Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge

by Over the Edge

  A turn of Sonnenschein's key, and the elevator doors rasped open. He put the car on express, and it descended to the basement. Another flick of the key held it there. He leaned against the wall of the compartment and put his hands on his hips. Staring at me, he worked hard at stiffening his moon face, concealing his uneasiness behind a veil of hostility.

  'I shouldn't be opening my mouth, and if you quote me, I'll call you a liar,' he said.

  I nodded my understanding.

  'Still want to know what he says when he freaks out?' 'Yes.'

  'Well, when he freaked out this morning, he was screaming about poisoned earth and bloody plumes. The rest of the time it was mostly moans and groans. Once he went on about being a wretch or something like that.' 'A wretched act?'

  'Maybe. Yeah. Is that important?' 'It's his term for suicide.'

  'Hmm.' He smiled uneasily. 'Then I guess he got pretty wretched this morning.'

  'When did he start damaging himself?' 'The screaming and yelling started around six. I went over to check, and he calmed down and looked like he was nodding off to sleep. Then, about ten minutes later, I heard this thud - like a melon being hit with a sledgehammer -and ran over. He was throwing himself around, whipping his head back and forth like he wanted to fling it off his shoulders, smashing it against the wall. Thud. The whole back of his skull was pulp. It took four of us to tie him down. A real mess.'

  'Is that kind of thing routine in High Power?' 'Negative. Only time you see it is in new arrivals who come in flying on something. Once they're in High Power, they stay clean. Like I told you before, there's always someone trying to look psycho, but not to the point of heavy-duty pain.'

  He looked troubled. I knew what was bothering him and brought it out in the open.

  'Do you still think he's faking?'

  After wiping his forehead with his hand, he reached for the key and turned it. The elevator gears engaged noisily and the car began its ascent.

  'You wanted to know what he said, so I told you. That's as far as I go.'

  The elevator stopped short at ground level, and the doors opened into the gaily port.

  'Step forward, sir,' he said, escorting me out. I did, and he backed into the elevator.

  'Thanks,' I said softly, looking straight ahead and barely moving my lips.

  'Have a good day, sir,' he said, touching his gun butt.

  I turned. His face was an unmoving mask, steadily narrowed by the closing doors. I stared at him until he disappeared.

  Souza was waiting outside the entrance. When he saw me, he checked his watch and said, 'Come.'

  We walked briskly to the parking lot and descended a flight of stairs. At the bottom was the Rolls, with Antrim holding one door open. When we were settled, he closed it, got in front, and tooled silently toward the exit. The big car seemed to hover above the ground, a dark leviathan prowling a shadowy concrete reef.

  'Let's have lunch,' said the attorney. After that he seemed in no mood for conversation and occupied himself with consulting a series of yellow pads, then picking up the car phone, punching in a number, and barking orders in legalese through the mouthpiece.

  The fashionable restaurants were to the west, penthouse affairs ringing the downtown financial district and offering cityscape views and three-martini lunches. But the Rolls headed the other way, traversing skid row and nosing into the periphery of East L.A. Antrim drove rapidly and smoothly, turning onto a rutted side street and veering sharply into a narrow parking lot shadowed by four-storey warehouses. At the rear of the lot was an old Jetstream mobile home on blocks. Its corrugated sides had been whitewashed, and its roof was bedecked with ivy. Rising through the leaves was a hand-painted wooden sign featuring the legend ROSA'S MEXICAN CUISINE bordered by two sombreros.

  Antrim stayed with the car, and Souza and I walked to the restaurant. Inside, the place was cramped and hot but clean. Along the outer wall ran six mahogany booths, three of them occupied by groups of Mexican labourers. The portholes were draped with calico pullbacks and a Dos Equis sign blinked above the door. The kitchen was open for inspection, separated from the dining area by a waist-high wooden counter. Behind it, a moustachioed fat man in T-shirt, starched apron, and blue bandanna sweated stoically over ovens, steam tables, and deep fryers. In one corner sat an equally rotund woman reading La Opinion behind a silver-plated register. The aroma of chilis and pork fat filled the cafe.

  The woman saw us enter and got up quickly. She was in her seventies, with sparkling black eyes and white hair braided on top of her head.

  'Mr. Ess,' she said, and took both of Souza's hands.

  'Hello, Rosa. Menudo today?'

  'No, no, sorry, all gone. But the chicken enchilada is very nice.'

  We drifted to one of the empty booths. There were no menus. Souza unbuttoned his jacket and settled back.

  'I'll have the albondigas soup,' he said, 'two enchiladas -one chicken, one pork - a chile relleno, frijoles and rice, and a pitcher of ice water.'

  'Very good. And you, sir?'

  'Do you have beef salad?'

  'The best in town,' said Souza. The woman glowed.

  'Beef salad and a Carta Blanca.'

