Home Front(110)

For the next hour, Michael went through the facts of the case from the defense’s perspective, outlining PTSD and the failure to help him and the escalating anger and fear Keith had felt. “Keith’s friends and family will testify that he came home from the war changed, mentally broken. He tried to get help from the VA but he couldn’t, as so many other returning soldiers have discovered. He suffered terribly—nightmares, insomnia, flashbacks. He drank too much to mask these symptoms, and unfortunately alcohol only exacerbated the condition. It’s called post-traumatic stress and it is a recognized psychiatric disorder. It was around long before we had such a serious-sounding clinical name for it. In the Civil War, it was called a ‘soldier’s heart,’ which I think is the most accurate of the descriptions; in World War One, it was ‘shell shock,’ and during World War Two, ‘battle fatigue.’ In other words, war changes every soldier, but it has always profoundly damaged some of them.

“Like so many other soldiers before him, Keith came home jumpy, prone to violence, hyperalert, and angry. The facts will show that on the terrible day when he took his wife to the Pike Place Market, events occurred which reminded him of the war. Too much. In a single, tragic second, he forgot where he was, who he was, and he reacted on pure adrenaline and warrior training. In this fuguelike state, he shot his wife. Why? We don’t know because Keith doesn’t know, but expert witnesses will help us understand.”

Michael finished with: “Keith Keller didn’t have the ability in that moment to decide to kill his wife. In his mind, he was in Iraq, doing what he was trained to do. He never intended to kill Emily. Keith doesn’t need to go to prison, he needs help. This man who went to war to defend us needs our help now. How can we turn our back on him? What happened in his house on that terrible, terrible day was a tragedy, certainly, but it wasn’t murder. Thank you.”

Jolene finally released a breath. She had been mesmerized by her husband, transported, and she could tell that the jury felt the same way. It was obvious in the way they watched him, didn’t look away.

When he sat back down, Jolene felt the spell break, and she leaned back against the hard wooden seat. His words—his understanding—surprised and moved her. Deeply. She had spent all of her adult life in the service, and yet never had she been able to share that world with her husband. It had been the start of her loneliness, that separation, the start of their marriage’s fall.

The prosecution called its first witness, and for the next hour, Jolene forgot about herself and Michael and listened to the testimony on the stand.

At noon, the judge released them, and Jolene stood, remembering a second too late that she was on her prosthesis. The marine beside her steadied her.

Their gazes caught. He looked down.

“Al Anbar,” she said.

He nodded and reached for her crutches, handing them to her.

“Thanks,” she said. Positioning her crutches, she stood in the row, letting people sidle past her. She needed something to steady her in this crowd.

The courtroom was practically empty when Michael touched her arm. She looked up at him. In that instant, all the love and passion she’d once felt for him came rushing back; she could no more hold it back than she could stem the tide. “When did you learn all that?”

“My wife went off to war,” he said. “And while she was gone, I remembered her. I’m sorry I let you go on … those words. There are so many things I should have said. I understand why you didn’t answer my letter, but I want another chance.”

“Your letter? What—”

“Can you give me another chance, Jo?”

She swallowed hard. She couldn’t have found her voice even if she had known what to say.

An associate came up to Michael, whispered something in his ear.

Michael nodded. To Jolene, he said, “Keith would like to talk to you.”

“To me? Why?”

“I’ve mentioned you to him. I guess he has something he’d like to say.” He led her through the courthouse to a room in the back, where Keith sat in front of a scarred wooden desk, his ankles and wrists shackled. At her entrance, he stood up; the chains rattled.

He was so damned young, and the pain in his eyes drew Jolene forward. She set her crutches against the wall and walked the last ten feet to the desk, where she sat down across from him. When she took the weight off her prosthesis, she felt instant relief.

“Chief,” he said.

“Call me Jolene.” She reached across the desk to shake his hand. He hesitated, then brought his manacled hand forward, shook hers.

“Ramadi,” he said. “Mostly.”

That was all he had to say. She knew what it had been like for him, how he’d served his country. He’d patrolled streets lined with IEDs, day after day, watching people—friends—blow up. He’d been on bag duty. How many hero missions had she flown for his buddies?

“Is there something I can do to help you?” she asked gently, leaning forward.

“Help yourself, Chief. That’s what I wanted to tell you. We both know what’s in our heads, how hard it is to think sometimes, how bad the nights can be. I should have told Emily everything and held on to her. Instead, I pretended I was okay. I could handle it. I’m a marine. And here I am … and there she is.” He leaned forward. “You have kids, right?”