by Tom Bierdz
After my interview with Ted, we locked up the office and Bobby drove me to the courthouse where I was to testify for Carrie McBride who was defending the accused, David Carney for the murder of Guy Thomey. The prosecution had made a pretty weak case in the previous session, building it on the fact that Guy had stolen away David’s girlfriend. David had no alibi and an eye-witness pointed him out of a lineup. I scanned through my notes while I sat outside the courtroom waiting to be called.
A staff member from the McBride agency alerted me as Carrie was announcing me to the court. The courtroom was like any other: a lot of wood crafted into the judges’ bench, the jury box, the lawyer’s tables, and the general seating area. There’s something to be said for sameness and tradition, giving people what they expect and not distracting from the task at hand. I’ve testified for Carrie a few times in the past, and despite being a good friend, I’ve always admired Carrie’s prowess in the courtroom. She has the ability to seduce the jurors with her warmth and sensitivity, and at the same time, mercilessly pounce on witnesses with the hunger and tenacity of a tiger. I wouldn’t hesitate to use her or recommend her to anyone needing a defense attorney. Dressed professionally in a soft, gray suit and matching pumps, her dark hair was coiffed into a cluster of ringlets.
I took the stand, my eyes lingering over the lawyer’s table where her father Mike McBride, who was recovering from a mild heart attack, was conspicuously missing. I wondered how his absence affected Carrie. It wasn’t that she lacked any legal savvy, but together they metamorphosed into a formidable team, the sum being more than their individual parts. Emotionally, they fed off one another. I was sworn in and I recited the credentials making me an expert witness: psychiatry degree from University of Washington, residency at the University of Washington Medical Center Psychiatric Hospital and the Navos Psychiatric Hospital, and my private practice.
“Dr. Garrick,” Carrie began, “did you examine Mr. Carney?”
“Yes.” I locked eyes with the defendant who came across as a frightened, frail twenty-two-year old. Slight of build, he had red hair and a glowing, almost translucent, alabaster skin that sometimes made him look like a porcelain doll. He was dressed in a suit for court but when I had seen him, his bare arms displayed just about every blue vein within. “I saw him twice while he was incarcerated. He appeared extremely agitated. In fact, I prescribed some anti-anxiety medication for him.”
“Is he currently on the mediation?”
“I presume so, but I have no way of knowing. It’s not my responsibility to follow up.”
She turned toward the judge. “I can assure the court that he is currently medicated.” To me, “Can you tell the court why he was agitated?”
“Yes. Mr. Carney suffers from an Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. A person with this disorder suffers from acute anxiety in a given area that he tries to control, by repeating certain behavior patterns that hold the anxiety in check.” I turned toward the jurors. “Mr. Carney is consumed with cleanliness. He consciously avoids all situations or places that he deems to be unsanitary. He refused to shake my hand when I greeted him, offering a fist-bump instead. Mr. Carney is used to showering several times a day, especially after having a bowel-movement. Incarcerated, he’s allowed only one shower a day.”
There was a tittering in the courtroom. David’s face noticeably reddened.
“Based on your diagnosis and assessment of Mr. Carney do you believe he killed Mr. Thomey?”
“No. I understand the victim was stabbed in a muddy ravine during a heavy rain. There’s no way Mr. Carney would allow himself to get near all that dirt and mud. That would be like you and I jumping into a burning building.”
“The prosecution has an eye-witness who claims to have seen him there.”
“The witness is mistaken...”
“Objection!” the prosecuting attorney shouted. “The doctor’s expertise has no bearing on what the witness has seen or not seen.”
“Sustained.” The judge turned to the jurors. “Forget what Dr. Garrick said about the witness.”
“Just to be clear, Dr. Garrick,” Carrie continued, “you’re saying that due to Mr. Carney’s obsession with cleanliness he could have not possibly killed the victim in the rain and the mud.”
“Yes, that is my professional opinion.”
Carrie gave me a face-splitting smile, cast a winning smile toward the prosecutor. “No more questions.”
“Cross examine.” Tall and lanky, the State attorney approached. With messy hair and a mustard spot on his tie, I had no doubt he carefully scripted his appearance as I had seen him outside the courtroom looking dapper. The approach might have worked for him in the past but he wasn’t connecting with this jury. “Dr. Garrick, you diagnosed the defendant as an Obsessive-Compulsive. Are you saying that he didn’t kill the victim because he was an Obsessive-Compulsive?”
“No, not at all. I suspect many serial killers are obsessive-compulsive in the way they select and kill their victims. I’m saying that Mr. Carney’s specific obsession with cleanliness prohibited him from killing the victim in the manner it happened. If Mr. Carney were to kill someone he would do it differently. He’d even avoid the messiness of a stabbing. He’d probably choose a gun or poison his victim.”
“No further questions.”
When I got back to the office I learned that Megan had called and asked to be squeezed in at the end of the day. Punctual, she dressed in a pink, scooped-neck, sleeveless sweater that showed a hint of cleavage and a fitted, knee-length pink skirt in a darker shade. Without prelude, she scurried to the couch, sat, removed her sunglasses, and dropped her nervous smile.
