A Time to Kill (58 page)

“Dr. Bass, in your opinion, are you an expert in the field of psychiatry?” asked Buckley.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever taught psychiatry?”

“No.”

“Have you ever published any articles on psychiatry?”

“No.”

“Have you ever published any books on psychiatry?”

“No.”

“Now, I believe you testified that you are a member of the A.M.A., M.M.A., and the American Psychiatric Association?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever served as an officer in any of these organizations?”

“No.”

“What hospital positions do you currently hold, as of today?”

“None.”

“Has your experience in psychiatry included any work under the auspices of the federal government or any state government?”

“No.”

The arrogance was beginning to fade from his face, and the confidence from his voice. He shot a glance at Jake, who was digging through a file.

“Dr. Bass, are you now engaged in the practice of psychiatry full-time?”

The expert hesitated, and looked briefly at Lucien on the second row. “I see patients on a regular basis.”

“How many patients and how regular?” Buckley retorted with an enormous air of confidence.

“I see from five to ten patients per week.”

“One or two a day?”

“Something like that.”

“And you consider that a full-time practice?”

“I’m as busy as I want to be.”

Buckley threw his legal pad on the table and looked at Noose. “Your Honor, the State objects to this man testifying as an expert in the field of psychiatry. It’s obvious he’s not qualified.”

Jake was on his feet with his mouth open.

“Overruled, Mr. Buckley. You may proceed, Mr. Brigance.”

Jake gathered his legal pads and returned to the podium, well aware of the suspicion the D.A. had just artfully thrown over his star witness. Bass shifted boots.

“Now, Dr. Bass, have you examined the defendant, Carl Lee Hailey?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Three.”

“When was your first examination?”

“June 10.”

“What was the purpose of this examination?”

“I examined him to determine his current mental condition as well as his condition on May 20, when he allegedly shot Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard.”

“Where did this examination take place?”

“Ford County Jail.”

“Did you conduct this examination alone?”

“Yes. Just Mr. Hailey and myself.”

“How long did the examination last?”

“Three hours.”

“Did you review his medical history?”

“In a roundabout way, you could say. We talked at great length about his past.”

“What did you learn?”

“Nothing remarkable, except for Vietnam.”

“What about Vietnam?”

Bass folded his hands over his slightly overweight stomach and frowned intelligently at the defense attorney. “Well, Mr. Brigance, like many Vietnam vets I’ve worked with, Mr. Hailey had some rather horrible experiences over there.”

War is hell, thought Carl Lee. He listened intently. Now, Vietnam was bad. He’d been shot. He’d lost friends. He’d killed people, many people. He’d killed children, Vietnamese children carrying guns and grenades. It was bad. He wished he’d never seen the place. He dreamed about it, had flashbacks and nightmares occasionally. But he didn’t feel warped or insane because of it. He didn’t feel warped or insane because of Cobb and Willard. In fact, he felt quite satisfied because they were dead. Just like those in Vietnam.

He had explained all this to Bass once at the jail, and Bass had seemed unimpressed by it. And they had talked only twice, and never more than an hour.

Carl Lee eyed the jury and listened suspiciously to the expert, who talked at length of Carl Lee’s dreadful experiences in the war. Bass’s vocabulary jumped several octaves as he explained to the laymen in non-laymen terms the effects of Vietnam on Carl Lee. It sounded good. There had been nightmares over the years, dreams Carl Lee had never worried much about, but to hear Bass explain it, were extremely significant events.

“Did he talk freely of Vietnam?”

“Not really,” replied Bass, then explaining in great detail the tremendous task he confronted in dragging out the war from this complex, burdened, probably unstable mind. Carl Lee didn’t remember it that way. But he dutifully listened with a pained expression,
wondering for the first time in his life if perhaps he could be a little off.

After an hour, the war had been refought and its effects flogged thoroughly. Jake decided to move on.

“Now, Dr. Bass,” Jake said, scratching his head. “Other than Vietnam, what other significant events did you note regarding his mental history?”

