On February 14, 2018, Nikolas Cruz entered Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, and opened fire on students and faculty.  He killed 14 students and three adults, and wounded 17 others. It was the deadliest school shooting in U.S. history. 

Cruz pleaded guilty to the 2018 shooting in 2021.  At that time, the state of Florida announced their intention to seek the death penalty, with a jury choosing between a life or death sentence for him. 

The death penalty phase of his trial began on July 18.  The prosecution opened the trial with lead prosecutor Michael Satz spelling out in clinical detail the 6 minutes, 22 seconds it took Nikolas Cruz to murder 17 people and injure 17 others on Valentine's Day 2018. 

Nik Cruz's childhood:'He dreams of killing others': Witnesses say Nikolas Cruz's childhood marked by paranoia, aggression

Death or life?:Death penalty trial opens for 'cold, calculated, manipulative' Parkland school shooter

Parkand shooting:'I'm sick to my stomach': 17 dead in Florida high school shooting; former student in custody

The prosecution rested its case on Aug. 4, having called witnesses who were at the school the day of the shooting, victims who survived the shooting, and families who made victim-impact statements. 

On Aug. 22, Nikolas Cruz's defense team began its part of the case, presenting evidence that it hopes will persuade the 12-person jury to chose a life-sentence for the Parkland gunman, now 23.

His team, comprised of public defenders, began presenting their case which consists of several people who knew Cruz's biological mother, Brenda Woodard, his adoptive mother, Lynda Cruz, the counseling and school staff who interacted with him, and even his half-sister, Danielle Woodard.

Here are the witnesses the defense has called in an attempt to save Nikolas Cruz from a death sentence. His team is expected to call nearly 80 witnesses. 

Broward County deputy Gary Michalosky said he was called to Cruz's home in August of 2012 for reports of a domestic disturbance. Cruz was upset that his adoptive mother locked his Xbox in the trunk of her car, Lynda Cruz told the deputy. 

By the time the deputy arrived, the floor was littered with things the teen had thrown against the wall, including a now-shattered vase and a broken bowl. Cruz barricaded himself inside his room. He'd asked to stay home from school that day because he was having trouble in his classes, but Lynda Cruz wouldn't let him. 

Michalosky radioed to dispatch and told them to change the call's classification from "domestic disturbance" to a "mental illness."

There were holes in the walls of Cruz's bedrooms from previous tantrums, he said. They escorted Cruz out of the room in handcuffs, and the boy was calm, flat. Not talkative.

“No emotions," Michalosky said. "Like the calm after the storm.”

Paul Gold lived next door to the Cruz family in Parkland from 2008 to 2011. He said he remembers his first time meeting Nikolas Cruz vividly. 

They had begun to play pool in Gold's home, where he lived with his then-fiancée, Rocxanne Deschamps. Gold struck the cue ball, and at the sound of the bang, Cruz jumped away from the table and grabbed his ears.

"He just held his ears and just kind of rocked back and forth, and may have screamed a little bit," Gold said. The loud noise startled him "a lot more than was normal."

It was disconcerting, Gold said, and he voiced his concern to Cruz's adoptive mother, Lynda. She became angry.

"She said there's nothing wrong with her son," Gold said. "That was it. Didn't mention it again."

Lynda seemed to favor Cruz because he was smaller and weaker than his younger brother, Zachary, Gold said. He seemed younger than he was, both physically and mentally. And "out of nowhere, he would just snap."

Gold never knew what triggered the episodes. He described an incident when Cruz became irate and smashed Gold's motorcycle trailer with a golf club. Afterward, he became profusely apologetic.

That was his routine, Gold said. He was often pleasant enough, and then from one moment to the next, "he would just break things and go off — seemed out of his mind."

Then he'd calm down again and become "extremely apologetic," Gold said. He sometimes seemed shocked at himself. "It was like he was another person."

Gold said Cruz would move from obsession to obsession, laser-focusing on one thing at a time. One year, it was penguins. That's all he would talk about. Another year, it was toads. His childhood dog had eaten a poisonous toad and died because of it, Gold said, and he went on a "killing spree." 

