Rabid

by T K Kenyon

  Heath Sheldon smiled at Margaux, Gabriela, Tom, and the nine other jury members he had selected during voir dire.

  Potential jurors who had looked him in the eyes and smiled at him, these people he had kept.

  The prosecutors used up their challenges on Catholics and health care workers, probably at the behest of some overpaid, useless jury consultant.

  No one knew what went on in the jury room, whether the interactions were more closely akin to the gestalt of a hive mind or the sociopathy of a crazed, looting mob.

  His perfect jury was one who liked him and so might completely ignore the facts.

  Heath smiled brilliantly, twinkling through the inadequate defense he was about to put on. If Beverly Sloan hadn’t done it, this defense would have been easier. He hoped to mitigate the sentence and not look too idiotic in front of the cameras.

  No one watched LawTV anyway, except other lawyers and his mother.

  Heath reminded himself of the basic litigator’s rules.

  If you can argue the law, then you argue the law.

  If you can’t argue the law, then you argue the facts.

  If you can’t argue the law or the facts, you just argue, and you argue until it’s over.

  Health said, “The prosecution has given you a set of facts and constructed a plausible theory around them. Indeed, the prosecution’s job is to convict Beverly Sloan, regardless of what happened in that apartment that night. Mr. Grossberg, though he included facts, did not tell you the whole story.

  “I’m here to tell you the whole story.”

  He leaned in toward them, like he was telling them a secret.

  “Conroy Sloan is dead; there is no mistaking that fact. He died from a knife wound to the left ventricle of his heart. That, too, is not in dispute.”

  He inhaled, buying time. “His wife, Beverly Sloan, touched the knife that killed him because her fingerprints were on the knife handle, and she went over to his new apartment that night because he had indeed abandoned her and their two daughters. But there’s more.”

  He patted the sides of his blonde hair. “There was a struggle in that apartment, that night. Her blood was also on the knife and on the countertops, and Conroy Sloan’s fingerprints were also on the knife. Remember, he was a lot bigger and stronger than she was.

  “The fingerprints on the knife were from her left hand. Her left arm had been so badly broken that night that she required emergency surgery or else she might have bled to death because so many blood vessels—major blood vessels, the ones that people try to cut when they slit their wrists—were torn by the splintered, broken bones ripping her wrist apart from the inside. She has nerve damage from those injuries. She has a bright red scar on her arm from where the surgeon saved her life that night.

  “She couldn’t have stabbed him with her left hand. It was too badly broken. We’ll show you X-rays of her smashed wrist and hand, and you can see the scar for yourself, from here.

  “Beverly Sloan is a small woman. Conroy Sloan was a tall man. He smashed her arm and hand. She’s a pianist, and her hands are her living. He’s a doctor. He knew just where to break them. Her other hand was sliced open, too.

  “As soon as she could, even with her crushed arm, she called 911. Mrs. Sloan was hysterical. She called because Conroy was hurt. She didn’t mention that her own arm was smashed to pieces and she was bleeding internally. That isn’t the reaction of a killer.

  “And the knife that killed Conroy Sloan was a steak knife that was four and a half inches long.”

  He held his tanned, manicured fingers four inches apart.

  “Personally, if I was selecting a knife to kill a person ten inches taller than I am, who outweighs me by almost a hundred pounds, I’d pick a big knife. In that same carving block, there was a sixteen-inch chopping knife, an eighteen-inch bread knife, and a twenty-inch carving knife.

  “A four-and-a-half-inch steak knife? That’s a knife you use to cut someone’s hand.

  “And last, Conroy Sloan had one knife wound.

  “One.”

  Heath strutted in front of the jury box, composing his thoughts.

  “I’ve been a criminal defense attorney for a while, and I’ve seen a lot of homicides committed in a lot of different ways, and here’s the thing.” Sheldon leaned on the jury box rail. “I’ve never seen one of anything. The prosecution says that Beverly Sloan was furious, out of control, and enraged, and that she stabbed her husband.

  “But the knife went in once. One time.

