by G. H. Ephron
If the Twinkie defense was going to work for Olivia, Chip had to demonstrate she had an underlying problem that diminished her mental capacity.
“I’m about halfway through testing Olivia,” I said. “There’s already a basis for arguing that she needs to take a psychostimulant like Ritalin to help her focus. We know her doctor prescribed it. That should establish the foundation you need.”
“What’s the underlying condition?” Chip asked.
“A right-hemisphere learning disorder. Not nearly as powerful as depression,” I admitted. “But excessive amounts of Ritalin can alter judgment. Still, it’s a hard sell. Besides, I don’t think she did it.”
“You really don’t?” Chip asked.
“They’ll have a strong case,” Annie said. “She’s found holding the gun. She’s got Ativan in her pocket. Hate-filled e-mail messages are in her mother’s computer.”
“She wrote those messages as part of her therapy,” I said.
“You said Ritalin could have altered her judgment,” Chip argued. “Could it have bent her to the point where she’d kill someone?”
I sighed. “People have this notion of the good Dr. Jekyll turning into the murderous Mr. Hyde, courtesy of a potion. But it’s a lot of bunk. Listen, addiction doesn’t bend the personality so much as subvert it. Loosen the screws. Drugs can disinhibit you, bring out latent personality traits. But they can’t make you into a murderer if fundamentally you’re not.”
“And Olivia?” Chip asked.
“Not.” I was pretty sure of that.
Chip cocked his head, pressed his lips together, and closed one eye at me. “Okay. So, let’s say Olivia Temple didn’t do it. And it’s not suicide. Who else—?”
“Isn’t it enough just to cast doubt?” I asked.
“Reasonable doubt. But a jury wants plausible alternatives. Let’s see, there’s her father,” Chip said. “Financial problems. He have a girlfriend?” I didn’t respond. “Know if Drew has an alibi?”
Chip and Annie looked at me. I swallowed. “I don’t know,” I said. “I tried to call him after I found Channing, and his assistant couldn’t reach him for about thirty minutes.”
Chip took notes. “Did Channing have any enemies?” he asked.
Channing had managed to piss off any number of people over the years. But I wasn’t about to offer them up as sacrificial lambs. Finally, I said, “She had a few. Channing was a radical. She never lost her distrust of the establishment.”
Chip looked up. “Sounds as if I would have liked her.”
“You would have. Soul mates, in fact.”
“People don’t usually get killed over professional differences,” Annie said.
She was right. There were other ways to handle those—tidier and almost as destructive. “No one had to kill Channing to discredit her work,” I said. “It was already happening. There was a scathing review of her research in a medical journal a few weeks ago. Then there were rumors about improprieties. I don’t know exactly what kind of boundary violations, or if the allegations have merit. No disciplinary hearing. She suspected that they were replacing her as head of the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit, and I think she was right. On top of all that, the files documenting her research have gone missing.”
Chip whistled. “Any idea who might have taken them?”
“No,” I said. But I guess it didn’t sound too convincing, because Annie responded, “Peter, come on.”
“Liam Jensen. He claims he hasn’t got them. But when I visited him in his office the other day, he had an overflowing file drawer he kept trying to push shut with his foot. Purple file folders were sticking out, and if you ask me, he’s not the purple type.”
“Isn’t he the one who had a screaming fight with Channing at the end of her party?” Annie asked.
I nodded.
It was after six-thirty by the time we finished up. I called and left a message for Jess, asking her to give Olivia some more cognitive tests the next morning.
I said good-bye to Chip, and Annie walked me out. “It wouldn’t be hard to get into Dr. Jensen’s office.” Annie said it nonchalantly, as if she was suggesting a stroll on the banks of the Charles.
“Break in?” I asked.
“Just to check what he’s got in that file drawer. He’ll never know anyone was there.”
I wanted to help Olivia. I’d do just about anything to keep Channing’s research from being consigned to oblivion. But breaking into a colleague’s office was definitely over the line.
Annie pressed, “You searched Channing’s office, didn’t you?”
“It’s not the same. Channing’s dead. And one of the hospital administrators let me in. Going into Jensen’s office without his permission, without anyone’s permission—that would be another thing entirely,” I said. I tried to sound outraged. But I was considering the possibility. If we just looked for the research data, avoided looking at confidential patient records …
Annie saw her opening. “It’ll be easy.”
I found myself asking, “How easy?”
“Real easy. Trust me.” I always get worried when Annie says that. “Who knows, someone could be shredding the files right this moment, as we speak.”
17
THE DA didn’t waste any time. In the morning, I got a call from Security. The police were on their way over with an escort. I called Chip’s office to leave word and asked them to alert Drew. Then I raced down to Olivia’s room to give her at least a few minutes’ warning.
The door was shut. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked louder. “Olivia, it’s Dr. Zak. Can I come in?” I called out.
Still nothing. I pushed the door open and looked inside. The room was empty. I checked the closet. No Olivia. The bathroom door was closed. I knocked. “Olivia, you in there?” I said.