"He tried to kill every toad in the neighborhood," Gold said.

Cruz seemed like he wanted to have friends, his neighbor said, but his "strange behaviors" made it difficult to maintain a relationship with him. While Zachary Cruz would play video games with his friends, his brother would walk the neighborhood alone.

Lynda Cruz told Gold that she was sometimes afraid of her son.

"She told me not to believe the angelic appearance that he had and his very nice ways," Gold said. "That he would turn and do bad things."

Lynda Cruz died in November 2017, and few people attended her funeral. 

"Why is nobody here?" Gold said Cruz asked him.

Gold explained that when he submitted an announcement to be published in the newspaper, he had put the wrong date. It was a lie, he said, but he felt bad. 

Three months later, Gold picked up his phone to tell Cruz about something terrible he'd seen on the news.

"I called Nik to warn him there was a shooter around, " he said. "I couldn't even imagine that it was him." 

When he found out who wielded the gun, Gold started to scream. He never thought he would speak to Cruz again. But as time went on, and as details about Cruz's biological mother's substance abuse came to light, his opinion changed. When Cruz calls him from jail, he answers the phone.

"This young man had been given everything that could have possibly gone wrong in a kid's life," Gold said. 

A prosecutor cut him off with an objection.

Susan Skolly-Danziger, a clinical pharmacist, reviewed Cruz's medication history.  

Cruz was first prescribed medication for his behavioral issues when he was 6, Skully said. She testified that he went through stretches — 13 months, at one point — without seeing a doctor.

Cruz was likely not on any medication about five months before the shootings in Parkland, she said.

Skully said Cruz is presently prescribed Olanzapine, which is used to treat people "with abnormal thought disorders" including schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

Nikolas Cruz was so concerned what others thought about him that he refused to let anyone see his grades at Westglades Middle School, his former ESE counselor said Tuesday.

"If a teacher would pass out graded work, he would grab it and quickly crumble it up and shove it in his bookbag, not even knowing if he passed or not," Jessica Clark Flournoy testified.

"He was very insecure about his abilities," she added.

Clark Flournoy counseled Cruz for most of three years from 2011-2013. At first, Cruz "really tried" in the classroom, but it did not result in many successes.

"He had little moments on the upswing, but it wasn't sustainable," Clark Flournoy said.

Cruz also floundered socially, she said.

"He wanted to be liked," Clark Flournoy said. "He struggled making friends. He really wanted to be accepted by his peers."

Cruz eventually left Westglades Middle and was enrolled at Cross Creek, a Pompano Beach school for children with severe emotional and behavioral disorders. 

When Nikolas Cruz was nearly 11 years old, he spoke at a level between a 6 1/2-year old and an 8 1/2-year-old, according to an expert defense witness who testified for more than an hour. 

Shameka Stanford, a speech and language pathologist who specializes in childhood disorders, reviewed Cruz's case history and interviewed the Parkland school shooter while determining that "there was a severe presence of language impairment, specifically with problem solving … "

The language problems put Cruz in a "bubble" of isolation because "he could never really connect with anyone," Stanford said.

Cruz did not start speaking until he was 2 — older than most children — and alcohol could have impacted his brain development, according to her testimony. Cruz's birth mother used crack cocaine and alcohol during her pregnancy, witnesses have said.

Language issues are still apparent in Cruz, Stanford said. She testified about listening to a jailhouse call where Cruz began making "animal noises." The sounds Cruz made, Stanford said, were a response to the "conversation getting too heavy and deep" and the defendant unable to respond in an appropriate way.

Defense attorneys are using experts like Stanford to build their case that Cruz never had a chance in life and should have his own life spared.

Assistant State Attorney Nicole Chiappone tried to poke holes in Stanford's credibility by calling into question whether she was qualified to administer tests she conducted on Cruz.

Lynda Cruz desperately wanted a child after enduring four miscarriages, according to a longtime friend who testified Monday.

