Now, on my first real day in court on this case, I sat in the observer’s gallery, just behind the railing where Jake and Lila sat with a couple of the key plaintiffs. Other plaintiffs and family members sat around me. I’d smiled and nodded at Ada Jones when I’d entered. She sat farthest back in the sizeable crowd.
The judge sat at his bench high above everyone. The court reporter pressed her talking tube around her mouth and repeated the proceedings into it, unheard by any of us. The jurors were spending the morning back in the jury room, probably whiling away time with bored chitchat as Jake led the defense attorneys on a merry chase around Tixtill and the issue of reputation evidence. I couldn’t believe he’d tried to get it in—and not a halfhearted attempt. He was going to the mat on this one. Judge Bream, though, was reaching the end of his patience.
“Counselor. The point you’ve raised has been duly noted in the record. Again, I fail to see that a nexus has been drawn between the earlier conviction involving Tixtill and any issues raised in this case. I am therefore holding that evidence concerning the drag Tixtill or the FDA proceedings against Perforce is inadmissible. Now...”
“Your Honor.” Jake’s exasperation was evident—as was the judge’s.
“Counselor. I have ruled on the matter. If you choose to pursue it further at this time, I hope you brought your toothbrush with you, because you’ll be spending the night courtesy of the county on a contempt charge. Do I make myself clear?” Judge Bream peered over his reading glasses, gavel in hand.
“Yessir,” Jake said, suddenly meek and respectful.
“If there are no further motions? Bailiff, please bring in the jury. Plaintiff, you may call your first witness.”
Jake shuffled and reshuffled the papers in front of him. I knew where his mind was—the exchange with the judge was over for him; he was focused on the next step. Funny, as I watched it play out, having the Tixtill testimony blocked probably felt more like a personal affront to me than it did to Jake. Odd how much difference a little distance made. Jake already had something else to command his attention, while I sat safely back with nothing to do but watch it unfold. I couldn’t do anything except feel frustrated.
The jurors filed in and took their seats, waiting to watch the next scene in the play. They looked like an ordinary jury—men, women, black, white, Hispanic, very old, very young, in between. They appeared interested. What wasn’t visible was what they brought into the jury box with them: prejudice, misinformation, irrationality, poor education, sleep deprivation, a bad divorce, really good wake-up sex, morbid curiosity, an ulcer. Whatever. Jake and the defense attorneys would have stricken from the jury anyone who knew one of the plaintiffs, worked for a drag company, or took Uplift. But each juror brought baggage, knew things, liked or hated things that the attorneys couldn’t divine—and both the defendants and the plaintiffs were at their mercy.
Jake’s first witness was Susan Chee, the receptionist for Bradt Industries, the scene of the shootings. She straggled a bit as she climbed into the witness box.
Jake asked her to introduce herself. In a subdued voice, he used her answers to begin unveiling the story.
“Ms. Chee, you were at work on October eleventh, two years ago?”
“Yes, sir.” She leaned into the microphone.
“Tell us about that morning.”
She blinked, as if surprised at being given the reins. “We-ell.” She pulled the microphone closer to her mouth. “Brenda and I got to work at die usual time. About eight o’clock.”
“And Brenda is ...?”
“She did the billing and accounts receivable.”
“You two worked together?”
“Well, yeah. In the office there.”
Jake nodded. She took a quavery breath and continued. “Like any day, we got some coffee. She always started the pot. We caught up on stuff. You know, at home and all.”
Jake prompted her when she paused too long. “What happened next, Ms. Chee? Just describe the morning in your own words.”
“Well, the door opened—from the manufacturing floor—and Ray Vincent Wilma was there.”
“Was it normal for him to come into the office area?”
“No, sir. The plant guys don’t really come into the staff offices. Unless something’s wrong or they need something. Like they have to see Human Resources or something.”
“So you weren’t expecting him that morning?”
“No, sir.” She shook her head. “But there he was. At first, though, I didn’t know it was him.”
