Mercy (A Neon Lawyer Novel Book 2)

by Victor Methos

  “I think I found something,” she said.

  “What?”

  “State of Utah v. Logom. It’s a Supreme Court case from 1958.”

  Brigham leaned back in his chair, happy to push the laptop away from him. “Yikes. What’s it say?”

  She scanned the case. “Logom suffocated his wife with a pillow. It came out at trial that she was suffering from tuberculosis, and the doctors had said she was a hopeless case. They said she’d feel immense pain before death, and there was nothing they could do. He took the stand and testified that she was in constant pain and begging him to end her life. His wife specifically asked him to suffocate her with the pillow, because she’d go quickly. The trial court didn’t let the defense present testimony that his wife had said that, saying it was unreliable hearsay because the party who said it wasn’t available to testify, and the defense appealed. The Court of Appeals affirmed, but when it got to the Supreme Court, they overturned and said that it was relevant to his defense of temporary insanity and indicated the reliability of the hearsay based on the totality of the circumstances. They remanded for a new trial, and Logom was acquitted by a jury.”

  “Temporary insanity, huh? Does that ever work?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve seen it work on Law & Order.”

  Brigham chuckled. “We’re a shoo-in, then.” He put his feet up on the table and stared at the ceiling. “Temporary insanity doesn’t mean a person’s insane, it means they were insane for that particular circumstance and it was caused by external factors. I think the better route is diminished capacity. We have to show that he was incapable of forming the intent to commit murder, and so he only caused the death recklessly. It would reduce it to manslaughter or maybe even negligent homicide if we can get the jury to buy it.”

  “That doesn’t really get him off, though.”

  “Criminal law is just damage control. You’re trying to pick the least-worst option. I’ve never even heard of temporary insanity working with a Utah jury. Diminished capacity works some of the time, I think because the defendant isn’t acquitted. The jury feels like they reached a good compromise.”

  She rested her jaw on her hand and stared absently at the laptop screen before she nodded and said, “I think you’re right.”

  “Diminished capacity it is, then. Let’s get all the homicide cases that have used it in the past few years. We need transcripts if any of them have gone to trial.”

  “In two weeks? Can we get them that fast?”

  “Not really. But maybe we can pay a little more and they’ll do a rush order for us.”

  “I’m on it,” she said, rising and heading out of the room.

  “And Rebecca?”

  “Yeah?” she said, turning around.

  “Thanks for your help. It’s kind of a weird time here right now.”

  She hesitated. “She’s crazy to leave. It’s awesome here.”

  He grinned. “Thanks.”

  The bulk of the day was spent going to court on cases and doing interviews. Brigham interviewed ten attorneys to fill Molly’s spot. The only one he liked was a former bodybuilder who specialized in motions and legal writing. He seemed shy for a bodybuilder and had a tough time looking Brigham in the eye. His name was Gerald Trudaux, and he spoke with a heavy accent. Brigham asked him how many languages he spoke.

  “Seven,” he said.

  “You’re French, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. But my heart is American. I love war and pornography.”

  Brigham laughed. “We have a few other things in our culture, I think.”

  “I know,” he said with a smile. “Your Constitution is the greatest monument to man’s mind in history. It’s a shame no one understands it. It will soon not hold strength in the culture and be done away with.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “When a thing is taken for granted, people believe they can abolish it without consequence. That’s what happened in my country during the Revolution.”

  Instantly, Brigham liked him. For the second time, he hired someone on the spot.

  The firm had enough attorneys now that he could hand the minor cases off to Rebecca and Gerald and focus on Ted’s trial. Brigham didn’t mind doing things on the fly. In fact he preferred it. But two weeks to prepare for a murder trial was unheard of. And if Ted was convicted and regretted his decision, then the typical grounds for appeal—ineffective assistance of counsel—might not be available because he was the one who chose to go quickly against his counsel’s advice.

  Brigham explored the case law Rebecca had provided. No trials similar had been held in Utah. He found that hard to believe, so he did his own search and she was correct. A trial like this had no precedent in this state.

  Diminished capacity wasn’t a defense he had used before, so he read everything he could find that discussed it. The theory was simple: due to a mental disorder or other affliction, the defendant was unable to fully appreciate the nature of his actions and form the requisite intent to commit the crime alleged. Then you presented the jury with a lesser-included offense and asked them to convict. It was similar to what Brigham had done in the Amanda Pierce trial, except that Brigham didn’t present the jury with several alternatives and the jury didn’t need to find Ted insane; only that, at the time, he didn’t have his full mental faculties.

  The theory was simple enough, but proving it seemed impossible. He would have to have a psychiatrist do an evaluation of Ted in the next week to determine what his state of mind was at the time of the offense. It was like trying to determine what the weather had been like last month based on what it was that day. But with the hourly rate he would be paying, he was certain he could find somebody to do it. And that’s all he needed: someone with the right credentials to get up there and say Ted hadn’t committed murder because his mental state was such that he didn’t know what he was doing. Since experts couldn’t make ultimate judgements in front of the jury, they would have to be skilled enough to convey that sentiment without actually saying it.