  “I’ve compiled a list here of ten other homicides. These are, in backward chronological order, the last ten homicides against which I defended people. I haven’t selected these. I haven’t left anything out. Won some, lost some.”

  Won nine, lost one. His overall record was 87-8. Soon to be 87-9, he would bet.

  He retrieved a piece of paper from the pocket inside his suit coat. He consulted the list and spoke to a different juror with each item.

  To Tom Agosin, “Blunt force trauma to the posterior skull with a cast-iron skillet, at least eighteen blows.”

  To Gabriela Rossetti, “The victim was stabbed with a fourteen-inch carving knife: twenty-two stab wounds.”

  To Margaux Dominic, “Stabbing with a military-style all-purpose tool, like a Swiss army knife but the blades are up to a foot long: twenty-six wounds. There was evidence that he tried to hack her arms and legs off with the ‘entrenching tool,’ the shovel.”

  To Hara Carson, “Gunshot wounds: thirteen. That’s all the bullets the gun held. Twelve in the clip, one in the chamber. Dents in the gun’s hammer showed that the perpetrator kept shooting after the gun was empty, at least three times.”

  To Guy Papineau, “Death by beating, fists and feet, at least a hundred blows.”

  To Chessa Kendrall, “Stabbing with long, sharp scissors: a hundred and twelve stab wounds. Thirty-eight defensive wounds to the hands.”

  To Blake Kellen, “Dog attack: fifty-seven separate bites. Two pit bulls. Their owners trained those dogs to kill people, and they did. The people are in jail.” Heath had defended the owners’ son, who was fourteen at the trial but was just six when his parents started training killer dogs. He had loved the dogs.

  To Gina Salerio, “Strangling by clothesline for at least twenty minutes. The victim was dead within five minutes, perhaps in less than one.”

  To Kirsta Prestby and Toby Yazee, “Assault with a motor vehicle. She ran over her husband once, backed up over him, and ran over him again, for a total of three passes or six axles.” That was the case he had lost.

  To Rachel Rinpoche and Karida Kung, “Stabbing and slashing with an eighteenth century, ruby-encrusted saber: thirty-six stabs or slashes.”

  He folded the paper in half and tapped it on the jury box. Some of the jurors, like the man on the left, looked disgusted.

  “Now this isn’t just an exercise to show you how brutal people can be. It’s a list to show you how brutal they are.

  “When a person kills another person, especially someone they know, especially if they are enraged, they don’t just kill them. They kill-kill-kill them. They overkill them. They stab or shoot or pound or slash or strangle again and again because they don’t just want the person dead, they want them dead-dead-dead.

  “Now in this case, we have one wound.

  “One.

  “That’s not a measure of how angry she was. It’s an indication that she wasn’t enraged and that she wasn’t out of control and that this isn’t murder.

  “As a matter of fact, we have an alternate theory, that Conroy Sloan stabbed himself, whether for attention or to actually commit suicide, we don’t know.

  “Beverly Sloan did not murder her husband, even if he was an adulterous, cheating, conniving bastard.”

  “Objection!” The prosecutor yelled. “This isn’t about the victim.”

  Sheldon was ready. “Prosecution opened the door, your Honor. His character is part of their theory of motive.”

  Georg
e said, “We already stipulated that he was committing adultery.”

  Judge Leonine Washington tapped her gavel. “Then you won’t mind the defense reiterating it, but let’s keep the adjectives to a minimum, counselor.”

  “Thank you, your Honor.” Heath Sheldon returned to his seat and touched Bev Sloan’s hand. Juries liked to see the defense attorney make physical contact with the client.

  Even a scum-sucking, bottom-dwelling lawyer wouldn’t touch a murderer.

  There were too many women on the jury, though. Women weren’t forgiving creatures. Women didn’t side with wronged wives. They would think that she should have stood up for herself earlier or left him.

