Читаем Betrayal полностью

"Everett says it's all positioning for the jury. They're not going to be disposed to like or believe a drunk. Whereas if I'm suffering from PTSD and blacking out, then I'm a wounded war veteran with a mental illness who's caught in a terrible situation he didn't really create, and the sympathy flows like honey. I know, it's a little cynical. But the point is, if we get the PTSD, then to some extent it explains the drinking. Not that I'm using that as an excuse for myself. The drinking, I mean." He lowered his gaze for a moment. "I still don't know what got into me that night, why I didn't just go home with you."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe what Mr. Washburn's arguing is actually true and not cynical after all? That your physical brain wasn't healed yet so you weren't completely rational-your cognitive powers just weren't all there. And you put PTSD on top of all that, I don't see how a jury could ever get to first-degree murder."

"Well, let's hope." He fell silent, seemed as if he were about to say something, but held it back.

"What?" she asked.

He drew a breath and let it out. "At lunch today, Everett said that I might want to start thinking about if I wanted to take a plea bargain after this hearing phase if the judge doesn't let in the PTSD."

"A plea bargain? Why? He's been saying all along we were going to win."

"Apparently it's not such a sure thing without the PTSD."

"Well, why wouldn't the judge let it in?"

"I don't know. Everett didn't even think it would be an issue until Tollson ordered the hearing this morning. But now it is, and if we lose it…" He lifted his shoulders.

"What would you plead to?"

"Second-degree murder. Everett thinks he could talk them into dropping the gun charge."

"So how long would that be?"

He hesitated for a beat. "Twelve to life."

Tara's head dropped as though she'd been struck. After a minute she looked up again, her eyes brimming with tears. "If you do plead, isn't that admitting you did it?"

"Yeah."

"You can't do that."

"No, I don't think I can."

"You don't remember anything about those four days?"

"Tara, we've been over that a thousand times."

"Well, maybe the thousand and first…"

He shook his head. "It's not going to happen. I remember going to Ron's after I left you. I remember hitting him and him hitting me back, both of us getting into it. Then nothing until I woke up in jail. I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry, but there's nothing there. It's like I disappeared into those damn bottles."

Tara bit down on her lip. "You can't plead that you did it, Evan. We can't let ourselves accept we're going to get beaten here."

"That's what I was thinking too. But if we do-get beaten, I mean-then I'm going to be in prison for a lot longer than twelve years."

"I'd wait, Evan. I really would."

"I could never ask you to."

She was rubbing her hand back and forth over her forehead. "God God God."

"I don't think He's listening," Evan said.

***

OVER THE NEXT TWO and a half very tedious days of technical testimony, Everett Washburn called two psychologists who had administered batteries of tests to Evan over the previous several months. Personality tests, neuropsych tests, intelligence tests, perception tests, concentration tests, memory tests. Both agreed with Dr. Overton that Evan clearly suffered from symptoms that were consistent with PTSD. Washburn called several members of the Redwood City Police Department who had worked with Evan and who had specific recollections of times when he'd exhibited PTSD symptoms in their presence-particularly inappropriate laughter and speech aphasia-an overlong pause in the stream of his conversation. Lieutenant Lochland described his irrational anger and some of the complaints he'd fielded about Evan related to the defendant's work in the DARE program.

Now it was Friday, the lunch recess was over, as was the PTSD hearing, and Judge Tollson had both attorneys back in his chambers. In contrast to his usual out-of-courtroom affability-perhaps worn down by the gravity of the issues, perhaps chastened by the enormity of the decision he had to make-today the judge sat all the way back in his chair, his arms crossed over the robe at his chest. Still and expressionless, he waited until both Washburn and Mills had taken their seats and the court reporter set up her machine.

Finally, he looked over, got a nod from her, and cleared his throat. "Mr. Washburn," he said, "for the record, have you called all your witnesses related to the PTSD evidence that you're seeking to place before the jury?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Ms. Miille, do the People have any evidence they wish to offer on this issue?"

"No, Your Honor."

"All right. And before I make my ruling on the People's four oh two motion, do you have any comments that you'd like to make?"

"Just what I said at the beginning, Your Honor. That my witnesses proved beyond a doubt that Mr. Scholler suffers from PTSD and this in turn supports his claim that he can't remember anything about this period."