  His phone rang and it was Jen, his private investigator. “Give me something good, Jen.”

  “Well, first, I’m sorry to hear about Molly. I really liked her.”

  “She’s not dead. She’s just working somewhere else.”

  “I know. And actually prosecutors and defense attorneys make perfect couples. The jobs are similar enough to talk about over dinner but dissimilar enough that it’s interesting for the other person.”

  “Yeah. It was just sort of out of the blue, though. I wish she would’ve talked to me about it first. But she’s independent that way. It wouldn’t have mattered what I had to say.”

  “That’s what makes her who she is.”

  He exhaled and leaned back in his chair, glancing out into the hallway as one of the paralegals passed by on her cell phone. “What about Ted?”

  “Well, there is a life insurance policy, three million, but it was taken out seven years ago, six years before she got the cancer, and it was taken out on both of them. It was a renewal from a policy they already had, so, I doubt the prosecutor will even bring it up.”

  “No, he didn’t do this for money. I almost wish he had. That I could understand. I don’t understand killing your wife because of a disease.”

  “Really? You don’t understand it?”

  Brigham hesitated. “She might’ve lived.”

  “Maybe. Don’t judge a person until you walk in their shoes.”

  A pang of guilt climbed down his gut as if he’d swallowed ice. “What else?”

  “He’s well respected at his work as a mechanical engineer. He works in something called structured systems. Not sure what that is. But apparently you have to be really smart to do it.”

  “Really? I didn’t get a brainiac vibe from him.”

  “Super-smart people don’t show off that they’re smart, I think. He’s got his PhD in engineering, and he was a professor at the University of Oregon before taking a position at this robotics compa
ny out here. He’s been married once before. I couldn’t get ahold of his ex, and she didn’t return any of my calls. I looked up the divorce petition and it just said irreconcilable differences.”

  “Huh. Standard stuff. Anything good for us?”

  “No criminal history whatsoever. I mean, nothing. Not even a speeding ticket. The guy’s as clean as they come.”

  Brigham stretched his neck to the side. He’d found that the more he sat, the more aches and pains would manifest throughout his body. He wondered if he was just getting older, or if these were the consequences of a more sedentary life. “What about the morphine?”

  “I interviewed the doctor and a few nurses. I know you talked to a couple, but I got some good stuff from some of the others. I’m gonna shoot those summaries over to you now. The main nurse, the one the State is calling, is pretty damaging. Ted and his kids were there and she was alive, the nurse came back later and the wife was dead. The wife had a morphine drip the nurse hadn’t set up, and the bag wasn’t from the hospital. He didn’t get it there, so they think he must’ve brought it with him.”

  “Where would a guy like Ted, with no criminal connections, get a bag of morphine?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I’m trying to argue diminished capacity—that he did this recklessly because he was so distraught. If he went out and bought morphine weeks before and then brought it to the hospital, that’s gonna be a deal breaker for the jury.”

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Maybe if you get him to flip on the dealer, the DA would give you a better deal.”

  “No, the prosecutor’s really adamant about this one.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Debra Flynn.”

  “Oh.”

  “What?” he said, opening his email to see how many he had to read after this conversation.

  “I’ve seen her in trial. She’s good. Totally thorough. She had this great piece of evidence she had given to the defense attorney in a stack of other evidence and knew he hadn’t looked at it. So she didn’t mention it the entire trial. Then she waited for closing. During rebuttal, she brought it up. It was brilliant.”

  Rebuttal closing. Brigham had cringed when he had first learned that the prosecutor got to give two closing arguments. The prosecution spoke first, then the defense gave their closing, and then the prosecution got to speak again. To withhold mentioning damaging evidence until rebuttal meant the defense could not respond to it. It was a brilliant strategy.

  “Wow. I wouldn’t even think to do that.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” she said. “Be careful with her.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll shoot over the reports. There’s some more in there, but that was the most important stuff.”

  “Thanks, Jen. Call me if you find anything else.”

  Brigham hung up and checked the clock on his phone. He wondered if he could catch Ted now and maybe get him off guard so he wouldn’t be prepared for Brigham’s questions. Ted was probably at home at this hour, but Brigham had no idea.

  He rose and headed out of the office to find his client.

  23

  No one answered at Ted’s home, at first. Brigham was about to give up and leave when Monica opened the door. She seemed different now, more cheery. She’d been pale and melancholy, and that had lifted.

  “Hi, Monica.”

  “Hi.”

  “Your dad home?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea where I can find him?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Your uncle home?”

  She glanced away, sheepishly looking down at her feet. “No.”

  Brigham noticed something. The mention of her uncle made her uncomfortable. “I really need to speak to your dad. Do you have any idea where he could’ve gone?”

  “He sometimes goes to the coffee shop and plays chess with people.”

