[Barbara Holloway 02] - The Best Defense

by Kate Wilhelm

  “Probably. I don’t prescribe it; I’d have to look it up.”

  “Exactly. I want reports about side effects, the warnings, you know the sort of thing. You guys get that stuff sent to you all the time.”

  “You know I can’t second-guess another doctor without seeing the patient, and besides, what you want is in the library,” he said.

  “I need it now.”

  “Everybody needs whatever it is now,” he said with some sharpness.

  She could pick up the material at one forty-five, he agreed at last.

  While talking to him she had thumbed through the phone book and found the number for the public defender’s office; she punched in the numbers.

  “I’m sorry,” a woman said. “Mr. Spassero is out of town. He won’t be back until Monday.”

  “He must have left a number where he can be reached.”

  “I’m afraid not. If you’ll leave your number, Ms. Holloway, I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you on Monday.”

  Barbara hung up. She tried his home number, got a machine, and left a message. Monday, she thought bleakly. Monday.

  She walked to the kitchen and stood at the sink looking at the doomed rhododendron, but she was thinking of Paula Kennerman, who was equally doomed. Abruptly she went back to her office and again riffled through the phone book, took a deep breath, and then punched in some more numbers.

  “May I speak with either Judge Paltz’s secretary or his clerk?” she said to the woman who answered.

  She had met Judge Paltz many different times over the years, but she never had tried a case in his court. He and her father had been close in the past, until he had become a judge and her father had moved out to the country and gradually circumstances and distance had separated them. The judge was seventy-three, she knew, one year older than her father.

  He was heavily built, with thin gray hair and a deeply weathered face. A fisherman, she remembered. His chambers office looked like the ideal grandfather’s study: deep comfortable chairs covered with dark mohair, fine walnut tables, an even finer walnut desk cluttered with keepsakes—a porcelain clock, pictures in silver frames, a ceramic boot that held pens and pencils. ... A reassuring sort of a room. The only surprising thing about it now was the presence of William Spassero, who had stood up when she entered.

  “Barbara,” Judge Paltz said, taking her hand, enclosing it in both of his. “How have you been keeping yourself? You look wonderful.”

  This time she was dressed for the occasion in a navy cotton dress with a white jacket and white sandals. “I’m fine, Judge Paltz, thank you. Mr. Spassero,” she said with a slight nod. His acknowledging nod was as cool as hers had been. The judge led her to a chair and saw that she was seated comfortably, as if she were his elderly aunt, brittle and I rail.

  He sat in a chair between her and Spassero and then, with his hands on his knees, he said, “Barbara, the message I was given said there is an emergency situation with Bill’s client. Is there?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe there is.”

  “All right. Naturally, I couldn’t talk to you about the defendant without her attorney being present also.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I tried to reach Mr. Spassero, and when I couldn’t I had no recourse except to appeal to the court. Thank you for arranging the meeting, sir.”

  He inclined his head fractionally. “You both understand that under no circumstance can I permit any discussion of material that has a bearing on the case of Paula Kennerman?” It was not really a question. Barbara nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” Spassero said. “Your Honor, may I present my understanding of this matter before Ms. Holloway goes into whatever her emergency is?” When the judge nodded, he went on, very smoothly, showing no animosity or resentment, only puzzlement. “Sir, I was in court on Wednesday when Ms. Holloway chose to sit in and observe me. I didn’t know if I should be flattered or intimidated,” he said with his boyish grin. “But later, when I spoke to her, it became clear that she was antagonistic. She questioned the way I was handling Paula Kennerman’s case, criticized me, even offered gratuitous advice.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I was baffled, sir. I know I don’t have a lot of experience as a trial attorney, but this struck me as so unusual that I mentioned it to one of the more experienced attorneys, and he said with some emphasis that her behavior had been unprofessional, possibly even unethical.”

  Barbara watched him with great interest; his hurt-little-boy act was very convincing.

