Final Appeal

by Joanne Fluke

  “Shall we start?” Dr. Bowman glanced at the clock just as if he could see through the mesh. Then he opened his briefcase and cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Bowman,” A frizzy-haired social worker raised her hand. Michael remembered seeing her in the halls when he went to therapy. “I believe you have the case histories?”

  “I do? Oh, yes. Here they are.”

  Dr. Bowman passed out the red-covered folders. When Michael had asked, Jack had explained that red was the hospital’s color code for convicted murderers. Everything was color-coded. It was policy. Michael wished his folders were a different color—blue, perhaps, even though that was the color for homosexuals, or good old paranoid–schizophrenic yellow. At least he knew what was inside the folders; no surprises this time. Jack had managed to get his hands on a copy, and Michael had memorized it during his allotted ten minutes in the lavatory. A good actor had to be a quick study, and he still thought he’d been a good actor.

  There was a rustle of papers as the members of the board turned to the first page. Vital statistics.

  “Now, er . . . Michael?” Dr. Bowman glanced at the case history. “Could you please give me your full name?”

  “Excuse me, doctor?” The social worker interrupted again. “Shouldn’t we inform the patient of the purpose of this hearing?”

  “What?” Dr. Bowman looked startled. “Oh, yes. You’re right of course.” As he fumbled in his briefcase, Michael observed him very carefully.

  Everything about Dr. Bowman was a bit rumpled. He was wearing a suit that had once been expensive, but now it was growing tight around the middle, and there were several large grease spots on his tie. His salt-and-pepper beard needed trimming, and it didn’t match the color of his hair. Doctor Bowman was in his late fifties, and his hair was glossy black. That was unusual, unless . . . Michael bit back a smile.

  The doctor drew out a piece of paper and studied it for a moment. There were bright spots of color in his pasty cheeks, and his nose was a road map of broken veins. Michael would have cast him in Days of Wine and Roses, but he certainly wasn’t about to mention that. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Dr. Bowman cleared his throat again and started to read. “As you may know, er . . . Michael, this board is charged with a solemn responsibility to make certain that you will be a contributing and law-abiding member of society in the event of your release. We are required to ask you a series of questions to assess your grasp of reality and your competency to make logical and reasonable assumptions. Now, where were we?”

  “I believe you were about to ask the patient his name,” the social worker prompted.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Dr. Bowman turned to face Michael and gave his impression of a reassuring smile. It wasn’t very good. Forget Days of Wine and Roses. Dr. Bowman would never make it as an actor.

  “Try to relax Michael. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re all concerned for your best interests. I want you to think of us as your friends.”

  Michael nodded and managed to keep the pleasant expression on his face. He had no friends here, not a familiar face in the bunch unless you counted the social worker he barely knew. Jack had petitioned to attend, but his request had been denied. You had to be in a position of authority to sit in on the review board. No orderlies allowed.

  “Let us begin.” Dr. Bowman picked up his folder and glanced at the first page. “Would you please give me your full and complete name?”

  Michael opened his mouth, and the answer came out. “Michael Allen Hart.” As several members of the board picked up their pens and began to write, he realized that he’d missed one already. Now he’d have to explain, and Jack told him not to volunteer anything, just to answer the questions and remember to smile. This would have to be an exception.

  “Hart is my stage name, Dr. Bowman. I’ve been using it ever since I graduated from college. My legal name is Gerhardt, Michael Allen Gerhardt.”

  Dr. Bowman nodded, “Very good, Michael. I’m glad you made that distinction. Could you please give me your last street address?”

  Michael hesitated. Surely, they didn’t want the address of the prison where he’d spent his first few months. Or the hospital where he’d gone through the surgeries. He’d try the apartment. That must be right.

  “Sixty-one fifty-five Franklin Avenue, apartment eighteen, Hollywood, California. I . . . I’m not sure of the zip code. Nine-zero-zero-two-six?”

