by Walter Marks
“Great.”
"It might be rushing it," Ben said. "But I've been watching you with the men. Like you said — you know your stuff.
I smiled.
"I can tell you care about these guys,” he went on. “You really want to help them."
"That's the name of the game," I said. Dumb response.
"One problem,” Ben said. “You’ve got no jail-house smarts. I mean, every guy in here is a double whammy — he's a felon and a looney-tune. You might get blind-sided by some...situation."
"I'll stay on my toes; before anything hits the fan, I'll come ask for help."
"Good," Ben said. "And I'd advise you to..."
"Enough with the help," I cut in, holding up my hand.
He laughed. I was beginning to like Ben. We'd gotten off to a rocky start, but he seemed to hold no grudge about the Victor Janko issue.
"You can start treating Bobby Sanchez this morning," Ben said. "I told him you'd be taking over for me."
"How did he react?"
"He said Lieutenant Columbo warned him not to trust nobody. I told him he could definitely trust you, and he said since he didn't trust me, how could he trust anybody I told him to trust?"
"Say what?"
“I’ve got him on Haldol,” Ben said. “So he’s pretty chilled out. But like I told you, this guy could be trouble. You should talk to the night nurse about him. Kim Cavanagh, have you met her?”
“Yes.”
“For some reason Sanchez seems more relaxed around her. Maybe she can give you some insight.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
If I have to, I have to.
“But you better be prepared," Ben said. "Sanchez is gonna give you the Stare, big-time."
When I went to see him I was ready for it. The patient fixed his eyes on me, scrutinizing my behavior; searching for evidence of hostility, fear, and especially harmful intent. I was familiar with the "paranoid look" from my work at Bellevue. I had a strong urge to look away, but forced myself to make eye-contact. I needed to show Sanchez I wasn't afraid of him and that I was concerned about his well-being.
I didn't make much progress, but I hadn’t expected to; it's very hard to gain the trust of a paranoid patient. When I told Sanchez he looked troubled, he narrowed his eyes and intensified his stare.
"There's a situation," he said. "As if ya didn't know."
"I don't know. But maybe if you tell me it I can help.”
"Hey, man, you can't bamboozle me," Sanchez said. "Lieutenant Columbo told me don’t tell nobody nothin’. See, I don't know who's in on it and who's not. If I tell you what I know, you might tell them. Or they might overhear me — they can listen in with their devices — then switch things around so’s I can't defend myself."
"Are you saying you're in danger?"
Sanchez looked around suspiciously. "There's a situation." He watched for my reaction. I looked interested.
"Yeah. Okay," Sanchez continued. "I'm in danger. That's all I'm gonna say."
I made no comment.
"You believe me, don't you?"
"I believe you feel you're in danger,” I said. “And it’s scary. And I understand why you don't think I'm on your side. After all, you don’t really know me. But maybe, as we spend more time together, we can develop a mutual trust and understanding. You willing to give that a shot?"
Sanchez looked at me guardedly. I noticed a slight softening of his stare. "Maybe," he said, looking away.
I smiled, got up and left without another word. One awkward remark or gesture could disturb the fragile connection I’d just made. But as I walked away I felt good. He'd given me a maybe.
Later that day I ran the group session while Ben observed. Everything went well till I suggested a little role-playing. I told Fart-breath and the fat man to act like they were each other. Fat laughed hysterically and Fart told me to go fuck myself.
Afterwards Ben said I did well, but the role-playing didn’t work because I was telling the men to do something.
“They feel like you’re giving them an order. Don’t be controlling. The guys do better when they have a feeling of freedom — ‘cause freedom’s what they miss most in their lives.”
Made sense.
After work I went over to see Victor Janko. He was uncharacteristically relaxed, and showed me his progress on the new painting.
“See, I mixed a little burnt umber in with the cadmium yellow to get the sand just right. Sand is hard.”
We talked about his art for a while, then I got down to business.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
“About what?”
