She was slow, and none too pretty in her movements, but she was doing it: walking by herself to the courthouse. Michael’s hold on her arm was only a balance point.
At the start of the stone steps, she paused, winded, and looked up. The concrete stairs rose like Chichén Itzá into the gray sky. “If you’re going to be late—”
“They’ll wait for me,” Michael answered easily.
This time she held his arm and let him steady her as she slowly, slowly climbed upward. Step. Lift. Swing. Plant.
She didn’t know how long it actually took—minutes probably—but it felt like hours. Finally, though, they were in the courtroom. Michael guided Jolene to a seat behind the defense table.
“Good luck,” she said.
He smiled down at her. “Thanks.”
And then he was moving away from her, joining the eager young associates gathering at the table.
The courtroom filled up around her. She saw reporters milling about outside, microphones at the ready. It must be a big case. She should have asked him about it.
At the same time the bailiff entered the courtroom, so did four marines in dress uniforms. They moved in unison, sat down shoulder to shoulder beside Jolene, their backs straight, their faces grim. Before she could wonder about it, really, the defendant came into the room.
He was just a kid, probably no more than twenty-five. But she knew by looking at him that he was a vet. She could see it in his eyes.
The judge entered the courtroom, banged his gavel, and began the proceedings. The prosecutor stood and began to tell the state’s side—a story of bloodlust and anger, of a love gone tragically wrong, of a girl shot in the head by the man who had vowed to love her. For a simple story, it went on for more than an hour, so long Jolene’s leg started to ache. Pain pulsed in her missing foot.
Finally, it was Michael’s turn. He stood and addressed the jury. Unlike the prosecutor, Michael was relaxed with them, almost friendly. “Keith Keller is no monster. That would be easy, a monster. We could put a monster away and feel good about ourselves. Keith is something scarier. Keith is us. He is your brother, your son, your next-door neighbor.” He looked at the jurors one by one. “He was a popular kid at Wenatchee High, a star football player. After a year of college, he married the girl of his dreams, Emily Plotner, and found a full-time job at a local feed store. His employers and fellow workers will tell you what a great guy he is. Keith thought his life was going along on a pretty good track. He and Emily had begun to talk about children.
“Then came September Eleventh. I’m sure you each can remember where you were when you heard about the attacks. Keith was at work. He learned almost immediately that his best friend had been on Flight Ninety-three.”
Jolene found herself leaning forward.
“Most of us wanted to do something. Keith actually did. He joined the marines and went to fight terrorism in Iraq, where he saw some of the worst fighting of the war. Every day he saw friends killed or maimed; every day he wondered if the next step he took would be his last. He saw children and women smile at him and then blow up. He picked up the pieces of his best friend after a roadside bomb blew the young man apart.
“Keith is a soldier. I didn’t used to know what that meant, but I should have, because my wife is a soldier, too. I sent her off to war without a clue as to what that meant.” Michael turned, looked at her. “I’m proud of her service.”
Jolene caught her breath. He was talking to her. That was why he’d wanted her here today. So that she would listen.
“Heroes,” Michael said softly. The world seemed to fall away until it was only them, looking at each other across a crowded courtroom. “They are heroes, our soldiers, the men and women who go into harm’s way to protect us, our way of life. It doesn’t matter what you think of the war, you have to be grateful to the warriors, of whom we ask so much. To whom we sometimes give too little.”
Slowly, he turned back to the jury.
How long had it been, when he’d been talking to her, only her? A few seconds? A moment? It felt like forever. How long had she waited to hear that from him—I’m proud of you? Tears stung her eyes; she wiped them impatiently away.
“A soldier is taught to be strong and brave,” Michael said in a voice in which only she would hear the hoarseness, the emotion. “Not to need anyone. But Keith Keller did need help. He came home damaged beyond repair, suffering from nightmares.” Here, Michael looked at Jolene again, and there was an understanding in his eyes she’d never seen before, a compassion that had nothing to do with pity. “He wouldn’t let anyone help him, although his wife tried. But how do you help someone deal with horrors you can’t imagine? And how does a soldier come home from war, really? As a nation, these are questions we need to ask ourselves. In the case of Keith Keller, he might be sitting right there in front of you, but in a very real way he never came home from Iraq…”
For the next hour, Michael went through the facts of the case from the defense’s perspective, outlining PTSD and the failure to help him and the escalating anger and fear Keith had felt. “Keith’s friends and family will testify that he came home from the war changed, mentally broken. He tried to get help from the VA but he couldn’t, as so many other returning soldiers have discovered. He suffered terribly—nightmares, insomnia, flashbacks. He drank too much to mask these symptoms, and unfortunately alcohol only exacerbated the condition. It’s called post-traumatic stress and it is a recognized psychiatric disorder. It was around long before we had such a serious-sounding clinical name for it. In the Civil War, it was called a ‘soldier’s heart,’ which I think is the most accurate of the descriptions; in World War One, it was ‘shell shock,’ and during World War Two, ‘battle fatigue.’ In other words, war changes every soldier, but it has always profoundly damaged some of them.
