MICKEY SHERMAN SAT BESIDE ALFRED BRINKLEY at the defense table, trying to get his client to understand him through the haze of whatever meds he was on. The poor sap had all the energy of a parsnip.
“Fred. Fred.” Sherman shook his client’s shoulder. “Fred, we start your defense today, you understand? So I’ll be putting people on the stand to vouch for your character.”
Brinkley nodded his head. “You’re putting my doctor on the stand.”
“Right. Dr. Friedman is going to talk about your mental condition, so don’t get upset. He’s on our side.”
“I want a chance to tell my side of the story.”
“We’ll see. I don’t know yet if we need to put you on the stand.”
Mickey’s assistant passed him a note saying that his witnesses were all accounted for. Then the bailiff called out, “All rise,” and the judge entered the courtroom through the door behind the bench. The jurors filed in and were seated.
It was day four of Alfred Brinkley’s trial, and court was in session.
“Mr. Sherman,” Judge Moore said, “are you ready with your first witness?”
“The defense calls Mr. Isaac Quintana.”
Quintana was wearing several layers of odd clothing, but his eyes were clear, and he smiled as he took the stand.
“Mr. Quintana,” Sherman began.
“Call me Ike,” the witness said. “Everyone does.”
“I’ll call you Ike, then,” Mickey said good-naturedly. “How do you know Mr. Brinkley?”
“We were at Napa State together.”
“That’s not a college, is it?” Sherman said, smiling at his witness, jingling the coins in his pocket.
“Naw, it’s a nuthouse,” Ike said, grinning.
“It’s a state mental institution, isn’t that right?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know why Fred was at Napa State?”
“Sure. He was depressed. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t get out of bed. Had very bad dreams. His sister had died, you know, and when he checked into Napa, it was because he didn’t want to live.”
“Ike, how did you know that Fred was depressed and suicidal?”
“He told me. And I knew he was on antidepressants.”
“And how long did you know Fred?”
“For about two years.”
“Did you get along with him pretty well?”
“Oh, sure. He was a very sweet guy. That’s why I know he didn’t mean to kill those people on the ferry —”
“Objection! Your Honor, unresponsive,” Yuki barked. “I move that the witness’s last statement be stricken from the record.”
“Sustained. So ordered.”
“Ike,” Sherman asked reassuringly, “was Fred Brinkley ever violent when you knew him?”