Primal Fear (33 page)

“It’s power,” Roy hissed softly in his ear. “Power isn’t about money. Power is control. I got control. At this moment, your life is in my hands. Think about it. Death is just a twist away.”

Then suddenly, Roy let go, swinging his hands out to his sides, and Vail dropped in a sitting position on the cot. He gasped for breath and rubbed his throat. Then he stood up and started for the door.

“Where the fuck you going?” Roy demanded.

Vail whirled on him. “First you hurt Molly,” he said, his voice still a half whisper. “Now you hurt me. Christ, we’re
trying to help you, you stupid bastard. You want to talk or do you want to stay stupid?”

Roy started rubbing his hands rapidly together. He backed up a few steps, then paced back and forth a few times, still rubbing his hands.

“Okay, I’m scared,” he snarled through bared teeth. “I’m fuckin’ scared to death, that what you want to hear?”

“That’s okay, you got a right to be. It’s understandable. But relax,” said Vail. “Just listen closely to me. And when we’re through, I have to talk to Aaron …”

A bright morning sun was dissipating the fog as Molly rushed up the walk toward max wing. She was angry because Martin had let her sleep. Would Vail know how to deal with Aaron? The wrong words, the wrong actions, could send Aaron back into never-never land.

She refused Linc’s offer of coffee, impatient to get into the therapy room. The young man fumbled with the keys, finally opened the main door, and then he unlocked the door to the therapy cell. She entered cautiously and with apprehension. Vail, who was sitting in the chair facing the patient, smiled as she came in.

“Hi,” he said. “Sleep well?”

The young man turned to face her and smiled. “Hi, Miss Molly,” he said. “Sure is good t’ see yuh.”

She smiled with relief. “It’s good to see you too, Aaron,” she said.

THIRTY-ONE

As was always the case with any notorious trial, there was a carnival atmosphere about the courthouse the day the trial started. But Vail had never seen quite the spectacle that greeted the car as they turned into Courthouse Square. It was a bright, unseasonably warm day and the crowds had gathered early to get seats in Courtroom Eight on the second floor of the King’s County Superior Court. Half a dozen TV remote trucks were angled haphazardly against the curb in front of the historic old building.
The sidewalk and wide marble stairs were choked with radio reporters, TV personalities, photographers and writers.

“This is the big time, Aaron,” Vail said as the car pulled slowly through the throng of media jackals. “The hearing was a barren wasteland compared to what you’re about to witness.”

Stampler, who wore a tweed sport jacket and gray flannels, an outfit Naomi had picked out, waved out the window as the press converged on the car and surrounded it.

“You only say two things,” Vail said.

“Yes suh. I am happy th’ trial is finally going to start so I can prove my innocence. And I feel good.”

“Terrific. Let’s do it.”

They jumped out of the car and battled their way up the steps with microphones and cameras in their faces and reporters’ questions assaulting them. Vail led the way. Behind him, he could hear Aaron, repeating over and over:

“I feel rail good.”

“I’m happy the trial is finally startin’.”

In the lobby, Bobby, whose newsstand had been in the corner of the towering foyer since before any of the sitting judges were elected, had doubled his regular order of apples and oranges, as well as cigarettes, chewing gum, candy bars and cheese-cracker sandwiches. Bobby was praying for a long trial.

Room eight at the courthouse was the hottest ticket in town. Hotter than fifth-row center at
A Chorus Line
or a front-row seat at the “Donahue” show. The room held two hundred and it was full an hour before showtime, with at least another fifty people sitting in the hall waiting for a vacancy. The crowd was eclectic: little old ladies with their knitting; housewives brown-bagging it; stock market types with their briefcases on their laps, grabbing an hour or two of the circus before they reported to their glass caverns; at least two dowager types who arrived in limos; and the usual courtroom hangers-on who normally wander from one room to the next looking for the action.

The bailiff at the door, like the maître d’ at an exclusive restaurant, kept a running list. When someone left, someone else got in.

Margaret Booth, the dean of the courthouse stenos, who had a voice like Casey Stengel and was affectionately known among pressroom habitué’s as Lady Macbeth, peered out of her office and growled, “It’s Armageddon. The last time we had crowds
like this was when Jerry Geisler defended the mayor on a morals charge. And that was in ’fifty-two.”