“Yesterday I thought you were about to tell me something, when Stevie Karp walked in.”
It was like I flipped a switch; he became nervous and distant. He sat down on his cot, fidgeting.
"What did you want to say, Victor?"
He didn't respond.
"Talk to me.”
"I...I want to. But I'm afraid."
"Of what?"
"If I tell you," he said hesitantly, "I’m afraid you'll think I'm just trying to...get you on my side."
"I'd expect you to try and get me on your side."
He nodded. "Okay,” he said. “See, Father Emile, he told me I blocked out about the murder ‘cause I couldn't face that I did it. And for a long time, I thought he was probably right. But now, well, I've got this girlfriend ...Daisy. And she's been talking to me, telling me to look inside, and ask myself if I was really capable of killing another human being. And you know what? I realize now I could never take a person's life. Never. My girlfriend, she made me see that. So...for whatever it's worth, I believe I'm innocent."
I nodded.
"And Daisy believes I'm innocent too," he said. "Look, she wouldn't be my girlfriend if she didn't feel that way."
"What do you think did happen the night of the murder?"
"I don't know," he said quietly. "I wish I knew but I don't."
"What do you remember about that day? You have any memories at all?"
He closed his eyes, and swung his head slowly from side to side. “I remember...I was working that afternoon."
"Where?"
"At the A&P."
"Doing what?"
"Bagging groceries. I was a box-boy."
"You remember anything else?"
He looked up, his eyes sweeping the ceiling as if it held the answer.
"No," he said. "Nothing."
I pressed him, urging him to dig deeper into his memory. Then he took off his glasses. By now I recognized the signal; glasses off = conversation over/leave me alone.
I said we'd made some progress and I'd come back tomorrow. Victor gave me a faint smile.
I got up and left. As I walked down the hall I felt worn out; drained from a day spent trying to reach people who were uncommonly skilled at avoiding contact. I couldn't wait to get the hell outta there.
CHAPTER 11
Walking through the prison gate, I felt like I'd just been released from jail. The rain had stopped, and the warm night air smelled of pine and fresh cut grass. As I crossed the parking area, my body relaxed, and my mind started to clear.
I turned on the car radio and pressed scan, hoping to pick up a New York station. There was nothing but static until WPDH Poughkeepsie — Classic Rock. Led Zeppelin was doing the mystical “Stairway to Heaven”. I lowered the volume so it was background music, and turned my thoughts to Victor.
I still didn't know if he was lying when he said he had no memory of the murder. Now he’d brought up a new idea - he was innocent. Was that the truth or a manipulative fabrication?
When I got home I’d decided it might help if I got a look at the NYPD file on the Janko case. I needed to learn more about what happened the night of the killing.
The newspapers had portrayed Victor as close-mouthed, but maybe he'd made statements to the cops that were never released. Or there might’ve been details of the crime the police kept confidential.
But getting the file would be hard.
I got out of my work clothes and changed into shorts and my Boston Red Sox jersey. I remember when I was nine my father asked me how a New York kid could be a Red Sox fan.
“I root for ‘em ‘cause they never win.”
He looked at me with disdain. In the ‘86 World Series, when Mookie Wilson’s ground ball skipped between Bill Buckner’s legs, causing the Bosox to lose to the Mets, I said I felt sorry for the first baseman. Dad suggested I move my sorry ass to Boston. Maybe that’s why I later went to Harvard.
Thinking about my father gave me an idea. Dear old Dad had a lot of political clout in the city. He could get me the police file, and fast.
I hated to ask him for a favor. I rarely saw him; we got together at Thanksgiving and an occasional wedding or bris. But that was it.
I'd never gotten along with my dad, but things became worse when my mom got sick. I was sixteen when she was diagnosed with cervical cancer. My father’s a physician, an endocrinologist, and I expected him to really be there for her. But he couldn’t handle it. When she had chemo and lost all her hair, he hired full-time nurses’ aides and started working overtime at the hospital. When he did spend time with Mom he had this detached “bedside manner”, as if she were a clinic patient instead of his wife. The night she died I broke down in tears, and he comforted me by saying “Don’t cry, son. Your mother wouldn’t have wanted that.”