With an overcast sky and the threat of rain, I wondered why the glasses. Did she have an eye sensitivity or was she shielding them. From my vantage point I couldn’t tell if she had been crying. “You look distressed,” I opened with.
She forced a smile. “I’ve been with Sasha.” She let the statement hang, broke eye contact, and did some heavy breathing before continuing. “She’s very unstable.”
I waited attentively.
“She went out on the boat this morning after Nick went to work, found a pair of earrings. They’ve had their rows. She’s suspected Nick of cheating. The earrings, well, they clinched it for her. I hated to leave her to come here. I don’t know what she will do.” She talked at length about Sasha’s suspicions of Nick’s womanizing which seemed to have accelerated since she refused to go out on the boat, Sasha’s fearful reluctance to confront him, and how her resentment was taking its toll on her.
“She needs to take control of her life. See a therapist, secure marriage counseling...Something...,” I said, directing the responsibility where it belonged.
“She needs to get out of that relationship but she’s afraid of what Nick will do. I told you he beats her.”
“There are places she can go, that will house her, protect her identity. She can get a restraining order...”
“How many husbands and jealous boyfriends has that stopped? We hear of women who get killed almost daily.”
Unfortunately, she was right. “So what’s the alternative? Wallowing in self-pity and fear? What kind of life is that?”
“She sees taking her life as her only means of escape.” Her statement was said matter-of-factly as if it were a forgone conclusion.
Despite my supposed expertise, I could never see the logic in that. Killing oneself is final. Running away with the threat of death, still leaves room for the possibility of escape. Any percentage of a better life is better than one-hundred percent against. “I don’t know what to tell you, Megan. Again, I can’t treat her from here. You can’t be with her all the time. She has to take some responsibility for herself.” I buried my face in my hands, shook my head. I felt professionally impotent. “What do you suggest?”
There was a long, p
regnant pause while she thought, then said, “I’ll try to drag her in here.” She crossed her legs, flashing her pink panties.
I wasn’t looking but there’s a part of my brain which is automatically on alert for such an event. It’s like a motion detector that spotlights the forbidden as soon as it enters the screening area. I tried to push the image away, focus on Sasha. “You think you can get her here?”
“No, I don’t, but I’ll try. You know how she feels about therapists, but something has to be done.”
I smiled and nodded. The glimpse of her panties flooded my mind.
“I hate to ask you this,” she said, standing, “but I could use something for my nerves.”
“Of course.” I stood. “Follow me.” I walked out of the office into the hallway to the closet that served as the drug room. Shelves lined with drugs covered one wall. Open during the day, we locked it at night.
Her eyes grew large as she surveyed my inventory. “Wow! I would have never guessed you to dispense so much medication.”
In addition to the anti-anxiety, anti-depressant, and anti-psychotic medication, there were vitamins, drugs for pain, sleep, inching, and so forth. I perused my supply, deciding what to offer Megan. I selected a sample bottle of low-dose Ativan. “It’s here if I need it, but most of it expires on the shelf.”
“What then?”
“The pharmaceutical salesman takes the old stuff away and replaces it as we sign off on it. If I haven’t used any of it, he’ll ask me if I want more.” I handed her the Ativan. “Take these as needed. In moderation.” Bobby had already left for the evening. “I’ll walk out with you.” I locked up. “Going by Sasha’s?”
Daylight ending, the porch light automatically came on, the dim light capturing her eyes and reflecting them back at me. I felt her eyes probing deeply, inspecting mine. I wanted to reach out and touch her, but resisted.
“No, Nick’s home now. I’ll call her later, check in on her. Actually I’m exhausted. Glad to go home.” She stepped backwards to sit on the railing, misjudged it, and might have tipped over if I hadn’t caught her. I sat her on the railing keeping my hands on her arms. I felt a strong impulse to kiss her. I’m not sure what stopped me. Probably, my better judgment. But if she had been the aggressor, I would not have resisted. We stayed that way for several long moments, locked into position, each of us waiting for the other to make the first move.
Finally, she picked herself up, said, “Well, I’d better get going.”
I nodded. When she was half way down the stairs, I shouted, “Call me if you need me.” It wasn’t the reassurance of a therapist. I wasn’t thinking of Sasha. I was thinking of me and how I was generating a need for Megan.
5
“You shoulda been there, Grant. Bruce was at his finest,” Carlos said. “Three-hit the Bosox.
We’re winning one to nothing, but in the ninth Dieter is tiring. He gives up a base hit, then two walks. Bases are loaded with one out. Manager comes out. Looks like Bruce is done but somehow he convinces the man to let him stay in. He strikes out the next batter. Big Papi comes up to bat and takes Bruce to a three and oh count. A walk ties the game and throwing the ball down the middle of the plate for a strike is what Papi’s hoping for. A pitch he can smash to put the Sox ahead. Know what happens next?”
I do because I read the sports page, but I don’t want to ruin it for Carlos. “Tell me.”
“He picks off the guy at first. We’re all focused on the batter. Even the runner. And then, boom! It all over!”