  “Up on Fremont? The Coffee Chalk, I think, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll try up there. Thanks.”

  Monica was hiding something. It had to do with her uncle, and it was something she clearly didn’t want him to know. Then again, since when were teenagers predictable? Her mother had just died and her father was facing life in prison for killing her. Brigham decided he shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

  Coffee Chalk was only a few blocks away, and Brigham secured his bike and went inside. The smell of baking pastries and brewing coffee always comforted him. In law school, he never went to bars or restaurants; he was always at coffee shops studying or commiserating with other law students.

  He scanned the first floor and didn’t see Ted. He took the stairs up and searched there. At a table by the window, Ted was sitting by himself sipping a frothy drink. He had a Mac open but was staring out the window.

  “Good coffee?” Brigham said.

  Ted showed a trace of surprise, but it lasted only a moment and then faded away. “Not really. But the lattes are good. You want one?”

  Brigham sat down across from him. “No. I came to speak to you about something.”

  “Must be important if you tracked me down at a coffee shop.”

  He leaned forward, ensuring that no one at any of the nearby tables could hear. “I need to know where the morphine came from.”

  “I told you, I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just something I can’t share. I’m sorry.”

  “Even though I can’t tell anyone else, and if I do, it can’t be used against you?”

  “Yes. I just can’t risk it.”

  “Can you risk life in prison?”

  He sipped his drink and replaced the cup on the table. Outside, a Trax train sped by the empty stop. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Look, I know I’ve made your job exponentially more difficult, but this is the way I want this handled. It has to be handled this way.”

  “It’s clear you’re protecting someone, and I get that. They probably did you a favor getting you that morphine. But just tell me. I need to know. That’s all. I just want to know. I won’t act on it if you don’t want me to. But I can’t be surprised in the courtroom and find out who it was in the middle of your trial when the prosecutor brings it out.”

  Ted nodded. “Do you have any kids?”

  Brigham paused. He wasn’t getting through. He leaned back in his seat. “No, I don’t.”

  “They’re the best part of life. It’s our way of being immortal. I mean, if you don’t believe in God. I’m not religious, myself. Are you?”

  “Religious, no. But I believe in God.”

  “Ruby was religious. We would have heated debates about it because she wanted the kids to go to church, and I thought it was a waste of time. She’d try and slip spirituality into my life. I’d open my car door and a Bible or a copy of the teachings of Buddha would be on my seat. Sometimes for our movie night she’d sneak in a movie she knew was about people finding God and peace. I hated those movies. But I’d watch them because I knew she thought she was being clever.” He looked out the windows again. “I miss her. I miss her so much that sometimes it feels like a part of me is gone. Like I’ve had a limb amputated or something, and I can still feel it. Then when I look for it, it’s like I feel that pain all over again.” He looked Brigham in the eyes. “If there was any way I could’ve saved her, I would’ve done it. Even if it would’ve cost me my life, my work, everything. I would’ve done it to save her.”

  Brigham nodded. “I get that feeling from you.”

  “So you have to believe me when I say I can’t tell you who got me that morphine. It just… I can’t do it. Not to them.”

  “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Okay. Well, we’ll do it with a lot of unknowns then. But you have to realize, if the prosecutor has more information than I do, she will use it, and we’ll be caught with our pants down. I can only defend what I know about.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry to put you in this situation.”

  Brig
ham scanned the coffee shop. He saw groups of college students studying and a few older men playing chess. One pair looked like they were on a date. The demographic hadn’t changed at all.

  “Why did you choose me for this case, Ted?” Brigham asked.

  “Someone at work dropped your name, but I also read about that murder case you defended last year. I remembered it in the news. I was really impressed.”

  “You shouldn’t be. I have no idea how we got that verdict.”

  “You got that verdict because you understand people. I knew you’d understand me.”

  Brigham rose. “We’re going to have you come into the office so I can prepare your testimony. Let’s do that in the next few days.”

  He nodded. “Thanks, Brigham. For understanding.”

  “Don’t forget that gratitude if we lose.”

  24

  Brigham was surprised how little he actually had to do once someone like Rebecca was in the office. She was a whirlwind of efficiency. She organized the cases they had by court and then called each individual prosecutor and court and rescheduled the hearings so they could stack four or five cases at once. She worked out deals with the prosecutors over the phone ahead of time. Brigham’s calendar was so clear that he could spend his time on Ted’s case without missing anything else.

  For several days, he and Rebecca read any case they could find on diminished capacity, which wasn’t much. They even called an attorney Brigham had befriended and asked his advice, going through a few scenarios with him. But it turned out he was just as clueless as they were. “In twenty-five years of practice,” he said, “I’ve never had to use that defense in a murder case.”

  Brigham read the reports submitted by his private investigator, and they were pretty much what he expected. The doctor was called in afterward and confirmed the death after attempting to revive Ruby.

  The nurse would be first to testify, then the doctor, then the detective, and finally the medical examiner. The State also notified him that half a dozen other hospital staff could be called.