I couldn’t forgive him for his insensitivity, and my resentment simmered. Later, when I became more psychologically hip, I saw the situation as a classic Oedipal conflict. Still later, I came to a more banal conclusion. Oedipus-Schmoedipus, my father is just a schmuck.
After Mom’s death, Dr. Zachary Rothberg seemed to fulfill my vision of him. He wrote a best-selling diet book. He guested on talk shows, plugging his book and stoking his ego. The book was "Try A Little Slenderness — a Couples' Approach to Weight-loss." It was no more than a compendium of the Dean Ornish low-fat diet, standard couples' therapy, and a dollop of Dr. Ruth Westheimer (the caloric expenditure of sexual intercourse, fellatio, and heavy petting.) Dr. Zach's fame enabled him to open a chic weight-loss clinic in Tribeca, and over the years he accumulated megabucks. Later he joined the committee to elect the current mayor, setting up star-studded campaign bashes and persuading some of his celebrity pals to support his candidate.
The nadir of my feelings came the night I watched my father on TV, standing next to the Mayor during his acceptance speech. Dad was waving his hands in the air making the "vee" sign, grinning as if "Happy Days Are Here Again" were being played for him. Yes, he was a schmuck, but he could get me that file.
He usually worked late, so I called him at the office. A chirpy voice said "Rothberg Wellness Institute. How may I direct your call?"
"Dr. Rothberg, please." Dr. Rothberg? I'm Dr. Rothberg.
"Dr. Rothberg's office," chirped somebody else.
"Is he there?'
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"His son."
“Does he...have more than one son?”
“Not that I know of.”
"One moment please."
She put me on hold, and I heard synthesizer music — "I've Gotta be Me." I moaned. Dad picked up.
"Hey, Kiddo," he said. "What's happenin' at the hoosegow?'
Schmucking out already. Still I did what I had to do. I kissed Big Daddy’s ass.
I steered the conversation to his favorite subject — Dr. Zachary Rothberg. After about fifteen minutes of me-me-me, Dr. Rothberg the elder was feeling we’d bonded anew. Then I said I needed his help. The prospect of his son being needy and dependent thrilled the Good Doctor. He promised to call his pal the mayor right away, who’d then call the Police Commissioner. I'd get the NYPD file ASAP. “I’ll have it messengered up to you.”
“That would be great.”
“Hey, what’s a father for?”
I stifled my wise-ass answer, thanked him and hung up.
But one remark Dr. Zack made stuck with me. When I said I needed Victor Janko's police file, my father said, "Davey, you're supposed to be a shrink. Since when did you become a detective?"
Good question.
CHAPTER 12
"Yo, Doc. Check out the booty on that fox."
I was in a booth next to the visiting room, watching a closed circuit TV monitor. The VR guard was commenting on Daisy as she walked into camera range wearing tight poplin cut-offs. The day I'd interviewed her she was wearing baggy jeans and a man's shirt. Now I could see her taut, shapely legs, her nicely curved buttocks, and her small breasts poking out against her white tee-shirt.
"That’ll pitch a tent in yo’ trousers, know'm'sayin'?" the guard said.
I knew what he was sayin’.
Victor was waiting behind a Plexiglas window. It had a small, perforated section in it. Daisy sat down, said a few words, then Victor began to speak. He seemed angry.
"No sound?" I asked.
"Uh-uh," the guard answered. "Law say they got the right to privacy."
Daisy looked tenderly at Victor, leaning into the perforated holes as she spoke. Suddenly Victor burst out laughing.
Watching him and Daisy was fascinating. There was an easy familiarity between them; like any couple on the outside who'd been together for long time.
"Tell me somethin', Doc," the guard said. "What's a hot lookin' lady like that doin' with a sorry-ass wimp like Janko?"
