He looked a little like Elvis Costello with a tan. Slumped over the arm of a couch.
With a hole in his neck.
Zack began to sweat. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.
The screen flickered, and other images began to appear. But even when the camera turned away from the bodies, it revealed an astonishing level of violence.
The shooter's rampage was most evident in the damage to the living room. The stream of bullets had broken all of the windows, torn down curtains and shades, cut through a table, smashed a mirror and several lamps, sliced open and scattered upholstery and stuffing which was all over the place, and blasted dozens of holes in the walls and floor. There were even a few in the ceiling. In the kitchen, broken glass and dishes were on the counters and floor. What was left of the entry door was hanging by one hinge at a crazy angle. The rest had been reduced to kindling.
And blood was splattered everywhere.
Then the screen flickered again and returned to the living room. This time, the camera operator seemed to be concentrating on details that he might have missed the first time around.
A single blue-and-white running shoe, lying on its side near the door to the kitchen next to the Nathenson brother, who had a blood-soaked baseball cap clutched in his left hand.
The bookshelf in the corner had miraculously dodged the fusillade, on which sat a college course catalog, a few dog-eared paperbacks—
Franny and Zooey, L'Etranger, The Crying of Lot 49
—and a small, passport-size photo of a dark-haired young man with a charming smile housed in a tacky frame that said “World's Greatest Uncle.”
The thin white cardboard pizza box spilling slices of pepper-and-onion pizza onto the ugly green carpet, leaning against the remains of a shattered coffee table. “You've Tried All the Rest—Now Try the Best. University Pizza.”
Zack turned the TV off. His hand was shaking.
“Is that it?” asked Terry.
“That's it for now,” answered Zack.
Why was he transfixed by the horror? Every criminal case had victims, or destruction, or both. Anyone who practiced this kind of law had to be able to detach himself from his personal feelings of revulsion from the crime in order to do his job. But this time, Zack wasn't feeling detached. He was feeling sick.
He stood up. “I'm starting to wonder if I should have taken this one.”
“Why? Just because he's guilty?”
Zack shook his head. “I don't know. I'm not sure if it's because I've got Justin now, or because I've been away from this kind of felony for so long, but—I just don't know.”
“What? The guy flipped out and blew away a room full of people.”
“Flipped out?” Zack retorted. “This guy didn't flip out. He waited for hours for these people. And then he shot them over and over with a hundred and twenty bullets.” He paused for a moment. “Wait a minute. I'm wrong. He didn't wait for hours. He waited for
days
. He rented the place across the way so he could sit around and watch them come and go before he did it. This guy didn't just kill these people. He
executed
them. A couple of English majors, a postgrad chemistry student, a biology teaching assistant. Somebody's favorite uncle.” He closed his eyes, and for some reason, the image of that single running shoe came into his mind. “Jesus Christ.”
Terry shrugged. “It doesn't change the fact that he's entitled to a defense.”
“I know that,” Zack said. “I'm just not sure I'm going to be able …” His voice trailed off.
“Well, why don't we wait to hear the rest of his story?” Terry suggested. “Maybe something will come up.”
Zack looked at his friend for a few seconds before picking up the next part of the file and starting to read again. “Maybe,” he said.
Oak Park, Michigan
TO LENA, THE WHOLE THING SEEMED PRETTY sketchy.
According to
With a hole in his neck.
Zack began to sweat. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.
The screen flickered, and other images began to appear. But even when the camera turned away from the bodies, it revealed an astonishing level of violence.
The shooter's rampage was most evident in the damage to the living room. The stream of bullets had broken all of the windows, torn down curtains and shades, cut through a table, smashed a mirror and several lamps, sliced open and scattered upholstery and stuffing which was all over the place, and blasted dozens of holes in the walls and floor. There were even a few in the ceiling. In the kitchen, broken glass and dishes were on the counters and floor. What was left of the entry door was hanging by one hinge at a crazy angle. The rest had been reduced to kindling.
And blood was splattered everywhere.
Then the screen flickered again and returned to the living room. This time, the camera operator seemed to be concentrating on details that he might have missed the first time around.
A single blue-and-white running shoe, lying on its side near the door to the kitchen next to the Nathenson brother, who had a blood-soaked baseball cap clutched in his left hand.
The bookshelf in the corner had miraculously dodged the fusillade, on which sat a college course catalog, a few dog-eared paperbacks—
Franny and Zooey, L'Etranger, The Crying of Lot 49
—and a small, passport-size photo of a dark-haired young man with a charming smile housed in a tacky frame that said “World's Greatest Uncle.”
The thin white cardboard pizza box spilling slices of pepper-and-onion pizza onto the ugly green carpet, leaning against the remains of a shattered coffee table. “You've Tried All the Rest—Now Try the Best. University Pizza.”
Zack turned the TV off. His hand was shaking.
“Is that it?” asked Terry.
“That's it for now,” answered Zack.
Why was he transfixed by the horror? Every criminal case had victims, or destruction, or both. Anyone who practiced this kind of law had to be able to detach himself from his personal feelings of revulsion from the crime in order to do his job. But this time, Zack wasn't feeling detached. He was feeling sick.
He stood up. “I'm starting to wonder if I should have taken this one.”
“Why? Just because he's guilty?”
Zack shook his head. “I don't know. I'm not sure if it's because I've got Justin now, or because I've been away from this kind of felony for so long, but—I just don't know.”
“What? The guy flipped out and blew away a room full of people.”
“Flipped out?” Zack retorted. “This guy didn't flip out. He waited for hours for these people. And then he shot them over and over with a hundred and twenty bullets.” He paused for a moment. “Wait a minute. I'm wrong. He didn't wait for hours. He waited for
days
. He rented the place across the way so he could sit around and watch them come and go before he did it. This guy didn't just kill these people. He
executed
them. A couple of English majors, a postgrad chemistry student, a biology teaching assistant. Somebody's favorite uncle.” He closed his eyes, and for some reason, the image of that single running shoe came into his mind. “Jesus Christ.”
Terry shrugged. “It doesn't change the fact that he's entitled to a defense.”
“I know that,” Zack said. “I'm just not sure I'm going to be able …” His voice trailed off.
“Well, why don't we wait to hear the rest of his story?” Terry suggested. “Maybe something will come up.”
Zack looked at his friend for a few seconds before picking up the next part of the file and starting to read again. “Maybe,” he said.
Oak Park, Michigan
TO LENA, THE WHOLE THING SEEMED PRETTY sketchy.
According to
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