“What do you need the time for?”
Eric hesitated. He wasn’t sure he wanted to confide in Paul, but it might help to have a sounding board. “I guess I’m wondering who really killed Renée Bevilacqua.”
“That means you don’t think Max did it?”
“Right, I don’t. I’m not sure, anyway, either way.”
“You’re aware that the police think he did. After last night, the suspicion is much greater on him than it is on you. At bottom, they’re only leveraging you to get the information they need to convict him.”
“I know, but because they think they have the killer, they’re not looking for him anymore. I can’t stand by and let the kid get convicted for a murder he didn’t do.”
“Not your problem.”
“I can’t just ignore it.”
“Yes, you can. Like this. Watch me.” Paul drove on, singing a little song under his breath. “See? It’s easy. This is me, living my life, motoring along, not taking on the problems of the world. You think too much, anybody ever tell you that?”
“Only everybody who’s ever met me.”
“If you’re not gonna listen to them, listen to me.” Paul pursed his lips. “If you start snooping around, like you did when you showed up at the frozen yogurt place, you’re going to deep-six the beautiful defense case I’m building for you. I’m advising you against it, strongly.”
“I hear you.”
“The question isn’t whether you hear me, but whether you heed me, and if you don’t, I’m telling.”
Eric looked over, confused. “Telling who? The cops? The judge?”
“No, worse. Laurie. She’ll smack you upside your head.”
Eric smiled, thinking about her. “You’re probably right. And I’ve seen her with a scalpel.”
“Ha! She has a dark side, my sister. Nobody believes it, but she used to torture me when I was little.” Paul reached for the radio and turned it on. “Let’s see if we can hear any report about what the cops are saying. We’re the big story, and I bet KYW has it, or NPR. I don’t care about their canned statement, but if they take questions, I want to know. I predict that your ears will be burning in three, two, one…”
Eric braced himself, and Paul punched a few numbers on the console and turned up the volume.
Captain Newmire’s voice came on the radio, saying: “To sum up, I would like to respond to the statement by Dr. Parrish’s attorney. We understand how much the doctor values his confidentiality, but we have reason to believe that Dr. Parrish has information concerning the murder of Renée Bevilacqua, a sixteen-year-old girl who was found strangled to death yesterday morning in Radnor.”
The reporters started murmuring, and Eric felt the impact of the statement like a body blow. It was the first time he had heard it enunciated so clearly, in public. It made him sound like he was protecting a murderer, and that’s what they would all think.
“We in law enforcement never forget the victims of a heinous crime or their grieving families. We are following all leads on the Renée Bevilacqua murder. Dr. Parrish’s lawyer is right when he said that when he claimed his privilege, our badges started spinning. That is because we do not take the murder of a young girl lightly.”
Paul winced. “Maybe you had to be there.”
Captain Newmire went on, “We want justice for Renée Bevilacqua. We do not appreciate it when our efforts to find out who murdered her are thwarted. Justice for Renée Bevilacqua far outweighs the legalities and technicalities. I’m not a lawyer, and I know there are statutes that protect Dr. Parrish’s confidentiality, but speaking as a father, I do not know how the man sleeps at night.” Captain Newmire paused, evidently composing himself.
Paul shook his head. “He’s not crying, is he? If he cries, the terrorists have won.”
Eric wasn’t laughing. The line about him sleeping at night had struck home. He had barely slept since this whole thing had happened.
Captain Newmire cleared his throat. “I’ll end my statement now and take a few questions, time permitting.”
The reporters responded by hollering their questions, but they weren’t on the microphone, so it sounded like a frantic cacophony, impossible to understand over the radio.
Captain Newmire came back on. “Okay, I’ll repeat the question, which is, ‘Don’t we give Dr. Parrish any credit for ending the standoff at the mall?’ Well, yes, while it is true that Dr. Parrish was involved in the effort to get the hostages out unharmed last night, I would point out that the heavy lifting was accomplished by law-enforcement personnel from the surrounding six counties, SWAT and Special Emergency Response Teams, or SERT, in addition to first responders such as firefighters and EMT personnel, and federal representatives from Homeland Security, ATF, and the FBI.”
