Sullivan's Law

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “I need to ask you a few more questions about this lab. You said Daniel was good at fixing things. What type of things did he fix?”

  “I already told you, Officer Sullivan,” the man said, his voice tinged with annoyance, “Daniel repaired various tools we use here at the prison.”

  Yesterday it was small appliances, today it was tools. “Metroix told me he invented a number of things during his incarceration,” Carolyn said. “One of the earliest inventions he claimed he developed at your prison appeared to be a multiscreen monitoring system with recording capabilities. That’s not exactly the same as fixing minor electrical appliances or tools.” She heard the warden breathing heavy. “He also said he developed a walking suit for a guard’s daughter who was partially paralyzed. He called this walking suit an exoskeleton, and said the United States military as well as research facilities around the world are working day and night to perfect it.”

  “Nonsense,” the warden said emphatically. “The man’s mentally ill. I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured. Other than that, I can’t help you.”

  “You allowed Metroix to work in the lab only if he agreed to sign over all rights to his inventions,” she continued. “Is that correct?”

  “There were no inventions,” Warden Lackner said. “Everything we did was perfectly legal. Metroix called it a lab. It was only a workshop, part of a joint venture program. Some of the goods were used here at the prison, and others were sold to an outside vendor.”

  Carolyn was beginning to peel off another layer in Daniel’s complicated life story. The warden may have written letters in Daniel’s behalf to the parole board, only to find a way to circumvent them and covertly convince the board to deny his parole. A man who conducted himself fine behind bars could nonetheless pose a threat to society, particularly if the warden had exaggerated the dangers presented by his illness. The next few questions would be the most pertinent, but for some reason, Carolyn didn’t expect the warden to answer them truthfully.

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly.” She could tell that he was annoyed. The inflection in his voice also indicated that he was nervous. She decided to turn the conversation around, hoping she could extract more information. “By law, the fruits of an inmate’s labor go to the prison or whatever state governs the particular institution where he’s incarcerated. Is that accurate, Warden Lackner?”

  “Exactly,” he said, sighing in relief. “Goodbye, Officer Sullivan.”

  “Don’t hang up,” Carolyn shot out, knowing it was time to play hardball. “Metroix hired an attorney who believes there’s a legal issue involved as to the ownership of his work. He wasn’t merely repairing radios or making license plates. His designs and inventions have been professionally evaluated, Lackner. A great deal of money may be involved.”

  The line fell silent for several moments. Finally the warden said, “I’m a busy man. I have a prison to run.”

  Before Carolyn could say anything else, she realized he’d hung up on her. So, she thought, Charles Harrison might not be the only person who wanted to get rid of Daniel Metroix. She was certain the warden had lied to her. How many inventions were involved? Twenty-three years was a long time. Having gained some insight into his personality, she doubted if Daniel remembered even a portion of what he’d done. Setting the exoskeleton aside, if Warden Lackner had substituted his name on an invention that became a staple in every household, he could have a fortune at stake.

  Realizing it was past ten o’clock, Carolyn dialed Brad Preston’s direct line.

  “What the hell went on last night?” he barked. “Your picture’s on the front page of the newspaper. Hank Sawyer has already called me twice, demanding to know what we’re going to do about Metroix.”

  Carolyn rearranged the pillows behind her head, trying to get comfortable. “I’m not going to issue an order to violate his parole,” she said. “If the DA’s office wants to file charges, that’s their prerogative. Until I investigate this more thoroughly, my position is that Metroix was an innocent victim. This is far more complex than you could ever imagine, Brad. The warden at Chino might even have hired someone to knock off Metroix.”

  “What is it with you and this man?” Brad asked, his voice so loud that Carolyn had to hold the phone a few inches away from her ear. “We’ve got a psycho who tried to blow up a motel with you in it. And you’re trying to tell me this guy’s not in violation of his parole! Not only that, you’re making accusations against a prison warden. I’m beginning to wonder who’s crazier, you or Metroix.”

