"He's got a knife!"

Situation: Alerted by the sounds of a fight and screams, you get to the scene, to see an obviously enraged man coming at you with upraised blade, grunting and growling ... and when the smoke clears, you're accused of wrongful death.

Lesson: To survive the first attack, you have to know what to do and be able to do it. To survive the second, in court, you need to be able to explain why you did what you did, and why it was the right thing to do.

Note to readers: As regular subscribers know, the true stories presented in this space normally include names and related details. On rare occasions, I change the names. I've done go here, at the request of some of the participants. The incident in question wag painful to all concerned, all the more so because it took place in a hospital. Any name that first appears in italics is a pseudonym.

Prologue

I sit a couple of rows back behind the defense table in a second floor courtroom in a classic old courthouse deep in the American South. Waiting in the wings to testify, I'm just a walk-on character, but the stars of this two-week-long play are all on their marks.

Looming above the bench is the chiseled face of Judge Solomon Chancellor. He looks like a seasoned battlefield colonel, rides a Harley to the courthouse each day, and gives the impression of a bullshit-free zone, an impression he will confirm before the day is out. At the plaintiff's table, flanked by a couple of colleagues who seem to be window-dressing, is Plaintiff's Counsel, a former law professor. Silver-haired and silver-tongued, this guy could probably charm the morning dew off the Blarney Stone, and I find myself wishing I could watch him in a trial where he actually had a case.

Three men sit at the defense table. The oldest, the kind of lawyer you get to give the ethics lecture at a bar association seminar, leads the defense team. Next to him is the other half of the defense team, only 37 but already wise in the ways of trial strategy. Beside him is a solidly built black man with iron-gray hair and mustache, in a blue uniform and wearing his issue Glock 17 on his duty belt. Let's call him Justin Thyme. He and the hospital for whose security unit he works both stand accused of wrongful death in what is now the ninth day of civil trial.

On their left is the audience for the drama, twelve good men and women and true, plus two alternates. Three are African-American, one Hispanic, one Native American as was the decedent in the case, a member of a tribe heavily represented in the county's demographics and jury pool. Earlier in the trial, for whatever reason, plaintiff's counsel has attempted to introduce the fact the defendant left his police career for security work because of negative reactions on his department to the fact he was engaged to a white woman. The judge, wisely and justly, has kept this out. He wants this jury to judge the case on the facts. So do we.

The Incident

July 8, 2004. Lieutenant Thyme is on duty as a supervisor with the approximately 20-person security staff of the Mercy Medical Center. This hospital serves a high-poverty, high-crime community. Shooting and knifing victims come in frequently, often followed by angry gang-bangers from one faction who want revenge, and those from another clique who might want to finish the job. This is why hospital security is armed. The Glock has not yet been adopted for the security force at this time, and Thyme is carrying the organization's standard issue service revolver and ammunition. At his right hip is a blue Smith & Wesson Model 19-8 revolver with 4" barrel, factory-furnished with Uncle Mike's grips and distinct from the usual Model 19 in that its barrel is marked ".38 Special" instead of the usual ".357 Magnum." The duty ammunition is yellow-box Remington-UMC 125 grain semi-jacketed +P .38 Special hollow point.

Suddenly, his radio crackles to life. "We need security at Labor and Delivery, stat!" There is a frightened urgency in the voice, and tumult is audible in the background. Thyme makes his way rapidly to the ward.

By the time the lieutenant is coming down the hallway to his destination, he has been joined by veteran security guard Justin Case. Ahead of them, in a delivery room across from the nurse's station, all hell is breaking loose. They can hear men's bodies being thrown against walls, and shouts of "Motherf--er" and more curses. Others are shouting too in the crowded area, but one cry sounds sharply over the others: "He's got a knife! They're fighting! He's got a knife!" Nurses are screaming, and pointing into the open delivery room.

There is a young man in that doorway, his hands empty, his back to the officers. Officer Case grabs him in both arms, sweeps him out of the doorway, and pins him up against the nurse's station. Case and that young man are now behind Lt. Thyme, out of his view.

Upon hearing "knife," Thyme has immediately followed his training and drawn his gun. He holds it now, right hand only, in a low ready position, his left hand free as he steps into the doorway. On his right, he sees a young woman on a bed, screaming. Across the delivery room, he sees a woman tugging desperately on a man's left arm.