in spades . Love , betrayal , jealousy , rage . And in high-profile murder cases , publicly-elected judges do not like to suppress confessions .
This ain ’ t Hollywood . The fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine generally dies on the vine when the case hits the six o ’ clock news .
It was a long day at my office , and I sent him home to his mom ’ s . Told him to get a good night ’ s sleep . Our defense started the next day .
At five the next morning my phone rang . I picked it up and heard the most unworldly , gut-wrenching screaming . Fire-engine screaming .
“ Tom , Tom , you ’ ve got to get up here ! You ’ ve got to get up here ! Hurry !”
Click . The phone went dead .
That was Corey ’ s mom .
I jumped in my pickup and headed north to Wilton . I pulled into the driveway just behind a McLean County Sheriff ’ s car . Deputy Ruben Two Hearts was running toward the garage . The Braun house was north of Main Street . This was McLean County jurisdiction . In an emergency , everybody runs . I followed Ruben through the side door into the garage as he hit the light switch .
There was a tipped-over lime green lawn chair in the middle of the garage . A size 12 Nike tennis shoe on the floor . And there was Corey , hanging from a rafter . My 22-year-old client had hung himself with an old piece of clothesline rope ... an unforgettable sight . That was the first son I lost . There would be five more . Four sons and one daughter . I still can ’ t answer how that happened . Maybe I was too obtuse . Maybe I was too focused on the case and not on my client . I honestly don ’ t know . I had spent all of the previous day with Corey , and I must have missed something . I still don ’ t know .
We didn ’ t even take Corey down from the rafter . We let him hang there . Standard protocol , Ruben said . One shoe on . One shoe off . A lawn chair tipped over on its side . His body swaying ever so slightly from the breeze blowing through the open door .
Through the kitchen window I watched the ambulance and the county coroner come and go . I never went back into the garage . Later there was a knock on the door , and Ruben asked me to come outside . He wanted to talk to the last person to see Corey alive . I went in and asked Grandma .
Ruben interviewed Little Brother in the front seat of his patrol car . I sat in the back and listened . We learned that Corey had spent most of the evening writing a letter to his 17-year-old girlfriend , Carrie . He finished it in the early morning and walked half a block to the blue postal box to mail it . That was the last he was seen alive .
Little Brother was excused , and he went back in the house . I moved up to the front seat , and we sat a while . Not a clue what to do . Ruben lit up a cigarette . Marlboro Light .
Now , two of the people in a small-town love triangle were dead . And the third was about to receive one last and final love letter . What do we do ? ...
Part II of this article will be published in the upcoming winter issue of The Gavel . This article originally appeared in full in the Humanities North Dakota magazine and is reprinted with permission .
Tom Dickson is a trial lawyer from Bismarck , N . D . For more than 40 years , he has tried cases all over the state of North Dakota . This story is about a case that did not go to trial .
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“ Go in the house , Tom . I can handle this . The coroner and ambulance are on the way .”
I knocked on the door . No one answered . It was unlocked , so I walked in . This is still Wilton . Nobody locks their doors . Mom , Grandma , and Little Brother were sitting at the kitchen table . Mom was quiet , absent , vacant , silent . Ten-year-old Little Brother was staring down at a soggy bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios . Grandma offered me a cup of coffee . It was now 6 a . m . of that morning in Wilton .
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