By Reason of Insanity (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 3)

by Stephen Penner

  Edwards’ grin broadened. They both knew she was teasing. But they both knew a jury might buy what she was selling. “Well, she didn’t intend to commit a crime. She thought it was justified.”

  Brunelle didn’t mind a little give and take, but he was growing tired of this particular topic. Especially since it worried him. “I don’t have to prove she intended to commit a crime to defeat diminished capacity,” he insisted. “I have to prove that she intended to do a particular act, and that act happens to be a crime.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Edwards shook her head at him. “You sound like a lawyer, Dave. The jury may not understand the difference.”

  Brunelle surrendered a begrudging, but tight smile. “And if they get confused and find there wasn’t the requisite intent—”

  “Then my dim cap defense gets me an old-fashioned, nostrings-attached not guilty. Full acquittal. No jail. No hospital. Just walk out the door.”

  Brunelle tapped his pursed lips. “The best possible result for your client.”

  Edwards leaned back and crossed her legs triumphantly. “Precisely.”

  Brunelle glanced at the charging document still displayed on his computer screen. “I’m still going to object to a competency evaluation.”

  “And the judge is still going to grant it,” Edwards replied confidently.

  Brunelle nodded. He knew she was right. The judge was going to be very careful, allowing Edwards to explore every possible mental defense.

  So much for showing his cards.

  He closed his file and stood up. “Thanks for coming by, Jess. I’ll see you at one o’clock.”

  Edwards stood up too. “I’ll prepare the competency order. See you then.” As Brunelle started around his desk, she waved him off. “I can find my way out.”

  Brunelle let her go and sat down again. The good news was that Edwards wasn’t going to pursue her strongest legal defense. The bad news was that the defense she was going to pursue would lead to Keesha Sawyer being back on the streets in a matter of months.

  He knew Edwards was right about that. If the case was dismissed for incompetency, they’d cut her loose as soon as they could.

  They’d already done it once.

  He opened the file again and looked at Keesha’s criminal history.

  She had a robbery charge dismissed a year earlier. ‘Robbery’ was a pretty strong word for her conduct. She got caught shoplifting, but when the security guard grabbed her arm, she punched him. Robbery was defined as ‘using force to obtain or retain property.’ A technical violation, and a provable one, but maybe not what was intended to be punished as a full scale robbery.

  It had been her first stint in jail and she didn’t deal with it well. She was hearing voices then too. The docs declared her incompetent and no one had any heartburn about dismissing a ‘shoplift-gone-bad’ robbery. Brunelle was cynical enough to think the psychologists might have been swayed in their competency opinion by the de minimus nature of the offense. So his office had dismissed the charge and six months later the hospital declared her ‘cured’ and released her. To the care of her mother.

  “Dave?”

  Brunelle looked up from the criminal history report. His boss, Matt Duncan, was standing in his doorway.

  “You got a minute?” Duncan asked. As if anyone would say ‘no’ to the elected District Attorney.

  “Of course,” Brunelle replied.

  “Good. There’s a lawyer here I’d like you to meet. He represents the family of Georgia Sawyer. He’s filing a claim against the state for Western State Hospital’s early release of her daughter. I thought you might want to coordinate efforts.”

  Not likely, he thought. He’d dealt with enough civil attorneys to know they were a wholly different animal from criminal practitioners. If he wanted to meet with Brunelle it was just to leech off of Brunelle’s efforts and use the prosecution’s hard-fought conviction to obtain a hefty civil verdict with little to no work. But Brunelle pasted a smile on his face as he stood up to follow his boss to his office down the hall.

  “Sounds great,” he lied. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 5

  The civil attorney was waiting in Duncan’s office. Brunelle knew he was a civil attorney right away. First, Brunelle didn’t know him, and he pretty much knew every criminal defense attorney in town. Second, he was wearing a really expensive suit. A symbol of success, but one prosecutor’s tended to avoid—if they could even afford it—because juries wanted their prosecutor’s honest, not overpaid. And third, because it was Friday. Monday through Thursday, the judges handled the criminal trials and motions and arraignments. Fridays were civil days, the one day a week the so-called ‘litigation’ attorneys might come to court to argue a motion to schedule a motion for a hearing about a deposition or something.

