The Wrong Man by David Ellis Read Free Book Online Page B

about Zo.”
    Donnie was a big man with deep-set eyes and a midsection that looked like he was hiding an inner tube under his shirt. “Anything else?” he asked.
    Ramini thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Ask him what he wants to do about Jason Kolarich, too.”

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