Sullivan's Law

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Carolyn remembered the sensitive, romantic young man she had fallen in love with. They’d had picnics and made love on the beach. He wrote her love letters and brought her flowers. Curled up together in his bed, many nights they’d talked until the sun came up. Her son was wrong. Frank had been a handsome and appealing man. It was amazing what alcohol and drugs could do to a person’s looks. Not yet forty, her former husband looked like an old man. Their marriage had started coming apart ten years ago.

  Because of the baby, only one of them could continue their education. Carolyn had placed John in day care and worked as a secretary to pay Frank’s tuition. He’d taught English while he struggled to complete his first novel. When he wasn’t able to get the book published, he bolstered his ego by sleeping with other women. Then, even his sexual escapades had failed to appease him. He’d allowed drug dealers to come to the house around her children. During the divorce, Carolyn had tried to keep the truth from John and Rebecca. The psychologist they’d only recently stopped seeing insisted that she tell the children why she had divorced their father. When a person became involved with hardcore narcotics, there was no room for anything else. Frank no longer loved anyone. The only thing he loved was the drugs.

  “My teacher says Professor Leighton’s a fun guy,” John told her, breaking the silence. “You might like him.”

  “Oh, I see,” Carolyn said, smiling. “It’s all right if I shack up with a physics professor as long as you get a recommendation to MIT. Is that what this is all about?”

  John chuckled. “Sort of,” he answered. “At least I’d learn something. I can’t imagine learning anything worthwhile from Brad. I admit I thought he was cool with the race cars and all when I was younger. I bet the guy couldn’t even pass my calculus class. I know he doesn’t have the brains to ever do physics.”

  “I’m too busy to get involved with another man right now,” Carolyn told him, using a sponge to wipe down the counter. “Is Rebecca asleep?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I had to help her with her homework again. She’s lazy, Mom. She could have done it by herself. I have my own work to do.”

  Carolyn had heard this complaint before. She made a mental note to talk to Rebecca in the morning. “Did she pick up all the junk in there like I told her?”

  “You know Rebecca never cleans her room. She gets her friends to do it for her. She’s a spoiled brat, Mom. You should see how she acts when you’re not here. She won’t even pour herself a glass of milk. She treats me like I’m her slave.”

  Carolyn braced herself in the doorway. “Who got the whole garage to himself? Besides, I thought you wanted me to hook up with this physics professor. Perks are perks, guy. Everything in life comes with a price.”

  A tall brunette with dark eyes and a round, friendly face looked up from her desk when Carolyn swept into the office Tuesday morning. Behind each partition were two workstations. Since Carolyn had seniority, her desk was located next to a window. Veronica Campbell’s desk was on the opposite side of the partition, but since she had the desk near the wall, the two women could see each other and converse. Veronica had a tendency to talk too much, one of the reasons she had trouble staying on top of her work.

  “I’m so sick of this job I can’t even think straight,” the woman said, scowling. “Preston assigned me two new cases this morning.” She picked up a stack of files, then tossed them back down on her desk. “There’s no way I can finish these reports on time, even if I stay here every night until midnight. I’ve got a husband and three kids. I think Drew has a girl on the side, and my two-year-old thought I was the babysitter last night. No wonder the agency makes so many mistakes. We’re not machines, you know.”

  “Tell me about it,” Carolyn said, walking into her cubicle and placing her purse and briefcase on the floor next to her chair. The two probation officers who shared partitions with Carolyn and Veronica were seldom around. Blair Ridgemore, who shared a space with Carolyn, was one of the small group of people in California who were still addicted to nicotine. When Ridgemore wasn’t interviewing victims or defendants, he dictated his reports into a tape recorder while sitting on one of the concrete benches outside in the courtyard where he could smoke. Sandra Wagner, who shared Veronica’s space, had been on maternity leave for the past six months.

