Lethal Defense

by Michael Stagg

  I paused. Most of the jurors were looking at me. The Artist and the Pepsi Driver were nodding. The Retired Math Teacher, though, was just staring at the blank picture back.

  “That's what Hank Braggi saw when he entered the room. That's what he told the police officers at the scene. He told them that he walked in, saw Lizzy Saint unconscious, saw her arm tied off, and saw Dillon Chase preparing to inject her veins. And he saw that there was no one else there to stop it.”

  I set the evidence down and pointed again at the blank, white picture back. “Can you picture it? Hank walking in to see his good friend unconscious and a stranger injecting her. Hank did what a reasonable person would do, what Lizzy would've done if she was able to. He stopped him. He stopped Dillon Chase from injecting his unconscious friend with a lethal dose of heroin.”

  I shook my head. “You didn’t see the prosecution call a toxicologist up here. Why? Because Dr. Beckman was right. His analysis of the heroin was correct. The drug was tainted and it was lethal. That means Lizzy Saint, unconscious, was under imminent threat of dying. Of being killed. And Dillon Chase was the one who was going to kill her, in the most sneaky and despicable way possible. And if Lizzy Saint was under an imminent threat of death, she was entitled to use deadly force to defend herself. And if Lizzy Saint was allowed to use deadly force to defend herself, then Hank Braggi was allowed to use deadly force to defend her.”

  I pointed. “Mr. Hanson argued that Hank Braggi could have used less force. That Mr. Braggi, seeing a stranger about to kill his friend, should have been nicer, more gentile, more restrained. Is that what a reasonable person would do? Does Mr. Hanson really want you to believe that a reasonable person who sees someone about to kill his friend would just say ‘stop’? Or smack the killer’s face? Or just step back? It that really true?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I think a reasonable person would end the threat immediately in whatever way he had to to save his friend’s life.”

  I paused. Here we go. It was time to fight like Hank’s Home Guard. On the territory of our choosing.

  “The prosecution has besieged you with Dillon Chase’s injuries in this case. Mr. Hanson has spent days describing them to you, over and over and over again. He’s blown up five-foot-tall pictures of them, magnifying them in the smallest detail. He’s had the coroner count the broken bones and he’s put together diagrams listing them for you, to go along with inventories of broken furniture and damaged walls. And you know what? None of it matters.”

  The jury stared at me. Every one of them.

  “We’ve told you from the outset that Hank killed Dillon Chase. Just like Hank told Detective Pearson that he killed Dillon Chase. That’s not in dispute. And neither is the way Hank killed him.”

  I paused. Jeff looked at the ceiling, unconcerned. I continued. “Remember, when I asked Dr. Gerchuk the cause of Mr. Chase’s death? He said the skull fractures. Then I asked him how many. He said three. And then remember how many blows he said it took?”

  The Pepsi Driver mouthed “two or three.” Jeff scowled.

  “That’s right. He said two or three blows. Remember?” I smacked my fist into my palm. Bam. Bam. Bam. “Three blows, at most.” Bam. Bam. Bam. “That takes a second? Two? Far less than it took the prosecution to explain it, certainly.”

  “Remember what else Dr. Gerchuck said? The blow to the nose didn’t kill him. The internal injuries didn’t kill him. The broken arms didn’t kill him. It was the two to three blows to the head.” Bam. Bam. Bam. “He said that many of those injuries—the ribs, the internal organs—happened after Mr. Chase was dead.”

  Jeff began to write on his legal pad.

  “Remember what Mr. Smoke said? That when he saw Hank Braggi throwing Mr. Chase around the room, Mr. Chase wasn’t moving and his arms and legs were flopping around like a blow-up balloon advertisement? That’s because he was already dead.”