The spectators in the courtroom were loud and aggressive, like Romans waiting for the Christians to be thrown to the lions. Molly, who was in the first row with Tom and the Judge, decided about two thirds of them were housewives taking the day off. Seated in the back of the room, there were four priests and two nuns. The press box, already almost full although many of the reporters were still outside following Stampler into the courtroom, consumed a third of the seating capacity, prompting continuous verbal abuse from the spectators. Three artists were already at work sketching the crowd in the elegant mahogany room, while Jack Connerman was in the front row, his hand-size tape recorder lying on the railing, his notebook on his knee. He jotted down a note to himself: “Comment on the times and the legal carnival—when killers become celebrities”; and another: “Is it possible to find twelve people in this city who do not have an opinion already?”

At five minutes to nine, Stampler and Vail entered the courtroom through a side door. The room almost fell silent, but the rumble of conversation started up again almost immediately. They joined Naomi at the defendant’s table and a moment later Venable and Charlie Shackleford entered the room. She nodded rather curtly to Vail, who smiled and blew her an air kiss.

Molly had hardly seen Vail since that night in Daisyland, although he had sent her flowers the night before she and Aaron came back to the city. She had not expected anything more. She knew that for three days before a trial Vail sequestered himself behind the doors of his office, roaming the room, making arguments, throwing them out, honing his defense up to the last minute. And she would be heading back to Justine as soon as the trial was over. He had stoked both her libido and her ego in the best possible way and she expected nothing more than that.

At exactly nine o’clock Shoat, master of the domain, entered with his black robes swirling about him.

“All rise,” the bailiff said.

And let the games begin,
Vail said to himself.

“You may be seated,” Shoat said as he settled behind the bench. “Before we begin I would like to make it clear that this court will not tolerate outbursts of any kind from the spectators. No applauding, nothing like that. Please conduct yourselves accordingly. Bailiff?”

“Case Number 80-4597,
The State of Illinois
versus
Aaron Stampler
on the charge of murder in the first degree.”

“Motions?” Shoat asked, his eyebrows directing the question to Vail and Venable.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Vail said. “Defendant wishes to change his plea at this time.”

Venable was surprised.
A change in strategy at the last minute,
she said to herself. Oh well, it would not affect her presentation. Her case was on ice. All Vail had going for him was grandstanding.

“Mr. Vail, to the charge of murder in the first degree, you have previously entered a plea of not guilty. Do you now wish to change that plea?”

“Yes sir.”

“And how does the defendant now plead?”

“Guilty but insane.”

Venable’s eyes narrowed.
My God, he’s going to go with that fugue defense,
she thought.
He must not have anything.

“Mr. Vail, I’m sure you’re aware that three professional psychiatrists have concluded that your client is sane.”

“I’m aware of that, Your Honor. We believe they screwed up.”

Shoat showed visible pain at Vail’s analysis of the diagnosis.

“I would also respectfully point out to the court that their decision and the indictment does not mean my client is either sane
or
guilty,” he added.

“Well, of course,” said Shoat with annoyance. “I also assume you understand, Counselor, that you must prove the defendant was insane at the time of Bishop Rushman’s murder. The state psychiatric board has concluded that Mr. Stampler is sane. It is not up to the prosecutor to prove he was sane, it is your responsibility to prove he wasn’t at the time the act was committed.”

“I understand that, Your Honor. But we are not inclined to accept the diagnosis of the three state experts. It will be our contention that doctors Bascott, Ciaffo, and Solomon misdiagnosed the defendant.”

“You intend to challenge the testimony of all
three
expert witnesses?”

“If necessary,” Vail answered. “Three psychiatrists examined the defendant, but according to the witness list, the prosecutor
has produced only one of them to substantiate this diagnosis,” said Vail.

Venable fired back, “Your Honor, a single diagnostic report was prepared and submitted
and
signed by all three of these doctors. Dr. Bascott was head of that team. He is fully capable of testifying in support of it.”

“Then I can assume that whatever Dr. Bascott says is substantiated without exception by all three doctors, is that correct?” Vail asked.

She hesitated a moment and tossed a quick glance back at Bascott, who was seated behind her. He squirmed very slightly in his seat.

“Well, Madam Prosecutor?” Shoat asked.

“Dr. Bascott?” Venable asked, looking at the psychiatrist.

Bascott stared at her for several moments. It was obvious to Vail that she had not prepared Bascott for the possibility of a challenge to all three of the state’s experts. Now he had to assume responsibility for the report and for what the other two doctors concluded.
Was there a disagreement?
Vail wondered. But Bascott nodded.

“Yes,” he said finally. “We examined him during the same period of time. We all arrived at the same conclusions.”

“Satisfied, Counselor?” Shoat asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Vail said. “Thank you.”