  “So when do you think you’ll graduate from law school?” Veronica piped up again. “Then you can leave this drudgery and become rich and famous. I can’t wait to see you on those TV shows talking about all the slimy bastards you’ll be defending.”

  “Thanks,” Carolyn answered, sighing as she pulled out the file on Daniel Metroix. “Even slimy bastards are entitled to legal representation, Veronica. It’s not like I intend to represent child molesters, rapists, or murderers. That is, unless I’m convinced they’re innocent.”

  “Right,” Veronica told her. “That’s what everyone says. Why don’t you become a divorce attorney? Then you can stick it to all those cheating husbands. If I catch Drew fooling around, I may be in the market for a divorce attorney myself.”

  “I’d rather defend criminals. Domestic law is the worst. Not only is it maddening, half the clients can’t pay. Criminal law is what I know best. Who knows? I might become a prosecutor.”

  “You go to class tonight, don’t you?”

  “Not tonight,” Carolyn answered, thinking once the children were in bed, she might be able to catch up on her reading. Thank goodness, Judge Shoeffel, or Arline, as she’d asked Carolyn to call her, hadn’t assigned them another paper to write this week.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Veronica continued. “My kids would burn the house down if I left them alone for more than an hour. Jude is almost fifteen, but she’s a rotten babysitter. Micky was a goof, you know.”

  “You mean the baby?”

  “Yeah,” the woman said. “I’ll be raising children until I retire. Besides, I could never tackle law school. You don’t even have a husband to help you.”

  “It isn’t easy,” Carolyn admitted, gazing out the window. “As far as the kids go, I’m lucky that John is so responsible. Rebecca can be difficult. I hope I can finish school before she starts getting involved with boys.”

  Carolyn went into a room with the intention of dictating a report on the Sandoval shooting. She kept thinking of Daniel Metroix, though. Since she would be seeing him that evening, she decided to search the computer archives to see what kind of additional information she could dig up on his case. The man’s claim that he knew her had spooked her. He’d left his room number at the Seagull on her answering machine the night before. She didn’t want to end up fighting off a rapist, or have the guy whip out a gun and shoot her. And then there was all that crazy talk about physics and having his own lab at the prison.

  Ah, she thought, slipping on her headset and dialing the number for Chino. She could clear up at least one delusion.

  “Warden Lackner here,” a deep voice said. “My secretary told me you had a question regarding a former prisoner named Daniel Metroix.”

  “Yes,” she said, relating what Daniel had told her.

  “Metroix is a decent fellow. We never experienced any behavior problems during the time he was here.”

  “Wasn’t he being treated for schizophrenia?” Carolyn asked, riffling through the file and pulling out the paperwork from the prison. “People with schizophrenia generally exhibit a myriad of behavior problems. Who made the diagnosis?”

  “He claimed he was hearing voices,” the warden said. “Our staff psychiatrist checked him out and felt he could benefit from medication. Then Metroix heard about some new drug. We couldn’t get the board of prisons to approve it, so Metroix paid for it himself. If I remember correctly, one of his relatives left him some money.”

  “Did you verify that?”

  “I can’t keep track of everything that happens inside this facility,” Lackner answered defensively. “Why don’t you call and speak to Dr. Edleson?”

  “Forget the money for the
moment. Did you provide Daniel Metroix with a lab?”

  “Oh, that,” the warden said, emitting a nervous chuckle. “Prisoners have a way of exaggerating things. It was an old storage closet. Daniel was good at fixing things. You know, appliances and things we use here at the prison. He was a trustee, so I let him set up a little shop. A few other trustees worked there as well.”

  Carolyn was about to conclude the call when she glanced down at a report written by the warden in Daniel’s behalf. Having a warden on your side should have made the prison gates instantly swing open. In a twelve-year-to-life sentence, most individuals were paroled after approximately eight years. Unless they tried to escape or killed a guard or another inmate, all prisoners received good time and work-time credits, credits which cut their prison terms almost in half. Daniel Metroix had been incarcerated for twenty-three years, a sentence that was equivalent to forty. She’d known multiple murderers who’d served less time.