  Too many women meant a hanging jury.

  ~~~~~

  Hara Carson didn’t like the defense lawyer’s list of atrocities, but they were valid. Even when she spanked her dog for piddling on the carpet, one swat hardly seemed like enough. She smacked him with the folded newspaper three times, and three spanks seemed satisfactory.

  Guy Papineau wondered how many weeks of lesson plans he had written for his class’s substitute teacher. State-mandated testing was next week, and he just might get out of it.

  Chessa Kendrall wondered how many murderers that slick lawyer had set free with his wily arguments.

  ~~~~~

  Judge Leonine Washington masked her irritation and dismissed court for the day.

  The DA, George Grossberg, objected to everything. She had warned him during enough previous trials that he had argued before her that he could not object to everything.

  The ADA, Georgina Pire, was nervous in front of a jury and sweated through her clothes in ten minutes, then asked for recesses to change her blouse.

  Between George and Georgina, the two prosecuting Georgies, they were going to blow the case.

  And that defense attorney, Sheldon, plucked every heartstring in the room and was just arguing.

  Leonine looked at her watch. Damn. She was going to be late picking up Adaya and Adarius from day care, and the day care Nazis were going to assess the twenty dollar late fee again, as if her twins were rented movies.

  Her husband, a cardiologist, had to work late again. He was far too important to retrieve their children from baby storage.

  No wonder Beverly Sloan had snapped.

  ~~~~~

  The Daily Hamiltonian:

  Priest, Woman in Apartment with Wife and Dead Doc

  By Kirin Oberoi

  The prosecution began its case this week in the trial of the State vs. Mrs. Beverly Maria Sloan, accused of fatally stabbing her husband, Dr. Conroy Sloan, last February in his newly rented apartment.

  The first witnesses to testify for the prosecution were the paramedics, Mr. Carleton Davis and Mr. Josef Menz. Davis testified that four people were present in the apartment when they arrived. One of these was Dr. Conroy Sloan, who was bleeding lightly from a knife wound to the chest. Davis identified the defendant, Mrs. Beverly Sloan, as also being present in the apartment and stated that she had blood on her hands.

  In a shocking revelation, both paramedics agreed that the other two people in the apartment were Monsignor Dr. Dante Petrocchi-Bianchi, SJ, MD, PhD, (the defendant’s spiritual advisor who was in the courtroom and identified by the witnesses) and Ms. Leila Sage Faris, a graduate student in Dr. Sloan’s lab, listed by the prosecution as an upcoming witness.

  Upon cross examination by the defense attorney, Mr. Heath Sheldon, both paramedics admitted that they did not notice Mrs. Sloan’s broken and swollen arm. They further characterized Mrs. Sloan’s condition as “shocky” or “stunned” and said that the Monsignor was caring for the dying doctor and had tried to console Mrs. Sloan after they took over Dr. Sloan’s care.

  ~~~~~

  Bev kneeled in front of the Virgin Mary’s sunset-lit niche.

  Touched-up patches of shiny, cobalt blue enamel speckled the Virgin’s pale robe, and new pink paint like square skin grafts lacquered the abraded places on the Virgin’s feet where adorers pressed their hands.

  She murmured, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” She continued through the Hail Marys and Our Fathers, looping the rosary beads.

  It was no use. Everything was useless.

  The worst was that her girls had no father and their mother was so stupid she was going to jail.

  Dante knelt beside her and genuflected. His black cassock pooled on the wood floor. He asked, “Are you praying for acquittal?”

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  He scratched the hair near his temple. “You’re off those pills?”

  “Yes.” Her rosary beads lay on the wood floor like fat, black ants caught in a loop.

  “Can you remember anything about that night, yet?”

  Bev shook her head.

  Dante’s hands condensed into fists. “I had hoped that was the pills, too.”

  “I’m afraid it wasn’t.” God wouldn’t be stymied by mere pills. Sin repelled Heaven and the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary.

  “Well, maybe we can do something.” Dante rocked onto his feet and was standing.

  “What? What could we do?” Her desperate hand gesture flipped the rosary beads out of her hand. They clattered on the wooden floor.

  “Let’s go to the library.” Dante offered Bev his hand, and she grasped his palm with her good hand. Her left hand was still too soft to lift her weight.