“Like so many other soldiers before him, Keith came home jumpy, prone to violence, hyperalert, and angry. The facts will show that on the terrible day when he took his wife to the Pike Place Market, events occurred which reminded him of the war. Too much. In a single, tragic second, he forgot where he was, who he was, and he reacted on pure adrenaline and warrior training. In this fuguelike state, he shot his wife. Why? We don’t know because Keith doesn’t know, but expert witnesses will help us understand.”
Michael finished with: “Keith Keller didn’t have the ability in that moment to decide to kill his wife. In his mind, he was in Iraq, doing what he was trained to do. He never intended to kill Emily. Keith doesn’t need to go to prison, he needs help. This man who went to war to defend us needs our help now. How can we turn our back on him? What happened in his house on that terrible, terrible day was a tragedy, certainly, but it wasn’t murder. Thank you.”
Jolene finally released a breath. She had been mesmerized by her husband, transported, and she could tell that the jury felt the same way. It was obvious in the way they watched him, didn’t look away.
When he sat back down, Jolene felt the spell break, and she leaned back against the hard wooden seat. His words—his understanding—surprised and moved her. Deeply. She had spent all of her adult life in the service, and yet never had she been able to share that world with her husband. It had been the start of her loneliness, that separation, the start of their marriage’s fall.
The prosecution called its first witness, and for the next hour, Jolene forgot about herself and Michael and listened to the testimony on the stand.
At noon, the judge released them, and Jolene stood, remembering a second too late that she was on her prosthesis. The marine beside her steadied her.
Their gazes caught. He looked down.
“Al Anbar,” she said.
He nodded and reached for her crutches, handing them to her.
“Thanks,” she said. Positioning her crutches, she stood in the row, letting people sidle past her. She needed something to steady her in this crowd.
The courtroom was practically empty when Michael touched her arm. She looked up at him. In that instant, all the love and passion she’d once felt for him came rushing back; she could no more hold it back than she could stem the tide. “When did you learn all that?”
“My wife went off to war,” he said. “And while she was gone, I remembered her. I’m sorry I let you go on … those words. There are so many things I should have said. I understand why you didn’t answer my letter, but I want another chance.”
“Your letter? What—”
“Can you give me another chance, Jo?”
She swallowed hard. She couldn’t have found her voice even if she had known what to say.
An associate came up to Michael, whispered something in his ear.
Michael nodded. To Jolene, he said, “Keith would like to talk to you.”
“To me? Why?”
“I’ve mentioned you to him. I guess he has something he’d like to say.” He led her through the courthouse to a room in the back, where Keith sat in front of a scarred wooden desk, his ankles and wrists shackled. At her entrance, he stood up; the chains rattled.
He was so damned young, and the pain in his eyes drew Jolene forward. She set her crutches against the wall and walked the last ten feet to the desk, where she sat down across from him. When she took the weight off her prosthesis, she felt instant relief.
“Chief,” he said.
“Call me Jolene.” She reached across the desk to shake his hand. He hesitated, then brought his manacled hand forward, shook hers.
“Ramadi,” he said. “Mostly.”
That was all he had to say. She knew what it had been like for him, how he’d served his country. He’d patrolled streets lined with IEDs, day after day, watching people—friends—blow up. He’d been on bag duty. How many hero missions had she flown for his buddies?
“Is there something I can do to help you?” she asked gently, leaning forward.
“Help yourself, Chief. That’s what I wanted to tell you. We both know what’s in our heads, how hard it is to think sometimes, how bad the nights can be. I should have told Emily everything and held on to her. Instead, I pretended I was okay. I could handle it. I’m a marine. And here I am … and there she is.” He leaned forward. “You have kids, right?”
She nodded, sitting back.
“Don’t be who you needed to be over there. Come home to the people who love you. I wish to hell I’d figured out a way to do that.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Talk to Michael. He’s a good man. He wants to understand.”
There was so much she could say to this wounded young man, but in a way, he’d said it all in those few sad words. He understood her: her pain, her fear, her reluctance to show weakness. He’d been there, and because of that, he was here.
A soldier’s heart.
No wonder they’d called PTSD that in days gone by. It was true. We can come home broken, she thought. No matter how strong we are … The military should have prepared her for it. There was so much training before one goes to war, and so little for one’s return.