  “Why was this man repeatedly denied parole?” she asked. “You recommended that he be released over fifteen years ago, citing him as a model prisoner.”

  “You’ll have to speak to the parole board,” Lackner said. “I have to take another call now.”

  Carolyn disconnected, then looked up the number for William Fletcher, Daniel’s attorney. After she emphasized her credentials, the man’s assistant patched her through to him at his home. Fletcher was semiretired and specialized in estate management.

  “I can’t divulge information without a signed consent from Mr. Metroix.”

  “Come on,” Carolyn prodded. “I don’t need numbers and details. All I want is a yes or no. Did Daniel Metroix receive an inheritance from his grandmother?”

  “You’re a smart lady, Ms. Sullivan. The fact that I’m his attorney should tell you something. Don’t call me again until you have a signed release from my client.”

  Carolyn made an exception and ate lunch in the cafeteria. Then she spent most of the afternoon in front of her computer screen, reading through every document she could find related to the arrest, trial, and conviction of Daniel Metroix. She was puzzled as to why the public defender who’d represented him hadn’t pleaded him not guilty by reason of insanity. The fact that Metroix suffered from schizophrenia and had spent three months in a state psychiatric hospital had never been mentioned during the trial, nor were any records from his psychiatrist forwarded to the authorities at Chino. She couldn’t ask his public defender what happened as the man had been killed in a car accident fifteen years ago.

  When she finished reading through the trial transcripts, Carolyn managed to extract Metroix’s original arrest and booking sheet from the computer’s archives. Among his personal belongings had been an appointment card from a local psychiatrist, along with a small white envelope containing four pills, which the crime lab had identified as a drug called Levodopa.

  She’d never heard of this particular medication, which wasn’t surprising considering what little she knew about psychotropic medications. She first tried to track down Walter Gershon, the psychiatrist listed on the card, but was unable to find his number. Assuming the doctor had either retired or died like the public defender, she typed in the drug Levodopa on the Internet, then hit the search button.

  The on-line PDR, or Physicians Desk Reference, indicated that Levodopa was primarily used in the treatment of Parkinson’s disease. Why would a schizophrenic be given a drug used to treat Parkinson’s? The medication dramatically increased the levels of dopamine in the brain.

  Carolyn decided to call a psychiatrist who frequently served as an expert witness. Once she told Dr. Albert Weiss’s secretary that she could bill the county for an hour of the doctor’s time, the woman transferred her to his cell phone.

  “I need to ask you a question,” Carolyn said, telling him the name of the medication and a brief outline of the circumstances.

  “Any psychiatrist,” Dr. Weiss said, “or even any physician, for that matter, would never treat a known schizophrenic with Levodopa. Are you sure you got the name of the drug right?”

  “It could have been a typo,” she told him. “Was there a medication with a similar spelling which may have been prescribed for this condition over twenty years ago?”

  “I’ve been practicing psychiatry since you were in grade school,” Weiss told her. “As far as I know, there’s no such animal.”

  “What kind of effect would the drug have?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” the psychiatrist said sarcastically. “The patient would more than likely become psychotic not long after the drug hit his bloodstream. You caught me on the golf course. I’m about to tee off. Did I answer your question?”

  “Thanks,” Carolyn said. “Enjoy your game.”

  Heading to the break room to get a soda, Carolyn ran into Brad Preston as he was chatting and laughing with Amy McFarland.

  “I’ve come across some major discrepancies in the Metroix case.” Carolyn pulled back the tab on her can of 7UP and took a swallow. “As soon as I get all the facts straight, we need to talk.”

  Brad smiled at Amy McFarland. “See the guy once a month,” he told Carolyn. “I assigned you four more investigations this morning. The Metroix case is ancient history. You don’t have time to be concerned about discrepancies.”