  The lawyer stood up when Brunelle walked in and extended a hand in greeting. He was tall and overweight, with tanned skin and whitened teeth. He was also going bald, about right for his age, which Brunelle estimated in the mid-50s, but trying to make up for it with a thick moustache. He looked like a rich walrus.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Brunelle,” the walrus said, dropping the ‘Mister.’ Brunelle decided to take it as premature familiarity rather than disrespect. “I’m Charles Fargas,” he declared. Then, as if Brunelle should know, “of Fargas and Williams.”

  Brunelle had never heard of the law firm, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he shook Fargas’ hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Fargas. Matt tells me you have an interest in one of my cases.”

  They separated hands and the three of them took seats around Duncan’s large conference table.

  “That I do,” Fargas replied with a broad grin that exposed almost all of his unnaturally white teeth. “I’ve been retained by the family of Georgia Sawyer.”

  Brunelle rubbed his chin. “I thought Keesha was the family. You’re not her lawyer.”

  It was more statement than question. Jessica Edwards was Keesha’s lawyer and this guy wouldn’t be caught dead, so to speak, volunteering his skills to help an indigent criminal defendant.

  As if to confirm, Fargas laughed, a little too heartily. “Oh, dear Lord, no. Of course not. No, I’ve been retained by Georgia’s sister, Louise, and her husband. They live in Oregon and weren’t in regular contact, but were very distraught to hear of how the State of Washington failed to protect their loved one.”

  Ah, Brunelle thought. That explains it.

  “So you’re going to sue the state?” he confirmed. Then, recalling what civil law he’d been exposed to in law school, “I didn’t think siblings could sue for wrongful death. Only children or dependent parents.”

  Fargas grinned, amused either that Brunelle knew anything at all about who could sue, or that he was naive enough to care about such alleged restrictions.

  “It’s not about who sues, Brunelle,” he said. “It’s about who you sue.”

  “The state,” Brunelle said. “The deep pocket.”

  “The deepest there is.” Fargas’ nodded. “They never should have released Keesha from her last civil commitment. If she’d still been institutionalized like she should have been, Georgia Sawyer would be alive today.”

  Brunelle could hardly disagree. Still, it irked him that Fargas was going to get rich from it.

  “What if they don’t settle?” Brunelle asked. The tone was turning from conversational to confrontational. He knew he should just let it go. He didn’t. Duncan shifted in his seat.

  “Oh, they’ll settle,” Fargas boasted.

  “You better hope so,” Brunelle replied. “Or you might actually have to try a case.”

  Fargas’ confident grin withered. “I’m a litigator, Brunelle. Not just a trial attorney. There’s more to litigation than just trying the case. Part of litigation is showing the other side that they better settle before trial.”

  Brunelle crossed his arms. “By showing them a copy of the guilty verdict I earn by actually trying the criminal case.”

&n
bsp; Fargas’ smirk returned. “That will be helpful. My thanks in advance.”

  Duncan finally intervened before Brunelle could say any more. “Charles just wanted to let you know that he represents the surviving family and he’s offered to coordinate efforts.”

  Brunelle nodded grimly. “Sure. I’ll try the murder case. I’ll prove it, beyond a reasonable doubt, despite the presumption of innocence. And after I’m done, I’ll just hand you the certified court documents so you don’t have to get lost trying to find the clerk’s office.”

  Fargas narrowed his eyes over his smarmy grin. “As I said, much appreciated.”

  “There’s only one problem,” Brunelle found himself happy to say.

  Fargas’ grin faded and his eyebrows knit together. “What’s that?”

  Brunelle’s own smile replaced the civil attorney’s. “Keesha Sawyer is fucking nuts. There’s a very high likelihood she’ll be found not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  Fargas shook his head firmly. “No,” he barked. “That’s unacceptable.”

  “Sorry,” Brunelle said in a way that communicated quite clearly that we wasn’t sorry at all. “But that may be the most just verdict. You seek the deep pocket, Fargas, but I seek justice.”