Paul chuckled. “Deputy Dawg here reminds of my five-year-old. If it’s a truck, fire engine, or police car, he loves it. Scratch him and he’s Bob The Builder.”
Eric heard a new warmth in Paul’s tone, talking about his son. He thought of Hannah with a stab of guilt. He would have to call Susan as soon as he got home.
On the radio, Captain Newmire continued, “Finally, in answer to your question, we absolutely discourage citizens from interfering with emergent situations such as presented by the mall. It is for that reason that Dr. Parrish was charged with obstructing the administration of law, a misdemeanor. Upper Merion has a talented and well-trained police department, and King of Prussia is not the Wild Wild West. We don’t need any cowboys. Thank you very much, and now I’ll take the last question.”
Paul snorted. “Cowboys. Nice. Good analogy. I should’ve thought of that.”
On the radio, the reporters shouted questions, then Captain Newmire said, “The question, which is, ‘Does the District Attorney’s Office plan to compel Dr. Parrish to breach his doctor-patient privilege regarding any information he might have from Max Jakubowski regarding the Bevilacqua murder?’”
“Nice restatement,” Paul said, with a sly smile. “Sounds like the press got on board with us.”
Captain Newmire answered, “That is an excellent question, but unfortunately, that is not my expertise. That question can best be answered by the District Attorney’s Office, and as you all know, the D.A. is in the hospital at this time. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Aha!” Paul lowered the volume on the radio. “We learned something. We know the A.D.A. was supposed to be at the press conference. So why wasn’t he there? Because they heard what we said about the grand jury and they didn’t want to answer the question. The A.D.A. is the guy to answer the question, so they disappeared him. He went out for a glass of milk. That’s what they drink. Milk, no rocks.”
“So it’s good for us or not? Are they going to make me go to the grand jury?”
“It’s good for us, because it shows that they think we scored a hit. We backed them down, but they won’t stay down forever. They’ll regroup, get their ducks in a row, and go to the grand jury later, after everybody’s forgotten that you’re Wyatt Earp and they’ve spun you into the shrink who’s protecting a crazed murderer.”
“Damn,” Eric said, and Paul looked over, as he turned onto Old Gulph Road, heading toward home.
“So you’re taking my advice? No digging into that murder, right, cowboy?”
“Absolutely,” Eric said, looking out the window into the sun. “By the way, you need to bill me one of these days, don’t forget.”
“Geez, you are squeaky clean, aren’t you? I’m doing this as a favor to big sis.”
“The hell you are. Bill me.”
“On the other hand, if you marry my sister, I’ll pay you.” Paul smiled. They cruised along the winding streets, near his old house, passing the graceful stone homes of the Main Line, behind the fresh green stretches of perfect lawns and the mulched beds around the landscaped plantings. Both men fell silent, each to his own thoughts.
After a while, Paul broke the silence. “Eric, don’t take what Deputy Dawg said to he
art. It’s basically the difference between procedure and substance, and the fact is, the procedure protects the substance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know I sound geeky, but that’s where I live.” Paul wet his lips, warming to his topic. “Like I told you in the beginning, I represent the Constitution, and the procedure in the Constitution is there to protect everybody’s rights to its substance, that is, our individual freedoms—the right to live free, the right to pursue happiness, the right to free speech, the right to religion, and the right to be free of oppressive government. Follow?”
“Yes.”
“For example, we don’t want government to search our homes whenever they want, so we place restrictions on the procedure—the search warrant has to be specific, limited, has to itemize what they want, has to be served at a certain time, has to meet a bunch of requirements. They’re all so-called technicalities, but they protect the right to live your life, in your home, the way you want. That’s a freedom that our forefathers protected for us. That’s the beauty of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Capisce?”