  Carolyn gave him a look that would drop an elephant. His new girlfriend didn’t seem to be pressed for time. She turned and smiled sweetly at the woman. “Have you met Brad’s fiancée, Amy?” she asked. “You should see the ring he gave her last week. Looks like about three carats. Not only that, he’s taking her to Paris on their honeymoon. Isn’t that romantic?”

  Carolyn watched the woman’s face twist in anger. She stormed out of the room, whacking Brad in the stomach with her purse as she passed.

  “I knew you were sleeping with her,” Carolyn said.

  “You’re not only nuts,” Preston said, coffee spilled down the front of his shirt, “you’re a first-class bitch.”

  “Keep your dick out of the office,” Carolyn told him, a look of satisfaction on her face.

  “You didn’t mind.”

  “You weren’t my supervisor then, remember?”

  Back at her desk, Carolyn read through Metroix’s trial transcripts again to make certain she hadn’t missed anything. Something didn’t add up. Brad had originally told her how sensitive the case was, and warned her not to make any mistakes. In the break room, he’d told her the case was ancient history, that all she had to do was see the man once a month.

  Carolyn was now determined to find out everything she could about the death of Tim Harrison. As a law student, she was intrigued by numerous elements of the case.

  Confirming her suspicions that Brad was sleeping with another woman hurt, particularly since Amy McFarland was twenty-five and a knockout. Obviously, he hadn’t ended their affair simply because of his promotion. Had he been seeing Amy even before she’d been hired at the agency, possibly helped her get the job? A probation officer didn’t make a great deal of money, but as in most civil service positions, the number of people who applied was staggering. The benefits were excellent and the pay increases came like clockwork. Most of the new people were college graduates, and many held master’s degrees.

  Carolyn stared out the window, trying to keep herself from crying. The older a woman got, the harder it became to accept rejection. Her thoughts turned to David Reynolds. Should she accept his advances, then somehow manage to parade him in front of Brad? She rushed into an interview room and called her brother. “What are you doing?”

  “Eating a bowl of cereal,” Neil said. “What are you doing?”

  “Contemplating suicide,” his sister told him. “Brad dumped me for a young blonde. Not only that, I have to work with her. I feel like a fool.”

  “Told you the guy was an asshole,” Neil said calmly, knowing she was being melodramatic. “Is she a young blonde, or is she a gorgeous young blonde? If she’s got a decent face and a dynamite body, I’ll give you fifty bucks i
f you get me her number. Tell her I’m a famous artist. I’ll paint her and immortalize her beauty forever.”

  “I hate you,” Carolyn said, kicking a chair and knocking it over. “I don’t know why I called you. When I’m upset, you never try to comfort me. All you ever do is insult me.”

  “That’s the point,” Neil said, laughing. “Now you’re mad at me instead of Brad.”

  Leaving the interview room, Carolyn decided to get out of the office and pay a visit to the property room at the jail. Nothing related to the psychiatrist or the pills had been introduced during Daniel’s trial. Could someone have suppressed this evidence because they knew it would support either a diminished capacity or an insanity defense?

  “Is this date right?” asked Jessie Richards, a deputy assigned to the property room. He peered out at her from a window in the door.

  “The date’s right.” She handed him the computer printout, listing the items that had been in Daniel’s possession at the time of his arrest, hoping against reason that they were in a box somewhere collecting dust. Procedure called for the prisoner’s belongings to be forwarded to whatever prison he was sent to in order that they could be returned upon his release. Sending an inmate his property wasn’t a high priority; therefore, it was occasionally overlooked.

  “I was in diapers when this dude went to prison,” Richards said, typing in the case number from the printouts she’d given him. “I didn’t know they even had computers in those days.”

  “They had cars too, Jessie,” Carolyn told him. The man was an avid surfer and had probably spent his teenage years in a fog of marijuana. Ironically, the lower spectrum in law enforcement had numerous individuals with his type of background. Years ago, things had been different. Potential officers had to consent to a lie detector test. Any drug use whatsoever and they were sent packing.