Keith’s own testimony had been the defense’s best weapon. It had been a big gamble to put him on the stand, but Michael had known by then that the jury would only believe Keith if they heard the story firsthand.
With Keith, there were no previous crimes, no barroom fights or petty shoplifting charges in his youth, nothing that his testimony would open the door to. He had been a good kid who had grown into a fine man who had been broken by war. He testified about trying to get help from Veterans Affairs and the helplessness he felt. He cried when he talked about his wife, although he seemed to be unaware of his tears. When he said, “If I hadn’t gone to Iraq, maybe I’d still be working at the feed store and we’d have a baby by now. Theresa. That was the name Emily picked for our daughter. It haunts me, thinking stuff like that,” several of the jurors had shiny eyes.
Michael had hoped—as all defense attorneys did—for either a lightning-fast verdict or a very slow one.
This time, he got his wish. The jury’s deliberation went on and on. For six days, Michael went into the city, sat at his desk. He read reports and conducted depositions and drafted pleadings, but all the while he was waiting. The worst part of it was that he needed to be at home, and yet here he was.
Since Tami’s funeral, Jolene had fallen into a despair he couldn’t imagine, gone to a dark place he couldn’t follow. The tiny footprints of their reconciliation—that one kiss—had been lost in the rubble of her grief. She drank too much and took sleeping pills and slept the days and nights away. She woke screaming at night but wouldn’t let herself be comforted. When he tried, she pushed him away, looking at him through eyes that were wide with pain. The girls steered clear of her. Lulu cried herself to sleep, wondering what had happened to her mommy.
Michael was literally at the end of his rope. He was trying to give Jolene space and let her grieve, but she was pulling them all under water, drowning them, and he didn’t know what to do.
His intercom buzzed. “Michael? The jury’s in.”
Michael thanked his secretary and grabbed his coat. Within minutes, he was walking up Second Avenue in the spitting cold rain. Damp bits of paper and black leaves skidded along the wet streets, plastering themselves to windows and bus stops and windshields.
Inside the courthouse, he stomped his feet on the stone floor and shook the rain from his hair.
Not far away, a knot of reporters had gathered. More would probably follow. In the past week, both CNN and Fox News had done stories on the case.
“Michael!”
They called out to him, waved him over.
He paused just long enough to say, “No comment yet, guys,” and then walked into the courtroom, where he took a seat at the defendant’s table.
The Kellers had been staying in a local hotel, waiting, and they arrived a few minutes later.
Every seat was taken by the time a guard led Keith into the courtroom. He looked pale and drawn after his months in jail. He was allowed to hug his parents—briefly—and then took his place beside Michael.
“How are you doing?” Michael asked.
Keith shrugged. For once the marine posture was gone; Keith was just a kid now, facing life in prison and worse—life in the prison of what he’d done.
“All rise.” The judge took his seat at the bench.
The jury filled in. Michael tried to see the answer in their eyes, but they wouldn’t look at him—not a good sign.
“Have you reached a verdict in the matter of the State of Washington v. Keller?”
“We have,” said the jury foreman.
“What say you?”
At first there was the legalese of case and crime, and then: “On the count of murder in the first degree, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”
Michael released a breath. He heard a rustle of noise behind him. People were whispering among themselves.
“On the charge of second degree murder, we find the defendant guilty.”
The gallery erupted. Once again the judge tried to take control. Michael heard Mrs. Keller cry out.
“We’ll appeal, Keith,” Michael said quickly.
Keith looked at him, and for once he looked old. “No, we won’t. I deserve this, Michael. And it’s not murder one. You did a good job. They know I didn’t mean to kill her. That matters to me.” He turned away, was enfolded in his parents’ arms.
The associates who’d worked on the case surged around Michael, congratulating him on beating murder one. He knew this case would set precedent here in Washington and carry weight nationwide. It was a statement about the jury’s belief in PTSD. They believed Keith didn’t intentionally kill his wife. For the young lawyers, who hadn’t yet learned the chasm that sometimes existed between justice and the law, this would be cause for much celebrating. For them, it was simply a win, a victory against formidable odds. They wouldn’t think about this case again, except in technical terms. They wouldn’t think of Keith sitting behind bars, suffering through nightmares.