“Yes.” Eric nodded. They had reached his neighborhood and were almost home.
“Just because somebody calls it a technicality, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter. Nobody thinks about it in a nuanced way, especially not Deputy Dawg, and to be fair, ours isn’t a nuanced culture. We paint everything in broad strokes, we don’t stop and analyze.” Paul turned to Eric, frowning. “I care about justice for Renée, too, don’t think I don’t. But screaming for justice isn’t how you get justice. You get justice because of the technicalities, not despite them.”
Eric looked over, surprised at his vehemence. “I get it, that makes sense.”
“Feel better?”
“No,” Eric answered, because they turned onto his street and he could see a commotion at the middle of the block, in front of his house. “What the hell?”
“Reporters. They must’ve looked up where you live. You’re not that hard to find.”
“Damn.” Eric scanned the scene as they got closer. Two TV news vans sat parked in front of his house, next to a long lineup of cars, disrupting the peace of the street.
“Okay, no problem, you know the drill. Don’t feed the trolls.”
“What does that mean?” Eric tried to estimate the number of reporters and stopped counting at fifty.
“It means we gave our statement, and now, it’s radio silence. Don’t talk to them. I’ll get you into the house, no comment all the way, and then you ignore them.”
“My neighbors must love this.”
“Get used to it. They’re there for the duration. Just say nothing and hold your head high. They’re not allowed on your property, that’s why they’re at the curb.”
“Got it.” Eric realized something, as they slowed to approach the line of cars. “They must have seen the front door, broken. They probably know the police searched my house.”
“There’s nothing you can do about that, so don’t sweat it.”
Eric felt an odd swell of shame. “I need to fix the door.”
“What is it with you and the door? Look on the bright side, you won’t get broken into with them there.”
Eric rolled his eyes.
“Again, cheering you up. Here we go.” Paul cruised to the line of news vans, slowing to turn into Eric’s driveway, and the reporters wheeled around, spotting them. “You have a back door, right?”
“Right.”
“How about a hammer and some nails?”
“For the door?”
“No, for the reporters.” Paul winked, as he slowed to steer into Eric’s driveway.
And the reporters came running.
Chapter Forty-eight
“Susan, thanks for taking my call,” Eric said into his new phone, as he hurried into his home office. Paul had left after he’d helped him nail the front door shut. He’d use the office entrance for now.
“Eric! I saw the news. That’s incredible, you saved those kids! I couldn’t believe it when I saw it on TV!”
“Great,” Eric tried to sound happy. Sunlight filtered through the panel of windows, sending luminous shafts on the papers, books, and purple DSM, scattered all over the floor. He opened his file cabinet and began thumbing through the patient files for Max’s, while he planned his next move.
“My son showed me YouTube videos of you, there’s like twenty of them so far, running past the cops. It already has thirty-two hundred views!”
“Susan, last night, I called home to talk to Hannah, and—”
“I know, I heard from Daniel.” Susan’s tone changed, her enthusiasm disappearing. “We have a problem.”
“I’ll say we do.” Eric thumbed through the patient files, toward the J’s. “Caitlin’s boyfriend tried to keep me from talking to Hannah, and she saw me on TV, she thought I was a bad guy. They wouldn’t let me explain it to her. Now it has to wait until I see her tonight.”
“Sorry, you’re not getting her tonight. They’re refusing in view of the Bevilacqua murder case. They filed a petition with the court today, for emergency relief. They want an order saying that Caitlin doesn’t have to let you have Hannah tonight.”
“Damn it! Caitlin knows I’m not guilty of any murder. She’s using it as an excuse. I’m not charged in connection with Bevilacqua.” Eric found the manila file labeled Max Jakubowski and pulled it out of the cabinet. He was going to review his notes to see what Max had said about Renée and refresh his memory of their sessions.
