Providence Rag

by Bruce DeSilva

  “They appeared to be so, but it is impossible for me to say with certainty.”

  “If my client were a true psychopath, would he be capable of feeling remorse?”

  “He would not.”

  “So if I understand your testimony, then, Doctor, my client is not a psychopath. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Well…” Once again, the witness’s hands flew to his bow tie. “You must understand that it’s not that simple.”

  “Then please explain it to us.”

  “Antisocial personality disorder isn’t an infectious disease like rabies or influenza. It’s not something that you either have or do not have. It consists of a series of traits and behaviors that are prevalent in the general population to varying degrees. Mr. Diggs is unique … well, not unique, but quite unusual—in that he exhibits them to a much greater degree than is the norm.”

  “But not great enough to be diagnosed as a psychopath.”

  “That would be correct,” Dr. Baer said.

  “Doctor, how many individuals do you suppose are in the courtroom today?”

  “I would estimate about two hundred.”

  “In your professional opinion, Doctor, what are the odds that any of them are psychopaths?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Roberts shouted.

  “Overruled,” the judge said. “I want to hear this.”

  “Most studies,” the witness said, “indicate that three point six percent of the general population meet the criteria for that diagnosis.”

  “So if my math is right,” Freyer said, “the odds are that seven of the people present today have this condition, is that right?”

  “If the people in this courtroom are representative of the general population, which is not something we can know with any degree of certainty, that would be correct, yes.”

  “And how likely is it, Dr. Baer, that any of those seven people are going to leave here today and go out and murder someone?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Well, do you consider it likely?”

  “No.”

  “It is, in fact, extremely unlikely, is it not?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Now then,” Freyer said, “let’s turn to your testimony that Kwame Diggs is also bipolar. Are bipolar patients typically dangerous?”

  “No.”

  “Are they more likely than the average person to commit violent crimes?”

  “I am aware of no evidence that they are.” Again with the bow tie.

  “Can bipolar disorder be controlled with medication?”

  “In most cases, yes.”

  “Is my client currently taking such medication?”

  “He is now, on my recommendation.”

  “Has his condition improved since he began taking the medication?”

  “I have no firsthand knowledge of this.”

  “Have you spoken to the Corrections Department medical staff about how he is doing on the medication?”

  “I have.”

  “And what have they told you?”

  “Objection. Hearsay,” Roberts bellowed.

  “Must I remind you, Mr. Roberts, that this is not a criminal trial?” the judge said. “Objection overruled. The witness may answer.”

  “They say that he is improving.”

  “Is there any reason to believe that Kwame Diggs would not continue to do well if he is released?”

  “That depends on whether he continues to take his medication.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that he wouldn’t?”

  “No, but I have no reason to believe that he would, either.”

  “So you can’t be sure either way.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Your Honor,” Freyer said, “I have no further questions at this time.”

  “Mr. Roberts,” Judge Needham said, “would you care to reexamine?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” He rose and approached the witness.

  “And Mr. Roberts?” the judge said. “Please refrain from that infernal pacing.”

  “I’ll try, Your Honor. Dr. Baer, you testified that patients suffering from antisocial personality disorder are deceitful, manipulative, and incapable of remorse, is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “So when Mr. Diggs expressed remorse for his crimes, he was probably lying, isn’t that correct?”

  “He may have been. There is no way to be sure.”

  “And if he promises to continue his medication for bipolar disorder, that could also be a lie, isn’t that right?”

  “It could be, yes.”

  “Can his antisocial personality disorder also be controlled with medication?”

  “There are no medications available to treat that condition.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Roberts said, and returned to his seat.

  Visibly relieved, Dr. Baer rose and stepped from the witness chair.

  “One moment, Doctor,” Judge Needham said. “I have a few questions of my own.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the psychiatrist said. He sighed audibly and settled back into the witness chair.

  “If Kwame Diggs were to be released from custody, do you think he would immediately seek to commit another murder?”

  “It is conceivable that he would do so.”

  “Doctor, it is conceivable that any of us might do so. What I need to know is how likely it is.”

  Again with the bow tie.

  “If you are asking me to give you odds,” the witness said, “I cannot provide a medical answer.”

  “You’re saying you don’t know?”

  “That is correct.”

  “I have nothing further,” Judge Needham said. “The witness is excused. Mr. Roberts, would you like to be heard at this time?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” he said, rising to address the court. “The State has presented incontrovertible medical evidence that Kwame Diggs is suffering from not one but two serious mental disorders. Our expert witness has testified that if he were ever to be released, he would pose a danger to himself and others. We ask the court to order that he be remanded to a secure mental hospital once his current sentence for assaulting a prison guard expires—or in the event that said sentence should be vacated. The State asks that he remain confined until such time as his condition no longer poses a risk to himself and to the people of Rhode Island.”

  “Miss Freyer?” the judge said.

  “Your Honor, the State has failed to meet its burden to prove that Kwame Diggs poses an immediate threat to himself or others. We ask that the State’s request be denied.”