“What do you mean?” Jake stood over to the side, so she would be turned toward the jury as she talked to him.
Susan Chee shrugged. “He just looked funny. He didn’t look like himself. I remember thinking, all at once, you know, who is that?—oh, it’s Ray Vincent—he looks so strange.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, before we—” Her lower Up quivered. “We didn’t have time—Brenda and I—to say hello to him. He had a gun. He raised it. And shot—” Her voice broke. A tear rolled down one cheek.
“He shot Brenda Smalls?” Jake said, soft and matter-of-fact.
She nodded, then remembered to speak aloud. “Yes.”
Jake waited.
“And—he shot me. I didn’t really know what was happening. The noise was so loud. Very loud. It was hard to know what was going on. I don’t remember falling. I just remember lying on the floor next to Brenda. I watched his boots as they walked down the hall toward Human Resources, and I heard more shots. Brenda jumped at the noise, I remember. Her hand was close to mine. I took it. We just lay there, real quiet. Kind of under the edge of the desk. The boots came back. Brenda made a noise. She—whimpered.”
Susan Chee stopped talking and looked at the ceiling, trying to stop her tears. The watchers in the courtroom held their breath.
“He...” Her voice was hoarse. “He stood over her. He-shot-her.” She mewed the words in a whisper and paused.
Jake stood still as a statue and let the silence grow, let the picture develop in the minds of everyone listening.
“Her hand went limp.” Susan Chee didn’t sniffle into a handkerchief. She just stared forward, tears streaming down her face, her lips pressed in a sharp line.
After an almost unbearable silence, Jake asked, “And then?”
She turned to Jake. Her voice stronger, she said, “He left.”
“Back out the door to the plant?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“What happened next? Did you see him again that day?”
“No, sir. I heard—” She swallowed hard. “More shots. From the plant. But then, nothing. For a long time. It seemed like it was totally silent for a long, long time.”
“What did you do?”
“I just lay there. I couldn’t move. I was scared. My leg hurt. I just held Brenda’s hand and lay there. Until the ambulance guys came.”
“Did Brenda say anything? Did she squeeze your hand or anything?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice at first. The memory made her eyes stream and her Up quiver again. “No-o. She didn’t move again.”
Jake stayed quiet for a respectful moment.
“Thank you, Ms. Chee. I know talking about this hasn’t been easy. It’s important for us to know what happened that day. Thank you. Now, Ms. Chee, if you would answer any questions Mr. Vendue has for you.” Jake bowed slightly and took his seat.
He’d taken Susan Chee’s testimony right up to the edge, but hadn’t skated over it. Amazing. In bifurcating the trial, the judge had ruled that Jake couldn’t introduce evidence of the victims’ injuries until after the jury decided whether Perforce and Uplift had caused those injuries. In a hard-fought pretrial motion, Jake had won the right to recount the events of the shootings. But he could not talk about the damages suffered by the plaintiffs. A fine line. Arthur Vendue hadn’t jumped up with any objections, but, then, how could he? He risked sounding disrespectful of the injured and the dead. Cr
oss-examination wouldn’t be easy, either. He’d need to keep this short.
“I know this is difficult, Ms. Chee. I have only a couple of questions. I believe you said Ray Vincent Wilma looked funny when he came into the office that morning. What exactly do you mean? Can you describe his appearance for us?” Vendue kept his voice subdued, as if at a funeral. For Susan Chee, this trial had to feel like a funeral, viewing the dead anew.
She waved one hand, as if conjuring the vision. “I don’t know. Crazy. His face was frozen, like he had on a mask. He just—looked right through us. Like we were nothing. His eyes were just dead.”
“Did he speak? Did he say anything at all?”
She shook her head. “He just pulled that rifle up, from where he carried it, down against his leg. And he—” Her voice cracked.
