Gideon - 02 - Probable Cause

by Grif Stockley

  “Absolutely,” Olivia says.

  “He gave me an article to read showing the results of prior experiments. I knew that what he was trying to do was to show the administrator that shock would work so that he could get permission to buy and use remote-control equipment. He explained that the pain would be intense and that I should experience it, and I did. He said the research showed that if the stimulus wasn’t painful enough, some children it had been tried on had adapted to the pain. He explained about the tape being wrapped around the metal part when I asked if it was safe.”

  Burned worse than I have been, Jill decides not to push any further, and I also decline the opportunity to redirect.

  Olivia leaves the witness stand dry-eyed and cool. So much for my star witness. I had hoped for a stirring defense of Andy, and only got it when I wasn’t asking the questions.

  Yet maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Putting a person under oath in a witness box has an unpredictable effect.

  After brief arguments from Jill and myself, Bruton rules almost in a perfunctory manner that there is probable cause, and he binds the case over to circuit court. Once we are outside the courtroom the media engulf us, but Andy obeys my instructions to make no comment. Despite my best intentions I can’t keep myself from saying that it was pointless to crossexamine the state’s witnesses.

  John Winter of Channel 4 eggs me on.”

  “Was your decision based on your belief that your client can’t get a fair hearing in Judge Bruton’s court?”

  Now that we are in circuit court, I have nothing to lose, but instead I ignore the question and say that we will present the case to a jury. No matter how much they might agree with me, the other members of the judiciary in Blackwell County will resent it if I continue to go after Bruton.

  It is only afterward upon entering the Hardhat Cafe, a local burger place, with Sarah that I find myself at a loss for words. Ignoring the stares of men twice and three times her age (though I can’t), she asks, “If you think the judge was biased against your client, why didn’t you say so?” She seems annoyed with me even though I had told her our strategy on the way downtown this morning.

  I squint in the smoky room, trying to find a table. I think of several rationalizations I could offer up to her. She folds her arms and waits. I could tell her I have to make a living;

  I don’t want to get in trouble with the professional-ethics people; I don’t want to hurt my client. Finally, I say weakly, “The practice of law is mostly one compromise after another.

  I guess it’s a habit.”

  Men in suits (professionals enjoying the illusion of a macho atmosphere) are shooting pool with construction workers in the back of the restaurant, and I get us a table so we can watch. Sarah is interested in talking about the hearing and asks me questions until I fear she is beginning to think about becoming a lawyer.

  “Dr. Chapman seems to me like a really nice guy,” she says as the waitress brings over fries, cheeseburgers, and Cokes.

  I agree. Before we left the courthouse I had introduced her to Andy, and he went out of his way to treat her like an adult instead of a child. I reach for the bottle of ketchup.

  “He’s pretty sophisticated,” I say, thumping it on the side. Clan, who must run through a bottle a week, has instructed me, after a lifetime of thumping, that a law of physics prevents ketchup from coming out if you hit it on the bottom. Clan would be hard-pressed to name the law, but typically he is right about the results. Like a river of lava from an active volcano, the ketchup flows thickly but steadily.

  Sarah carefully removes the onions from her patty.

  “You sound surprised. Can’t a black male be sophisticated?”

  “Of course,” I say hastily. Sarah still thinks of me as a liberal. Her own idealism, which has mushroomed in the last three weeks, seems almost quaint to me these days. I have to be careful not to sound like a racist.

  “But you have to admit there’re not many black psychologists in Arkansas.”

  Sarah, about to bite into her sandwich, puts it down and replies, “That’s not their fault.”

  Why the hell not, I think, irritated by Sarah’s knee-jerk response. I bite down on a piece of gristle and have to reach into my mouth with my thumb and forefinger to remove it.

  What’s wrong with me? I should be proud of her defending blacks. After all, how many whites really believe blacks are ever going to catch up or really even give a damn whether they do or not? I can count the ones I know on one hand, and it’s not mine. What happened to me? It’s the times, I guess. Still, I can’t bring myself to tell my daughter I’m no longer a child of the sixties, not that I really ever was. But she has this image of my going off to save the world which I am loath to disturb. Despite my recent soul baring, I feel that Sarah needs a few illusions, and, if she wants to think I’m still a defender of the underdog, I’m not going to disabuse her. She’ll find out the truth soon enough. I sip at my Coke to rid my mouth of the taste of grease and say, “You’re right about that.”

  She nods, though I think a little disappointed I won’t argue with her. Why should I? There’ll be plenty of people to do that.

  As I am paying the bill, Martha Birford, my partner in humiliation at Mays & Burton, accompanied by a man I do not know, comes through the door. I wonder if she’s found a job. I hope so. The times I saw her in court Martha was quicker on the draw than her opposition. As we make our way out through the crowded tables, I introduce Sarah, who pleases me by lighting up the joint with one of her hundred-watt smiles.

  Acknowledging my daughter with only the barest of nods, Martha says coldly, “Gideon, I see you’ve landed on your feet as usual.”

  Too stunned by her rudeness to think of a comeback, I mumble, “I got lucky,” and hurry out the door. Martha and I were, if not close, in the same boat as middle-aged associates who didn’t make the grade. Maybe she has resented me all along, and I was too stupid to notice.

