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“Gosh, no. Who told you that? He was very laid-back. Drugs’ll do that to a person. Take a pill and you’re not really crazy anymore.”
Chapter 92
YUKI STOOD UP FROM THE PROSECUTION TABLE and smoothed out the creases in her pin-striped skirt, thinking that Quintana was like a Muppet, with his wacky smile and outfit that made him appear to be wearing an entire tag sale.
It all seemed to work for him. The jurors were smiling, loving him, loving Brinkley by association.
She said, “Mr. Quintana, why were you at Napa State?”
“I have OCD. It’s not dangerous or anything. It just takes up all my time, ’cause I’m always collecting things and checking all the time —”
“Thank you, Mr. Quintana. And are you also a psychiatrist?”
“No. But I know a few, that’s for sure.”
Yuki smiled as the jury tittered. It would be tricky to dismantle Quintana’s testimony without turning the jury against her.
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Quintana?”
“I’m a dishwasher at the Jade Café on Bryant. If you want clean, you can’t do better than having someone with OCD doing the dishes.”
“I see your point,” Yuki said as laughter rolled up from the gallery. “Do you have any medical training?”
“No.”
“And apart from today, when did you last see Mr. Brinkley?”
“About fifteen years ago. He was checked out of Napa, like, in 1988 or so.”
“You’ve had no contact with him between now and then?”
“No.”
“So you wouldn’t know if he’s had two lobotomies and a heart transplant since you saw him last?”
“Ha-ha, that’s funny. Um, is that true?”
“My point, Mr. Quintana, is that the sixteen-year-old you called ‘a very sweet guy’ may have changed. Are you the same person you were fifteen years ago?”
“Well, I have a lot more stuff.”
Guffaws sprang up from the gallery; even the jurors were chortling. Yuki smiled to show she didn’t, God forbid, lack a sense of humor.
When quiet resumed, she said, “Ike, when you said that Mr. Brinkley was crazy, that was your opinion as a friend, wasn’t it? You weren’t trying to say that he met the legal definition of insanity? That he didn’t know right from wrong?”
“No. I don’t know anything about that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quintana. I have no further questions.”
Chapter 93
SHERMAN’S NEXT WITNESS, Dr. Sandy Friedman, walked up the aisle toward the witness stand. He was a good shrink, educated at Harvard, even looked the part of a psychiatrist, with his designer glasses and Brooks Brothers bow tie, a hint of Liam Neeson in his facial features.
“Dr. Friedman,” Sherman said after the witness was sworn in and had cited his credentials, “have you had a chance to interview Mr. Brinkley?”
“Yes, three times since he’s been incarcerated, pending trial.”
“Have you diagnosed his illness?”
