The Wrong Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.”
    “I’ll come back soon, Tom,” said Chilly. He stood and motioned to the video camera in the corner of the room. A moment later the same guard came through a door to retrieve Stoller.
    “I don’t care who my lawyer is,” he said, as the guard touched his arm. “I just want this over.”
    We watched him walk out through his door. Then we left through ours.
    “A
wrinkle
,” I said to Chilly out in the hallway. “What’s the diagnosis?”
    “Schizophrenia. Disorganized schizophrenia. They think it was triggered by the PTSD.”
    “Disorganized is right.”
    “Aunt Deidre didn’t mention any of this?”
    “No,” I said. “She said he was sick. She wanted me to see for myself, I think.”
    Chilly put his hand on my shoulder. “You surprised me in there, Counsel. I thought this was just a feel-out session. I didn’t expect you to offer your services.”
    So Tom Stoller suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and disorganized schizophrenia. He admitted to apologizing to the victim after he shot her, so an insanity defense was an uphill climb. Self-defense was a sure loser; it would be hard to believe that a young woman would appear to be a threat to a homeless man.
    This case was a d-o-g.
    “He said he’s hot in his room,” I told the guard at the front desk.
    “This ain’t the Four Seasons,” the male guard said, reading some document.
    I stared at the guard, but he wasn’t looking at me. Staring at someone doesn’t impress your point if they don’t know you’re staring at them. I wanted him to know. So I slapped my hand down on the table in front of him. Now he knew. He looked up at me, momentarily startled and then offended. He was the guy with the gun, after all.
    I said, “This isn’t one of your behavioral cases. This is a guy who’s mentally ill. This is a guy who served two tours in Iraq and came back broken. He put his ass on the line for his country and paid a pretty steep price. Now whaddaya say we check on that temperature?”
    “We’ll check on it,” said the woman.