Grif Stockley - Probable Cause

“But I was in love,” he says, looking directly at the white faces on the jury, “and the child of the woman I loved was in a horrible situation. Olivia was desperate, as are all parents who see their children tearing themselves to bits, and I got caught up in her desperation….” As he speaks, I realize that Andy, in the process of accepting his own guilt, has been finally freed to do what he has always secretly wanted: he is preaching a sermon about an ideal world in which people risk themselves, no matter what the costs. Yet, instead of coming across as an ideologue, he seems a romantic figure from another century. He is no longer intellectualizing about prejudice; his text is the power of love, and in his hands, it is not, despite the results, destructive but liberating.

“Every previous psychologist had approached Pam as a problem to be minimized. You could see that in their approach: they drugged her; they kept her in restraints.

After I began to love her mother, I could no longer do that….”

I would love to be inside the brains of the jurors right about now. From the podium I sneak a look, but their faces are strangely blank, as if they have no idea what to make of this man who yesterday was ready to fire his lawyer and represent himself. In a sense he has done exactly that: his lawyer has no control over him today, and this one fact keeps his testimony from seeming like pure melodrama. As he testifies, I find myself gently injecting myself from time to time to play to him: “Do you now think,” I ask, more as if we were discussing this five years from now over a drink in a bar than like a lawyer fighting to keep his client alive, “Olivia was manipulating you from the very beginning into using a dangerous procedure in the hope that it would end her child’s suffering one way or another?”

Jill pops up out of her seat before Andy can answer. “Objection, Your Honor, it’s not relevant what he thinks Mrs. Le Master thought.”

“It goes to his intent,” I argue, “and that’s what a murder charge is all about. Judge.”

“Overruled,” Judge Tamower says irritably as if Jill had interrupted her favorite soap opera. She is interested, and I wish desperately that this case were not being tried in front of a jury.

“Of course not,” Andy says.

“Every person in Olivia’s situation wishes at some point her child’s suffering would end through death, because that seems the only alternative.

Olivia expressed that wish as any human would. Initially, worried that she thought I was using my willingness to shock Pam to get close to her.”p›

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Harriet Tamower duck her head slightly as if she is nodding in agreement. Is Andy trying to outsmart all of us? As he tells the jury his version of the story, I stay out of his way as much as possible. As I wind down, I debate whether to risk confronting him with Olivia’s denial or to let it go. I decide I have no choice, knowing a denial from Andy will put me in a position no lawyer ever wants to be in-knowing without a doubt his client is lying under oath. Though it is seldom done, a lawyer is supposed to request a moment to confer with his client and then ultimately inform the court if his client persists in his prevarication. If it comes to this, the only way I’ll ever get another client is in hell.

I take a deep breath and ask as if I don’t have a care in the world, “You heard Olivia testify yesterday that she had not had sexual relations with you since you were originally charged is that correct?”

For the first time Andy seems flustered, and I prepare for the worst. I have halfway convinced myself his answer won’t be crucial enough for me to confront him if he lies, when he says, his voice sorrowful, “We continued to be physically intimate until last week.”

I see no need for the details.

“Even now, you still love her,” I ask, dropping my voice as much as I dare, “don’t you’ Andy

With great dignity, my client says, “Yes, sir, I do.”

When I sit down, the jury, especially the two blacks, are clearly wondering whether they are looking at the first entirely honest man they have ever seen or a consummate con artist.

Jill makes the mistake of trying to tear into him, but it is like ripping through a souffle: there’s no resistance, no angry denials, only the faintly bemused air of an African-American male who seems at peace with himself. Gradually, Jill realizes her mistake, and her questions, instead of sounding shrill, become heavy with sarcasm.

“You’re telling this jury you were just so head over heels in love,” she asks mockingly “that you forgot everything you learned about being a psychologist?”

Andy nods, as if she were a student who is close to the right answer but hasn’t quite got it.

“It wasn’t that I forgot,” he says, taking the question literally, “it’s that my feelings for Olivia influenced what I did as a psychologist. For those few weeks I saw Pam just as Olivia saw her: without hope, in almost unending pain, in need of someone who was willing to try to save her from the agony she inflicted on herself every time she was allowed to be free.”

He handles everything Jill throws at him. Marriage? Sure, they talked about it; at one point he and Olivia talked about the possibility of his going back to school to become a physician so he could take care of these children’s medical problems as well. She revisits each part of the case, and, unlike Olivia, he manages to reinterpret a number of Jill’s questions in light of his feelings without seeming argumentative. He tries to place each of his actions in the context of his relation with Olivia.

Finally, Jill shows him the cattle prod and asks him to examine the handle, apparently so the jury will take to the jury room the image of him holding it. It is only at this moment that Andy seems to lose it. He holds it as if he has been asked to inspect a snake with fangs at either end, grab bing it loosely in the middle and holding it at arm’s length.

His face becomes as stiff as his beard. Clearly, this is an uncomfortable moment for him, one I hope the jury can understand.

“Dr. Chapman,” Jill asks, giving the jury plenty of time to freeze this moment on their brains, “would you unwrap the tape from the handle?”

I think to object, but it will only look as if Andy has something to hide. He looks at me, but I nod, and taking the dirty tape which has begun to curl at the end, peels it away from the handle. There is shockingly little tape on the end.

No words about how he felt about Olivia will ever explain why he insulated it so poorly. Since I don’t know the answer either (and I have already asked him in private the same question), I decline to redirect.

As my final witness, I call Charlene Newman, whom Rainey delivered with a smile to the steps of the courthouse precisely at eight o’clock this morning. She has been waiting alone to testify, in a separate witness room guarded by a black deputy I’ve known for years. If he is a member of the Trackers, the organization has changed drastically. Charlene’s straight Indian hair is permed for this occasion, making me wonder if she wanted to show Leon she is taking care of herself or whether it is simply a periodic change. Instead of jeans and a halter top, her costume the day I interviewed her, Charlene is wearing dressy black pants, a white blouse, a vest, and a bolo string tie, the exact outfit worn by the female employees at a Mexican restaurant in town. What the hell. Maybe she can head for the border when she’s through.

She is as nervous as I feared she would be, her voice almost inaudible, and I have to remind her to speak up during my preliminary questions. Her fear brings out Harriet Tarnower’s maternal instincts and the judge practically reaches over and pats her hand.