by G. H. Ephron
“That’s for the court to decide,” Chip countered.
The judge intervened. “We’re all well aware that this is a hearing, not a trial.”
Chip said, “Those messages she sent to her mother were part of her therapy. That was …”
Sherman interrupted, “Miss Temple sends a message saying she wishes her mother was dead. The next day, her mother is killed. That’s not therapy. That’s premeditated murder.”
“I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Sherman,” the judge said. “I think I’d be remiss if I allowed her to stay at the Pearce. Especially with this second murder.”
“E-mail therapy,” Sherman sneered.
Drew was starting to rise out of his seat. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he sank back.
“Your Honor, Ms. Temple is not accused of committing a second murder,” Chip said. “Her psychiatrist, Dr. Smythe-Gooding, is here. She can explain the e-mail messages. She can also give her professional opinion as to whether or not Ms. Temple presents a danger to society.”
Sherman gave Chip a surprised look. Then he gazed at me without blinking. I tried to keep my expression even, but I could feel my face grow hot. The last time we’d met in court, Sherman was supposedly cross-examining me regarding the memory of a victim who’d suffered traumatic brain damage from a gunshot wound to the head, but he’d laced his questions with subtle innuendo about my wife’s murder. He’d baited me, and I’d nearly snapped. I knew lawyers played down and dirty, but Sherman could do it without creating even a ripple of suspicion.
“Mr. Sherman?” the judge said.
“I have no objection.”
All eyes turned to Daphne. She looked like someone who was about to give a speech and was unprepared.
She was sworn in. Chip asked her to identify herself and walked her through her credentials. Then, “Doctor, would you please tell the court, what is your relationship to Miss Temple?”
“For the past year …” Daphne cleared her throat. “For the last year, Olivia Temple has been my patient. She’s been in therapy.”
“What were you treating her for?”
“She was having difficulty concentrating in school. Problems at home.” These answers came with polish and authority.
“And what was your treatment?”
“I, uh …” Daphne shifted in her seat. Chip waited. Daphne glanced quickly at Olivia and back at Chip. “I gave her Ritalin”—I didn’t like the uncertainty in her voice—“to help her focus.” She sounded as if she were picking her words carefully. Sherman leaned forward to write on a yellow legal pad. Then he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Chip said. “And was it part of your therapeutic approach to have Olivia Temple write down her feelings about her mother?”
“I object,” Sherman barked. “Leading question.”
Chip looked surprised. Hearings for juvenile offenders tended to be a bit more relaxed than for adults. “I’ll rephrase. What was your therapeutic approach?”
“We met once a week. Talked. And I had her do some writing.”
“What kind of writing.”
“It’s based on a technique called countertransference analysis.” Now the self-assurance returned. Daphne gestured with both hands. “Writing down unsettling thoughts and feelings helps people regain a healthy perspective. It’s an approach I developed to help therapists …” She caught Chip’s look and stopped.
It reminded me of the many times Chip had prepped me to testify. He always ended with the warning, “Just answer the questions, Peter. Elaborate, and you may be giving the DA rope to hang us with.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Chip said. “In your opinion, does writing down a feeling indicate that the person is going to act on that feeling?”
“Mr. Ferguson is leading the witness,” Monty said. “Again.”
“Mr. Ferguson …” the judge started.
“I’ll rephrase,” Chip said, sounding annoyed. “Is there a relationship between what people write and how they act?”
“We think about doing all kinds of things we would never, ever actually do,” Daphne answered.
“Do you recognize this piece of writing?” Chip asked, offering Daphne a printed page.
She glanced over it. “It’s one of the letters Olivia Temple wrote to her mother,” Daphne said. There was a pause. Chip leaned toward Daphne. She seemed momentarily flustered. She added quickly, “As part of her therapy.”
Chip sat back. “Olivia Temple wrote that she wished her mother was dead. Is it your opinion that Olivia Temple was planning to hurt her mother.”