  “Mr. Hanson has said repeatedly that Mr. Braggi could have killed Mr. Chase several times over with the damage he inflicted. The State wants you to convict Hank because they think he used too much force after Dillon Chase was dead. But this is a murder trial. Any damage done to Mr. Chase’s body after he was dead isn’t relevant to how he killed him. I suppose all this evidence might matter if they’d charged my client with abuse of a corpse or disrespecting the dead, but they didn't so it doesn't matter at all. What matters is that Hank Braggi saw a lethal threat to Lizzy Saint and he stopped it, completely, effectively, and without a doubt.”

  I hit my palm again. Bam. Bam. Bam.

  “Was he enraged at what he found? You can make that assumption. But it doesn’t matter. Not in this murder trial.”

  Then I said, “And afterwards, he didn't flee, like Blake Purcell and Aaron Whitsel did. He calmly sat down in the room, made sure that Lizzy was okay, waited for the police, and told them exactly what happened.”

  I shook my head. “Heroin is a scourge in our community. It affects people and it affects families and it affects all of the interconnected lives that come in contact with it.”

  I paused. I found I had to wait a beat longer than I intended before I continued. “Lizzy Saint was fortunate. She had someone standing there, watching over her, defending her against an evil, cowardly threat. And when Hank saw that threat, he defended her and destroyed it. He didn't apologize to the police for it and I don't apologize to you for it on his behalf.”

  I turned the picture back around, the most gruesome ugly picture of Dillon Chase's face there was. I pointed right to the middle, right to where his nose used to be. “Dillon Chase tried to give Lizzy Saint a deadly dose of heroin, a dose that would've killed her. Hank was there to stop it. So he did. For that reason, we ask that you find Hank Braggi not guilty of murder in the first degree. Thank you.”

  Hank looked at me as I sat back down and I swear to God he actually gave me a low growl of approval. I put a hand on his shoulder, sat, and kept a straight face as Jeff went back up in front of the jury. He shook his head, as if in disbelief at what was hanging about in the air. “It's the state's job, my job, to prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that Hank Braggi killed Dillon Chase and that he did it on purposefully and intentionally. That's not in dispute. You haven't heard one shred of evidence that Hank Braggi didn't kill Dillon Chase or that he didn't mean to do it or that it was some sort of horrible misunderstanding. Instead, Mr. Braggi is claiming to you that it was justified, that it was reasonable, that Lizzy Saint had the right to kill Dillon Chase to escape the harm that she was in, and that since she wasn't able to, Hank Braggi could too.”

  He pointed at our table. “That's Hank Braggi's responsibility, his burden of proof, and its Mr. Shepherd's job to prove to you that Hank Braggi's killing of Dillon Chase was justified. That this”—he turned and pointed to the picture—“that this was reasonable. That a reasonable person in the same situation would have made the same judgment and done the same thing. That this utter destruction of a human being, this breaking of a body, this pulverization of a man's face was reasonable, appropriate, justified, and necessary.”

  Jeff shook his head and stood just a little bit closer to the jury, then lowered his voice. “It is not. It is not. This is not what our system of justice allows. This is not what a reasonable person does. A reasonable person knocks Dillon Chase down. A reasonable person tackles him. A reasonable person holds him until the police arrive. A reasonable person does not break his body into a thousand pieces and spread his blood all over a hotel room wall.”

  “It was not justified. It was not a reasonable excuse. You cannot allow a person to do this. We ask that you convict Hank Braggi of murder. Because that's what he did. He murdered Dillon Chase. And it was inexcusable.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jeff sat back down.

  “Thank you, Counsel,” said Judge Gallon. “Members of the jury, you've heard the closing arguments of counsel. I will now instruct you with the law that will govern your decision.”

  Judge
Gallon then read the legal instructions to the jury. The instructions are the only law the jury is allowed to consider and they are dense and they are difficult and, through no fault of the judge, it's a read in a way that is almost guaranteed to make the jury drift off. The only reason they don't is because the jury is working so hard to get it right. I watched as half of the jury took notes and all of them listened with attention as the judge explained the law to them, explained the law about reasonableness, and murder, and self-defense, and circumstantial evidence, and direct evidence, and the things they were and were not allowed to consider.