  Dr. Bowman referred to his notes. “It was nine-zero-zero-two-eight, but that’s perfectly acceptable. This board doesn’t expect you to be able to pass a postal service quiz on zip codes.”

  There was a titter of laughter, and Michael remembered to smile. Normal people were expected to smile politely, no matter how lame the joke.

  “And what were your parent’s names?”

  “Robert Stanley Gerhardt and Cassie, that’s short for Cassandra, Gerhardt.”

  “And your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Cassandra Michele Norman.”

  “Do you have any relatives living in the state of California?”

  “Yes. My older brother, Stan Gerhardt, lives in Los Angeles and my Aunt Alice . . .” Michael faltered as he realized that Aunt Alice was dead. That was two he’d missed already, and the interview had just started. “I’m sorry, Dr. Bowman. I just remembered that my Aunt Alice Norman passed away last year.”

  “She did?” Dr. Bowman studied the folder for a moment. “Yes, that’s correct. Michael. Now, do you know today’s date?”

  “September fourteenth.”

  “And the day of the week?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Did you say Thursday?” Dr. Bowman frowned. Michael nodded, and the social worker spoke up again.

  “He’s right, doctor. Today is Thursday.”

  Dr. Bowman glared at her, and Michael hoped she wouldn’t get into trouble. She was the only one on the board who seemed to be on his side.

  “Let’s go on then, Michael, who is the current president of the United States?”

  Michael froze. How was he supposed to know that?

  It wasn’t fair!

  “I . . . I’m not sure. Dr. Bowman. We’re not allowed to watch the news on television because it upsets some of the patients and we don’t have access to newspapers. I do know that nineteen eighty-eight was an election year, and the last time I heard, Vice President Bush was leading in the polls.”

  Michael winced as several board members made notes. If he’d known they were going to ask about the president, he would have found out from Jack.

  “All right, Michael.” Dr. Bowman referred to the sheet of paper again. “I realize that the following material may be painful, but we must have your complete recollection of the events that occurred ten years ago on . . . uh . . . what was that date again?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, and finally the social worker spoke. “October second, doctor.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gray.” Turning his focus back to the patient, Dr. Bowman said, “Michael? Please answer the question.”

  Michael took a deep breath. He’d gotten this far before, but after he’d told them and exposed all his fears and uncertainties, they’d still denied his release.

  “October second was the day my wife, Carole died.”

  “Died?”

  “She was murdered. And I was convicted.”

  “Very good, go on Michael.”

  “I had an audition, but it was canceled, so I went straight home. And when I opened the door, I found Carole packing her things. I couldn’t believe it when she told me that she was leaving. She wanted a divorce.”

  “And how did you feel about that?”

  “I was shocked. And hurt. Especially when I saw the note, she’d written. It was clear she’d been planning on leaving without even talking to me.”

  “Did that make you angry?”

  Michael winced, but he knew he had to tell the truth. “Yes, I thought I deserved bet
ter than that, but I tried not to let my anger get in the way. I told her that I loved her, that I wanted to try to work things out. I even suggested we go to a marriage counselor for help, but she wouldn’t listen. She just kept packing things in boxes and repeating that our marriage was over and I had to accept it.”

  “She wouldn’t tell you why she was leaving?”

  “No. She said it was too late to even discuss it. The whole thing was so frustrating!”

  Dr. Bowman leaned forward. “And was that when you killed her?”

  “No!” Michael gripped the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “I . . . we had a fight, a terrible fight. And I left.”

  “Dr. Bowman?” The social worker spoke up again. “The patient is obviously agitated, and I feel we must have some compassion for . . .” Her voice trailed off as Dr. Bowman banged his fist on the table.

  “I’m warning you, Mrs. Gray. I’m the chairman of this board, and I have the power to evict you from this proceeding. I’m sure Michael knows that no one in this room, including me, wants to cause him any unnecessary pain. Isn’t that right, Michael?”

  “Yes, Dr. Bowman.”

  “You’re doing fine, Michael. Now take a deep breath, relax, and tell me where you went when you left the apartment.”