  Judge Paltz shifted his position, crossed his arms over his chest. “I see. You wish to lodge a formal complaint?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “I take it we haven’t got to the emergency yet,” Judge Paltz said agreeably. “Any time now. Are you through, Bill?”

  “Not quite, sir. You know that Paula Kennerman has received many threats, and that the district attorney and I

  mutually agreed that her visitors should be screened. For her own safety. Yesterday Ms. Holloway got through the screening to see the defendant and left her in a highly agitated state. She was so excitable that I felt obligated to bring in a second doctor to evaluate her condition. It was his opinion that Mrs. Kennerman should be sedated and kept in seclusion for the next several days under his observation and care.” He drew in a breath and said slowly, “Today Ms. Holloway was denied permission to see the defendant, who was sleeping. And that, I’m afraid, is the emergency.”

  “I see.” The expression on Judge Paltz’s face remained interested and neutral. “Barbara? First, are you representing a client in this matter?”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Reiner, Paula Kennerman’s sister.” She withdrew the various papers she had collected, each set paper-clipped together. “This is my agreement with Mrs. Reiner,” she said, handing him the documents. “I went to see Mrs. Kennerman in order to get her signature. The papers were ruined, and when I tried to get back this morning I was turned away.”

  “The emergency, Barbara,” Judge Paltz said with a touch of irritation.

  “Mrs. Reiner talked to Dr. Copley, who is now treating her sister, and she is very upset by the choice of doctors and his treatment. Paula Kennerman is not incompetent; she can choose her own doctor and should not be forced to submit to one who is not under contract with the state.”

  “Is she being forced to submit to medical treatment?” the judge asked Spassero.

  “No, sir. As I said, she was very excitable, and it was the doctor’s decision—”

  “She was restrained and forced to take a massive dose of Halcion,” Barbara said sharply. “And once a patient has been tranquilized to the extent that dosage would induce, no further force is required.”

  “You questioned my competence, and now you’re questioning the competence of a distinguished doctor,” Spassero snapped.

  “Yes, I am. Your Honor, I have gathered information from a number of sources concerning the use of Halcion, especially the contraindications for a person in the physical condition Paula Kennerman suffers at this time—anemic, under great stress, anxious, depressed.” She held out the sheaf of papers she had clipped together. “These are photocopies of the original articles, and stapled to each one is an excerpt of the pertinent data.”

  With some reluctance Judge Paltz accepted the papers.

  “What is it you want?” Spassero demanded harshly. “First you tell me to get a second opinion, and then you create an emergency because I brought in a second doctor. What game are you playing?”

  “Now, Bill,” Judge Paltz said.

  “I asked if you intended to get a second psychiatric evaluation, not if you intended to bring in a hack who seems to think the only good patient is a sleeping patient.”

  “Now, Barbara,” Judge Paltz said, only minimally sharper. “Both of you, quiet.” He began to read through the excerpts, and after a moment he stood up, went to his desk, and picked up his telephone. “Doris, would you run down Dr. Grayling for me, please?”

  While he waite
d for the call to be put through, he scanned the other excerpts and then picked up the documents Barbara had drawn up for Lucille Reiner. Spassero and Barbara waited silently.

  When the phone rang, a soft melodious three notes, Barbara felt her stomach tighten.

  “Dr. Grayling, good of you to let me interrupt your day. I just have a couple of questions to ask you, looking for a little information, you know.” He swiveled his chair around and his voice faded so that his words no longer carried across the room. The conversation seemed to continue a long time before he swiveled back, saying, “I do appreciate all this, Dr. Grayling. Thank you so much.” After he hung up, he cupped his chin in his hand in thought for what seemed a long time.

  Finally he folded his hands before him on the desk and said, “A defendant who is being held in jail awaiting trial becomes of necessity a ward of the court. But a defendant who has been declared competent to stand trial is deemed competent to make independent decisions concerning certain personal affairs, such as the dispensation of belongings, a will, and non-emergency private medical treatment. Once certain treatments are initiated, however, it appears that independent decisions are not trustworthy, and for that reason I have asked Dr. Grayling to reassume his position as Mrs. Kennerman’s doctor until Monday, when she will be given the opportunity to choose her own physician if she so desires. Dr. Grayling’s opinion is that it will take until Monday for the medication to be out of her system enough to trust her independence in this matter.”