Great,
thought Vail,
all I have to do is nail Bascott and I shoot down all three of them.

The surprises began early. The jury selection, which most of the old-timers had concluded could take days, or even weeks, was over in one day. Vail, normally manic when it came to selecting jurors, did not probe the prospects. He asked one or two questions and waved assent. Both Venable and Shoat were surprised at his almost cavalier attitude toward the selection.

Seven women, five men. All Christians, two of them Catholic. Four black, eight white. A mix of upscale businessmen, homemakers and bureaucrats.

By day two they were ready to do battle.

Venable’s opening statement was relentless. She painted Stampler as a jealous teenager, involved in a sexual affair with a younger girl, who struck back at Rushman after he kicked them out of Savior House.

“You will see the pictures and they will shock you. You will
see the overwhelming physical evidence. You will hear expert witnesses testify that Aaron Stampler—and only Aaron Stampler—could have committed this vicious and senselessly brutal murder of a revered community leader. Aaron Stampler is guilty of coldly, premeditatedly killing Archbishop Richard Rushman. In the end, I am sure you will agree with the state that anything less than the death penalty would be as great a miscarriage of justice as the murder itself.”

Not bad,
thought Vail.
A little underplayed but that was smart. Let the shockers come later.

“Mr. Vail?” Shoat said.

Vail walked to the jury box and unbuttoned his jacket. He walked slowly down the length of the box, staring each juror in the eye.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Martin Vail. I have been charged by the court to represent the defendant, Aaron Stampler. Now, we are here to determine whether the defendant who sits before you is guilty of the loathsome and premeditated murder of one of this city’s most admired and respected citizens, Archbishop Richard Rushman.

“In criminal law mere are two types of crimes. The worst is known as
malum in se,
which means wrong by the very nature of the crime. Murder, rape, grievous bodily harm, crippling injuries—purposeful, planned, premeditated crimes against the person’s body, if you will. The murder of Bishop Rushman is obviously a case of
malum in se.
The accused does not deny that.

“You will see photographs of this crime that will sicken you.

“And you will be asked to render judgment on what is known as
mens rea,
which means did the accused intend to cause bodily harm—in other words, did Aaron Stampler intentionally commit the murder of Bishop Rushman?

“Aaron Stampler does deny that he is guilty of
mens rea
in this murder case.

“Finally, you also will be faced with extenuating circumstances because there are extenuating circumstances in this case, as there are in almost all crimes.

“Let me offer an example. A man is accused of hitting another man with his car and killing him—a man whom he hates and has threatened on a previous occasion. The prosecution accuses the defendant of purposely hitting the victim. But during the trial you learn that the accused was driving in a heavy rainstorm.
That he was blinded by headlights reflecting off this wet windshield. That when he slowed down, his car skidded. And the victim, who was walking beside the road, was struck and killed during this series of events.

“
Mens rea.
Did the accused intend to run the victim down and kill him? Or was it an unavoidable, and tragic, accident? Is there a reasonable doubt—were the extenuating circumstances enough to cast doubt on this event?

“The extenuating circumstances in the case of
The State
versus
Aaron Stampler
are of an unusual nature because they involve mental disorders. And so you will be made privy to a great deal of psychological information during the course of this trial. We ask only that you listen carefully so that you can make a fair judgment on
mens rea,
for in order to make that judgment you will be asked to judge his conduct. Did Aaron Stampler suffer a defect of reason? Did he act on an irresistible impulse? Was he capable of understanding the charges brought against him and assisting in his own defense?

“These and many more questions will hinge on the state of Aaron Stampler’s mental health at the time the crime was committed. And as you make these judgments, I would ask also that you keep one important fact in the back of your mind at all times: If Aaron Stampler was in full command of his facilities at the time of this crime, why did he do it? What was his motivation for committing such a desperate and horrifying act? And if he did, was he mentally responsible at the time? In the final analysis, that may be the most important question of all.

“As so, ladies and gentlemen, your responsibility will be to rule on the believability of the evidence the prosecutor and I present to you. Whom do you believe? What do you believe? And most important of all, do you accept the evidence as truth ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’?

“We claim that Aaron Stampler is guilty of this crime but is insane. Ms. Venable, the prosecutor, must prove that he planned and committed the crime ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’ That is her responsibility. I must prove to you that Aaron Stampler was insane or so mentally impaired that he could not resist the impulse to kill the bishop. That will be my responsibility.

“In the end, when you have heard all the evidence, I sincerely believe that you will find on behalf of my client, Aaron Stampler.”