by Avery Corman
He never showed up.
12
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, LOOKING like a mess from lack of sleep, I was taken by handcuff, taken in chains! from the hospital to the courtroom.
As I stepped out of the building, the press was waiting. They had missed the sight of me being brought in. They certainly weren’t going to miss me coming out. The cumulative power of the press is wonderful when it’s working for you, but when it turns the other way, well, some time ago there was that kid, Michael J. Brody, who was going to give away millions. The press was all over him, they covered every move he made, he got a recording contract, sang on Ed Sullivan, the works. Weeks later, the word got out on the wire services that he had been arrested and was being held for psychiatric examination. Just the words, “psychiatric examination” were enough to do him in as far as the press was concerned. They were finished with him, and as a result, so was the public. It didn’t even matter if the charges were valid. And now I was being held for psychiatric examination. What would it do to my credibility?
“SAW GOD, SEES DOCTORS” said the ungracious Daily News.
The paparazzi jumped at me. I’ve never been confronted by the legendary European paparazzi, but the group outside Bellevue had several civilians among the pros. They were Japanese tourists with Nikons and American tourists with Polaroids who had drifted a few blocks east from their regular rounds of the Empire State Building. My sanity had become a tourist attraction.
The pros did their job. By the next day, all America was treated to the sight of messy, handcuffed me, framed against the hallowed halls of Bellevue. The Michael J. Brody Effect was in effect. And I didn’t even get to sing on Network TV. As you can see, even from my recollection of it, I was being fairly casual because I just didn’t realize I was actually on the brink of being put away for a long, long time, long after the point when I would have dropped off the chart of the media’s Top 100 Hits.
I later learned that the photographers being on the scene at the precise time of my emergence from the hospital was the handiwork of Owen D. Shallimar, Jr. I remember when most public relations and advertising in this country was run by tough, conservative Old Ivy types like him. Then the Greeks and the Italians and the Jews moved into those fields and all the Greeks and the Italians and the Jews forgot those Old Ivy guys had been there before them. I got a reminder. Shallimar had skillfully arranged for the press to be there when I came out, even held a little sidewalk press conference before they led me out, saying he was going to expose to all the world the sadness of my mental state. And then, timed beautifully, out I stride, attached to a cop, emerging from the nuthouse. He couldn’t have played it better.
Judy and Lester rushed up to me. I assured Judy I was all right, something Lester seemed to disagree with.
“You’re in a lot of trouble.”
“What kind of judicial restraint is that?”
“Well, we’ll try.”
“You’ll try? You’ll do more than try!”
“Shh. Don’t raise your voice. Act normal. Especially now.”
“Listen here, Lester.”
“Not too loud. Your accuser is watching you.”
There was Shallimar, looking very pleased with himself, a tall, muscular man, who looked as though he never had to shave, and in what was one of the more ominous signs to me, he had his hair parted down the middle. I turned toward him, I don’t know what I was going to say exactly, but as I turned, he recoiled in the style of John Barrymore. Off went the cameras, and as a follow-up picture to the story, America saw crazy me apparently threatening meek and defenseless Owen D. Shallimar, Jr. If you ever have any public relations to do, don’t overlook the old-time heavy hitters.
The friendly policeman pushed me toward the waiting van and we were off to see the wizard. My personal van pulled away from the curb, followed by Lester and Judy in Lester’s car, followed by Shallimar in his chauffeur-driven Bentley, followed by the press in station wagons and taxicabs. It wasn’t the circumstances you’d want, but I had my first motorcade.
They took me to the chamber of New York State Supreme Court Justice Richard G. Levine, pronounce “Lavyne.” I have always mistrusted Levines pronounced Lavyne and Shapiros pronounced Shapyro. Apart from being pretentious, it’s a bit nit-picky. Judge Levine was both of these things. In a grand manner, he informed both sides that in this hearing he would call the shots, and that it was not to be a carnival for the press, either, and the public would be barred. I wasn’t sure if that would work for me or against me, but having already been outhit by Owen D., I guessed I was better off.
“Counselor Shallimar, you have brought the petition and it will be for you to establish the mental incompetence of the defendant. You may call witnesses and present evidence accordingly.”
Shallimar then handed over just like that a folder on me three inches thick. I had a sudden loathing for Xerox machines.
“You, sir, have the right of counsel to defend yourself.” Talking very slowly, “Do-you-understand-what-I’m-saying-to-you?”
Pretty offensive of him, but I said I understood and that Counselor Hirsh was to be my attorney, but looking across at tough, he-was-probably-a-major-in-the-Army Counselor Shallimar, and then at 4-F, because-of-no-arches Counselor Hirsh, I wasn’t sure I had the right man. Lester asked for time alone with his client, inasmuch as I had until then been incarcerated.
“Objection! Held for observation,” Shallimar corrected, jockeying for position early.
The judge said I could certainly have time with my attorney, and very slowly, was-that-all-right-with-me? It-was-all-right-with-me.