  Needham swiveled in his chair and faced the TV pool camera, a troubled expression on his face.

  “The court is mindful of the horrific nature of the crimes for which Kwame Diggs was convicted,” he said. “I am also aware that the prospect of his release has produced an atmosphere of fear and anger such as I have never seen in my twenty years on the bench. As a grandfather of six, five of them girls, I understand those emotions, and to a degree I share them. However, the court must follow the law without respect to the vagaries of public opinion.”

  As the judge paused for a deep breath, Mulligan noticed that a woman in one of the spectator benches was surreptitiously thumbing a text message on her smartphone.

  “The evidence is clear that Kwame Diggs is suffering from two serious mental disabilities,” the judge continued. “What is not clear is the degree to which his release would pose an imminent danger, and that is the standard on which this case must be decided. I shall require a day or two to study the evidence and review the case law again before making my decision. I ask for your patience … and your prayers.

  “Meanwhile, I have been informed by the bailiff that a large and disorderly crowd has formed on the courthouse steps. In the interest of safety, I urge the attorneys and the witness to exit the building through the north-side door, where you will be provided with a police escort to your vehicles. Spectators and members of t
he press who wish to avoid the tumult are also invited to depart by the side door.

  “This court is adjourned.”

  * * *

  Mulligan shoved through the front door of the courthouse and found a skirmish line of uniformed Providence cops standing on the front step. They were edgy this time. Five of them had drawn batons from their Sam Browne belts and were slapping the shafts against their palms.

  Standing behind Chief Angelo Ricci, Mulligan did a rough count. About nine hundred, he figured, many of them waving protest signs and all of them looking angry. They spilled down the steps, onto the sidewalk, and out into Benefit Street, where they were obstructing traffic.

  A half-dozen TV reporters, accompanied by cameramen, were working the crowd, shoving their microphones into the faces of protesters for quotes that would pad their evening reports. Mulligan looked around for Gloria. He knew she was out there somewhere, snapping pictures.

  At the curb across the street, Iggy Rock was broadcasting live from the back of WTOP’s mobile van, his words lashing the crowd from a pair of loudspeakers.

  “According to our source inside the courtroom, Judge Needham claims he needs, and I quote, some time, unquote, to make his ruling,” Iggy was saying. The source, Mulligan figured, was the woman he’d seen texting. “He needs time?” Iggy snarled. “Really? What for? Time to get out of town before he sets a monster loose to prey on our wives, sisters, and daughters?”

  The crowd hooted and shook their signs.

  “Because that’s what he’s going to do,” Iggy shouted. “He telegraphed his decision by what he said at the conclusion of the hearing. He said, and again I quote, ‘What is not clear is the degree to which his release would pose an imminent danger, and that is the standard on which this case must be decided.’”

  The crowd howled.

  Not the most responsible thing for Iggy to be doing, Mulligan thought, but at least he hadn’t passed along the word that the principals in the case were leaving by the side door.

  The first egg landed with a splat on Chief Ricci’s visor. Suddenly, the air was thick with them. Mulligan remained behind the chief, using him for cover.

  Two of the uniforms raised their batons and stepped forward.

  “Steady,” Ricci commanded, and the officers froze in place.

  Ricci raised a megaphone to his lips. “Let’s keep it peaceful, people,” he shouted. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt today. The show’s over now. Time to go home.”

  More hoots. More eggs.

  Then someone threw a rock. It sailed over the chief’s head and cracked one of the courthouse’s glass doors.

  The chief lowered the megaphone.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s move them out.”

  The cops raised their batons and waded into the crowd. Ricci watched them go and sadly shook his head.

  And then he ducked.

  * * *

  Mulligan regained consciousness in the Rhode Island Hospital emergency room with a throbbing headache and a gauze bandage on his left temple. To his right, he heard a commotion. He turned his head on the pillow and saw stocking feet protruding from the cuffs of a Providence police uniform, the rest of the prone figure obscured by a partially closed curtain.

  A TV mounted on the wall was tuned to the news. After a couple of minutes, Mulligan caught the gist. Three police officers, a dozen protesters, and a journalist had been taken to the hospital with an assortment of gashes, bruises, and broken bones.

  65

  “Mrs. Diggs?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Gloria.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Her voice was so cold and bitter that it made Gloria shiver.

  “Did you watch the confession?”

  Esther Diggs was silent for a moment. Then she hung up.

  66

  WTOP’s mobile broadcasting van claimed a spot on Benefit Street across from the Superior Court building shortly before eight thirty A.M. Minutes later, police chased it off.

  At nine, an hour before Judge Needham was expected to take the bench, protesters began to gather again on the courthouse steps. Outside his courtroom’s swinging double doors, sheriffs ordered spectators to drop their cell phones into a cardboard box. The authorities were not about to let Iggy Rock stir up trouble again today.

  It was ten forty-five before Needham emerged from his chambers and climbed onto his booster seat behind the bench.