  “I went to a bar, Barney’s Beanery, in West Hollywood. I was hoping to run into some of my friends. I needed someone to talk to, someone to tell me what to do.”

  “Of course you did. And were your friends there?”

  “No, I sat there for a couple of hours, but no one I knew came in, so I left.”

  “And that was when you went back to kill your wife?”

  This was the time Dr. Bowman wanted him to break down, to admit he’d killed Carole. But he hadn’t! He knew he hadn’t! It was Heller’s Catch Twenty-Two. If he lied and said, he’d gone back to the apartment to murder Carole in a fit of passion. Dr. Bowman would pat him on the back for accepting reality and release him. He’d said as much in a staff meeting, and Jack had heard about it through the hospital grapevine. There were no secrets from orderlies. But if Michael told the truth and swore that he hadn’t killed Carole. Dr. Bowman would decide he was still denying and keep him locked up with the caged clock forever.

  Dr. Bowman was speaking again. Michael forced himself to listen.

  “. . . your own good, Michael. I want to help you, but my hands are tied if you refuse to cooperate. It’s really quite simple. All you have to do is tell me precisely how you killed your wife.”

  Michael opened his mouth to play the game. It was the only way. Then he saw how Dr. Bowman was leaning forward in rapt fascination. His eyes were unblinking, and he seemed to be having some trouble breathing. The rasping sound of the air passing between his colorless lips reminded Michael of something in his past, something ugly.

  It took a moment, but then he started to remember. Aunt Alice had taken them to a county fair. While she’d gone through the exhibit buildings, they’d explored the midway. Stan had gone off to buy them some cotton candy, and Michael had waited by the brightly colored posters advertising the wonders inside the tents. He’d stared at the pictures of the two-headed snake in a bottle, the half-man half-woman, and the bearded lady, wishing that he could go inside to see them. Then a smiling man had approached with an extra ticket. Would Michael like to go inside?

  Michael had known he shouldn’t. Stan had told him to stay put and not move. He glanced at the cotton candy booth and he could see that there were a lot of people ahead of Stan in line. That meant he had time to see the wonderful things inside the tent and be back outside before Stan even reached the counter.

  It was just too much of a temptation for a little boy to resist.

  As soon as the tent flap had closed, the man who had seemed so friendly had changed. He’d grasped Michael’s hand and held it tightly. And pulled it forward to touch something Michael knew he shouldn’t touch. He’d kicked and broken free, but he still remembered that the man in the tent had been breathing exactly like Dr. Bowman was breathing right now.

  “Don’t block it out, Michael. I know what’s best for you.”

  Dr. Bowman moved his chair closer and reached out to take Michael’s hand. “You’ll feel so much better when you tell me all about it. Carole hurt you deeply. Of course, you wanted to punish her, to see her suffer. To cause her the kind of . . .”

  The thought hit his mind like a sledge hammer. The perverted bastard was getting off on Carole’s murder!

  Someone must have jerked on the balloon string, because suddenly Michael was flying up out of the green plastic chair to fasten his fingers around Dr. Bowman’s neck.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Law Firm of Gerhardt, Merrill, and Davis

  Los Angeles, California

  Stan stopped to glance at his Rolex and then resumed pacing across his new brown and gold Aubusson carpet. His secretary had put in a call to Jerry Bowman more than an hour ago, and the doctor still hadn’t called back. No one ever kept Stan Gerhardt waiting that long!

  As he covered the length of his large corner office, Stan was aware of the luxury that surrounded him. The offices of Gerhardt, Merrill, and Davis had recently been redecorated by Ralph of Brentwood, at considerable corporate expense. Several original oils hung on the walls, a secure investment that would surely double or even triple in the next ten years. Stylish but comfortable swivel chairs covered in natural chamois flanked the solid rosewood conference table. The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in a heavy, natural silk that filtered in just the right amount of light, and a brass sculpture of Lady Justice, complete with blindfold and scales, dominated the corner by the marble fireplace. The statue had been commissioned from a leading artist, and it glowed with a soft sheen from the reflected light.