  She nodded approval and transmitted the order to the cook. He handed her a tray, and she brought it to the table and unloaded its contents: a plate of blue corn tortillas, lightly toasted, and a boat-shaped dish housing a slab of butter. Souza held out the plate to me and when I declined, took a tortilla, buttered it quickly, folded it, and ate a third. He chewed rhythmically, swallowed, and took a drink of water.

  'Since you're not eating,' he said, 'perhaps you could give me a summary of your findings.'

  I did so, but he seemed uninterested in the clinical details of the case. When I remarked upon it, he sighed heavily and buttered another tortilla.

  'As I said before, the complexion of the case has changed. I've already begun moving aggressively for delay of trial on the basis of incompetence. What happened this

  morning indicates dramatically that the county cannot be trusted to ensure the boy's safety and security, and I feel a good deal more confident about securing detention in a private facility.'

  'Despite the notoriety of the case?'

  'Fortunately for us, there's no lack of violent crime in this city, and the story has already faded from the front pages. Yesterday's Times ran a small piece on page twenty-seven. Today's paper carried nothing. I expect the suicide attempt will bring it back into focus for a while, but then a period of quiescence can be expected as the vultures of the fourth estate feast on new carrion.'

  Rosa brought the meatball soup, the ice water, and my Carta Blanca. The heat of the cafe had made me sweat, and the beer hit my tongue with a frigid burst. Souza swallowed a spoonful of steaming soup without apparent discomfort.

  'The question is, Doctor, do you feel comfortable aiding in that strategy?'

  'I haven't finished my evaluation - '

  'Yes, I understand. Your thoroughness is admirable. But have you begun to form an opinion regarding competence?'

  'I plan to wait until the data are in before forming any opinions.'

  'Hmm.'

  He returned his attention to his soup, sipping and savouring, emptying the bowl, and sopping up the last drops with a piece of tortilla.

  The food came on heavy white Mexican china - a platter for him and a plate for me.

  'Enjoy, Doctor.' And he dug in.

  We ate without talking, surrounded by laughter. The salad was excellent, the strips of meat tender and slightly piquant, the vegetables firm and fresh in a lemon and pepper dressing. The spice and the heat brought beads of moisture to my brow, and I felt my shirt begin to stick. Souza made his way resolutely through a mountain of refried beans, ate most of the stuffed chili, and drained the water pitcher. Rosa was quick to refill it.

  When all that was left was the steam of the chili and some stray grains of rice, he pushed the plate aside. Rosa brought a plate of candied cactus chunks. I tried one a
nd found it too rubbery. Souza nibbled at one with strong, blunt teeth, snipping off pieces until all the candy was gone. He wiped his mouth and looked straight at me.

  'So you have absolutely no idea of where your evaluation will lead you?'

  'No, not really. The times I've seen him, he hasn't appeared competent, but his history is one of remission and relapse, so it's impossible to know what he'll be like tomorrow.'

  'Tomorrow doesn't concern me. Would you sign your name today to a declaration stating that during the two occasions you attempted to interview him he wasn't competent?'

  I thought about it.

  'I suppose so, if the wording was sufficiently conservative.'

  'You may word it yourself.'

  'All right.'

  'Good, that's taken care of.' He ate another candy. 'Now then, as far as diminished capacity, am I correct in assuming you're choosing to opt out?'

  'I was planning to evaluate further - '

  'Dr. Delaware' - he smiled - 'there's really no need for that anymore. If everything goes as planned - and given the outrageous negligence of the jail staff, I'm sure it will -it will be some time before he comes to trial. Though I know how ambivalent you are about the insanity defence -and wouldn't want to tax your conscience - you'll be welcome to participate in the defence at that time.'

  I took a long swallow of beer.

  'In other words,' I said, 'you've found other expert witnesses who don't share my ambivalence.'

  He raised one eyebrow, licked a speck of sugar from his lip.

  'Please don't be offended,' he said lubriciously. 'My obligation is to do whatever I can to help my client. When

  we agreed to work together, I accepted your terms, but that didn't restrict me from talking to other doctors.'

  'Who do you have?'

  'Chapin from Harvard and Donnell from Stanford.'

  'Have they examined Jamey?'

  'Not yet. However, from my description of the case they feel confident a dim cap will be forthcoming.'

  'Well, then, I guess they're your guys.'

  'I do want to say that I - and the Cadmus family -appreciate all you've done, therapeutically as well as evaluatively. Heather told me that talking to you lifted her spirits, and that's no mean feat, seeing what she's been through.'

  He called Rosa over, handed her a twenty and a ten, and told her to keep the change. She tittered gratefully and brushed his jacket with a whisk.

  Back in the limousine, he reached over and patted my shoulder.

  'I respect you as a man of principle, Doctor, and trust there's no ill will between us.'

  'Not at all.' I remembered something Mal Worthy once said. 'You're a warrior, and you're doing your best to win the war.'

  'Exactly. Thank you for seeing that.' He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a large chequebook.

  ' How much more do I owe you?'

  'Nothing. In fact, I'll be returning the first five thousand.'