  He regarded Barbara levelly, then turned the same look of measured assessment toward Spassero. “Because her mental functions may be disturbed by the medication she has received, I order both of you not to see her until Dr. Grayling gives his permission, probably on Monday after his examination.”

  “Your Honor!” Spassero cried out. “I object to this entire proceeding. Ms. Holloway created a crisis in an attempt to prejudice the court for some reason which I simply can’t fathom. She has done this in a way that is so prejudicial, my integrity has been impugned, Dr. Copley’s reputation has been damaged, and for what purpose God alone knows.”

  “Well, she says she wants to get a blue sweater back for her client. Isn’t that what Mrs. Reiner retained you to do?”

  “Yes, sir,” Barbara said meekly. She could not interpret the glint in the judge’s eyes.

  He stood up and gathered together the papers she had given him. “As for the rest of it, Bill, leave it alone. No one’s accusing you of anything, far as I can tell. You saw your client animated, according to Dr. Grayling, and that was so unusual you made a mistake. It happens. But your doctor probably made a bigger mistake. And no one outside this room knows what went on in here.” He walked around his desk. “I think we’re through, aren’t we?” He handed the papers to Barbara.

  He ushered them to the door, and said to Barbara, “Sometime, when you have plenty of time, ask your father about that sturgeon we wrestled with over at Snake River. And, Barbara, keep in mind that the court appointed Mr.

  Spassero to represent Paula Kennerman. And to my knowledge neither of them has petitioned the court for a change.”

  The door clicked shut. Barbara and Spassero walked out silently through the offices, out to the street where the sunshine was blinding. Still not speaking, he turned one way and strode off, and she headed the other way toward her car. Only when she was inside it, holding the wheel, did she relax, and then she grinned. Asshole.

  FOUR

  She should put chairs on her porch, a few magazines, let her guests wait in comfort, she thought when she pulled up at her house. This time it was her father waiting in his car, reading a paperback book.

  She tooted her horn and waved when he looked up. He met her on the sidewalk.

  “I thought you were out of here,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

  “Why do you have an answering machine if you don’t intend to listen to the calls?” He looked her over. “So you really were in court?”

  “Not exactly. Come on in.”

  “I went to the restaurant and Martin said you were tied up in court. I didn’t believe him. You look pretty good.”

  She laughed and opened her door. “Help yourself to some wine and pour some for me, will you? I have to make one call and then I’m free as a bird.”

  She called Lucille Reiner and had to wait for a child to go get her, and by then Frank was standing in the doorway with a bottle of wine and a glass.

  “This?”

  “It’s perfectly good wine, Dad, honest.” Then she spoke into the phone. “Oh, Lucille? She’s off all medication and you can see her during regular visiting hours. I’ll pay a call on Monday.”

  She listened to Lucille, grinning at her father, who was tentatively tasting the wine. He looked at it in wonder and, shaking his head, strolled away; by the time Barbara was finished with Lucille, he had gone out to the yard and was examining the dying rhododendron. He came in as she poured wine for herself. His glass was on the table, hardly touched.

  “That rhody needs spraying.”

  “I know. I’ll get to it. Now, why aren’t you back home? What was on your message?”

  “What I thought. You don’t listen to the calls.” He lifted his glass and sniffed, then tasted it again. “Drinkable,” he said. “A beverage, not actually wine, but drinkable.”

  “Any time,” she said, sitting at the table. There were several letters she had not got around to opening that morning; she started on them.