"She really wanted to be a mom," said Finai Browd, who met Lynda Cruz in Long Island, New York.

That desire came true when Lynda and her husband, Roger, adopted Nikolas. But by the time the boy was 4, Browd said she knew something was wrong.

"He would have tantrums if he didn't get his way," said Browd, whose testimony was videotaped in July and shown to jurors on Monday. "Kids have tantrums, but not to that extent."

Lynda Cruz would bend over backward to appease Nikolas, her friend said. Linda once chose to trade in a BMW SUV she bought three weeks before because Nikolas "didn't like the car," Browd said.

Nikolas was so attached to his mother that she couldn't leave the house without her son screaming and crying while looking out the front window for hours, she said.

Browd also relayed the story of Nikolas Cruz finding his adoptive father dead in the den of their home. Cruz came running down a hallway crying and went into his room.

"Nikolas, what happened? Did Daddy yell at you?" Lynda Cruz asked.

"No, daddy's dead," the boy responded.

Browd's testimony on Monday was interrupted and was concluded on Tuesday morning

Before he killed 17 people at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, Nikolas Cruz lived for about one month in the Lantana-area mobile home belonging to Rocxanne Deschamps.

According to Deschamps, she honored the wishes of Lynda Cruz by taking in her two adopted sons, Nikolas and Zachary, after she died. Deschamps and the Cruz family lived next door to one another in Parkland around 2009. 

But Finai Browd, a longtime friend of Lynda Cruz, cast doubt on that story during recorded testimony that was played in court Tuesday morning.

Browd said Deschamps "took advantage" and "tried to manipulate" Lynda Cruz.

"I never thought in my life I would hate someone, but I hate her," Browd said.

Lynda Cruz died in November 2017, and her sons moved in with Deschamps a few days later.

Browd said she believed Lynda Cruz would have preferred the boys live with her. But after Lynda Cruz's death, Browd said Nikolas and Zachary went through their mother's cellphone and found Deschamps' number.

"I don't think she did anything to help her," Browd said of Deschamps.

Did Deschamps take advantage of Lynda? Assistant State Attorney Jeff Marcus asked.

Nikolas Cruz would stay with Deschamps only about a month — he wanted to bring a gun into her home and she refused. He left and moved in with James and Kimberly Snead, parents of one of Nikolas’ friends, in Parkland. That’s where Nikolas lived at the time of the massacre.

Zachary, however, stayed with Deschamps.

Lynn Rodriguez, who served as Nikolas Cruz's Exceptional Student Education teacher in the third and fourth grades, remembers the Parkland gunman boy as "very quiet, aloof. He did not blend well with other students."

Rodriguez was the first witness Monday as Cruz's defense team began its second week presenting its case.

Even though he was smaller than the other students, Rodriguez said Cruz could become aggressive. She remembers him "ripping up other students' work or projects."

Sharing his things made Cruz "upset," she said.

In the fourth grade, Cruz "could be very disruptive" when he became angry.

Academically, she said, Cruz was already far behind. Rodriguez said Cruz scored 1 on a 1-5 scale on the FCAT as a third- and fourth-grader.

Dr. Brett Negin is a psychiatrist who met with Cruz from 2012 to 2017.  Negin diagnosed Cruz with Disruptive Behavior Disorder because of his difficulty interacting with peers and his irritability.

"His social skills as a whole were impaired," Negin said.

Defense attorney Tamara Curtis showed jurors a letter sent to Negin on June 5, 2014, by a therapist at Cruz's school. At the time, Cruz attended Cross Creek, a Broward County public school for students with emotional behavioral disabilities.

"Nikolas continues to present with extreme mood liability," wrote the therapist. " … He seems to be paranoid and places the blame on others for his behavioral problems. He has a preoccupation with guns and the military and perseverates on this topic inappropriately."

Cruz destroyed his television after losing a video game, the letter continued. He "has a hatchet that he uses to chop up a dead tree in the backyard. Mom has not been able to locate that hatchet as of lately."