  'Please don't do that. It will disrupt my firm's accounting schedule, but more important, it would rob our association of professionalism should it ever come under scrutiny; the court distrusts anything that's not paid for.'

  'Sorry. I don't feel comfortable taking it.'

  'Then donate it to your favourite charity.'

  'I have a better idea. I'll send it to you, and you donate it to your favourite charity.'

  'Very well,' he said, the broad features constricting with anger before settling back into forced serenity. - A petty victory, but it came at the right time.

  Antrim drove back to the jail. The glass partition was

  closed, and from the movement of his head I could tell he was listening to music. Souza saw me watching him and smiled.

  'A free spirit. But the man's an excellent mechanic.'

  'He must be to maintain this.'

  'Oh, yes. This and much more.'

  He got on the phone again, called the office, and jotted down his messages. None was sufficiently important to merit his attention, and he instructed the secretary to pass them on to Bradford Balch.

  'One more thing,' he said, putting down the phone, 'and I mention it as a formality only. Now that you're no longer on the case, you realise that having served as my consultant, you're forbidden to discuss it with anyone.'

  'I realise that,' I said coldly.

  'Yes, I know you do,' he said, writing on a yellow pad. I made out my name amid the scrawl.

  We reached the jail parking structure. The Rolls entered and cruised until coming to a stop next to my Seville.

  'Well, Doctor, it's been a pleasure,' said Souza, gripping my hand and squeezing it.

  I smiled noncommittally.

  'There's one thing I'd like to ask you, Mr. Souza.'

  'What's that?'

  'Do you think Jamey killed all those people?'

  He let go of my hand, leaned back into a sea of grey felt, and made a tent with his fingers.

  'That's not a question I can answer, Dr. Delaware.'

  'Why's that?'

  'It's simply not relevant to my role as an advocate, and even to begin to think along those lines would hamper me in the execution of my duties.'

  He flashed me another smile and turned away. The chauffeur came around and opened the door. I got out. Before I reached the door of my car, the limousine had vanished.

  I put my attaché down and stretched. It was the first time in my life I'd ever been fired. Strangely enough, it felt damned good.

  I DROVE out of the parking lot and reflected on my dismissal. Souza had fished me out of a sea of experts, using the twin lures of flattery and professional responsibility: I was vital to the case because of both my prior treatment of Jamey and my ostensible brilliance. Now, given the first opportunity, he'd thrown me back like some undersized hatchling, having filled his bucket with more substantive catch. I shouldn't have been surprised. We hadn't really got along; although we were outwardly cordial, there was an unmistakable tension between us. He was a man who thrived on manipulation, a sculptor of behaviour, and I'd proved less than pliable and thus expendable. After all, he had Chapin from Harvard, Donnell from Stanford - full professors both, well published and respected. No matter that they had no problems assuring an insanity defence before examining the patient. They were the kind of expert who thrived in Souza's system.

  I didn't regret leaving his team, but I rued how little I'd learned about Jamey. The case had produced far more questions than answers. The only issue that had come close to generating a consensus was his psychosis. Everyone except Sonnenschein had agreed that he was crazy, and even the deputy had relaxed his cynicism after witnessing the damage the boy had done to himself. But the crimes of which he was accused weren't those of a psychotic, as a first-year graduate student had noticed. Souza's quick answer laid the blame - not without some justification - on a dead man. In fact, both his guardians and his peers had seen Ivar Digby Chancellor as a major influence in Jamey's life. The man had steered him from sonnets to securities, from cola to sprouts. But whether that influence had extended to serial homicide was far from clear.

  Upon closer inspection, not even the diagnosis of schizophrenia was free from confusion: The disease had run an atypical course, and Jamey's response to medication had been inconsistent. In addition, he'd shown some, though admittedly minor, evidence of drug use. Sarita Flowers and Heather Cadmus were certain he'd never taken dope. But the Project 160 kids thought otherwise. As far as Mainwaring was concerned, it didn't matter, and the inconsistencies could be explained by subtle brain damage. Perhaps the psychiatrist was right, but he'd never carried out a comprehensive neurological workup. And his lack of interest in anything other than dosage levels as well as his slipshod charting weakened my confidence in his judgment.

  Then there was the matter of the Cadmus family history - a lineage steeped in psychopathology. Were the similarities among the declines of Antoinette, Peter, and Jamey meaningful? Had the trussing of Chancellor been a primitive attempt at symb
olic patricide? Dwight Cadmus certainly merited a second interview.

  There were others I wanted to talk to as well. Gary Yamaguchi and the nurses - the gushing Ms. Surtees and the caustic Mrs. Vann. The contrast between the two women was yet another rub: The private-duty nurse had described Jamey more positively than had anyone else. Yet it was she he'd attacked the night he'd bolted. Andrea Vann had viewed him as dangerously disturbed, but that hadn't stopped her from leaving the C Ward nursing station unstaffed that night. And now she'd quit.