Home Front(46)

“Leave us,” Michael said to the guard. “And uncuff him.”

“Sir—”

“Uncuff him,” Michael repeated. “I understand the risks.”

The guard frowned but did as he was asked, then left the room to stand guard just outside the door.

Keith sat down at the table across from Michael, rigidly upright. In the pale overhead lighting, he looked surprisingly young and fresh-faced. His crew cut had grown out, stood up now like a jagged blond crown above his face. “My father says I have to talk to you.”

“I’m trying to keep you out of prison. You’re not making my job easy, by the way.”

“Did you ever think I don’t deserve to be saved?”

“No,” Michael said evenly. “I didn’t. And neither has your father. Or your mother, who I hear cries herself to sleep at night.”

“Low blow.”

Michael opened his pad and uncapped a pen. “You know why I’m here, Keith. You promised your dad you’d tell me what happened that day. And I hear you military types are big on keeping promises.”

“I killed the love of my life,” Keith said, and finally there was emotion in his eyes. “I must have.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘you must have’ ? ”

“I’m crazy,” Keith said quietly. “I must be. I can’t remember shooting my own wife. Does that sound sane to you?”

Michael studied his client. Honestly, this was the first good news he’d gotten on this case. He hated that he was analytical enough to hear pain and think good, but that was his job, sorting through heartache for reason. Although the law was a codified set of rules, justice was far from set in stone. In court, there was always room for ambiguity, for emotion, for sympathy. “Tell me what happened, Keith. Minute by minute.”

Keith stared dully at the wall. Michael saw that blank look come back into the young man’s eyes.

“She wanted to go to Pike Place. I knew it was a bad idea, but I didn’t know why, I couldn’t say why. And you know, I love … loved Emily and we did what she wanted, especially after I got back from Iraq.”

“Why then specifically?”

“I was hard to live with. I was constantly having to make shit up to her. Anyway, we went to the market.” He paused so long Michael was about to prompt an answer when Keith started talking again. “It was sunny that day. The market was crowded. Piano players, jugglers, magicians, fish throwers, bums. You couldn’t walk a foot without someone bumping into you or running out in front of you or trying to sell you something.”

He looked down at his shaking hands. “I started to get edgy, tight. So I had a straight shot of tequila at the Athenian, but it wasn’t enough to calm me down. I got so jumpy. I get jumpy a lot lately. That day, every movement startled me, got my heart pumping—and there were a lot of movements. I kept thinking people were after me. So, while Emily was picking out flowers, I zipped back into the Athenian, and had a few more shots.”

“How many?”

“A lot.” Keith sighed. “I know drinking doesn’t help. It’s something Emily and I had been fighting about. She thought I drank too much and got mean. And I could feel it that day, me getting mean.”

“Did you drink much before Iraq?”

He shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Afterward?”

“Lots. Sometimes it made the … yelling in my head quiet down. But it didn’t help that day.”

“It made it worse.”

Keith nodded. “We were leaving the market—I was pissed and pretty drunk by this time—and this homeless guy jumped out at me. Emily said he just walked up, but it didn’t seem like that to me. Or, he came up fast, and he was a skuzzy-looking guy with all this long black hair and a Jesus beard and I hit him so hard he went down. I saw blood spray up from his nose. Emily started screaming that she didn’t know me anymore and there was this … shaking that made it impossible for me to stand still. The next thing I remember is seeing Emily lying on the floor in our living room.” In his lap, his hands clenched and unclenched. “It was like I woke up in someone else’s nightmare. There was blood everywhere, on me, on the wall, on Em. Half of her head was just … gone. I bent down and tried to give her mouth to mouth and I did compressions. The whole time I was screaming and crying. It wasn’t until I saw the gun—my gun—that I knew what I’d done.”

“And that’s all you remember.”

“That’s it.”

“Okay. I’m going to need you to talk to a psychiatrist. Will you do that for me, Keith?”

“Sure. It won’t make a difference, though. I don’t need a doc to tell me I’m crazy.”

Michael looked at his client, thinking, This kid needs my help. He knew how heavily the deck was stacked against them, and for the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful. This could be the kind of case that mattered. He wished his dad were here to hear about it. “I’ll set up the appointment.”



Dear Mom:



You are NOT going to believe this. Dad bought me a cell phone. My very own one. Yesterday I was in the lunch room and I put it down on the cafeteria table and you should have seen Sierra’s face. She couldn’t STAND it. Only the high schoolers have cell phones. I told Sierra she could make a call if she wanted and she did and then she walked to class with me. You said one smile could make a difference—maybe you’re right. Maybe she’ll want to be my friend again. I really miss her. Well, I have to go now, Dad’s yelling for me. Like always. He is totally stressed. Yesterday he forgot to put the garbage out for the truck. Everyone misses you. Xo Betsy