“None, except the rape of his daughter.”

“Did you discuss the rape with Carl Lee?”

“At great length, during each of the three examinations.”

“Explain to the jury what the rape did to Carl Lee Hailey.”

Bass stroked his chin and looked perplexed. “Quite frankly, Mr. Brigance, it would take a great deal of time to explain what the rape did to Mr. Hailey.”

Jake thought a moment, and seemed to thoroughly analyze this last statement. “Well, could you summarize it for the jury?”

Bass nodded gravely. “I’ll try.”

Lucien grew weary of listening to Bass, and began watching the jury in hopes of eyeing Clyde Sisco, who had also lost interest but appeared to be admiring the boots. Lucien watched intently from the corner of his eye, waiting for Sisco to gaze around the courtroom.

Finally, as Bass rambled on, Sisco left the testimony and looked at Carl Lee, then Buckley, then one of the reporters on the front row. Then his line of vision locked solidly into a wild-eyed, bearded old man who had once handed him eighty thousand cash for performing his civic duty and returning a just verdict. They focused unmistakably on each other, and both managed a slight grin. How much? was the look in Lucien’s eyes. Sisco returned to the testimony, but
seconds later he was staring at Lucien. How much? Lucien said, his lips actually moving but with no sound.

Sisco looked away and watched Bass, thinking of a fair price. He looked in Lucien’s direction, scratched his beard, then suddenly, while staring at Bass, flashed five fingers across his face and coughed. He coughed again and studied the expert.

Five hundred or five thousand? Lucien asked himself. Knowing Sisco, it was five thousand, maybe fifty thousand. It made no difference; Lucien would pay it. He was worth a ton.

By ten-thirty, Noose had cleaned his glasses a hundred times and consumed a dozen cups of coffee. His bladder pressed forward toward the spillway. “Time for the morning recess. We’ll adjourn until eleven.” He rapped the gavel and disappeared.

“How’m I doing?” Bass asked nervously. He followed Jake and Lucien to the law library on the third floor.

“You’re doing fine,” Jake said. “Just keep those boots outta sight.”

“The boots are critical,” Lucien protested.

“I needa drink,” Bass said desperately.

“Forget it,” Jake said.

“So do I,” Lucien added. “Let’s run over to your office for a quick one.”

“Great idea!” Bass said.

“Forget it,” Jake repeated. “You’re sober and you’re doing great.”

“We got thirty minutes,” Bass said as he and Lucien were leaving the library and heading for the stairs.

“No! Don’t do it, Lucien!” Jake demanded.

“Just one,” Lucien replied, pointing a finger at Jake. “Just one.”

“You’ve never had just one.”

“Come with us, Jake. It’ll settle your nerves.”

“Just one,” Bass yelled as he disappeared down the steps.

________

At eleven, Bass sat himself in the witness chair and looked through glazed eyes at the jury. He smiled, and almost giggled. He was aware of the artists on the front row, so he looked as expert as possible. His nerves were indeed settled.

“Dr. Bass, are you familiar with the criminal responsibility test relative to the M’Naghten Rule?” Jake asked.

“I certainly am!” Bass replied with a sudden air of superiority.

“Would you explain this rule to the jury?”

“Of course. The M’Naghten Rule is the standard for criminal responsibility in Mississippi, as in fifteen other states. It goes back to England, in the year 1843, when a man by the name of Daniel M’Naghten attempted to assassinate the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel. He mistakenly shot and killed the prime minister’s secretary, Edward Drummond. During his trial the evidence plainly showed M’Naghten was suffering from what we would call paranoid schizophrenia. The jury returned a verdict of not guilty, by reason of insanity. From this the M’Naghten Rule was established. It is still followed in England and sixteen states.”

“What does the M’Naghten Rule mean?”

“The M’Naghten Rule is fairly simple. Every man is presumed to be sane, and to establish a defense on the ground of insanity, it must be clearly proven that when the defendant did what he did he was labouring
under such a defect of reason, from a mental disease, that he did not know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or if he did know what he was doing, he did not know it was wrong.”