“Weren’t you just charged by the Upper Merion Police with obstruction of justice?”
“Well, yes, but because I went into the mall.” Eric shut the cabinet, went to his desk with the file, and cleared the debris to make a work space for himself. There had to be something that would give him a lead to follow up on.
“Eric, bottom line, you were arrested on CNN. Caitlin will get her order. We’d look like idiots if we oppose it. Besides, you’ve seen their papers from today, so you know the bad news.”
“Wait, what papers from today? What bad news? I haven’t seen anything.” Eric looked up from Max’s file, alarmed. He’d study it after the call.
“You haven’t seen what they filed? I thought that was why you called. I emailed them to you an hour ago.”
“Emailed? Oh no, I didn’t see them. The police confiscated my computer and my phone.” Eric scanned the disaster area that was his office.
“Well, this morning, they filed their response to our petition for primary custody.”
“Already?”
“Yes, I know, it’s even early, but it was a strategic, aggressive move. They’re striking while the iron is hot, and it doesn’t get any hotter. You just got out of jail and you’re a murder suspect.”
“Susan, you can’t really believe that I committed a murder.”
“I know, I understand that you’re protecting that patient, that Max. The papers are calling him Mad Max, you know.”
Eric winced. He didn’t confirm or deny what she’d said about Max because he couldn’t.
“Your patient killed that poor girl, and I totally understand that you have to keep it confidential. It’s like attorney-client privilege—”
“Susan, please, don’t editorialize. They’re just keeping me on the hook to try to get information out of me.” Eric knew he was losing the argument. He felt it slipping away from him, all over again. He had made his move for Hannah and he was going to lose his own daughter.
“Eric, it’s public record that you were taken in for questioning and are a suspect.”
“I won’t be a suspect much longer—”
“But you are now. It was a true statement when they filed. That’s why they didn’t wait. Their argument is strongest now.”
“Do I get any points, because of the mall thing? I don’t really think I’m a hero, but if it gets me Hannah, I’ll take it.”
“No, not in a custody case. You keep forgetting that it’s not a nice-guy con
test, it’s all about the best interests of Hannah. Plus their papers are really good, and so is their argument.”
“So what do they say?”
“I can sum it up for you. Max Jakubowski is your patient, and he’s clearly a dangerous character. He took kids hostage and imprisoned them in the video store.” Susan paused. “By the way, my son and his friends shop in that store, all the time. If that nutjob had hurt one hair on my son’s head—”
“Max wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He had no bullets, no bomb.” Eric let the nutjob go.
Susan scoffed. “Oh, that makes it okay? Do you know the trauma those kids must have gone through? You, of all people!”
“Susan, let’s stay on point. What does that have to do with my custody petition?”
“Everything, and I was getting to that. Max is your private patient, isn’t he? You hold your sessions with him at your house, don’t you?”
“Yes, right.”
“This would be the same house where you want Hannah to live with you?”
Eric grasped the implication of what she was saying.
“You’re asking them to award you primary custody at a home where, under the same roof, you treat patients so dangerous they take children hostage—at gunpoint? Make bomb threats? Cause the largest police action this area has seen, like, ever?”
“Oh no.” Eric rubbed his forehead. “But I curate my private clients. They’re harmless.”
“Then how did Max get into your private practice?”
“Max came in through the hospital, but that’s not the point. They’re safe.”
“We can’t convince a court of that, not now, after the mall. It only takes one kook to hurt Hannah. Hold on, let me read you Caitlin’s response.” Susan paused, and there was the sound of computer keys. “Here, it says, ‘Petitioner Husband has a list of ten private psychiatric clients whom he treats during regular therapy sessions, which are held at his home, in a small room attached to the back. The office is directly connected to the home through a door, which doesn’t even have a lock, and there is no security to prevent these mentally ill patients, including many on psychotropic medications, from entering the house at will.’”
Every Fifteen Minutes Page 32