  “I have made a decision in this case,” he said. “I shall not read it in full at this time; but immediately after we adjourn, the attorneys and representatives of the press may obtain copies in the clerk’s office. Afterwards, I suggest you all again exit the building by the side door.”

  He paused and looked directly into the pool camera.

  “The State has failed to offer convincing evidence that Kwame Diggs poses an immediate threat to himself and others,” he said. “Therefore, the petition that he be involuntarily committed to a psychiatric facility upon completion of his sentence is regrettably denied.”

  Howls rose from the spectator benches.

  From his seat in the jury box, Mulligan saw Attorney General Roberts slump at the prosecution table, his head in his hands. Needham climbed down from the bench, scurried out of the courtroom, and, Mulligan figured, headed right out of town.

  * * *

  The crowd outside the courthouse was the largest one yet, but today it was oddly subdued. Perhaps because the judge’s ruling had broken its spirit. Perhaps because the Providence police were out in force, at least forty officers bunched on the courthouse steps and a dozen mounted officers patrolling the perimeter.

  Mulligan walked among the protesters, collecting a few bitter quotes for his story. As he was about to leave, someone shouted, “Impeach Needham!”

  The crowed picked up the chant.

  67

  “You’ve been busy,” Mason said.

  “I have.”

  It was a balmy evening, so they’d taken a sidewalk table at Andino’s Italian Ristorante on Atwells Avenue, the main thoroughfare through the city’s Italian neighborhood of Federal Hill.

  Felicia tossed Mason an inviting smile and offered him a bite of her lobster ravioli. He nibbled the creamy pasta from her fork, closed his eyes, and sighed. Then he dipped his fork into his plate of veal saltimbocca and raised it to her lips.

  “I take it you were served,” she said. Mason didn’t want to talk about Diggs, but his specter was at the table with them.

  “I was,” he said.

  “And?”

  “The paper’s attorney will fight the subpoena for my notes,” he said. “No way we’re ever going to give them up.”

  “But will you testify?”

  “Only to what’s in the story,” Mason said. “Nothing more.”

  “What about the video?”

  “Did you subpoena the Corrections Department for it?”

  “I did, but I’m afraid they might claim it’s been discarded. The bastards could be erasing it as we speak.”

  “If you can’t get the tape from another source,” Mason said, “we’ll surrender our copy.”

  “With your testimony, that should be enough.”

  “The hearing is still scheduled for Wednesday?”

  “It is. Judge Needham will be presiding again.”

  “Think he’ll rule in your favor?”

  “It’s a slam dunk.”

  “When will Diggs be released?”

  “That depends on whether Roberts appeals the decision—and on how long the state Supreme Court drags its feet before admitting there are no grounds to overturn it.”

  “So it’s almost over,” Mason said.

  There was a life waiting on the other side of the ugliness they’d been surrounded by for so long. Looking at Felicia, her hair glistening in the candlelight, he decided it was time to cross the line.

  “How’s October in Paris sound?” he asked, and then immediately regretted it. He hadn’t just cross
ed a line. He’d hurdled the Atlantic.

  She laughed as if she thought he was kidding.

  “Don’t be so fast to spoil me. I’m thinking October in Rhode Island. The crisp air will smell of dead leaves, decaying shellfish, and a hint of petroleum. And there’ll be carved pumpkins on every stoop. It’s a great time to cuddle up in front of a fire. Let’s see how that works out and then take it from there, okay?”

  * * *

  The robe with the yellow lightning bolts was not in evidence on Wednesday. Judge Needham had reverted to classic black for the occasion.

  The hearing on Freyer’s petition—including Mason’s testimony and a viewing of surveillance video reluctantly provided by the Corrections Department—took less than an hour.

  “Do you have anything further, Mr. Roberts?” the judge asked.

  “No, Your Honor,” the attorney general said.

  “And you, Miss Freyer?”

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  “Sit tight,” the judge said. “You’ll have my ruling in a half hour.”

  “All rise,” the bailiff boomed as the judge slid down from his booster seat and scurried to his chambers.

  “A half hour? Really?” said Nancy Grace, the CNN court analyst, who was seated beside Mulligan in the crowded jury box.

  “I think the judge is in a hurry to get out of town,” Mulligan said.

  As they waited, Grace and reporters for The New York Times, The Boston Globe, and the Associated Press peppered Mulligan with questions: Why did the Dispatch run Mason’s story? Did the decision cause internal dissension in the newsroom? How many readers had canceled their subscriptions?

  Ten thousand and counting, Mulligan knew, but he kept it to himself.

  “If I’ve learned anything in my twenty years in the news business, it’s this,” he told Grace. “Never talk to a reporter.”

  “All rise,” the bailiff shouted.

  The judge hustled back into the courtroom, scrambled onto his booster seat, and turned to face the pool TV camera. He’d been gone less than twenty minutes.

  “Kwame Diggs is a cold-blooded killer,” Needham said. “There is nothing to suggest that he has been rehabilitated in prison, and I shudder to think what he might do upon his release. If it were in my power, he would remain locked up until the day he dies. However, the law and the facts in this case are clear.