“Could you simplify that?”

“Yes. If a defendant cannot distinguish right from wrong, he is legally insane.”

“Define insanity, please.”

“It has no significance, medically. It is strictly a legal standard for a person’s mental state or condition.”

Jake breathed deeply and plowed forward. “Now, Doctor, based upon your examination of the defendant, do you have an opinion as to the mental condition of Carl Lee Hailey on May 20 of this year, at the time of the shooting?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“It is my opinion,” Bass said slowly, “that the defendant had a total break with reality when his daughter was raped. When he saw her immediately after the rape he didn’t recognize her, and when someone told him she’d been gang-raped, and beaten, and almost hanged, something just snapped in Carl Lee’s mind. That’s a very elementary way of putting it, but that’s what happened. Something snapped. He broke with reality.

“They had to be killed. He told me once that when he first saw them in court, he could not understand why the deputies were protecting them. He kept waiting for one of the cops to pull a gun and blow their heads off. A few days went by and nobody killed them, so he figured it was up to him. I mean, he felt as though someone in the system would execute the two for raping his little girl.

“What I’m saying, Mr. Brigance, is that, mentally,
he left us. He was in another world. He was suffering from delusions. He broke.”

Bass knew he was sounding good. He was talking to the jury now, not the lawyer.

“The day after the rape he spoke with his daughter in the hospital. She could barely talk, with the broken jaws and all, but she said she saw him in the woods running to save her, and she asked him why he disappeared. Now, can you imagine what that would do to a father? She later told him she begged for her daddy, and the two men laughed at her and told her she didn’t have a daddy.”

Jake let those words sink in. He studied Ellen’s outline and saw only two more questions.

“Now, Dr. Bass, based upon your observations of Carl Lee Hailey, and your diagnosis of his mental condition at the time of the shooting, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot these men?”

“I have.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“That due to his mental condition, he was totally incapable of distinguishing right from wrong.”

“Do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?”

“I do.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“In my opinion, as an expert in the field of psychiatry, Mr. Hailey was totally incapable of understanding and appreciating the nature and quality of what he was doing.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I tender the witness.”

Jake gathered his legal pad and strolled confidently back to his seat. He glanced at Lucien, who was smiling and nodding. He glanced at the jury. They were watching Bass and thinking about his testimony. Wanda Womack, a young woman with a sympathetic glow about her, looked at Jake and smiled ever so slightly. It was the first positive signal he received from the jury since the trial started.

“So far so good,” Carl Lee whispered.

Jake smiled at his client. “You’re a real psycho, big man.”

“Any cross-examination?” Noose asked Buckley.

“Just a few questions,” Buckley said as he grabbed the podium.

Jake could not imagine Buckley arguing psychiatry with an expert, even if it was W.T. Bass.

But Buckley had no plans to argue psychiatry. “Dr. Bass, what is your full name?”

Jake froze. The question had an ominous hint to it. Buckley asked it with a great deal of suspicion.

“William Tyler Bass.”

“What do you go by?”

“W.T. Bass.”

“Have you ever been known as Tyler Bass?”

The expert hesitated. “No,” he said meekly.

An immense feeling of anxiety hit Jake and felt like a hot spear tearing into his stomach. The question could only mean trouble.

“Are you positive?” Buckley asked with raised eyebrows and an enormous amount of distrust in his voice.

Bass shrugged. “Maybe when I was younger.”

“I see. Now, I believe you testified that you studied
medicine at the University of Texas Health Science Center?”

“That’s correct.”

“And where is that?”

“Dallas.”

“And when were you a student there?”

“From 1956 to 1960.”

“And under what name were you registered?”

“William T. Bass.”

Jake was numb with fear. Buckley had something, a dark secret from the past known only to Bass and himself.

“Did you ever use the name Tyler Bass while you were a medical student?”

“No.”

“Are you positive?”

“I certainly am.”

“What is your social security number?”