  There was nothing that could be done now. There was no argument I could make, no evidence to rebut, and I knew exactly what the judge was saying because I’d read the instructions a dozen times. So I watched the jury. I watched the Pepsi Driver and the Artist and the Single Mom. I watched the Nurse and the Principal and the Retired Math Teacher, just trying to figure out what they were paying attention to and which way they were leaning.

  I had no idea.

  To his credit, Hank sat next to me, straight as an arrow, hands folded, looking the least threatening I had seen him in our history together. He studiously listened when he should have and made notes on his notepad when it seemed appropriate. None of them were directed to me, of course. When I snuck a glance his paper, it looked to me like he was writing song lyrics.

  When the judge had finished giving instructions to the jury, she directed them to pick a foreperson and retire for their deliberations. It was about eleven o'clock so they would have time to deliberate before lunch. Since the state would be springing for the food, I figured they would at least go past one o'clock. After that, I had no idea.

  We stood, and the judge dismissed the jury to deliberate, and we waited as they filed out of the room. I caught a glance from the Single Mom but that was it. Nobody else looked at me. Or at Hank.

  When they were gone, Hank looked at me and said, “So now what?”

  “We don't want to go too far in case the jury comes back so let's go get a sandwich. We might as well relax a little bit.”

  Hank smiled. “Easy for you to say. You haven't been doing anything.”

  “That's the truth,” I said and slapped Hank big shoulder.

  “I want a sandwich with a lot of meat,” said Hank.

  I smiled. “I know just the place.”

  36

  Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in the Black Boar Deli—Cyn and Hank and Lindsey, Danny and me. We had beaten the lunch crowd so we’d been served right away and Hank was literally licking his lips as he prepared to bite into a monstrous Cuban sandwich that was a true ode to the hog. He grinned, opened his mouth to an impossible width, and took a big bite. His eyes smiled in approval and he munched for almost thirty seconds before he said, “So what do you think, Counselor?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have a good line on what this jury is thinking, Hank. These guys might have a better idea, they were able to watch them more closely.”

  “I think you're reaching them,” said Danny. “They seemed offended by the whole heroin thing.”

  “Maybe,” said Lindsey. “But none of them could keep their eyes on the pictures. They all turned away eventually.”

  “They are passing gross,” said Hank, taking another bite. “Not really what you want to look at before lunch.”

  “I think it's too close to call,” said Cyn. “I can usually tell. This time I can't. What did you do to your hand?”

  I put my hand under the table. “Nothing.”

  “That’s a lot of swollen nothing.”

  I shrugged.

  “So what do we do now?” said Hank.

  “Now we wait,” I said. “The bailiff has my number. She'll call when the jury's back and we’ll go hear what they have to say.”

  We sat there for a while and ate and I couldn't help but watch Hank do magnificent damage to the massive Cuban club in front of him. He made it through half of it in an incredibly short amount of time when he paused, looked at Lindsey, and said, “So what happens to me next?”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Either way.”

  “If the jury finds you not guilty, Cade will take that anklet off you and you'll be free to go right then and there.”

  “After you complete some paperwork to get our bond returned,” said Cyn.

  Hank's eyes glittered. “Of course.”

  “Of course,” said Lindsey. “And if they find you guilty, the county will take you into custody and you'll await sentencing.”

  “Right away?” said Hank.

  “Right away. The time counts toward the completion of your sentence though.”

  “So it counts towards the completion of my life if I get life?”

  Lindsey pointed at him over her Ruben. “You got it.”

  The pace of Hank's eating slowed considerably and soon it stopped altogether. “I'm not sure which one is crueler.”

  I bit. “Which one what?”

  “Back in the day, the old Norse wouldn't lock you up. They would cast you out of the village, wouldn’t communicate with you, wouldn't share resources, and so the convicted would have to move on and make his own way. But he was still out in the world, in the water and the wind and the earth. He was alone but not confined.”

  I played along. “The world’s smaller now. You can't send someone out into isolation without him affecting another community.”

