The Wrong Man

8

Dr. Sofian Baraniq leaned back in his chair in our conference room. He was on the young side for an expert-his CV put him at forty-four-but he looked distinguished, with the gray that peppered his hair and his thick beard. He looked foreign but had not the slightest trace of an accent, which suggested he was American-born. Either way was fine with me. I didn’t know his ethnicity, but the origin of his name suggested India or someplace Middle or Far Eastern, and most juries tended to give weight to experts with such backgrounds. Call it reverse racism or favorable racism or ignorance, but it seemed to matter. Juries were less likely to find bias with, and more likely to respect, experts who were Asian or Indian. Like any lawyer, I would take whatever advantage I could grab.

“It’s a complicated case,” said the doctor. His dress shirt was stained and his tie was drab. “He suffers from PTSD and schizophrenia. The accompanying symptoms of either could have manifested themselves at the time of the shooting.”

I was ready for that. Bryan Childress had discussed it with me. Tom Stoller could have been experiencing a flashback to Iraq from PTSD or a hallucination brought on by his schizophrenia.

“Does that matter, for your purposes?” he asked me.

It was the right question to ask. “I have to prove a mental defect,” I said. “Both are recognized mental defects. In theory, I could say that it was either PTSD or schizophrenia, take your pick. But that doesn’t look good to a jury.”

I really wanted PTSD. Because it gave me license to tell the jury all about Tom’s harrowing experience as a combat veteran in Iraq. But I didn’t want to say that to Dr. Baraniq.

“I’ve far more experience testifying in the field of PTSD,” said the doctor. “But the problem is that I can easily diagnose Tom as a disorganized schizophrenic. It doesn’t matter what he and I talk about. I can observe him and I can read the observation and lab reports. The state is treating him with antipsychotic and mood-stabilizing medications, which is consistent with my diagnosis. So I feel comfortable with my diagnosis. But PTSD? I have to know what was happening to him at the time of the shooting. And I have to know what happened to him in Iraq. And for that, Tom has to talk to me. He has to talk about that night. He has to talk about Iraq. And he won’t.”

I deflated. Childress had given me a sense of this problem, but hearing it firsthand from my expert was like a needle through my balloon.

“You can testify generally about PTSD,” I said.

“Of course I can.”

“I think we all could presume that combat in Iraq was less than enjoyable.”

“Especially for an Army Ranger, yes.”

“And the night in question-Tom won’t talk about that, but you have his videotaped interrogation.”

“Yes. And I believe we saw an episode of PTSD there.”

I nodded, feeling a head of steam. “And it’s fair to presume that because he was looking at the victim’s photograph, you could infer he suffered the same PTSD episode when he shot her?”

The doctor looked at me. So much for the steam.

“It’s… certainly a real possibility that he did,” said the doctor. “But can I say to a reasonable degree of scientific certainty that Tom was suffering from PTSD when he shot that woman?”

He didn’t answer his own question. Which was an answer in itself.

Shauna Tasker cleared her throat. “You said the state is medicating Tom as if he were a schizophrenic?”

“I said the medication is consistent with that diagnosis.” Dr. Baraniq smiled, as if apologizing. “I’m not trying to split hairs. They are using antipsychotic medication that would have the effect of controlling delusions and hallucinations. They are using mood-stabilizing drugs that essentially tranquilize him. This is how I would medicate a disorganized schizophrenic. But these drugs are used in other contexts as well. So they are not necessarily conceding that he is schizophrenic.”

Shauna nodded dutifully, thinking this over. In my experience, it could be frustrating to talk with medical experts, who qualified almost everything they said. You needed a flowchart to follow their reasoning. It was how most people felt after talking to a lawyer.

“Has Tom suffered delusions or hallucinations at Boyd?” I asked.

Dr. Baraniq shrugged. “Not that I know of. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. It means he might have but didn’t share it with anybody. Disorganized schizophrenics are typically very withdrawn individuals. Tom could be sitting in a chair, listening to you talk, and inside his mind is racing in a hundred directions. Then, throw in the medications he’s taken, which essentially suppress his emotions, and the symptoms probably wouldn’t manifest.”

“Especially if no one’s looking for them,” I said.

“Exactly.” Dr. Baraniq pointed at me. “The correctional system, especially at the pretrial stage, wants him to be sedate and compliant. They aren’t interested in solving his problems.”

“They’re not curing Tom,” said Shauna. “They’re just putting Band-Aids on the wounds.”

“Absolutely. Tom needs medication, but he also needs psychotherapy. He needs social and vocational training. He may need electroconvulsive therapy.” The doctor shook his head. “He’s not getting any of that in pretrial detention. Almost by definition, pretrial lockup is a temporary thing. The state doesn’t commit resources to long-term treatments.”

