Part 10 (1/2)

”Mrs. Reid, before his accident, did Arnold ever do anything, anything, that made you think he was capable of truly hurting another person?”

Mrs. Reid sat up straight and looked right at the jury.

”Never in a million years.”

12.

Mock trials are designed to be dead heats; you play with the facts you're given. Our witnesses say Arnold was a jerk. Their witnesses say he was a saint. Our expert witness, a psychiatry resident from the university hospital, testified that you don't need a sc.r.a.p of metal to explain this murder. Sometimes, even the quietest, sweetest men just snapped. Sometimes especially the quietest, sweetest men.

But when the defense called its expert, my heart stopped. It took me a moment to recognize her, in her professional suit and her neat ponytail. The gla.s.ses were new; they were smart gla.s.ses, with small lenses and thin copper frames. She wore makeup now. But it all came rus.h.i.+ng back with the force of a memory triggered by perfume: the crisp night, the split grocery bag, the oranges rolling everywhere. The moonlight confession; that pretty, kind face splashed with tears.

Her name, it turns out, was Sarah Casey.

Her credentials were impeccable. Our mock expert was a budding authority on personality disorders. Their mock expert was a budding neurosurgeon; she was a cruise director on a tour of the brain: cut here and get rage; smash here and lose control. She was patient and clear, modest but confident. She smiled and made jokes. She told us about other brain-injured soldiers who came home suddenly different, as if possessed. She even gave it a name--traumatic brain injury, or TBI--and once something had a name, it was real. By the time she was done, it seemed completely reasonable that Arnold's injury had forced him to act against his heart and soul--whatever those were.

I don't think she recognized me until the judges asked if the State was ready for cross-examination.

”You take this one,” I whispered to Daphne.

”What?”

”I know her,” I said.

”You prepped this part. You're prepared. Do it.”

”I know her.”

”I don't care.”

”Is the State ready?” the judge asked again, irritated.

I rose and said, ”Yes, Your Honor.” Then Sarah looked at me. I watched the thoughts unfold in her eyes: first puzzlement (where have I seen him before?), then recognition, then a recalling of our conversation--and then, of course, ragged, saw-toothed fear.

”Dr. Casey,” I said, my voice sounding thin in my ears. ”Did you meet the defendant before his accident?”

”No,” she said softly.

”Did you interview people who knew him before the accident?”

”No.”

”So, you can't say for sure that the defendant's personality changed at all, can you?”

”No, I can't.”

I should have gone to my next question. But I stuttered and drew a blank. She kept talking.

”But I can say, with medical certainty, that Mr. Reid's brain injury is consistent with a personality change.”

d.a.m.n it, I thought. Focus.

”Consistent with. I see. But you can't say for sure?”

”No.”

Good. Keep moving.

”Now--is it possible to sustain a brain injury and not have a personality change?”

”Of course.”

”Could someone fake a personality change after a brain injury?”

”Objection.”

”I'll rephrase, Your Honor. If someone claims to have a personality change, is there any way to prove it?”

”Not in this case.” Next . . . Keep moving . . . What next? ”But,” she continued, ”if someone has a brain injury and a personality change, we can ask whether the two are consistent. In this case they are.”

s.h.i.+t.

”I see,” I said, trying to sound like I had just scored a major point. But I hadn't. I hadn't at all. I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up, blowing it.

”Why did you appear here today?” I asked her. It was an insane question. For one thing, it was open-ended. I was giving her a chance to make a speech. But that wasn't the half of it. It was crazy, because I wasn't asking for the good of my case. I was asking for me.

She met my eyes, as if she understood.

”Honestly,” she said, ”when I saw the flier, I just thought it would be fun. I spend all my time in the hospital. It seemed like a chance to get away for an hour and do something different.”

That's when I saw it in her eyes. Some tiny part of her, deep down, wanted to be exposed. Consciously or not, the guilt-ridden part of her brain had come here to flirt with professional suicide. Freud called it the Death Instinct. Poe called it the Imp of the Perverse. Now I knew the answer to the question I'd posed to her that night: she couldn't live with the lie, and she couldn't live without it. So she put herself on trial. And now I knew exactly how to win this case, if I was willing to indulge my own darker instincts.

”I see,” I said again, this time without even pretending I had a point.

That's when I realized my mind was completely blank.

I was standing in front of a silent room. I started to hear the rustling of people s.h.i.+fting in their seats. I didn't dare look up at Bernini. A few uncomfortable coughs in the crowd . . .

I stalled.

”Just a moment, please, Your Honors.”

I walked back to our table and stood over it, pretending to flip through my notes. Daphne leaned over. ”What the f.u.c.k are you doing?” she hissed in my ear. I nodded thoughtfully for the jury, as if she were giving me priceless information. ”Listen to me very carefully,” she whispered. ”You are not going to f.u.c.k this up for me. What's the matter,” she jeered, ”you can't cross-examine a girl? You think she can't take it? Don't insult her and don't insult me. You need to grow a pair of b.a.l.l.s.” I pretended to jot something down, but really I just wrote f.u.c.k and underlined it.

I stepped back from the table.

”You're appearing here on behalf of the defense, aren't you, Dr. Casey?”