  “What was that all about. Dad?” Sarah asks.

  “She didn’t seem very friendly.”

  “I don’t know,” I say truthfully, squinting into the bright glare. Jealousy, maybe. She knows she’s a better lawyer, but as a woman she might never have an opportunity to prove it.

  Outside on Davis Street, as we walk back to the Layman Building where Sarah will call a friend to come pick her up, an old black woman is commanding the center of the sidewalk.

  Obviously mentally ill, she is muttering to herself.

  Wearing blue scrub pants underneath a tight knit dress with holes in it, she is cursing every other word as she pulls at her wild white hair, which explodes from her head as if she had set off a bomb by biting into it. There is something disturbingly familiar about the woman, but it is impossible to work downtown and avoid these people. I probably have seen her half a dozen times and only notice her now because of Sarah who is staring in fascinated horror at her. As we pass her, the old woman squints at me and croons, “You the white man that got me out of jail!” She smiles at Sarah, revealing jagged gray stumps that once were teeth. A hideous stench reminding me of rotten Chinese food permeates the damp air between us. Instinctively, I grab Sarah’s arm and say in a low voice, “Don’t look at her. Keep walking.”

  The old woman calls after us, “You defendin’ that ho, white man?”

  Sarah giggles nervously, and I take her arm and march her across the street against the light at the corner so we can get away from the old woman.

  “Dad, was she really your client?”

  The raspy voice and wild hair come together. I saw her in the jail cell across from Andy the day he called me.

  “She’s insane,” I explain needlessly.

  “She saw me once down in the jail and for some reason must think I helped her get out.”

  Sarah looks back over her shoulder. Even now almost a block away we can still hear her.

  “How awful! Why isn’t she in the hospital?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, unwilling to pursue
this subject.

  There are no good answers to most of her questions, but I am reluctant to tell her that, since I still want her to think somebody’s in charge in this country.

  from a distance the Blackwell County Human Development Center looks like a college campus or some fancy prep school. Ancient brick the color of a four-day-old hematoma is stacked in institutional splendor in front of me as I drive under a silver arch onto the grounds. As I wind around a narrow asphalt street, I wonder how often the residents try to run away into the wooded area that surrounds the campus for miles. Trees give Arkansas its natural beauty, but here I wonder if they could be a hindrance to the security of the residents. Surely a severely retarded person would in some ways be safer lost in the city than in the country. But I suspect few residents, judging from the lack of activity outside on this unusually mild July day (it must be no more than eighty degrees and it is almost eleven), spend much time outside these musty old buildings I am passing.

  I ease the Blazer between a Bronco and a Chevrolet pickup outside of what I take to be the central office. Andy has told me I must sign in first before I come to his office. What would institutions do without a sign-in book? Inside a small waiting room I look at the names and addresses before me:

  Rogers, El Dorado, Helena. This place is not your neighborhood school. Relatives must travel hours for a visit, so I can assume that residents are grouped around the state by level of severity. As I write my name, a man of about forty taps me on the shoulder. He is, I hope, a resident: his eyes are crossed; he has a hump a camel would be proud to own, and from the sounds he is making he is without intelligible speech. He is holding out his hand, and though I have represented many mentally ill people who acted much stranger, I feel myself flinch.

  “Homer,” the woman behind the glass says mildly, “what’re you doing down here? Does Mr. Trantham know you’re down here?”

  Homer, who is dressed in jeans and a red, long-sleeved western shirt, makes more sounds I can’t understand; but there is no mistaking the friendly grin on his face.

  To me the woman says, ““He wants to shake hands.”

  There are food stains on Homer’s shirt, and I find that I am reluctant to touch this man who seems delighted by my presence. No telling where those hands have been, but with the woman watching me, I have no choice but to eKtend my hand. He pumps away, and I steel myself to really look at him closely and find that I am not as grossed out as I thought I would be. Of course, I have seen retarded people before, but not so close I could feel their breath on my face. I realize now that I think of them as freaks, some of whom are harmless and some who aren’t.

  “How are you?” I ask loudly, self-conscious as a teenager meeting his first date’s father, knowing every word I say will be repeated by the beaming receptionist, a country woman whose brown hair is pulled tight in a bun behind her head. Homer grins sheepishly, as if he had been told an off-color joke in the presence of his mother.

  I turn and look at the woman who orders, “Let go of his hand, silly!”

  I think she is talking to me and pull my hand away just as he pulls his back, and he and I both giggle nervously. I’m beginning to feel like I’m the newest resident. Homer now studies me with unconcealed glee. He knows a soul mate when he sees one.

  “Who’ve you out here to see?” the woman asks amiably, her voice crackling with humor as she files away the story. I thought he was his brother he acted so dumb!

  “You didn’t write in who you’re visiting.”

  I take a good look at my interrogator. She has a dimple on her left cheek as deep as a small well and her eyes are a sparkling green behind steel bifocals. She could be anywhere between forty and sixty.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Chapman.”

  Her dimple disappears instantly as her cheeks swell with disapproval.