He carved holes in the walls of the bathroom and used sharp tools to cut through furniture upholstery.

"Per recent information shared in school, he dreams of killing others and is covered in blood," the therapist wrote. 

She finished the letter by recommending Negin re-assess Cruz's response to his medication, as she viewed it to be "limited at best."

Negin denied ever receiving the letter.

Dr. Laurie Karpf, a psychiatrist, treated Cruz from age 10 to 13. She told jurors the gunman's adoptive mother was concerned about his irritability, anxiety and aggression.

Lynda Cruz was a good woman, Karpf said: "She tried to be a good mom to her two kids. She had her hands full."

Karpf read a note Lynda Cruz wrote to her about her son's behavior. He had trashed his desk at school and cursed at his third-grade teacher, she said. Once, he threatened to stab the teacher, and he hit a classmate with a lunchbox.

"Cursing, screaming and yelling a lot," Karpf said. "Repeating himself."

She would have liked to keep seeing Cruz, but his mother discontinued his treatment with Karpf after their insurance changed.

During cross-examination, prosecutor Nicole Chiappone stressed that Karpf never actually saw Cruz become aggressive because, she said, he could control his actions when he wanted to.

It's the same point prosecutors made Wednesday while cross examining Dr. Frederick Kravitz, who also said he'd never witnessed one of Cruz's angry outbursts.

Was there anything to indicate Cruz would one day kill 17 people? Chiappone asked. Like Kravitz, Karpf said "no."

Steven Schusler lived across the street from the Cruz family in Parkland from 2009 to 2015, and he thinks of those six years in three periods: the beginning, when he met Cruz; the middle, when he was friendly with him; and the end, when he was cautious.

"This is Niki," a neighbor said when she introduced Schusler to Cruz one day. "He's the weird one."

The comment hit Cruz like salt on a snail, Schusler said. His face scrunched up and sunk inward.

"You could see that something's just not right," Schusler said.

He said he saw Zachary, Cruz's brother, skating and playing with other boys across the street while Schusler worked on his motorcycle. Cruz never skated, Schusler said. He always seemed to stand apart from the rest.

Schusler described an odd moment he saw Cruz running outside of his home and firing an airsoft gun "spasmodically." The way he ran was lurching and flailing, like a 2-year-old who couldn't yet walk, Schusler said. He demonstrated it for the jurors.

Schusler said he called the public defender after he watched Cruz's guilty plea on the television. He said it was important to him that they know: "This boy did not go bad. He was never right."

Dr. Frederick Kravitz, a retired clinical psychologist, told jurors that he met with Nikolas Cruz when he was 8 years old. Cruz's adoptive mother Lynda was concerned about his temper and anxiety, the doctor said. He looked and acted years younger than he was, and he "stuck out like a sore thumb."

Cruz was a "very peculiar child," he said.

He was at varying times hyperactive, aggressive, fearful and withdrawn, and he had a "very active bad imagination." He was terrified that his mother would forget to pick him up from school and leave him there, stranded.

When asked if Lynda Cruz seemed embarrassed of her sons, Kravitz nodded. He said she felt judged by other parents, which may have made it harder for her to engage in treatment. He coached her on how to discipline them but said she often threw up her hands instead.

"I think she truly loved these boys, but I do think she was overwhelmed," Kravitz said of Cruz's mother. "And somewhat depressed, since her husband had passed away."

Her sons pushed her buttons as much as they pushed each other's, he said. Zachary, Cruz's brother, was a "tremendous instigator behind the scenes."

Cruz was diagnosed with ADHD, Kravitz said, and his symptoms were consistent with that. But he had some autistic qualities, too, like his aversion to eye contact and self-isolation. The doctor didn't know how much of that was due to the fact that he'd been bullied by his peers.

During their one-on-one interactions, Cruz was compliant, Kravitz said. The doctor coached him on what to do when he got upset: press your knuckles together to keep from hurting others, Kravitz said, and count to 10.

"Of course, we all know how this ended," said prosecutor Jeff Marcus.

