treatments.”
It was a tragic truth. I’d heard it for years. But right now, I had more immediate concerns on my mind. “Back to the shooting,” I said. “Is it possible that, rather than an episode of PTSD, Tom suffered a hallucination spawned by his schizophrenia? And
that
was what caused him to shoot Kathy Rubinkowski?”
“In theory, yes,” said the doctor. “But as I said, I can’t sit here and say that Tom has suffered
any
hallucinations. Nor could I tell you the nature or magnitude of them.”
I sighed.
“And I also have to tell you,” said the doctor, “that if I’m testifying in the abstract about a symptom that hasn’t manifested itself to our knowledge, as opposed to testifying about the specifics of Tom’s case, I would be forced to admit that most violence carried out by schizophrenics is violence to themselves. It’s not like what you see on television.”
Shauna tapped her pen on her pad of paper. “But PTSD,” she said. “A violent outburst in the context of PTSD is normal.”
“It’s common. More common than violence to another person caused by schizophrenia.”
I looked at Shauna. We were both trying to decide which route was the least shitty.
“Tom suffers from PTSD,” said the doctor. “I know the state will contest that opinion, but I’m very comfortable with it. It’s the best explanation for what happened. We have an instance of it caught on tape, in my opinion. And his behavior suggests it. No, he won’t tell me about Iraq, which isn’t helpful—but in one way, it is. His avoidance of it shows me his level of discomfort. And has he complained to you about the heat?”
I nodded. “Yeah, he did.”
“The heat reminds him of Iraq. A sticky room in a prison hospital has nothing on the deserts of the Middle East, but it’s a reminder. He avoids everything that reminds him of it.”
That made sense.
“And he has a general disinterest. He’s fatalistic, in fact, wouldn’t you agree?”
“He told me he didn’t care who his lawyer was, he just wanted this to be over,” I said. “I’ve met with him twice now, and the predominant themes are that he won’t talk about anything related to the night in question or his military experience. And he won’t agree to a continuance of his trial.”
Silence. Lawyers taking in information, processing it, trying to fit it within a legal argument that could save a client. An art, not a science. Facts go in different directions. They don’t necessarily line up in one neat, tidy explanation.
“PTSD,” said Shauna.
I took a breath. “PTSD,” I agreed.
“PTSD, but we need him to fill in some blanks for us,” said the doctor. “Otherwise, I’m testifying in the abstract about that night.”
“Got it.” I breathed out. This was more complicated than I’d expected.
“Your trial date is still December the first?” the doctor asked me.
“Right. For now, at least.”
“Do you have an idea of when you’ll call me to the stand?”
“Right now? Not really. December one is a Wednesday. We’ll pick a jury, then the prosecution’s case will go in over a few days. Less than a week, would be my guess. So I would shoot for… probably the eighth or ninth?”
“Okay, that would work. The seventh wouldn’t.”
I sighed. “Doctor, I need you to be flexible here.”
“This is why I raise this. The seventh I cannot do. I have a religious obligation.”
“Okay, well—what religion is that?”
“Islam,” he said.
“Oh.” That stopped me. “That’s… interesting.”
“Why is that… interesting? Because I’m testifying about a man who served in a military operation that occupies a predominantly Muslim country?”
Something like that, yeah. I’m not good with political correctness. It’s not that I give a rat’s ass about someone’s religion. I’m not even sure how I feel about my own religion. But I’m not good with sensitivity.