  “I saw you on TV.” Unvoiced is her unimpeachable indictment of me: You’re his lawyer.

  I confess that she probably did and ask, “Can you tell me where his office is?”

  “Homer,” she snaps, “take him upstairs to Dr. Chapman on your way back to your unit.”

  I don’t know whether I am to take this as an insult or a high honor, but Homer, who seems to have permanently grasped the power of positive thinking, appears ecstatic. He nods eagerly, and without another word I follow him through an unmarked door. Once through the door we make a series of turns, and I realize immediately I am lost as we come upon two elevators. Happily, we take the stairs (though Homer appears entirely harmless, I’d just as soon not spend a couple of hours between floors with him). On the stairs we pass a little black male surely no older than twenty. He points at me and laughs hysterically. Homer frowns and says some thing that sounds unmistakably like “Fuck off.” It begins to dawn on me that if I stayed out here a week, I’d understand everything he is saying.

  Upstairs, we pass through a set of double doors, and to my left is a group of obviously retarded men sitting on sofas watching a soap opera. This strikes me as strange, but why should it? It’s not as if you have to be a rocket scientist to watch “All My Children.” In the same area further ahead we pass a card table around which three employees (two men and a woman) dressed in ordinary clothes are sitting. I assume they are staff (I realize I expected to see nurses in starched uniforms sweeping by me on their way to patients’ rooms). Yet the residents, as strange as they look, are not, for the most part, sick, though I assume some are on medication to control their behavior.

  Before I can speak, the woman, who seems to be sorting some papers as the men look on, says, “Homer, where’re you taking him?”

  Without breaking his shuffling gait, Homer makes a series of noises, the last part of which sounds to me like “Lapland.”

  Chapman. The three give me a hard stare but say nothing. Everybody in America knows a lawyer when they see one.

  Andy is reading what appears to be a textbook in a small, dingy office with the door open and looks up as Homer brings me into view. The green concrete walls are mostly bare except for a calendar and an empty metal shelf. It is as if Andy has already been packed up.

  I explain, “Homer brought me.”

  Andy smiles, his eyes crinkling with pleasure at the sight of Homer, who now looks relieved to have discharged his unpopular task.

  “Thank you, Homer,” he says formally.

  “You did a good job. Go on back to the dayroom.”

  Homer nods and moves off, his peculiar old-man’s gait no longer as distracting to me as when I arrived.

  Andy rises and gravely offers his hand.

  “Have a seat. I’ve been transferred up here out of harm’s way,” be says, his voice sounding sarcastic and at the same time embarrassed.

  Wearing a short-sleeved sky-blue knit shirt over a pair of comfortable-looking pleated khaki pants, he is dressed far more casually than I expected. But then, I suppose Homer doesn’t mind. I sit in a metal folding chair opposite him, already feeling closed in.

  “What are you supposed to be doing all day?” I ask, trying unsuccessfully to read upside down the title of his book. “Right now I ‘m reviewing our training literature,” he says mock-importantly, and then mutters, “as if it matters.”

  I pick up the book from his desk. It is entitled: Nonaversive Intervention for Behavior Problems: A Manual for Home and Community. I flip through the pages, realizing I know zero about what is expected of retarded people.

  “Doesn’t it?

  “I ask.

  A bitter look crosses Andy’s face.

  “It’s supposed to, but there’s so much turnover,” he says, looking past me into the hall, “Homer isn’t going to do anything the rest of his life except wander these halls.”

  “What about that suit to shut down places like this?” I ask, feeling the waxy cover of the book beneath my thumb.

  Andy gives me an indulgent smile and for the next ten minutes lectures me on the myths of what he calls the deinstitutionalization movement.

 
“You get all these Utopia training models like this,” he says, pointing at his book, “but it’s not the real world. What good does it do to put a nonverbal, severely retarded man in a group home? There’s no place for people like that in American society. Retarded people are, by definition, the losers, the bottom of the barrel, in a country that insists on competition from the moment a child is born. Sure, the mildly retarded can learn enough adaptive behavior to get by, but the Homers of the world don’t fit in anywhere. In a consumer society people like him won’t ever be accepted because they don’t have any value.”

  I nod, more interested in the emotion in his voice than in what he is saying. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t want Homer moving in next to me. The price of real estate in my neighborhood is already low enough without having to worry about Homer coming over to peep in Sarah’s window. What I want a jury to hear, though, is that Andy cares about these people even if they don’t. And it won’t hurt if they agree with him.

  All Andy was trying to do was stop this child from mutilating herself—he wasn’t trying to move her into the half-million-dollar homes overlooking the Arkansas River. To get him to talk more, I deliberately bait him.

  “You don’t sound too liberal on this subject. I thought you’d tell me that retarded people were like blacks—just give ‘em a chance to show they’re regular folks.”

  Andy gives me a look that reminds me of the first time I talked to him in my office: Is this white asshole educable?

  “The people who write these books and lead these movements are basically ideologues, no matter how much they’ve worked with the develop mentally disabled. It doesn’t matter whether you call them liberals or conservatives. They have this grand vision of how things ought to be. Frankly, I think they’re dangerous as hell,” he says, softly slapping the table in front of him.