She loved San Mateo County as it in turn hated its criminals-its vandals, gang-bangers, burglars, petty thieves, and murderers all alike. San Mateo County wanted these people dealt with and trusted the system to deal with them. As did Mills, whose parents she'd loved in spite of the mouthful of moniker they'd laid on her at birth, and who'd been murdered in a carjacking when she was sixteen.
So there was San Mateo County, essentially on her side. It was a miracle, given her record, that they'd hired her here. The interview had come on the particularly bad afternoon when the big fourth of her four losses had come in and she'd been in a quiet and reasonable fury in her interview with Falbrock-a real I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-happens mood. Karma again. She'd found herself launched into her take-no-prisoners tirade before she could stop herself, and much to her surprise and delight, after she gave her exceptions about people the state should put to death, Falbrock had smiled and said, "I don't know. I'm not so sure we shouldn't execute shoplifters. It's a gateway crime." And he'd hired her on the spot.
There was, next, her victim, Ron Nolan-a young, wealthy, clean-cut, handsome, and charismatic ex-Navy SEAL, recipient of three Purple Hearts, the Afghanistan and Iraq Campaign Medals, the Liberation of Kuwait Medal, the Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal, the Meritorious Service Medal, and the Bronze Star. Mills, learning about the extraordinary life of Ron Nolan as she had investigated his death, had wondered more than once why she hadn't had the good fortune to have met him in her real life before he'd been murdered. She hadn't quite fallen in love with his memory, but she felt a fascination bordering on infatuation that she couldn't deny, and if she could avenge his senseless death in any way, she would consider it her privilege and duty.
Which brought her to her suspect.
She stole a glance over to where Evan Scholler stood. To her, he was the definition of scumbag, and it still galled her to see him in the courtroom now all cleaned up, with a dress shirt and tie and nice jacket. But she was convinced that by the time she was done, the jury would see beyond the façade that Washburn was so adept at creating, beyond the injured war veteran with the pretty and supportive girlfriend and the loyal parents, to the alcoholic and Vicodin addict whose incompetent leadership had led his squad of San Mateo County boys into their fatal ambush in Iraq.
As she waited for the judge to enter the courtroom, her heart was beating hard in anticipation. She was particularly keen to face some of the issues that were to be adjudicated before jury selection was to begin, the most important of which was going to be up first today. Mills had prepared a 402 motion requesting a foundational hearing to determine the admissibility of evidence related to post-traumatic stress disorder.
From the outset, it had been clear that Everett Washburn intended to use PTSD as an integral part of his defense of Evan Scholler. After all, the young man had endured exactly the kind of severe personal trauma during wartime that had produced volumes of literature on the subject. He'd also exhibited, to a host of witnesses over a substantial period of time, some, if not all, of the classic symptoms of PTSD.
So for a while early on, Mills had let herself get lulled into a grudging acceptance that PTSD, with its expert-witness madness, media appeal, and the emotional overtones it created, particularly in the context of the increasingly unpopular war, was going to be part of the trial.
And then one day it came to her that Washburn couldn't have it both ways. Either he could argue that Scholler had killed Ron Nolan but that PTSD was an extenuating circumstance or even a defense; or he could maintain that Scholler hadn't killed Ron Nolan at all, in which case he wouldn't, strictly speaking, need any other defense. If Scholler didn't do it, then it wasn't PTSD or self-defense or anything at all that had made him do it. So, believing that she had logic on her side-not that it always mattered-Mills had written her 402 motion. She wanted a full-blown hearing on the issue and was prepared to argue heatedly for it.
"All rise. Hear ye! Hear ye! The Superior Court, State of California, in and for the County of San Mateo, is now in session, Judge Theodore Tollson presiding."
Now she stood up and brought her eyes forward. Tollson had ascended to the bench. The clerk said, "You may be seated." After fifteen months, interviews filling thirty-seven binders, twelve pretrial written motions, three boyfriends, and the hint that the proper outcome would garner a six-figure book-deal offer, they were about to get on the boards at last.