“Thank you, Ms. Chee. I appreciate how difficult this is. Your Honor.” He nodded toward the judge and toward Jake. “No further questions.”
Wise to leave it alone. He didn’t want her gilding the details the jury already had.
Using the rail to help, Susan Chee pulled herself up and stepped carefully down. She wore long pants, and the jury couldn’t see where Ray Vincent Wilma’s bullet had shattered her lower leg and left her with an artificial foot—one of the injuries Jake wasn’t allowed to mention.
Funereal. Something about this courtroom kept bringing that word to mind. The subdued lighting. The elegant appointments. The gentle funeral-director air both the attorneys had assumed with Susan Chee. Soon the jury would be dozing off—the black gentleman with die soft gray fuzz of curls would be the first, I bet, with me right behind him.
“The plaintiff calls Ivan Gretel to the stand,” Jake said.
“Ivan Gretel,” the clerk of court intoned, a Bible in his hand.
A long-limbed man in a green tweed jacket loped down the center aisle. His bald head rimmed with shaggy red hair shone in the light over the witness box as he sat after being sworn in.
“Dr. Gretel.” Jake approached the stand, which lawyers are allowed to do in South Carolina. I’d seen a North Carolina trial on television once and wondered how the heck the lawyers tried a case sitting at their tables, asking “permission to approach the witness” every time they had an exhibit to discuss. How do you do battle for your client sitting on your bum?
Jake leaned convivially against the railing that enclosed the witness chair.
“Doctor, would you please state your name and credentials for the record?”
“Certainly. I’m Ivan Gretel. I hold a Ph.D.—a doctor’s degree—in psychology as well as a medical degree in psychiatry. I practice and teach in New York City.”
He rattled off an impressive list of chairs, publications, honors, and awards. About the only thing he lacked was being an Eagle Scout, a college football player, or a Southerner. He talked to the jury rather than to Jake, which gave him a relaxed air, like a kindly, intense uncle who’d been into peace, love, and granola in his younger years.
“Dr. Gretel, I asked you to review the medical records and other materials pertaining to Ray Vincent Wilma, did I not?”
“Yes, you did.”
“I paid you for your time to review those records and to share with me your opinion and to come here to testify?”
“Yes.”
“What instructions did I give you when I asked for your help, Dr. Gretel?”
“You said you wanted me to review Mr. Wilma’s records and give you my professional opinion. We agreed that you would pay me for my time.” He turned toward the jury, with one finger raised to emphasize his point. “And you are only paying me for my time. You are not paying me for my opinion. My opinion is based on what I find in the records, not on what someone wants me to say.”
“Did I in any way indicate what I hoped your opinion would be?”
“Certainly not.”
“You gave me your opinion after you’d reviewed the records in this case, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“You also gave a deposition to Mr. Vendue, in which he questioned you about your opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Gretel, in your psychiatric practice, as a physician and as a teacher of future physicians, have you had opportunity to work with, to treat patients with issues similar to Ray Vincent Wilma’s?”
“I object.” Arthur Vendue spoke sharply to cut off any reply as he stood. “Improper foundation.”
Judge Bream hesitated only a moment. “Counsel is in the process of laying the foundation, I presume. Overruled. You may answer the question.”
Odd objection. Maybe Vendue just wanted to break Jake’s stride, even though Jake wasn’t on much of a roll yet. A couple of the jurors shifted in their seats.
“Yes, I have treated such patients.”
“I’m not asking you for your opinion at this time, but are you prepared to offer an opinion in this case?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Dr. Gretel, this case deals with the complicated, fascinating field of brain science, about how our brains work and how our brains make us work. It deals with what can go wrong with our brains, what can interfere with how they work. You are here as an expert witness, Dr. Gretel, to help us understand this complex science. What is neuropsychiatry?”
Ivan Gretel swiveled his chair toward the jury, leaning slightly forward, his lean runner’s face intent.