Marcus asked: Was there anything about his behavior that foretold what was to come?

Kravitz shook his head. He's worked with other damaged children in the past, he said, and none has done something like this.

John Newnham, a former counselor for Broward County Public Schools, said Cruz was a "shy, somewhat fearful student" in kindergarten. He shrunk away from contact and clung to an adult who showed him around Coral Springs Elementary on his first day there. He avoided eye contact.

During individual sessions with Cruz, Newnham worked to gain the boy's trust. It took longer than with most students, he said. They spoke as they played checkers, and Cruz eventually began to look him in the eye.

Group counseling sessions proved more difficult. Cruz often sat quietly by himself, refusing to participate with the others, Newnham said. When he was responsive, he'd answer questions uncertainly, then look at Newnham as if to ask: Was that the right thing to say?

Elementary-aged Cruz was somewhat of a perfectionist, Newnham said. He'd erase and re-write, and erase and re-write some more until he'd broken the pencil or crumpled the worksheet. There was tension in his actions and visible distress on his face, the counselor said.

Cruz told Newnham that he felt different from his peers; as though he was somehow less-than, and they judged him for it.

" 'I'm just stupid,' " the counselor said Cruz sometimes told him. " 'I'm a freak.' "

In meetings with Newnham, Cruz's adoptive mother Lynda Cruz said she felt frustrated and alone because of her son's behavior. He was defiant and temperamental, Newnham said. 

"I got the impression that she did not utilize the supports that were offered to her," the counselor said.

Lynda Cruz seemed overwhelmed and burned out, Newnham said. He remembers making the same recommendations to her as the year went on: respite care, in-home therapy, parenting classes. She didn't follow through on any of them, he said.

She was reluctant to discipline the boys, the counselor said, because she was "somewhat fearful of them." When she tried setting boundaries and enforcing rules, Cruz threw tantrums.

"She appeared not able to handle those very well," the counselor said.

The defense called Trish Devaney Westerlind, a friend of Cruz's late adoptive mother, Lynda, to testify.

Lynda Cruz was "very loving, motherly, caring," Westerlind said. It's a stark difference from how witnesses described Brenda Woodard, Cruz's biological mother, on Monday.

Lynda Cruz had wanted a child for years, Westerlind said, and when she adopted Cruz in 1998, "she felt like her family was complete." She dressed him in sailor outfits and doted on him.

"He was a cute little baby," Westerlind said.

But he was behind on his milestones, too. Westerlind said he was smaller than the other children, and he didn't speak. Westerlind's daughter, who was about seven months younger than Cruz, would talk for him.

"Zachary even surpassed Nikolas," Westerlind said of Cruz's brother, who is about 14 months younger than Cruz.

Westerlind said Cruz's differences became more obvious when he was around other children. He'd hide behind the blinds during playdates or even bite people. It was concerning, Westerlind said. She brought up her concerns to Cruz's mother, but she "didn't want to see anything wrong with him."

Children in the neighborhood would tease him for peeing his pants, and he'd break their toys because of it.

"He'd clench his fists. He'd be, like, really angry," Westerlind said. He never got over things quickly.

Westerlind moved from Florida to New Jersey and fell out of touch with Cruz's adoptive mother. She didn't know Lynda had died until she saw the news of Cruz's arrest for killing 17 people at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School on her television.

She also learned then that the Cruz brothers lived briefly with Rocxanne Deschamps, a Lantana-area woman, after their mother died. It surprised her, she said. Lynda Cruz had told her years before that a relative of Deschamps' relative assaulted Cruz.

Prosecutors immediately objected to the allegation, prompting a sidebar. The court adjourned for lunch.

Anne Marie Fischer is the former director of Young Minds Learning Center in Broward County, where 1-year-old Cruz attended in 1999.  Fischer was one of the first defense witnesses called to the stand. 

Cruz had trouble socializing, Fischer said. Most of the time she saw him, he was expressionless. He often isolated himself from other children until he saw one with a toy he wanted — then he'd walk up, hit the child's hand and take it.