I enjoyed Carlo’s enthusiasm. “Everything now copasetic?”
“Yeah, you’re up-to-date.” He leaned back in his chair, cupped his hands behind his head displaying yellow, underarm shirt stains. “Thanks for the tickets. I took junior, my boy. My step-son actually. He’s in Little League. I’m kind of a hero to him.” He blinked to hide the pooling in his eyes.
“That’s great Carlos. Kids need that father-son time.” I bit my lip to stop my own tears. When Kevin was junior’s age we’d take in a half dozen Mariners’ games every season. Sometimes Hanna would join us. I was in medical school back then, but I made the time and Bruce provided the tickets.
We were all very close and I remembered thinking how wonderful life was. I was so fortunate to have Hanna and Kevin and soon to be a full blown psychiatrist. It didn’t get any better than that. How I wished that I could hang on to that feeling. Then Kevin drifted away. It was gradual. Subtle like moisture evaporating into the atmosphere. Hanna and I never gave it much thought. It wasn’t that we were oblivious. We considered that part of the natural process that teens go through; separating to develop their unique independence. And there were plenty of things to fill in the void; my psychiatric practice and Hanna’s PTA involvement and EBay business. How many times I wished I could go back...”
“You ready to go back?” Carlos asked, taking me away from my reverie.
“Yeah. Anything I should know about Gregory?”
“He’s not much of a talker, but I think he’s taken a shine to you. He’s got a little more spring in his step. Oh,” he said, picking up a note on his desk and handing it to me, “Bertha Cummings, the social worker, would like you to call her when you get a chance. Your impressions of Greg.”
I took the note and pocketed it. “I’ll take him for a walk today. Stop for a Coke, maybe something to eat.”
Greg had been waiting for me but you couldn’t tell by his clothes. He wore torn jeans that looked like they’d been pulled out of the jaws of a machine, the kind my mother would have thrown into the garbage and grounded me had I worn them in public and embarrassed her. Also, a worn, gray sweatshirt. As a psychiatrist I needed to keep up with the latest trends to know what ‘normal’ was so I wasn’t bothered by Greg’s outfit. Still, I couldn’t help thinking he’d look better sitting in a booth.
It started to rain lightly so we hastened our pace, passing a cluster of brown, brick buildings with store fronts on the ground level until we came to a dirty, brushed aluminum diner next to a parking lot. Mid-afternoon only a few of the booths were occupied. A single diner sat at the counter with coffee and pie.
Greg picked up the menu out of the metal holder. “They have good burgers here.” “You’ve been here?” I asked.
“Yeah, with Big Bertha.”
I assumed he was referring to the social worker. “Big how?” I asked, raising my arm high in the air, then opening both of them wide.
“I guess I should say obese.”
“I hope you don’t say that to her or call her Big Bertha.”
“I know. I’m cool, Doc.”
“Do you like her?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s okay.”
A matronly waitress with a food-stained apron came to take our order. She looked haggard like she’d been bogged down by life and hadn’t had much sleep. I thought she could probably use a few sessions to unload her troubles. Greg ordered a burger and a coke. I ordered a diet coke.
After some desultory conversation I got Greg to talk about his mother.
“She’s a waitress like that lady. She doesn’t look like her. Mom’s small, tiny. She used to be pretty, but she never smiles anymore. She’s unhappy and bitter. A couple of months ago I came to see her at the restaurant where she works. She was talking to this customer and she had this beautiful smile on her face. I was jealous because she didn’t smile like that for me.”
“Why is that, Greg?”
“I don’t know. Because I don’t mind her? I can be a shit. I mean, she’s always on my ass, criticizing me for what I did, or even for what I didn’t do.”
“You said she was bitter and unhappy. You might create some problems for her, but I don’t think you’re the cause of all of that. You have an older sister and an older brother.”
He saw the ketchup he h
ad dropped on his sweatshirt. He dipped his napkin into his water glass and worked at rubbing it out. “Step-sister and brother. Karen’s away at school. Anthony lives with his father in Renton.”
“You get along with them?”
“We’re cool.”
“How about your mother?”
“She’s closer to Karen, the oldest. She and Anthony don’t get along. That’s why he’s with his father.”
“But he’s not your father?” I wondered if he might be a resource for Greg. Sometimes step-parents made better parents than the biological ones. “You like him?”
“He’s all right. He’s never done anything to hurt me, but we’re not close.” The waitress dropped the check on the table.
“Tell me about your father.”
He hadn’t been very emotional but suddenly that changed. He swallowed as sadness clouded his face. “I think I was six last time I saw him. That was the day he left. They were shouting at each other. Cruel things. I remember leaning against the wall, crying. I was scared. I tried to stop my Dad, wrapped my arms around his legs. He just shoved me away. I never saw him again.” A tear snaked down his face.
“I’m sorry, Greg.” I gave him a few moments. “What have you heard about him?”
“Just that he may have moved to California.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, and I don’t want to talk about it.” He stood.
I responded and paid the check. The rain had ceased. We walked back silently until I asked,