  Fargas sneered. “You sound like a defense attorney.”

  It was supposed to be an insult. Brunelle knew better. “Not at all. Defense attorneys seek an acquittal, as they should. It’s the prosecutor who’s responsible for finding justice.”

  Fargas’ sneer deepened a bit, then suddenly evaporated into a well-practiced mask of false congeniality. “Well, I have faith in you, Brunelle. You’ll get your justice and I’ll get my settlement.” He stood up and shook Duncan’s hand. “I think I better be going, Matt. Thanks for setting up this meeting.”

  “Of course, Charles,” Duncan replied as they unclasped hands. “Any time. We serve our community.”

  Duncan used the comment to glare at Brunelle. As they started to walk Fargas out, he turned back to Brunelle. “Stay here,” he ordered.

  Brunelle knew to do as he was told. A few minutes later Duncan returned from walking Fargas to the lobby and, Brunelle guessed, apologizing to the bastard.

  “What the hell was that?” Duncan demanded.

  Brunelle shrugged. “I don’t know. He pissed me off.”

  “He represents the victim’s family,” Duncan reminded him.

  “He represents himself,” Brunelle countered. “He doesn’t give a damn about the family. And I bet they don’t give a damn about their dear sister Georgia, and her schizophrenic daughter, Keesha. Hell, that’s probably why they moved to Oregon—to get the hell away from them. But now they see a big, fat payday, and Fargas gets a third.”

  “Don’t worry about their payday,” Duncan chided, “or his fee. If you meant what you said, it doesn’t matter.”

  Brunelle thought for a moment. “Crap. What did I say?”

  “You said you sought justice.”

  Brunelle frowned slightly, but there was a sparkle in his eye. “Damn, I hate it when I say that.”

  Duncan shook his head. “Fargas is well-connected, Dave. He supports the office, and me. And regardless of their motives, he does represent the victim’s family. Try not to be an asshole to him.”

  Brunelle took a deep breath, then surrendered a begrudging nod. “Right. Sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Just watch it next time, okay?” Duncan asked.

  “Sure,” Brunelle agreed. “Can I go now?”

  “By all means. Go and seek justice.” Duncan gestured toward his door. “But be sure to get a conviction too.”

  Chapter 6

  The cameras were already in the courtroom, three of them, set up at the outer ends of the first row, aimed through the glass that separated the gallery from the secure area where the judge, lawyers, and inmates would be. Brunelle also spotted a single newspaper photographer he knew. He wasn’t surprised by the media attention, but he wasn’t looking for it either. He waved to them, but didn’t break stride as he entered the secured section of the courtroom with a swipe of his courthouse passcard.

  Edwards was waiting inside. As promised, she had the order for competency evaluation all ready.

  “You wanna just agree to this?” she encouraged. “Save everybody some time?”

  It was tempting. Brunelle knew the judge would almost certainly sign the order. But he also knew Keesha Sawyer was competent. “No, thanks. Let’s make the judge decide.”

  His stance was bolstered by the fact that, in addition to the media, Brunelle had spotted Fargas in the gallery, seated with an older couple he supposed was Georgia’s sister and brother-in-law. It was bad enough having cameras watching his every move; now he had a lawyer surveilling him too. A lawyer who liked suing people, especially people who worked for government agencies. A lawyer Brunelle had pissed off. Better put on a show.

  “Suit yourself.” Edwards shrugged. Then she looked up at the stack of files on the bar in front of the judicial clerk. “Can you get us on first?”

  The courtroom was officially called ‘Presiding.’ It was where all of the day-to-day, meat-grinding, sausage-making of criminal law took place. All afternoon, every afternoon, was nothing but arraignment after arraignment. The only plea allowed was ‘not guilty.’ Guilty pleas take twenty minutes, the judge having to go over a ten-page form and every constitutional right the defendant was giving up by pleading guilty. If you wanted to plead guilty, first you pled not guilty, so they could get to the one hundred other cases docketed that afternoon. Then, you could schedule a plea hearing—which was what Presiding did all morning while the prosecutors were upstairs reviewing last night’s police reports for the afternoon arraignments. Plea after plea, all morning, every morning.