  “And don’t read your mail. Takes a personal visit to get through to you,” he commented, going to the door, gazing out. “What I thought I might do is stay in town and look around for a few things, for the house. Thought I might talk you into hitting an auction or two with me, maybe do some looking around in a furniture store or two.” When he glanced at her, she nodded. “ ’Course, I’ll just move all your stuff over. If you want me to. Even if you don’t use the bed, in case I have company I’ll be able to offer more than the floor.”

  She grinned. “Move the stuff, Dad. Let’s talk about dinner. If I take you out, I can get out of these fancy duds, and we’ll go to Martin’s or Hilda’s. Have you eaten there?” He shook his head. “Well, you should. It’s awfully good, Central and South American cuisine. And very nice Chilean wines. It’s on Blair, four blocks, walking distance. There are bleeding hearts and lambs’ ears in the yard.” She laughed at the sceptical look on his face. “On the other hand, if you take me out, I won’t change.”

  “Flip you for it,” he decided, and produced a coin. “Heads it’s my treat.”

  She laughed harder, got up, crossed to him, and snatched the coin from his hand. “Cheat! You’ve been using that coin until it’s worn so smooth you can’t even tell it has two heads.”

  She took him to Hilda’s, where, appropriately, they stopped to admire the flowers. The next day they drove the twelve miles to Junction City and an auction where he bought nothing, and then to an antique store in south Eugene where he considered a table for a long time and then shook his head. On Sunday, just as fruitless as Saturday had been, he said he might as well bring his own couch and other things from the Turner’s Point house. He couldn’t sit on foam, he explained, made his butt sore; his couch had inner springs, the way God intended. She nodded gravely. Then they went to a garden shop, where he seemed to go on a buying binge— garden implements, gloves, a straw hat, even a tiller.

  “Couldn’t you just have someone come in and till up garden space?” she asked.

  “Could. But I want to do it.”

  There had always been a garden when she was growing up; her mother and father had tended it together most of the time. After her death he had sold the house, got rid of all the garden equipment, moved out to Turner’s Point, and he had not gardened since; Barbara never had gardened after her one childhood attempt at weeding when she had hoed out every seedling carrot. She experienced a stabbing jolt of memory: how they had laughed, holding each other helplessly. Not right away, but later that evenin
g. And she, Barbara, had marched off indignantly. No jealousy flared with the memory, although in the not too distant past it would have done so; now she felt only a sadness for him, pity for his loss. She turned away before he could look up and decipher the expression on her face. He would take a lot from her, she knew, but not pity. Never that.

  While he discussed tillers and delivery, she bought a potted red geranium to put on her porch to keep her visitors company if they got there when she was away.

  He brought up the copyright case only twice, adding details each time, still not asking her directly to take it. She played innocent.

  He was excited about the house, she thought fondly when he dropped her off Sunday afternoon. She was happy for him, and still undecided about moving in. Alter he got settled down again with his own familiar furniture, and his garden out back, maybe then he would realize he really didn’t need her. He still was denying it, but she bet herself that within a year he would sell his house out on the river. And the garden would be his excuse. He would say no one can tend a garden with a forty-mile-long hoe.

  She went to bed early that night, but was still groggy with sleep when her doorbell jolted her awake the next morning. Eight o’clock, she groaned, and started to turn over when the bell shrilled again.

  She tied her robe belt as she made her way to the door; when she lifted the corner of the blind she saw her father. He jabbed the bell again as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  He pushed his way in, slamming a rolled-up newspaper against his palm. “You tell me. Barbara, are you mixed up in that Kennerman case?”

  “What’s this all about?” she demanded. “What’s that paper you’re mutilating?”

  He thrust it at her. “You were in Lewis Paltz’s chambers on Friday, weren’t you? That was your afternoon in court. Messing around with that baby killer’s case.”

  “I’m not ‘messing around’ with anything.” When she opened the paper, a tabloid she never had seen before, the banner headline leaped at her: baby killer judge unfit! The story lead-in was in bold print: Baby Killer Kennerman, on the verge of confession, was put on hold as Judge Paltz and an old friend swapped fish stories in the judge's chambers Friday.