Tollson sat still for another few seconds, then came forward and rested his arms on his desk, his hands clasped in front of him. "Mr. Washburn, I substantially agree with Ms. Whelan-Miille. I've given this matter long and hard thought in terms of weighing prejudice against probative value. And my ruling is that I'm not going to allow this PTSD evidence."
Washburn, staggered by the ruling, brought his hands up to both sides of his face, then rested them on the side of his chair while he got control of his emotion. "Your Honor," he said, "with all respect, this evidence needs to be admitted."
"For your purposes, perhaps, but not as a matter of law, Counselor. It's inadmissible because it has no relevance to the evidence related to Mr. Nolan's murder. Beyond that, it has the strong possibility of wasting a lot of time and confusing the jury. If I let in your expert testimony on psychological issues, the jury is necessarily going to have to hear about a lot of hearsay which would not otherwise be admissible, would not be subject to cross-examination, and would be likely to prejudice the prosecution by exciting sympathy for the defense and a dislike of the victim. When you balance that against the entirely speculative argument that the defendant might have been undergoing an episode of PTSD when he killed the victim, which by the way he entirely denies doing, the whole thing is just designed to turn this trial into a circus. Until you tell me your client or somebody else is going to testify to a self-defense claim now at this eleventh hour, this evidence does not come in."
"Your Honor." Washburn uncrossed his legs and moved to the front of his chair. Normally unflappable, the old barrister had broken a sweat over a flush during the judge's monologue. He wiped at his neck with the handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Looking over at the court reporter, he sighed in pure frustration. "Of course, this guts the defense, Your Honor, and I hope the Court will keep an open mind toward reconsideration as the case comes in."
"Of course, Counsel." Tollson at his most brusque. "This Court's open-mindedness is legendary."
22
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury." Today-a Wednesday, two weeks after the PTSD ruling-Mills wore a subdued blue suit over a white blouse, no jewelry, low black pumps. Jurors knew she had a government salary and she was expected to dress in a "lawyerlike, ladylike" fashion. Her presentation was supposed to be professional. Any sign of flamboyance might be taken for disrespect, or even arrogance. Representing the People of the State of California before this jury of seven men and five women, she wanted nothing to call any undue attention to herself. Neither aggressive nor hostile, she was to be the plainspoken voice of truth and reason, recounting the prosecution's case.
Starting in the middle of the courtroom, Mills walked a short course up to the foreman's position, along the front row of the jury panel, and then, after a quick stop at her desk to turn the page in her binder and check her notes, back to where she'd begun. She did this as a kind of timing device to slow herself down; she also believed in making eye contact with each and every member of the jury. The message was clear-she was leveling with them, person to person, looking them right in the eye and telling them the unblinking truth.
"Good morning. As you know from the questions you answered during your selection as members of this jury, we'll be here for the better part of a couple of weeks hearing the evidence that proves that this defendant"-here she turned and pointed to Evan-"murdered a man named Ron Nolan. The defendant hated Ron Nolan. There's no doubt about it. He thought Ron Nolan had stolen his girlfriend. He hated him for being a business success in Iraq, where Defendant had been injured while serving in the Army. He blamed Ron Nolan for the injuries he'd received, injuries that actually occurred because Defendant, after a long night of drinking, led his men into an ambush in Iraq. Evan Scholler hated Ron Nolan.
"He made no secret of it. He told his parents, he told his girlfriend. He hinted as much to some of the police officers with whom he worked. He stalked Ron Nolan by illegally using police information to keep track of his whereabouts. He broke into Ron Nolan's house and tried to frame him for the killing of two Iraqi citizens murdered in the United States.
"Finally, the evidence will show that Defendant carefully planned and premeditated this murder. Several days before his attack on Mr. Nolan, Defendant, while on duty and in uniform as a policeman for the city of Redwood City, contacted a locksmith and tricked him into letting him into Mr. Nolan's townhouse. The locksmith admitted Defendant into the home. In a subsequent search, the FBI found planted in that house evidence related to the murders of Ibrahim and Shatha Khalil. Unfortunately for Defendant, his plan failed when Ron Nolan found the evidence that was planted and called the FBI, who then discovered Defendant's fingerprints in Mr. Nolan's home.
"The defendant hated Ron Nolan, and when he couldn't frame him for murder, in a drunken rage he went to Ron Nolan's house and killed him. The actual cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head. Not just to the head, mind you, but fired from a gun held just inches from the skull.
"But Defendant didn't just murder Ron Nolan. First, he administered a savage beating. He broke his jaw. He broke his wrist. He broke at least two of his ribs. He left bruises and cuts and injuries over a lot of Ron Nolan's body. The evidence will show that this defendant hated Ron Nolan, and he killed him.
"But if that is what happened, how do we know he did it? Well, for openers, he told his girlfriend he was going to. He left his fingerprint on the murder weapon found by the body. And within hours after Nolan's body was found, the police found Defendant cowering in his apartment, Ron Nolan's blood still on his hands and clothes, the injuries he'd received in the fight still unhealed, and the murdered man's blood still on the brass knuckles he used to inflict the beating I've described.
"This defendant hated Ron Nolan and he killed him. And he killed him in a way that the law defines as first-degree murder. At the close of the evidence in this case, I'll stand before you and that is the verdict for which I will ask."
Mills was doing it by the book, dispassionately laying out the elements of the People's case. Like all prosecutors, she would consistently refer to the deceased as "Mr. Nolan," and later, sometimes, even Ron, to humanize him to the jury-a living, breathing human being whose life had been prematurely taken from him. By the same token, Evan Scholler would forever after remain "the defendant," or even, less familiarly, simply "Defendant"-a clinical term denoting the place in society to which he'd fallen. A nameless, faceless perverter of the social order who deserved only the most cursory acknowledgment as a human being and no sympathy.
In the center of the courtroom one more time, she paused, noting that Washburn had let her go on this long without objection. It was a calculated technique, she knew, to signal to the jury that, in spite of this apparently damning litany condemning the defendant, the defense remained confident-nay, unconcerned by these allegations.
Letting out a theatrical sigh, Mills again allowed herself a glance over to the defendant's table, but this look communicated sadness and resignation. No one would have enjoyed putting on the kind of recitation she'd just completed. The human condition was sometimes a terrible burden. Mills had done her disagreeable though imperative job, hoping to bring justice to the evil defendant and closure to the victim and to those who had loved him.