  “I have a massive headache, Brad,” she told him, closing her eyes. “Why don’t you start by lowering your voice.”

  “I assume you’re not coming in today. Fill me in on what’s going on.”

  Carolyn told him what she’d learned so far about Daniel Metroix’s case, along with a few details regarding her conversation with Warden Lackner. “The more likely scenario is that Charles Harrison contracted to have Daniel killed after his release from prison.”

  “Since you seem to be certain that Metroix didn’t cause his son’s death, then why isn’t Harrison convinced? He’s not an ignorant man, you know.”

  Carolyn carried the portable phone to the kitchen to put up a pot of coffee. The hangover, she decided, must have been caused by a combination of morphine and stress. The mellow, floating sensation she’d experienced the night before was gone. Every step made her feel as if her knees were going to crack open. To the staff in an emergency room, anything that wasn’t life-threatening was considered minor. Whatever injuries she’d sustained weren’t going to kill her, but they were most assuredly painful.

  “You know how people are in situations like this,” she told him. “This was Harrison’s only child. The man has tunnel vision, Brad. He’s fixated all his grief and hatred on Metroix because Liam Armstrong and Nolan Houston swore he was responsible. Remember, I dated Armstrong. He was a bully and a coward. I also went to school with Houston. I don’t remember much about him, though, other than the fact that he’s good-looking and black. Once I wrestled with Armstrong in the backseat of his car, I tried to stay away from football players.”

  “Why are you convinced that Metroix didn’t set off the explosion? The warden verified he had a lab. Maybe Hank is right and he did possess the skills to pull something like this off.”

  “If I hadn’t dragged him out of that room,” Carolyn said forcefully, “Metroix would be dead. I had to fight him as it was. He didn’t want to leave the designs for his inventions.”

  “Now he’s an inventor.”

  “I saw some of his work,” she continued. “Warden Lackner tried to tell me he was making tools or appliances in some kind of joint venture program. I don’t believe him.”

  “You keep forgetting that Metroix is a schizophrenic.”

  “So what?” Carolyn shouted, slamming the coffeepot down on the counter so hard she cracked the glass canister. “His illness is probably what made him a target for Armstrong, Houston, and Tim Harrison. These boys were nothing more than high-class thugs. You know what Metroix told me?”

  “No,” Brad said, “but I’m certain you’re going to tell me.”

  “They taunted him, beat him, and then urinated in his face. Nice guys, huh?”

  “Why didn’t any of this come out at the trial?” he asked. “No matter what these boys did, they did it over twenty years ago. We’ve got people running around shooting and maiming innocent citizens as we speak. Those are the bastards we should be worried about, not some parolee from years back who’s already served his time. Let’s say Metroix did get shafted. Nothing’s going to change that now.”

  Carolyn removed the broom and the dustpan from the pantry closet so she could clean up the glass on the floor. “We’re not talking ancient history anymore,” she told him, bracing herself against the kitchen counter. “Someone tried to kill Metroix last night. If this person or persons wasn’t hired by Charles Harrison, our next probable suspect is the warden. The D
A can ask for the death penalty in a murder for hire.”

  “It’s not a murder until the person is dead.”

  “Keep giving me the runaround and it will be.”

  “You’re really serious about the warden?”

  “Dead serious,” Carolyn told him. “How can we get our hands on the release papers Metroix signed for his inventions?”

  “We don’t have any jurisdiction at Chino,” Brad told her. “We’d have to get the state attorney general to issue a court order. Even if your man did invent something valuable, which I think is highly unlikely, the only releases you’re going to find are the ones issued to the prison or the state.”

  “Why can’t we do a patent search under Stephen Lackner?”

  “Be my guest,” he said. “I’ll put a hundred dollars on the table that you’re not going to find anything. Think about it. Lackner has to possess some degree of intelligence, or he would never have been made warden of a major prison facility. Keeping a large population of convicts under control means you have to understand how the criminal mind works.”