  “I get the reason,” said Hank. “Like I said, I'm just not sure which one is crueler—the whole wide world and no human contact or confinement in a cement box. I think it's the box.”

  My phone buzzed. It was the bailiff. I raised my hand and answered. “Hi, Stacy. It's Nate.”

  “We don't have a verdict yet, Nate,” said Stacy. “I need you to come back though. The jury has a question.”

  “I'll be right there. Thanks.” I hung up and said, “I need to head back. The jury has a question. You can finish up because we know it's going to take a little bit to answer the question and for them to react to it.”

  “What's the question?” said Danny.

  “I don't know yet.”

  “Is that good or bad?” said Hank.

  “I won't know until I hear the question. I'll text you all after we answer it.”

  They nodded, I left them, and hustled back to court.

  Jeff and I were sitting back in Judge Gallon's chambers. The judge was there, and the court reporter had set up in a chair right next to her desk. The judge looked at the court reporter who nodded and the judge said, “After approximately one hour and fifteen minutes of deliberations, the jury summoned Stacy to the room and said it had a question. Stacy told them to write it down and that she would deliver it to me. They have and this is the question.”

  Judge Gallon looked at both of us over the glasses she didn't need then looked down at a piece of printer paper with handwriting on it. “Is one of the offenses that Hank Braggi has been charged with abuse of a corpse?”

  Judge Gallon looked back at us. “My reaction is to answer that Hank Braggi has not been charged with abuse of a corpse. Comments?”

  When Jeff didn't answer right away. I said, “I think you also need to say that abuse of a corpse is also not an element of any of the crimes with which Hank Braggi has been charged.”

  “The prosecution objects to that,” said Jeff.

  “Well, it's true,” I said.

  “What's the basis for your objection?” said Judge Gallon.

  “It goes beyond the scope of the question, Your Honor,” Jeff said.

  I shook my head. “It doesn't, Judge. And what the prosecution objects to is the fact that it undermines half of the evidence he put on in the case.”

  “Watch your tone, Mr. Shepherd.” Judge Gallon thought for a moment. “I'm going to include Mr. Shepherd’s suggested language. The jury is clearly trying to decide where to fit that conduct within the charges before it and there aren't any. They need to know that to prevent err
or. I will answer that Hank Braggi has not been charged with abuse of a corpse and any action of disrespect toward Mr. Chase’s body after he was dead does not form a basis of any of the crimes with which he has been charged.”

  “Your Honor, I object,” said Jeff again.

  Judge Gallon cut him off with a raised hand. “Your objection is noted for the record, Mr. Hanson. Thank you both.”

  As the bailiff typed up the judge's answer to give to the jury, Jeff and I left chambers. As I pulled out my phone and texted the others, Jeff said, “Well, that seems to be leaning your way.”

  “There's no way to tell what the jury's thinking, Jeff, you know that.”

  Jeff looked unconvinced and I actually agreed with him, I thought the question absolutely showed they were leaning my way and I texted that to the others too.

  After about half an hour, the others joined me and I still felt good about it. When another four hours passed though, I wasn't sure at all. We spent the rest of the afternoon in the courtroom and in the coffee shop on the first floor and the more time passed, the more certain I was that we were in trouble. Hank became antsy, Danny was more jumpy than usual, and Cyn typed away on a small tablet for some other matter with her firm now that this trial was wrapping up. I sat there sipping warm coffee on a hot day and waited.

  Just before five, my phone buzzed. They all heard it and looked at me. I glanced at my phone, nodded, and said, “The jury's back.”

  We went back up to the courtroom to receive the verdict.

  We were all there. I sat at our counsel table with Hank between Lindsey and me. Danny and Cyn were right behind us on our side of the barrier and Cade was in the front row of the gallery. Jeff sat alone at the prosecutor's table. When we were all there, Stacy went into the judge's office and, a moment later, Judge Gallon emerged. She sat in her chair, straightened her robe and said, “Is counsel ready?”