  Justice, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

  It was an efficient way to deal with the ninety-five percent of criminal cases that resolved through plea-bargaining. But it was mind-numbingly repetitive. The judges rotated in and out of Presiding every six months, enduring the ordeal only because of the promise of not having to do it again for several years as the other judges each took their own turn. Similarly, the prosecutor’s and public defender’s offices each assigned a younger attorney to spend all day, every day, putting the cases on the record. It wasn’t a plum assignment, but it was the first step into felony court, and most of them were happy enough to be moving on with their careers, leaving behind the shoplifting and driving while suspended cases.

  The best part for one of these Young Turks was when a big case hit the docket and the actual trial attorneys came down to handle it. That meant they could step aside for a few minutes and relax a bit from the relentless onslaught of charge and conviction.

  “Hello, Mr. Brunelle,” said the young prosecutor as he lined up his files for the afternoon. Brunelle was pretty sure his name was Brad. Or Bill. Probably Brad. “Are you handling a matter yourself?”

  Brunelle had kind of liked it at first when other prosecutors starting calling him ‘Mr. Brunelle.’ It showed respect and he wasn’t that old yet. Then, when he crossed forty, it started to bug him for a while because he had become, after all, that old. Now, a few years later, temples flecked with gray and a file cabinet full of high-profile murder cases, he mostly ignored it.

  “Yeah,” he confirmed. “The Sawyer arraignment. Any chance I could go first?”

  Brad may have been junior to Brunelle, but it was still his calendar to run. He knew how many cases there were, who was in custody and who wasn’t, what the charges were, who had already hired a private attorney and who was going to get stuck with the public defender standing at the opposite end of the bar.

  Brunelle looked over to see if he knew the public defender. The answer was definitely no. He would have remembered her. He barely noticed Brad’s response of, “Of course, Mr. Brunelle,” as he took in the woman standing just a few feet away from him.

  Tall, thin, reddish-brown curls hanging to her jaw line
, bright blue eyes. And young. Not quite young enough to be his daughter, but young enough that a few years earlier he could have been arrested for doing what he was thinking just then.

  She noticed him looking at her. She turned and smiled, producing a perfect dimple in her right cheek. “Hello, Mr. Brunelle.”

  She knew his name.

  “Uh, hi,” he stammered. Then he straightened up a bit and tried to exude the confidence which ought to have been associated with everyone calling him ‘Mr. Brunelle.’ “Are you handling the Sawyer case too?”

  It was a lame question. Edwards was sitting right there at one of the lawyer tables.

  “Of course not, Dave,” Edwards stood up and smacked Brunelle amicably in the chest with her proposed order. “Robyn just started in here. I’m not going to do that to her.”

  Brunelle noticed Edwards was the only one in the room who didn’t call him ‘Mr. Brunelle.’ It just showed they were friends as well as opponents. “Right. Of course. Dumb question, I guess. I thought maybe you’d let her get some experience.”

  Robyn smiled—that dimple again—and winked at Brunelle. “I’m pretty experienced.”

  Brunelle felt a blush rise out of his collar, so he nodded and turned quickly to his file which he opened to no particular place. After a moment, he remembered to extract the charging documents. “Here you go.” He handed copies to Edwards without looking up from his file.

  Mercifully, the judge entered and the bailiff called out, “All rise!”

  Brunelle was relieved to have his awkwardness with Robyn terminated by outside stimuli. He was less relieved when he saw who the judge was. Michael Adams. One of the new ones. Just elected the past fall. He’d even grown a full beard since then to try to look more judicial, but it just highlighted the complete lack of hair on top of his head.

  There was no way a new judge would have the guts to deny a defense request for a competency evaluation. Denying it was an automatic issue on appeal. Not necessarily a losing issue, but an issue nonetheless. It took an experienced judge to feel confident enough to take a chance of doing something the appellate courts wouldn’t like. Experience being right in the face of a challenge, and experience not caring about being labeled wrong by a bunch of Monday-morning quarterbacks in black robes.