The toilet flushed. Olivia, her head wrapped in a towel, pulled the bathroom door open and glared out at me. “Keep your shirt on,” she grumbled. “Can’t a person have five minutes peace in this place without someone wanting to know if I’m okay … ?” Her voice died out on the last word, when she finally looked me in the eye.
“Olivia, the police are on their way here.”
She suddenly looked terror-stricken and about five years old. “Has something happened to Daddy?”
Of course—it’s the first thing she’d think. Another tragedy. When one unthinkable thing happens, life starts to feel like a walk along the edge of a crevasse where at any moment you or someone you love could fall in.
“No, your father is fine.” I paused. I wished there were some way to put this gently. “The police are on their way over to arrest you.”
Olivia stood there, momentarily at a loss for words. She backed up and sat on the bed. The towel uncoiled itself and fell onto the floor. Shocks of black hair with blond roots stood out from her head.
“They’re going to take you to court. They’ll put you in a holding cell. No one will hurt you. I called Mr. Ferguson. He’ll get down there. There will be an arraignment.”
“Will you be there?”
“I’ll come as soon as I can.” I had a full calendar so that would take a bit of doing.
“Arraignment,” she echoed the word.
“You’ll plead, guilty or not guilty.”
“Not guilty,” Olivia whispered.
“Of course.”
“Then what?”
“They might release you on bail. Send you to a secure youth center. Or hold you for evaluation.”
Olivia was trembling. There was a sharp knock at the door. We both jumped. Gloria came in carrying a little plastic cup. “It’s that time again,” she said briskly. Olivia blinked at her. “What’s wrong?” Gloria looked at me. “What’s happening?”
There were footsteps in the hall. Olivia ran over to Gloria and huddled against her. A Pearce security guard entered the room, followed by MacRae and two uniformed cops.
“Olivia Temple,” MacRae announced, brandishing a pair of handcuffs. “I
’m here to arrest you for the murder of Channing Temple.”
“Handcuffs?” I said. “Give me a break.”
“This time, we’re doing it by the book, Dr. Zak,” he said, and turned back to Olivia. “You have the right to remain silent … .”
Like a penitent, Olivia offered up her bone-thin wrists. I winced as MacRae snapped the cuffs around them.
He droned on. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney … .”
“She can’t go anywhere,” Gloria protested. “She needs to take this medication,” she showed him the container, “every four hours.”
I jumped on it. “It’s an experimental treatment. We don’t know what will happen if she misses a dose, or stops taking it suddenly. There’s no way to know what kind of reaction she might have.” I hoped the prospect sounded ominous.
“So gimme enough pills to get her through forty-eight hours,” MacRae growled. “She looks like she can walk.”
“But she needs to be monitored,” Gloria said.
“We have a physician on call,” MacRae countered.
I stepped into his face. “I’m going to hold you personally responsible if anything happens to Ms. Temple.”
He blinked impassively. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you free of charge. Do you understand each of these rights I have read to you?”
Olivia looked at me like, What’s the right answer?
“Don’t say anything,” I told her. “If anyone asks you questions, don’t answer. Tell them you want to speak to your attorney. Do you understand?” Olivia nodded, but I wasn’t sure she was processing my words.
Gloria went over to her and took Olivia’s face in her hands. “Olivia, do you understand what Dr. Zak is saying? Don’t talk to anyone, right?” She smoothed Olivia’s hair, first on one side, then the other. “Not even another prisoner, unless your lawyer is there with you.”
MacRae glared at me.
“That’s ‘by the book,’ too,” I told him.
Impotent rage filled me as I watched Olivia being led away.
I kept checking my messages that morning. Finally, there was a message from Chip. The arraignment was scheduled for after lunch. I left the Pearce in plenty of time, but a few work crews, supervised by especially slow-witted cops, made getting across Cambridge a nightmare. I’d had to cut through Harvard Square, a route I normally avoid.
I sat at the light, grinding my teeth, resisting the urge to run down one of the pedestrians who consider the words DON’T WALK an invitation to charge across the street.
By the time I’d parked at a meter and walked over to the eighteen-story courthouse, my head felt as if it were going to explode. The building stood like a cinder-block embarrassment across the street from the stately, century-old probate court building. I waited in the line that snaked out the door, at what feels like a service entrance. That’s because it was designed to be the service entrance, until the City of Cambridge denied a permit for the second-floor access bridge into what would have been an august lobby.
I passed quickly through the metal detector and into a warren of small, low-ceilinged spaces and interconnected corridors. The place was more jail than courthouse. A woman wearing a very long suit jacket and a very short skirt gave me a disdainful look as I banged on the elevator button. I got on with about a dozen other people, each of whom seemed to be holding a gallon-size cup of coffee.
I’d ridden these elevators dozens of times, on my way to weeks of jury selection and then more weeks of the trial of the man who killed Kate. I hadn’t wanted the jury to forget the human dimensions of her loss. And I’d wanted Ralston Bridges to know I was there, making sure he got what was coming to him.
When the elevator opened on the third floor, more people got on. I stared at the back of a man’s head, his blond hair grazing my nose. I felt a queasiness in the pit of my stomach. The man reminded me of Bridges.