  Carolyn stared out the kitchen window. She needed to mow the grass this weekend. She couldn’t ask John, as the poor kid was already doing more than his share. She wished it was December instead of April; then she wouldn’t have to worry about the lawn. “You mean he would have put the patents under another name?”

  “You got it, babe,” Brad said. “You’re the one who’s studying to be a lawyer. Even I could figure that one out. Lackner could have used a relative, a friend, a guard’s wife, or simply created a corporate identity, then sold the invention to a major corporation. You’re never going to catch this man, and that’s assuming Metroix actually invented anything of value. Even then, why would the warden have to kill him? The way you tell it, he’s gotten away with this for years.”

  “Simple,” Carolyn told him, bending down and sweeping some of the glass fragments into a pile. Realizing she was barefoot, she cautiously made her way to the living room and flopped down on the sofa. “As soon as Metroix was granted parole, the warden had to realize that it was only a matter of time before he showed his work to people on the outside. Anyone who saw one of his inventions would want to know what else he’d done. As an example, how would you like to own the patent on the VCR?”

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Do you really believe Metroix invented the VCR?”

  “No,” she said, checking the soles of her feet and plucking out a tiny glass sliver. To make certain she didn’t bleed on the carpet, she placed her legs on the coffee table. “But he may have invented the first multiscreen television set with recording capabilities. That’s got to be worth a few bucks.”

  “Whatever,” Brad told her. “Let’s forget about the warden and Metroix’s inventions for the time being and deal with the immediate problem. If I get an order to violate Metroix’s parole, are you going to refuse to sign it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And tell Hank if he has any questions, he can call me here at the house.”

  “He thinks the DA may file attempted murder charges.”

  “They won’t file until they have a provable case,” Carolyn told him. “The motel was already wired for demolition. The first thing they have to prove is that the building didn’t blow on its own. For all we know, the demolition company was at fault.” She reattached one side of the tape to her bandaged right knee. “Our illustrious DA, Sean Exley, is up for reelection this year, in case you’ve forgotten. Exley would never let one of his prosecutors file an attempted murder case with this many holes in it. Outside of Daniel Metroix, the man they want to charge, I’m their only victim. At present, they have to consider me a hostile witness. Trust me, Exley wants to win every case. What I’ve described is a prosecutor’s worst nightmare.”

  “You know something,” he said, realizing her points were well taken.

  “I know a lot of things,” Carolyn quipped, bristling with confidence.

  “I wish you’d never gone to law school,” Brad told her. “You used to be a good probation officer. Now, whenever I talk to you, it’s like talking to another attorney. As if we don’t have enough of them as it is.”

  Carolyn smiled. In a way, Brad was right. She did look at her cases differently since she’d enrolled in law school. “Too late now,” she said, clicking the phone off.

  Chapter 8

  Daniel Metroix was huddled in a corner inside his cell at the Ventura County Jail. It was Wednesday. He hadn’t slept since the night before. He remembered the explosion, the hospital, the police officers, but he wasn’t certain if any of it had been real. He needed his injection. The voices were raging inside his head like a demonic symphony.

  A vision of his mother appeared. A heavyset woman with dark frizzy hair, Ruth Metroix had legs as large as tree trunks. She was wearing her stained pink satin bathrobe.

  “My precious baby,” the apparition said. “What did you do now?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Daniel shouted. He glanced over at the bars in his cell, consumed with anger and confusion. Memories assaulted him. He clenched his eyes shut, spinning back in time. He was in his old bedroom at the Carlton West apartments.

  The phone rang in the small kitchen. Daniel could hear his mother’s voice speaking to his psychiatrist.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Dr. Gershon,” Ruth Metroix said. “Something is terribly wrong with Daniel. He hasn’t come out of his room for two days. I tried to go in there. He must have something blocking the door. He hasn’t been eating. He hasn’t been going to his classes.” She paused, listening. “How do I know if he’s been taking his medication? Wait, let me see if I can get him to talk to you. Please honey,” she yelled, “come and talk to Dr. Gershon. I have him on the phone.”