“Frankly, scientists don’t really agree on what makes our brains work, on what makes us tick. I like to think of it in terms of three schools of thought.” Dr. Gretel’s voice and posture clearly said he was interested in his topic and in getting his message across. His passion was hooking the jury.
“The first school says we are nothing more than a mass of chemical reactions. Even our most cherished and powerful emotions, such as love or compassion, are simply biologically preprogrammed responses to stimuli. A second group of scientists says no, no, we’re both body and soul—we’re both biological functions we can understand and metaphysical things we can’t measure or fully understand.
“A third, more complex set of ideas says that we are a mass of constantly creative forces, that our brains and, consequently, our thoughts and emotions, are endlessly varied because each of us is endlessly evolving.”
Gretel kept his attention on the jury, like a teacher making sure his pupils were following him. “Each of these views has its proponents, each has its Nobel Prize winners. Basically, we agree that the brain is very complex, but we diverge on how it operates.”
Jake let Dr. Gretel elaborate on the brain science theories, then, in summary, asked, “Dr. Gretel, in your professional opinion, do drags work? On the brain, I mean. We know, for instance, that penicillin kills bacteria that cause strep throat Can other drags fix the problems in our heads in the same way?”
Ivan Gretel leaned forward into the microphone. “No.” He pronounced it with finality. “In my opinion, psychiatric drags uniformly oversimplify the problem because they oversimplify the brain science. Psychiatrists rely too much on their prescription pads and too little on getting to the real root of a patient’s problems. Finding the real cause often means long hours in counseling sessions, peeling back layers to uncover what, in a particular patient’s background, led him to develop a particular response to his environment, his circumstances.”
Jake let that sink in. “Dr. Gretel, you’re trained in both psychology and psychiatry, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
Jake wanted to remind the jury that this guy knew what he was talking about. “Is that unusual?”
“There are others, certainly, but it’s relatively uncommon.”
“What’s involved, training in both?”
“There’s certainly no single path to get there. I first went to med school and decided to specialize in psychiatry. On our psychiatric rotation—rotations are when med students work for several weeks in each area of medicine to get a feel for what each specialty entails. On rotation, I became both fascinated and frig
htened by what I saw in the psych ward. People trapped in their own madness or depression. I wanted to be able to help them. So psychiatry became my specialty.
“But then reality struck. It didn’t take long, dealing with real people and real problems, to realize that not everything could be solved with a pen and a prescription pad. I knew there had to be something more. That’s when I returned to school, to earn my Ph.D. in psychology, in counseling.”
The passion in his voice was palpable. “That’s where you learn how to talk to patients, how to help them find the real cause of their problems. That’s much more effective than dragging them with the latest miracle pill, hoping to dull the pain enough but not too much, so they can live productively. A tough—and ineffective—balancing act.”
“So you don’t believe in using psychiatric drags?”
“No, no. I don’t go that far. Some problems we regard as being all in our heads are, in fact, chemical imbalances that can be resolved with medication. But we’ve become too fond of the notion of better living through chemistry. Popping a pill won’t solve everything. It can’t.”
“You’ve developed a national reputation for being opposed to psychiatric drags, haven’t you?” Jake knew he only had to provide Gretel with the slightest hint of the direction he wanted him to take, and Gretel was off and running.
“I suppose I have. I do believe strongly that, for instance, drugging children rather than letting them explore the full range of their energies and ideas is a travesty. Some say if Johnny’s too difficult to handle and won’t sit still, just give him a pill. As many as half of all college freshmen arrive from high school with a prescription for psychotropic drags.”
“Half?” Jake seemed genuinely surprised.
“At least. Drags for depression and for hyperactivity are the most common. I don’t know about you,” he turned toward the jury rather than Jake, “but I remember my teen years as a time of huge mood swings, a time when I and everyone else I knew explored the full gamut of our feelings, our emotions. Why dull that or try to erase it? Where does that leave you later? Of what are you robbed? Coping skills? A rich range of experience? Life itself?”
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