Lester, Judy and I went off to a small room where Lester briefed me. The hearing would be run like a regular trial, and presumably I knew the ground rules since I had seen trials on television and in the movies. I didn’t want to admit that once when I was in bed with the flu I had become emotionally involved in the day-to-day proceedings of Divorce Court on television. But I did tell him that I knew all about the procedure having been on jury duty on a case where a woman sued an airline over the loss of her luggage. That didn’t reassure him.
“We have problems. Usually your defense in a situation like this is to prove the defendant is capable of taking care of himself, that he knows the difference between right and wrong.”
“Right and wrong. That’s pretty deep.”
“Uh, could you not make jokes? Crazy people joke their way to the gallows.”
“What kind of gallows humor is that?”
“Uh, could you not make jokes?”
“Listen to Lester, honey.”
“But how seriously can I take this? A hearing on my sanity.”
“Could you try taking it seriously?”
“Who is this guy Shallimar anyway and what does he want?”
“He thinks he’s a crusader and what he wants—is you committed.”
“Let’s put in a counterclaim and commit him.”
“Could you let me be the lawyer? Now the way I figure his strategy … he’s going to try to prove that you really think you saw God.”
“I did see God.”
“Right,” said Lester, popping a little pill in his mouth. “That’s what I figured.”
“Wait a minute, Lester,” Judy said. “That’s all he’s going to do?”
“Right.”
“But everybody knows he said he saw God.”
“Right.”
“He’s on record.”
“Right.”
Cutting through like Perry Mason, I said, “Then my defense will actually be their prosecution.”
“Right.” Popping another pill.
It was Catch-24.
“Of course, the judge could believe your story, but I wouldn’t count on it. So all Shallimar has to do is prove it is your story. And who would tell such a story? An insane person, of course.”
“That simply isn’t fair,” Judy said.
“Well, we have our day in court. We are being given the chance to pr
ove our case.”
“I think we should delay,” I said. “Really build up an airtight case.”
“Except you’re in custody. The longer we delay, the longer they hold you.”
“In Bellevue?”
“Listen, did they feed you? Legally, they’ve got to feed you.”
“Who cares about that? Lester, get me off.”
“We’ll try. But as your lawyer, my legal advice to you is—to pray.”
We then got down to figuring what evidence we could mount in my behalf, what witnesses we might be able to call in. The problem was so few people of stature had ever come out in active support of me. Lester, who had been trying to reach people all night, went off to place calls to a few more possibles, people who seemed to support me along the way, but as soon as it became clear to anyone that this was a sanity hearing, he politely declined. We had the kids on The Good Earth, but even they had never come right out and said they believed me, only that they felt I had a right to air my story. More important, Lester felt because they were the younger generation they might prejudice the judge against me.
Lester made his calls—no luck.
“What kind of guy is this judge?”
“Strict constructionist. He runs a tight court.”
“He’s Jewish, isn’t he?” Judy asked. “Wouldn’t that help?”
“Lavyne? He votes Republican. And his being Jewish could hurt, if the story offends him.”
“This is a court of law!” I pronounced. “His personal feelings shouldn’t come into it.”
“My friend, all that counts are his personal feelings.”
“I’m very depressed,” Judy said.
“Yes, we all should be. Elaine was crying this morning.”
“Isn’t that pre-judging the case?”
“Lester, what can we do?” Judy asked.
“We’re going to go in there and give them hell!”
“Yes, Lester, but how?” I said.
“We’ll play it by ear!”
Lester then rose, gathered up his papers and said to me with conviction, “And if we lose, we can always appeal.”
It looked like my lawyer was taking the strong legal position of hoping for a miracle.
The proceedings began with Shallimar making an opening statement in which he apologized. He would not have filed this complaint if not for the clear and present danger to others that I represented.
“We have all seen the strange, ill-dressed woman mumbling to herself on streetcorners and buses …” Come off it, Owen D. You’ve never been on a bus in your life. “But that type of mental illness, however sad, is harmless and I would never presume to bring charges against such a distressed soul. This man, however, has dangerous hallucinations …”
“Objection!” Lester called out.
“Counselor Shallimar, we will be dealing only in facts. Documentation, please.”
That’s good I thought. Only facts. The judge is being fair. Then it occurred to me. Facts. The facts could put me away! I was suddenly getting an upset stomach.
“The facts are that only a diabolically perverted man would …”
“Objection!”
“No, go on Counselor, develop your point.”
“Only a sick, demented, dangerous man”—with what was going on in my stomach, he was right about the sick—“would publicly play upon the reverence and heartfelt devotion of people to the Lord God, Father of the Heavens …”
Yes, yes, who brought us forth bread from the earth.
Lester then had the chance to make his statement.
“Through the course of literary history, valuable creative people have examined their relationship with God. Dostoyevski, Sholom Aleichem—”—A little ethnic cuteness there—“Camus.”
Camus? Lester, he came up empty-handed on God.
“And now this man, devoted husband, hardworking playwright, a veteran of the Armed Services,” Lester? Six months in the Reserves? “has done the same as others before him. Whether we believe his story or not is totally irrelevant.” My guy. He was going right at it.