"He had tantrums a lot," Fischer said.

He struggled to grasp things in his hands like crayons and spoons, and he was clumsy. His legs were always bruised from falling. Fischer said.

She wasn't sure if his hearing was impaired, too, so she'd sometimes crouch behind him and whisper to see if he'd respond. He usually didn't.

Cruz sat by the wall closest to the door during activities involving loud noises or music. He seemed overwhelmed, Fischer said. He'd rock back and forth in his high chair and avoid eye contact.

His behavior wasn't the only thing that set him apart from other children, Fischer said. Cruz's "head size didn't go with his body size. His ear size didn't go with his head size."

Fischer told jurors that when Cruz's younger brother, Zachary, began at Young Minds, she didn't believe the two boys were actually related. Even a year younger, Zachary Cruz was bigger than his older brother, she said. He showed none of the same developmental delays.

Fischer met with Cruz's adoptive mother, Lynda, to recommend that she seek additional help for Cruz. Lynda Cruz was resistant at first, Fischer said.

But she "would give the kids the world if she could," Fischer added. She eventually warmed to the idea of getting Cruz help.

"She did the best she could with the knowledge that she had," Fischer said.

Susan Lubar taught Cruz when he was 4 years old. Even then, he was aggressive, she told jurors. He'd scale furniture and pace the classroom to avoid other children, curling his hands into paws and hissing when they came near.

He didn't communicate verbally until about halfway into the school year, Lubar said. He only followed instructions with excessive encouragement and often avoided doing what he was told. 

No one knew what was causing his behavior, Lubar said.

One of the most anticipated defense witnesses, Cruz's biological sister, Danielle Woodard, was the second person called to the stand as the defense began their part of the Nikolas Cruz death penalty trial. Her responses were slow and drawling.

"Are you nervous?" asked Tamara Curtis, Cruz's attorney.

She said she remembers the small baby bump protruding from the stomach of her mother, Brenda Woodard, as she pumped gas into her car in 1998. Danielle Woodard sat in the back of the car, watching. There was shattered glass on the floor, and a brown-bagged bottle of wine in Brenda Woodard's hand.

Danielle Woodard asked her once she returned to the front seat: Was she pregnant?

"She looked at me and said 'I got raped,' " Cruz's sister said. "She took another swig and turned on the radio."

Danielle Woodard said she saw her mother smoke cigarettes and cocaine "like a chimney" while she was pregnant with Cruz. When she needed to pass a drug test, she'd have her daughter pee into a pill bottle.

"Nikolas was developing in her polluted womb," Cruz's sister told jurors.

She became quiet and tearful when the attorney asked if she remembers the day Cruz was born. Danielle Woodard held Cruz that day, she said. He was squirming and small. 

"Can we keep him?" she said she asked. Brenda screamed at her to get out of the hospital room.

Why didn't she want to keep the baby? Cruz's attorney asked.

"She had an addiction," Danielle said. "She always put that first."

Carolyn Deakins, a friend of Cruz's biological mother, was the first witness that the defense team called to the stand. She and Brenda Woodard did "anything we could get our hands on" in the late '80s, she said.

"Snorting cocaine, drinking," she said. "That's what we did every day."

Woodard carried around a Big Gulp cup filled with malt liquor, Deakins said. When Cruz's mother couldn't make enough money stealing and selling steaks, she'd prostitute herself.

"It was quick and easy money," Deakins said.

She said she and Woodard often got high in Woodard's apartment. There was no furniture or food there — just a mattress and a refrigerator. Once, Woodard threw up.

Deakins said she thought she was "drug sick," so she offered her some of her stash. 

" 'No, it ain't drugs,' " Deakins said Woodard told her. " 'I'm pregnant.' "

Woodard Brenda wasn't concerned about the baby, Deakins said, because she already planned to put him up for adoption.

"She didn't want it," Deakins said. She looked from the public defender to Cruz. "Nikolas, I'm sorry, but that's how it was."