As more people pressed into the elevator, I tried to inch back. The blond man trod on my toes and began to turn around. It was like the times when I entered that courtroom and Bridges seemed to sense it. He’d be sitting with his back to me at the defense table. His head would swivel around, as if it weren’t connected to the rest of his body. He’d stare at me for a moment from dead eyes. Then turn back.
He’d give me no satisfaction, even with the jury watching. His look seemed to say, “Remember, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be here.” And it was true. If I’d never become an expert witness, if I’d never gotten into the business of evaluating murderers, then Bridges and I never would have met.
I found my way to the judge’s chambers. Chip met me outside in the hallway. “Ready?” I asked.
“Sherman’s here,” he said. Montrose Sherman was the DA—a slick guy who’d just lost a run for attorney general by a slim margin. The last time I’d faced him on the stand, he’d gotten the better of me. “What I don’t get is why,” Chip asked.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” I asked. “It’s a murder case, isn’t it?”
“It involves a juvenile. Normally, the assistant DA covers these kinds of cases.”
“Maybe he’s taking a personal interest,” I suggested.
“Shit,” Chip said.
My sentiments precisely. We went in together. The spacious office with windows, which overlooked the trophy-top of the Museum of Science, was lined with books. The fluorescent fixtures hummed overhead, casting a merciless light over the almost perfectly square room with its ersatz oak paneling and gray linoleum tile.
I took a seat at the large, oval-shaped conference table that filled the center of the space, opposite Sherman and the assistant DA. A court stenographer sat at attention, along with the judge’s clerk. A pair of court officers flanked the door.
Olivia was brought in and took a seat beside Chip. She looked fragile as a twig. When Drew arrived, he squeezed in beside me.
Today Drew looked patrician and distinguished, his suit clean and pressed. The judge, an elderly fellow with layers of jowls connecting his head to the neck of his black robe, presided from the head of the table. He looked as if he’d already had an exhausting day.
Huddling with his colleague, DA Sherman reminded me of a 1950s ad for hair tonic—a briefcase-toting executive in a dark, pin-striped suit, his brown hair brilliantined in place. Alongside him, the assistant DA looked like a teenager trying out for a part in a play. The suit looked as if he’d borrowed it from someone slightly larger, slightly older.
The judge paged through some printed pages. Then he sat back and cleared his throat.
“I’m going to enter a plea of not guilty for you, Ms. Temple,” the judge said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “Is there a question of bail?” he asked the assistant DA.
Chip jumped in. “The defense requests a civil commitment in lieu of bail and that Ms. Temple be returned to the Pearce Psychiatric Institute where she’s undergoing evaluation and treatment.”
“The Commonwealth …” the assistant DA started to respond, but Sherman leaned into him from the side.
The young man’s voice died out, and Sherman took over. “The Commonwealth requests that the defendant be remanded to the Bechtel Center for Girls for evaluation. They have excellent psychiatrists who can attend to her there.”
Olivia seemed to shudder on hearing this.
Bechtel was a secure, Department of Youth Services facility that specialized in violent adolescents. It had a good reputation, for what it was. But I hated to think what Olivia—or any kid for that matter—might have to learn there.
Chip countered, “The Bechtel Center doesn’t have the medical expertise needed to treat my client.”
Sherman raised his chin and looked down his nose at Olivia. “Your honor, the defendant is undergoing treatment for drug withdrawal. Her situation is hardly unique. The Bechtel handles similar cases every day of the week.”
Olivia seemed dazed. I noticed a little twitch in h
er hand, like it was an insect caught between two window panes.
“If you’d let me explain—” Chip started, then stopped. The judge waved his hand for him to get on with it. “Ms. Temple is going through an experimental drug protocol. Her doctors at the Pearce know how to deal with this, should there be any unexpected reactions. She’ll be on a locked unit, so there’s no danger of her escaping. But if you send her to the Bechtel, where they have no experience with this use of the medication, there’s a very real health risk.” Chip paused and glanced at Olivia. She’d gone white. “Perhaps even a danger to her life.”
The twitch that had begun in Olivia’s hand had worked its way up her arm. Now her shoulder and her head were pulling to one side. I couldn’t see her face. Were her eyes open or were they starting to roll back? I found myself pushing away from the table, ready to spring.
Sherman said, “Your honor, as long as the defendant remains at the Pearce, the Commonwealth’s psychiatrist will be unable to evaluate her. I don’t believe this delay is necessary.”
“When did this experimental treatment begin?” the judge asked.
Chip glanced over at me. I held up two fingers. “Two weeks …” he started. I shook my head. “Two days ago, Your Honor.” Chip didn’t look pleased.
Sherman said, “That seems rather convenient … .” He stopped suddenly and stared across the table at Olivia. The tremor had now grown into a full-body shudder. She pitched forward and her chair went out from under her. Her chin whacked against the edge of the table as she went down.
I was up out of my seat before I’d even had time to think about what was happening. I rushed over to Olivia, but a court officer, a thick fellow with white hair and a toothbrush mustache, held me back while the other officer knelt by her side. Olivia had gone rigid. She was foaming at the mouth, the foam turning pink as it mixed with the bright red blood from where she’d bitten her lip.
