Send Down the Rain(68)

My attorney contended that I had a moral obligation to pursue. That my pursuit was a defense of those I loved no matter where it took place. Complicating matters was the fact that I’d just come off the airwaves where much of the radio-listening public had heard me talk about my military career. About how I was good at killing. The prosecution replayed carefully chosen snippets of Suzy’s program to establish my “frame of mind,” which gave rise to such a brutal outcome.

Contrary to my attorney’s wishes and multiple objections, everything I’d said and done in the hour prior to the “encounter”—which included much of the admitted history of my life—was used against me to establish my mindset in the moments leading up to “the killing.” The prosecuting attorney used pictures of the mangled bodies of Dummy #1 and Dummy #2 lying on the beach as evidence. I had not been merciful, and the pictures showed what he described as “excessive force.” Dummy #3, who’d never walk again, sat in the witness chair and talked about my brutality. About the loss of his dearly departed friends. And how when he saw the error of his ways and tried to make his escape and climb into the car, I’d prevented him, breaking several bones.

Though I did not like him and wanted to rip his head off his shoulders, the prosecuting attorney did an excellent job of showing how three hungry, homeless, penniless, hardworking, and possibly misguided and not very intelligent men from Mexico, trying to put food on the table for their families, had attempted, and he emphasized “attempted” every chance he got, to steal some food from a large kitchen at a restaurant on the island of Cape San Blas. Not wise in their attempt, they got caught, and in their fear they made one bad decision to hold a young girl at knifepoint while they backed into their car and got away. Javier and Rosco had simply been casualties of their retreat. Their singular crime had been threatening Gabby, and other than a scratch on her neck, they’d intentionally harmed no one.

That was it. No mention was ever made of Juan Pedro or his organization or the fact that they were hired killers. Through much backroom wrangling and judge’s quarters conversation between the attorneys, Catalina’s history with Juan Pedro was not allowed to be admitted as evidence. Neither was the fact that they’d stolen the Dodge in South Texas two days prior.

Midway through the trial, my attorney read the writing on the wall and, in an attempt to help me, encouraged me to change my plea to guilty. I told him to put me on the stand. That I would speak in my defense.

He advised against that.

The state’s attorney was salivating at the mouth when I took the stand. Given the cameras and the media frenzy, this was his ticket to the big time and he knew it. During his questioning, he asked, “Did you enjoy killing these men?”

“No, sir.”

“You don’t deny killing them?”

“Never have.”

“Did you enjoy chasing them down after they had tried to leave peacefully?”

For a brief second I thought about jumping out of the witness stand and ripping his esophagus out of his throat, but then I looked at Allie and thought better of it. “I was defending myself and those I love.”

“Be truthful, Mr. Brooks. You were angry and in a rage that they killed your dog.”

He had a point there.

“That dog’s name is Rosco, and he saved my life.”

He liked the fact that he’d ruffled my feathers. “So you thought you’d make them pay.”

“Sir, my intention was to stop them from threatening Catalina and Gabby. If they didn’t want to die, they should’ve stayed in the car on the beach.”

“And drowned?”

“It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“Do their lives not matter?”

“No, they don’t.” I looked at him, then at the jury, then I pointed at Catalina and Gabby. “Their lives matter.”


THE TRIAL LASTED A week. When my attorney asked me if I needed anything, I said, “Yes, a stack of index cards.”

The by-the-book judge never showed his hand. Judge Werther was judicially blind and just, never letting either side get away with much, and I must say I could not bring myself to dislike him. Under different circumstances I think we’d have gotten along. He was just a guy like me. Following orders. Given the national nature of the case, he allowed the media in the courtroom. Every channel had a live camera feed. The streets outside were jammed with trucks and telescoping antennas.

When the jury recessed, my attorney said, “You need to prepare yourself for the worst.”

I poked him in the chest. “You need to make sure they understand that they killed my dog.”

I could read the writing on the wall. They returned several hours later having found me guilty of manslaughter. Allie and Catalina were inconsolable. Catalina stood and screamed at the judge and jury, forcing the bailiff to remove her. I was rather proud of her gumption. Sentencing was scheduled for a month later. Given my meritorious service record, the judge agreed to allow my attorney to bring character witnesses to the stand to speak on my behalf and petition the court for leniency. The possibilities for the length of my sentence ranged from several years to two consecutive life sentences.

They would not give me antacids in prison. As a result, my perceived discomfort grew steadily and the pain became constant. It would sometimes take my breath away. I said nothing, because if they gave me life, I didn’t want to have a heart that worked.