It was a tragic truth. I’d heard it for years. But right now, I had more immediate concerns on my mind. “Back to the shooting,” I said. “Is it possible that, rather than an episode of PTSD, Tom suffered a hallucination spawned by his schizophrenia? And that was what caused him to shoot Kathy Rubinkowski?”

“In theory, yes,” said the doctor. “But as I said, I can’t sit here and say that Tom has suffered any hallucinations. Nor could I tell you the nature or magnitude of them.”

I sighed.

“And I also have to tell you,” said the doctor, “that if I’m testifying in the abstract about a symptom that hasn’t manifested itself to our knowledge, as opposed to testifying about the specifics of Tom’s case, I would be forced to admit that most violence carried out by schizophrenics is violence to themselves. It’s not like what you see on television.”

Shauna tapped her pen on her pad of paper. “But PTSD,” she said. “A violent outburst in the context of PTSD is normal.”

“It’s common. More common than violence to another person caused by schizophrenia.”

I looked at Shauna. We were both trying to decide which route was the least shitty.

“Tom suffers from PTSD,” said the doctor. “I know the state will contest that opinion, but I’m very comfortable with it. It’s the best explanation for what happened. We have an instance of it caught on tape, in my opinion. And his behavior suggests it. No, he won’t tell me about Iraq, which isn’t helpful-but in one way, it is. His avoidance of it shows me his level of discomfort. And has he complained to you about the heat?”

I nodded. “Yeah, he did.”

“The heat reminds him of Iraq. A sticky room in a prison hospital has nothing on the deserts of the Middle East, but it’s a reminder. He avoids everything that reminds him of it.”

That made sense.

“And he has a general disinterest. He’s fatalistic, in fact, wouldn’t you agree?”

“He told me he didn’t care who his lawyer was, he just wanted this to be over,” I said. “I’ve met with him twice now, and the predominant themes are that he won’t talk about anything related to the night in question or his military experience. And he won’t agree to a continuance of his trial.”

Silence. Lawyers taking in information, processing it, trying to fit it within a legal argument that could save a client. An art, not a science. Facts go in different directions. They don’t necessarily line up in one neat, tidy explanation.

“PTSD,” said Shauna.

I took a breath. “PTSD,” I agreed.

“PTSD, but we need him to fill in some blanks for us,” said the doctor. “Otherwise, I’m testifying in the abstract about that night.”

“Got it.” I breathed out. This was more complicated than I’d expected.

“Your trial date is still December the first?” the doctor asked me.

“Right. For now, at least.”

“Do you have an idea of when you’ll call me to the stand?”

“Right now? Not really. December one is a Wednesday. We’ll pick a jury, then the prosecution’s case will go in over a few days. Less than a week, would be my guess. So I would shoot for… probably the eighth or ninth?”

“Okay, that would work. The seventh wouldn’t.”

I sighed. “Doctor, I need you to be flexible here.”

“This is why I raise this. The seventh I cannot do. I have a religious obligation.”

“Okay, well-what religion is that?”

“Islam,” he said.

“Oh.” That stopped me. “That’s… interesting.”

“Why is that… interesting? Because I’m testifying about a man who served in a military operation that occupies a predominantly Muslim country?”

Something like that, yeah. I’m not good with political correctness. It’s not that I give a rat’s ass about someone’s religion. I’m not even sure how I feel about my own religion. But I’m not good with sensitivity.

Dr. Baraniq laughed at my awkwardness. “You can relax, Mr. Kolarich. Muslims in America learn to have thick skin.”

They’d have to. I remembered when they built that gigantic mosque a couple of miles west of our downtown commercial district. It was billed as the largest mosque in the Midwest. They finished construction in the summer of 2001, only weeks before the September 11 attacks. And to make matters worse, the name of the mosque was Masjid al-Qadir, which bore an unfortunately close resemblance to the name of the terrorist group that attacked us. Back then, when I was a prosecutor and single, I passed the mosque every day on my way to work. There were protests and death threats and daily pickets for months. Finally, the mosque agreed to take down the big sign bearing its name, but they didn’t change the name.

The way it ultimately turned out, the mosque was credited-by those willing to give it any credit-with cleaning up that neighborhood, which had been populated with gangs and drugs and plagued by drive-by shootings. They hold monthly food and clothing distributions and have done a decent job of assimilating.

All of this got me thinking. Dr. Baraniq’s religion could be helpful at trial. If I could somehow sneak in a mention of it during his testimony, it would only bolster his credibility. The last thing a Muslim psychiatrist could be accused of is a bias favoring an American soldier.

He wagged a finger at me. “We need Tom to talk, Mr. Kolarich. He won’t talk to me. He won’t talk to the state’s doctor.” He stared at me.

“You think he’ll talk to me?” I asked.

“He’d better.” Dr. Baraniq lifted his coat off the back of his chair. “Or we have no chance of winning this case.”