Home Front(56)

“Phew,” Betsy said.

“Can we go now?” Lulu whined.

Michael picked up his youngest, and off they went, headed once again for the gift-wrap aisle. By the time they’d picked out the paper and the card and bought Scotch tape and ribbon, Lulu was out of control, but her wailing and pointing was easier to take than Betsy’s silence.

Michael’s heart went out to her. He knew this was one of those moments that would be filed away and remembered as a day her mother had been disappointingly gone and her father had let her down.

He wanted to give her something that would take the sting out of this memory when she looked back on it. He was thinking that as they passed the jewelry counter. “Hey, Betsy,” he said, “do you want to get your ears pierced? They’re having a special today.”

Betsy gasped and then grinned, showing off the red, white, and blue rubber bands on her braces. “Mom says I have to be thirteen.”

“You’re close enough. And you’re … a woman now, I guess,” he mumbled, uncomfortable saying it. “And we don’t have to tell your mom.”

Betsy threw her arms around Michael and hugged him tightly. “Thanks, Dad.”

“What? Me TOO!” Lulu said, her voice rising.

Michael winced. Really, his youngest daughter had a screech worthy of some prehistoric bird caught in a trap. He looked around, sure people were staring. Please, Daddy, pleasepleaseplease …



Dear Mom:



Dad says I have to write you a letter so I am. I started my period. In Walmart. With Dad.



He bought me pads that were like twin mattresses. Sierra’s mom says that’s what happens when you send a man to do a woman’s job Ugh.



Thanks for not being there when I needed you.





AUGUST




Man, it’s hot. I am getting so used to my own sweat and stink that I don’t even smell it anymore. I’m starting to dream about ice. When I sleep, that is.



The commander called a meeting last night. He told us what we already knew—the missions are getting more dangerous. We’re getting shot at all the time and we land under fire. We’re going to be doing a lot more air assaults, apparently. Yay.



And Betsy started her period without me. Honestly, I can’t even write about that, it makes me feel so bad. I’m missing her life. Missing it.



*



In the middle of August, Dr. Cornflower delivered his psychiatric evaluation on Keith. His diagnosis: extreme post-traumatic stress disorder. Further, the doctor gave the opinion that Keller was competent to stand trial, that he fully understood the nature of the proceedings.

That meant the trial was a go. A court date had been set.

Michael looked out at the collection of eager, ambitious young faces seated around him. They were at a conference table. Each of the three associates chosen for the defense team had graduated at the top of his or her class and worked at least sixty hours a week. To be a great criminal defense attorney, you had to be hungry, and they were.

“So we have our start. PTSD, as you know, is a diminished-capacity defense, which means we will use it to negate intent. We’ll prove that Keith couldn’t form the specific intention to kill his wife; without intent, it’s not murder one. I don’t have to tell you all that anything less would be a victory in this case. However, juries don’t like diminished capacity much more than they like insanity, so we’ll need experts, eyewitnesses, and statistics.” He assigned tasks—some would research sentencing, some jury instructions, some precedents in Washington State and elsewhere. Others would draft the crucial pretrial motions. “I want to find any case anywhere where PTSD—especially with regard to Iraq—was successful and any case in which it was argued. I will want a draft of our notice to raise the defense by Monday. Hilary, you get started on that. You have all the reports and expert information you need. Make sure you meet all the evidentiary rules. Are there any questions?”

Silence.

“Good.”

Michael stood, and the team did the same. As they walked out of the conference room, he repacked his briefcase and headed back to his office. For the next few hours, he worked at his computer, pulling up every case with a PTSD defense that he could find.

On the ferry ride home, he was still at it. He read Cornflower’s report again, specifically focusing on Keith’s telling of his own story.



In Ramadi, we used to bet on whose tent would be hit by mortar next … I was walking back from taking a piss when a mortar landed in our Howitzer … we couldn’t do shit … they burned up alive in there, screaming … And there was bagging—picking up body parts … legs, arms … we put ’em in bags and carried ’em back. It’s weird to grab your buddy’s arm …



Michael put down the report. What was happening to Jolene over there? What was she seeing? Once the question arose, he couldn’t ignore it. He thought about his wife, and for the first time he imagined the worst …

It was still light outside—lavender and beautiful—when he parked in front of the Green Thumb.

His mother met him at the door, looking worried.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

She brushed his apology aside with an impatient wave. “Betsy is upset. That girlfriend of hers—Sierra—called her an hour ago and told her that a female helicopter pilot was shot down today. I tried to calm her, but…”