Another good question.
"Check this out," the guard whispered. "They do like this every time."
I watched Victor and Daisy on the video screen.
They placed their hands on the Plexiglas in various, seemingly predetermined positions. Moving in slow motion, they appeared to be touching each other through the cold plastic. They pressed their cheeks together, and finally their lips, in a tender and passionate expression of love.
I felt like a voyeur.
Daisy sat back in her chair, glowing like she'd just had sex.
Is this the epitome of true love? Kindred spirits, so closely bonded they can feel each other without even touching? Or is it self-delusion — two neuroses feeding on each other in a romantic charade?
After work, I went over to see Victor. Right away I knew something was wrong. He lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling, eyeglasses off. He didn’t acknowledge me. I looked at Victor’s painting. The sand, with its subtly mixed yellow pigments, was still confined to the grid he’d filled in yesterday.
"How’re things going?"
"Fine." He closed his eyes.
"You haven't done much on your painting."
"I'm... not in the mood, I guess."
"Something bothering you?"
"No."
He began the whistling.
"Victor," I said. "What are doing?"
"I'm...just waiting for your next question."
Hard to believe this is same the man I’d watched in the visiting room, so emotionally open with Daisy.
I studied Victor's face, hoping it held a clue to his feelings. Nothing.
"Victor,” I said. “I'm trying to help you, but I can't do it alone."
He picked up his blanket and started pulling at the little pills of wool. He became totally engrossed.
I said good-bye and left the cell. When I walked down the corridor I saw Stevie Karp at the guard station, hunched over a desk. His scraggly ponytail was drooping down from his hat, like a dead spider plant.
"Hey, Doc," Karp said. He was cutting his fingernails with a nail clipper, attached to the lanyard that held his keys. "Vic's in one of his black moods today," he said.
"He sure didn't feel like talking."
The guard clipped away, nail snippets falling willy-nilly. "That's how he gets sometimes." click. "He'll go for days without sayin' nothin'." click-click.
"Does he stop painting when he gets that way?"
"No. He paints every day." Stevie squinted his eyes. "Y'know, this ain't like him. Could be he’s steppin' over the lin
e."
"What do you mean?"
"Doc," the guard said solemnly, "I think Victor might be goin' schizo." He distorted his face to make it look demented. It wasn't much of a stretch.
"Do me a favor, Stevie," I said. "Leave the diagnosing to me."
I left the Ad Seg Unit feeling frustrated. The connection I'd made with Victor was gone. Ordinarily I wouldn't worry; it happens with deeply troubled patients and over time you can reconnect. But in this case I didn't have any time. The parole hearing was in a week. And Karp said Victor could go for days without speaking.
If I can't make him open up, I’ll have no more insight than the computer program; I'll have failed my patient...and myself. With nothing more to go on, I’ll have to assume he’s dangerous and recommend against parole. All right, so be it. Except...what if Victor’s innocent?
Is that likely? No. Is it possible? Yes.
What’s my next move? Maybe the police file will tell me something. But that’s a big question mark. So’s my father. Who the hell knows if he'll even get it for me?
I decided to go back to my office and put a dent in my paper work.
Somehow I felt Victor's withdrawal was my fault. But where did I go wrong?
Ed Sorenson had drummed his dictum into me during my three-year residency: Psychiatry is the most inexact of the medical sciences. The therapist is always groping in the dark, trying to solve the most mystifying of mysteries, the most puzzling of puzzles. There’s no room for perfectionism in psychiatry. What's required is dogged determination; the courage to follow all paths and open all doors. And the acceptance of one inescapable fact — you are going to make mistakes.
CHAPTER 13
On the way to my office , I stopped at the nurses' station.
“Hey, Kim.”
“Hi.” When she smiled her left cheek was indented by something you could either call a crease or a dimple. I leaned towards dimple.
“I’m going to be taking care of Bobby Sanchez,” I told her. “Dr. Caldwell says you’ve got a good rapport with him.”