There was no hesitation. “Absolutely not.”
“And was it part of the therapy to put her thoughts and feelings into e-mail messages and send them to her mother?”
“I object,” Sherman barked again. He wasn’t going to make this easy.
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Chip sighed. “And did you have Ms. Temple do anything with this message that she wrote to her mother?”
Daphne said, “I had her show the message to her mother. Olivia used e-mail to do so. Her mother was herself experienced with CTA. I felt it would be beneficial to them both.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Daphne sank back, evidently relieved.
Sherman said, “Excuse me, Doctor. I have just a few questions.” Daphne looked startled. “You said you gave Ms. Temple Ritalin. When you give medication to a patient, Doctor, do you typically write a prescription?”
“Do I write a … well, of course I do.”
“And so, when the patient gets the prescription filled, there’s a record that the pharmacy keeps. If insurance is involved, they are notified.”
“I would assume so.”
“Then perhaps you can explain to me how you prescribed Ritalin for Miss Temple when none of the pharmacies in the Commonwealth have any record of one having been filled?”
Daphne pulled back, blinked. “Well, that’s because—”
Olivia strained forward in her seat.
“Did you or did you not, write a prescription for Miss Temple?” There was a pause. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you are under oath.”
Daphne glared at Sherman. “When a patient is starting a new therapy, psychiatrists often supply them with sample packages to get started. To give it a try before we write a prescription.”
“Did you, or did you not prescribe Ritalin for Miss Temple?” Sherman asked again.
“If you mean, did I write a prescription, the answer is no. But she was taking it under my guidance.” Daphne’s voice was icy with disdain.
“For how long, Doctor?”
“Four, maybe five months. I’d have to check my notes to be certain.”
“Is that an unusually long time for someone to be taking sample packets of medication?”
“No. It’s not unusual.”
“Hmm,” Sherman said. “And about four months ago, do you recall reporting to hospital security that your office had been broken into and medication stolen?” Sherman held out a piece of paper. “One of the drugs missing was Ritalin.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—” Daphne started.
“Did you file this report?” Sherman offered her the piece of paper.
Reluctantly, Daphne took it. She eyed what looked like a photocopy of a form. “Yes. Apparently, I did.” She handed the paper back to Sherman.
“Thank you, Doctor. I have just a few more questions. Just a few nights ago, did you file a report to security that drugs were once again missing from your office?”
Her answer was inaudible.
“Could you speak up, please?”
“Yes,” Daphne said. “Yes I did. But how was I supposed to know that Olivia was out and about—” Daphne’s mouth snapped shut. She looked stunned. It reminded me of how Sherman had ambushed me the last time he’d cross-examined me.
“Exactly,” Sherman said. “How were you supposed to know tha
t Olivia Temple had escaped from a supposedly secure unit that same evening and was roaming freely among the hospital buildings—a night when, coincidentally, another doctor was killed.” He paused for effect. “Just one more thing, Doctor. Did you, or did you not, prescribe a course of therapy in which Miss Temple was to send electronic messages to her mother.”
Daphne drew herself up. “Of course, that’s part of the approach.”
“And it’s a part you specifically prescribed, as opposed to being something that your patient did on her own, just like she helped herself to Ritalin … .”
“Objection!” Chip said. “Mr. Sherman is using suggestion and innuendo … .”
The judge cut him off. “I think I’ve heard all I need to. I’m denying the motion.”
“But Ms. Temple needs medical treatment that she can only get at the Pearce,” Chip argued.
“Mr. Ferguson, you are trying the patience of this court,” the judge said. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “There is nothing to distinguish your request, other than the fact that Ms. Temple comes from a privileged home. The setting she’s in has been demonstrated to be insufficiently secure. And I have to agree with Mr. Sherman. This is a murder case, and there is evidence that the defendant may be dangerous, even a flight risk. I will give the doctors at Pearce until Friday to terminate their treatment, at which point Ms. Temple will be taken to the Bechtel Center for Girls. This hearing is over.”