“Objection! His Honor will determine relevance.”
“That is true,” the judge said.
“What is relevant is his right to make his contentions,” Lester answered.
With a faint smile on his face Shallimar said, “Objection! Those rights are protected under The Bill of Rights. We are not here to determine those rights.” I even knew that.
“I know what we’re here to determine,” the judge said. “Go on Counselor.”
“Lester continued, “If this man claims he has met with God, that in itself is not a proof of his incompetence, only proof of his concern with the fundamentals of life, an outgrowth of his creative, searching spirit, his right as a literary figure to express himself in the style of the great”—Lester paused to look at some notes he had made—“the great Judaeo-Christian New York Jewish Literary Establishment.”
It sounded pretty thin to me. From what I could see, Lester was trying to get me off by claiming what didn’t seem to be the most airtight legal point in the world—poetic license.
I then asked the judge if I could be excused for a moment due to terrible stomach. He called a ten-minute recess and a cop led me to a John and came inside the room with me. I thought he was going to follow me right into the bowl, but he stopped outside the stall. On the seat, a modern-day Luther, I called for my Lord to assist me.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” I mumbled softly, knowing if the cop heard me, the next thing they’d be using that against me, “and I’m kind of embarrassed to be asking in this particular place, but I don’t think it’s going too well. I mean, if they prove—oh, you know the law. I need your help and I wouldn’t be asking …” then out of nervy desperation, I said, “but I only did this for you.”
God was silent.
I was led back inside where Shallimar began to build his case, starting with the sworn testimony of the twin doctors. In their opinion I was mentally unstable and a proper subject for care in a state mental hospital. That figured.
There is that moment in all the trials in the movies and on TV where the defendant leans over and says something meaningful to his lawyer, who makes a note of it. I leaned over and said to Lester, “These guys see so many nutballs, they’re over-nutballed.” It came out under cross-examination as:
“Doctor Browder, is it not true that in your line of work you see so many nutballs, you are over-nutballed?”
“What was that question?” the judge asked, but it didn’t matter anyway because it was clear that the judge felt that the doctors were doctors, and if a doctor says …
Doctors! When I was younger, doctors, premed students, anything with a potential doctor in it always got the girl. How the Jewish princesses loved their Jewish princes. A biology major had more prestige than me. Now doctors were back to haunt me. The Return of the Doctors.
“Doctors can hurt you in a deal like this,” Lester said. “We need our own doctor. Have you got a friend who’s a doctor?”
“All I have is a dentist.”
“Doesn’t Judy go to an analyst?”
“Yes.”
“How about her?”
“She thinks I’m crazy.”
Lester made a few notes on his legal pad, then said, “We’ll come up with a good medical authority for the appeal.”
“What about now?”
“There’s not much we can do in the time. Anyway, this will all be over today.”
“It will?”
“Oh, sure. Levine likes to get you in and out. He used to be a traffic judge. ‘Traffic Judge Levine’ they call him. Well know tonight.”
“We haven’t had much of a shot.” You fall into saying “we” when it’s really you because it’s easier to think it’s not.
“We haven’t. It’s a lousy system. These competency and sanity procedures are the worst. Very little civil rights for the defendants.”
“That’s very informative, Lester.”<
br />
“No, there’s not much we can do about it. We could run in the ACLU as a protest, but it would be ruled irrelevant.”
“They’re going to send me up the river!”
“Or out on the island. But it will only be temporary, until the appeal, and we’ll have more time to prepare for that. Meantime, you’ll be all right. We’ll visit. They’ll keep you comfortable. And Mattewan has color television.”
He thought I was crazy, too. My friend. My lawyer. Nobody believed me. There’s nothing like being persecuted for a person who is being persecuted to feel persecuted. I looked back at Judy, remembering something Lester said once that divorces were such a drag that among lawyers the joke is—it’s easier to just get your mate committed—and was Judy trying to get rid of me? I was a paranoia festival.
I realized later on that Lester was doing the best he could under the circumstances. If he seemed matter-of-fact about the possible outcome, he was just taking a practical view so that if they did put me away momentarily, it wouldn’t make me so crazy they’d have to really put me away—a logic you can only take so far, if you are already away.
Shallimar called his other witnesses, the arresting officers, who recounted the circumstances of the arrest, the J. P. Kearnsworth minister person who had been publicly criticizing me and who wasn’t exactly a fan, who kept saying on the stand that I was dangerous, and a little bitty who turned out to be the cousin of the “God lives on NBC!” lady, testifying that her cousin had been placed in a rest home because of me. In cross-examination, Lester couldn’t do much to budge the doctors—who could?—but he extracted that the Messrs. Kearney and Sabatello had used force on me during the arrest and don’t people sometimes lose their tempers in a fight and might that not account for my behavior? They agreed it might, provided I wasn’t psycho to start.
“Why don’t we let His Honor decide that?” Lester said, rather pleased with himself.