  He tugged, and her body became weightless and flew.

  ~~~~~

  In the library, Dante settled into his customary counseling chair and fidgeted to find a comfortable position. His coccyx was bruised from the courtroom’s wooden benches. “I’d like to hypnotize you to help you remember.”

  Bev blinked and shook her head. “Recovered memories, aren’t those implanted by the therapist or made up?”

  Hypnosis. Psychobabble. Gobbledygook. He didn’t believe in it, either. “Sometimes hypnosis can be useful.”

  Bev leaned forward in her chair, her eyes wary. “You aren’t hypnotizing the children, the ones who said they were abused, are you?”

  She still didn’t want to believe that Nicolai was a predator. He had charmed them all. Most child molesters charmed everyone, and the spellbound parents never questioned why this man spent hours in locked bedrooms with their children, or took them on long trips, or bought them extravagant gifts.

  “The children don’t need hypnosis,” Dante said.

  She was a doctor’s wife. Perhaps a medical explanation would sway her. “Sometimes, neurons have stored the memories, and you can build new synapses to find the memories.”

  Her eyebrows were up and her head was forward, open.

  Placebo effect was his aim, here, so the better his baloney sounded, the better the placebo response. If she believed that she was hypnotized, then she would tell him why she was not able to “feel God,” as she put it.

  He said, “During intense relaxation, endorphins hyperstimulate the hippocampus, allowing neural stem cells in the hippocampus to mitose and form new neural paths to the memory centers, such as the dentate gyrus and posterior cingulate gyrus, creating bridges to neurons involved in short-term and long-term memory.”

  That was industrial-grade hand-waving. Dante was disgusted with his attempt to fool her and yet impressed that he had put that ridiculous sentence together.

  “Oh,” Bev said, and her eyebrows arched. “Well, okay then.” She laid her head against the back of the chair. “What do I have to do?”

  “Relax.” Dante leaned over to the wall switch and flipped off the overhead lights, which left only his desk lamp behind him. Soft light reflected from Bev’s cheekbones and forehead. She looked younger, perhaps twenty-five, not that he had ever wished her younger.

  “Close your eyes,” he said. Her eyelashes furred below her eyes, and her rose eyeshadow looked like petals on her lids.

  This was how she must have looked before Sloan stole her away from the Israeli, impregnated her, and cheated on her.

>   He said, “I am going to hypnotize you, which means you will become very relaxed. You will feel relaxed but alert, and you will still be able to act of your own free will. As I count backwards from ten, you will enter a state of hypnosis.” That sounded trite. He should have invested in spooky music. He counted backward. “Now you are very relaxed. Are you relaxed?”

  “Yes.” She whispered, as if even her larynx was relaxed.

  His incantation for hypnosis must have worked, or the placebo effect did. “You should now think of the night that Conroy Sloan died, but you will be calm. What can you remember?”

  “Laura and the girls went to the movies. You and I were having a drink, several drinks, and we went upstairs.” Her hand touched her collarbone. “You tried to take off my shirt, and I had to keep pulling it down until we got upstairs and I could turn out the lights.” She squirmed sideways.

  “You are calm and relaxed,” Dante said. She had tugged at her shirt when he had run his hands under her blouse. “Why would you want to keep on your blouse?”

  Her shoulders turned sideways. “I thought, after I married Conroy, I’d never have to explain the scars again.”

  “Scars?” He had never noticed scars.

  Her shoulders turned. Her spine curved, squeezing her into a ball.

  He wanted to reach over to her to comfort her. Her pain made his chest hurt. “You are hypnotized. You are calm. Your breathing is slow and calm.”

  As a psychiatrist, he should prescribe antidepressants or anti-anxiety medications until these thoughts didn’t trouble her at all.

  If he were her psychotherapist, he could probe farther, discover how this memory was causing psychic damage and help her cope.

  As her priest, he should delve just far enough to discern that she was blameless of sin and commend her soul to God.

  As an exorcist, he should not ask superfluous questions and expel the demon.

  If he were her friend, he would back off and allow her not to tell him.

  As her lover, he should have known about scars under her shirt.