Sherman and his colleague left. I stood and waited for Chip to finish packing up his papers. Drew had his arm around Olivia. We all filed out.
In the hall, Chip muttered under his breath, “Holy shit. Two days.”
Olivia was agitated. “Lying bitch. Lying bitch …” She said it over and over, as if she were turning the key in her own ignition, again and again.
Daphne came over to her. “Livvy …”
Olivia hunched her shoulders and blew air out—it was like the hiss of a feral cat. “My mother never should have trusted you.”
“Livvy, you don’t know what you’re saying! I was under oath … .”
“Doctor Smythe-Gooding,” Chip said sharply. “I wonder if you have a few minutes to meet? There’s a conference room just across the hall that we can use.”
Daphne gave Olivia a pleading look. Olivia wouldn’t even look at her. Finally, Daphne gave a mute nod and walked over to the conference-room door.
“Would you mind just waiting for us inside?” Chip asked.
Daphne went in. Then Olivia lost it. She stood and spat after her. She shrieked, “You crazy bitch! You promised you’d protect me.”
Kwan was at Olivia’s side, talking to her quietly. But the soothing words had no effect. Olivia got louder. “Bitch! You promised you’d help.” Kwan pressed his hands on Olivia’s arm, Drew held her on the other side. “Liar!” she screamed and strained to break away. “I never should have trusted you,” she shrieked and sent Drew staggering back into the wall. A pair of uniformed court officers came out of a nearby courtroom and hovered, trying to assess whether the situation was under control.
Gloria came up to Olivia and put her hand on her face. She spoke quietly as Olivia shook her head, back and forth. Kwan squinted at me, his look one of concern. “Olivia should return to the hospital,” he said, adding after a brief pause, “right now. She’s quite agitated. She needs something to calm her.”
Chip said, “There’s no reason for her to stay.”
“Bitch! Liar!” Olivia screamed as Kwan and Gloria led her away.
I felt as torn as Drew looked, as we watched Kwan and Gloria lead Olivia away, agitated and muttering. I wanted to go with them, to help get Olivia calmed down. To ensure that she didn’t hurt herself. But I also needed to stay here, to do what I could to help with her defense. And I knew Olivia was in good hands.
Chip herded Drew and me into the conference room. The small, windowless room had a table and some chairs. Daphne was standing, staring at the blank wall. She looked pale, spent. We all sat.
Chip leaned back, tilted his head to one side, and gave Daphne an appraising look. “You surprised us,” he told her.
Daphne’s face was pinched. Her hands were shaking.
“If we’d known that you didn’t actually write a prescription for Ritalin, we wouldn’t have asked you to testify,” Chip said, putting it bluntly.
“I thought you knew. When I talked with Peter … I must have misunderstood. I have made rather a cock-up of things. I only wanted to help. I don’t know why I said anything about Olivia roaming about. It slipped out.”
Slipped out? As a therapist, Daphne knew as well as anyone that nothing just “slips out.”
Chip said, “Surely you must have realized that saying what you did could affect the judge’s decision.”
“It was an accident!” Daphne insisted, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “How can you even suggest that I’d deliberately sabotage my patient? The daughter of my dearest friend?”
“What a mess,” Drew said, putting his head in his hands.
Daphne touched his shoulder, “I’m so sorry, Drew,” she said.
Drew pushed her away. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” he asked Chip.
“I think we’re out of options,” Chip replied. “Day after tomorrow, she goes.” He looked at me pointedly. “And I don’t think any more suicide attempts or drug reactions are going to make any difference.”