  Stan smiled briefly as he thought about his confrontation with Ralph. The prissy little decorator had strutted through Stan’s offices like the Queen of the May, disturbing junior and senior partners alike with his palettes of paint samples and fabric swatches. At least he’d had the foresight to leave Stan alone—until that day when he’d actually interrupted one of Stan’s weekly staff meetings with a crisis. A decision had to be made immediately between robin’s-egg blue and pale melon. Stan had smiled and told him to go with the melon.

  Since Ralph’s work for Gerhardt, Merrill, and Davis would be featured in several prestigious magazines, the decorator had been a tyrant for absolute perfection. The furniture had already been selected, a painstaking process that had taken months. Every piece had to fit into Ralph’s framework for the complete conceptual environment. When the receptionist’s designer phone had been delivered in ivory instead of cream, Ralph had gone into a full-scale tizzy, screaming at the delivery man as if he were personally responsible. That was when Stan had decided it was time for a power play.

  He’d left the office at noon and gone to a secondhand furniture store that advertised overnight delivery. When Ralph had arrived the next day, Stan had presented him with a phalanx of battered, decrepit, glass-enclosed lawyer’s bookcases he claimed had belonged to his grandfather. Oh, hadn’t he mentioned them before? An oversight on his part, his apologies. But surely Ralph was flexible enough to work them into his design. Of course, Stan was no expert on interior decorating, but he thought the bookcases should be dispersed, say one in each office? His heirloom antiques would lend a sense of tradition and continuity to his relativity young law firm.

  Ralph had sputtered, and his face had turned red. Then he began to wheeze. It seemed Stan’s “family antiques” had brought on an emotionally induced asthma attack.

  Naturally, they hadn’t used the secondhand bookcases. Stan had capitulated in the end, claiming that he had been swayed by Ralph’s artistic judgment. But not before he’d given the phony little decorator some very anxious moments.

  The intercom buzzed, and Stan hurried to answer, wincing a bit as his secretary’s amplified voice echoed in his ear. There had to be a way to turn the volume do
wn. He’d have her call a technician immediately.

  “I have Dr. Bowman for you, Mr. Gerhardt, line five.”

  Stan sat down in his leather desk chair and held the phone a good three inches away from his ear. “Thank you, Joyce. Call a repairman for this damn phone system, will you? I want it fixed today. And you’d better tell Professor Zimmer that I’ve been unavoidably delayed. Offer him coffee or something.”

  “Right away, Mr. Gerhardt.”

  As Joyce clicked off Stan reached into the upper left-hand drawer of his rosewood executive desk to take out a fresh yellow legal pad. Michael had been up for release, and no one had told him. He had to get things straight with Bowman.

  Stan jabbed the button for line five so savagely the phone jingled, yet he forced his voice to sound perfectly cordial. He knew Bowman would have to be replaced, but he wasn’t quite ready to tip his hand.

  “Hello Jerry, I understand you had a bit of trouble with my brother this morning?”

  Stan’s face looked even more haggard than usual as the doctor related the incident. There was a time when he’d considered plastic surgery to correct his prominent nose and the labial lines that were the curse of the Gerhardt’s, but in the past ten years, since his brother hadn’t been around, he’d shelved the idea. Michael had always been the handsome one, but where had it gotten him in the end? Stan had concluded that brainpower always won out over looks, and if people didn’t agree with him, they were fools.

  The doctor reached the end of his recital at last, and Stan put down his pen. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Jerry. Naturally, I’m relieved you weren’t badly hurt. And you say my brother’s sedated now?”

  He listened as Bowman described the medications he’d prescribed and the restraints they’d put on Michael. Then it was time for him to play a little hardball.

  “Something concerns me, Jerry. Why wasn’t I notified that my brother was up for review? I thought we’d agreed that it was in Michael’s best interest to keep me fully informed.”

  The doctor went into a lengthy explanation, and Stan’s eyes narrowed.