  When Daniel didn’t answer, he heard her heavy footsteps on the wood floor. “If you don’t come out, I’ll have no alternative but to call the police and have them break down the door. They’ll want me to put you in the hospital again.”

  He shoved aside the heavy dresser that was blocking the door and flung it open. “Why are you doing this to me?” he said. “I’m studying. I have final exams next week.”

  Ruth swallowed hard. “But you haven’t been going to school.”

  His hands were shaking violently, he hadn’t shaved in almost a week, and the room reeked of body odor.

  “Come to the kitchen and talk to Dr. Gershon,” she pleaded, reaching out and trying to grab his hand. “If you do this for me, I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

  Daniel reluctantly did as his mother asked. As soon as she heard him speaking on the phone, he saw her dart inside his room.

  “Get out!” Daniel yelled, rushing down the hall and shoving her aside.

  Ruth gestured toward the pictures that lined the baseboards. Photos of family members: aunts, uncles, cousins. Shots of Daniel as a toddler riding his bicycle on the sidewalk in front of the complex. “What are you doing? What’s the point of this? Why did you take the snapshots out of our photo album?”

  He glared at her, refusing to answer.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what Dr. Gershon said?”

  “He said I should increase my medication,” Daniel answered. “Now, will you get out of my room so I can study?”

  “Doesn’t he want to see you?”

  “Dr. Gershon’s going on vacation for two weeks,” he mumbled. “I made an appointment for when he gets back.”

  When Ruth saw the open Bible on the floor, she gasped. Even though she was a devout Christian, Dr. Gershon had instructed her to remove all religious symbols and books from the apartment, even the cross that had been over Daniel’s bed for most of his childhood.

  Daniel could remember when the nightmare had begun, but he would never understand why. At a school dance, he’d felt compelled to baptize Gracie Hildago in the town reservoir. Without realizing what he was doing, he’d held her head under water too long. The poor girl had almost drowned. He’d spent
the next three months at Camarillo State Mental Hospital, a legally sanctioned torture chamber.

  Ruth bent down to pick up the Bible and remove it from the room. Daniel wrestled it away from her, then slammed the door in her face. To make certain she didn’t try to come in again, he shoved the dresser back in place.

  “Idiot,” the voice inside his head said. “You’ll never step onto that stage to get your diploma. By June, you’ll be dead and buried.”

  “No,” Daniel said, covering his ears with his hands. “I refuse to listen. You’re only a figment of my imagination.”

  He dropped down on his knees, crawling around the room as he stared at the photographs. He had to remember who he was, somehow stay in touch with reality. Dr. Gershon had told him to increase his medication. He had already upped his daily dosage several days ago and the symptoms had only worsened. Tomorrow, he would take three pills instead of two.

  He needed research books from the library. For his science class, he’d designed a prototype of a water purification system that his teacher had thought was excellent. He needed more information, but his mother insisted that he come straight home from school every day. Although he was seventeen, his illness had caused her to treat him like a child.

  He remembered that Ruth had already told him that she wouldn’t be home until late the following day. His grandmother was ill, and his mother had to drive her to the doctor. Daniel decided he would go to the library tomorrow to get the books he needed. He liked studying in the library. Being surrounded by books made him feel secure.

  “If you leave this apartment, they’ll get you,” one of the voices told him. “They’re waiting for you. You’re a worthless piece of shit.”

  Tears were streaming down his face. Why wouldn’t the voices leave him alone? Why did they constantly berate him? Couldn’t the doctors find a way to cut them out? If slicing off his arm would make the voices stop, he’d go out and buy a chain saw.

  He didn’t aspire to be wealthy. He’d already let go of any hopes that he might one day get married and have a family. Even if he had an opportunity to have sex, his medication made it impossible. All he wanted was to live his life with some semblance of normalcy, get up every morning and go to work, do something productive.