24
I DROVE back to the Pearce, my jaw clenching and unclenching as I replayed the hearing in my head. I thought about Daphne, how unsure she’d seemed on the stand. Had it been a misunderstanding? Had she tried to tell me that she hadn’t written a prescription? Was it usual or unusual to treat a patient for months with a drug without writing a prescription? Borderline, I thought. Getting nailed by Monty—well, so had I, the last time he cross-examined me. Still, I wonder if the slip was altogether innocent. Then it occurred to me. Perhaps Daphne hadn’t given Olivia Ritalin at all. Maybe she was saying so to protect Olivia from a harsher reality—that Olivia had been stealing the drug all along and self-medicating.
On Mem. Drive, I slowed down and pulled the car over into the turnout in front of an office building. A driver passed me, his horn blaring. Go with your gut. That’s what Annie had urged me to do. What did my gut say? I shoved the car into neutral, pulled the emergency brake, and closed my eyes.
I saw a kaleidoscope of images. Olivia at the top of the stairs at the party. Holding the gun by the barrel and looking dazed in her mother’s office. Cutting her arm. Hiding in her closet. Staring at me bug-eyed from the mattress in the basement of Albert House. Folding Mr. Fleegle’s shirts.
I opened my eyes and gazed out the window. A tree, planted on the shoulder of the road, snagged my attention. The trunk of a tree was snakelike and sinuous, like the one in the Annie Brigman photograph on Olivia’s wall—a wall of school-age killers and teenage girls in Cinderella prom dresses. Which was it?
Carefully, I pulled the car back out into traffic and continued to the Pearce.
Gloria was at the nurses’ station. Her short hair was standing up on end. She was holding a patient’s chart as if she were reading it, but her glasses were on the counter. I knew she was actually communing with space.
“Earth to Alspag,” I said.
Gloria gave me a tired smile. “We’ve got her calmed down. Finally. She’d worked herself up into quite a state by the time we got back. Then she broke down and couldn’t stop crying. Kwan gave her some Klonopin. That didn’t do much, so he gave her more. Even that hasn’t knocked her out.”
I started toward Olivia’s room.
“Not there,” Gloria said. “She’s in the quiet room.”
The quiet room is a cell-like space we use with agitated patients. It’s got a simple bed in it with slots for restraints, white walls, low light. No hard edges or other furnishings. We keep the door open and someone posted on a chair outside until the patient is stabilized.
; Jess was sitting on the chair outside the quiet room. She had a portable computer balanced in her lap, her black pumps on tiptoe to make a flat surface.
“Since when do psychiatrists do one-on-ones?” I asked.
“I volunteered,” Jess said. “I’m just spelling Joe while he takes a break. He’ll be back in a minute.”
“I can take over for you,” I said.
She turned off the computer, bent down, and stowed it in her backpack, which was under the chair.
“At least she’s quieted down now,” she said.
Jess stood and dropped her pen. As I stooped over to retrieve it for her, I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on her ankle. It was a dragonfly. I stood slowly. Something was familiar, but it took me a minute to make the connection to the page from Channing’s journal—the patient had a dragonfly tattoo. Or I’d assumed it was a patient. It could as easily have been a devoted disciple.
Slowly, I handed Jess her pen. Was Jess the suicidal woman whom Daphne said Channing was working with—the one who was causing Channing to lose her clinical perspective? Surely, Jess was the subject of Channing’s intense sexual fantasy.
Jess dropped the pen into her backpack.
“You carry that around a lot don’t you?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Jess glanced down at the bag with some surprise. “I guess I do.”
“You even had it with you at Channing’s birthday party. It seemed a little odd at the time. You were so dressed up. And still, you were carrying your backpack.”
“I guess it’s a habit.”
“When I met you up on the second-floor landing during the party, you were coming out of Channing’s study carrying it.”
“Joe promised he’d be right back.” Jess looked at her watch.
“You were zipping it up.”
“I’ve got to go see a patient.” Jess took a step back from me.
“Do you remember what you said you were doing? You said you were using the bathroom.”
“Did I?”
“Only there isn’t any bathroom adjoining the study. If there had been, then Channing would have sent me there instead of down the hall to get cold water for the stain on Jensen’s jacket.”
