Sullivan's Law

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  She glared at him. “What took you so long?”

  “Oh, you know,” Neil said, a sly grin on his face, “unfinished business from last night.”

  “Unfinished business named Melody, I assume,” she said, rocking in the white wicker chair. “When you were a baby, Mother used to say you had your days and nights mixed up. You used to cry all night and sleep all day. You haven’t changed. The only difference is you paint all night and have sex all day. I wish I could live the way you do. My life’s a disaster.”

  “Let’s go inside,” he said. “What’s this about an explosion?” He glanced back at the driveway. “Where’s your car? I thought it broke down.”

  “The police towed it,” Carolyn answered. “Didn’t you listen to anything I told you on the phone?”

  “Not really,” Neil admitted, opening the door to the house for her. “I didn’t go to sleep until seven o’clock this morning. I dropped everything when you insisted I take John and Rebecca out to eat last night. Melody and I were supposed to meet some people for dinner. Instead, she ordered a pizza and watched a movie by herself. I had to make it up to her. That’s why I took so long—”

  “Spare me the details,” Carolyn said, conjuring up images of Neil and Brad sitting around discussing their sexual escapades. How could a woman who had the face and body of an angel also own a Porsche? It wasn’t fair.

  Once they were inside, Neil draped an arm around her shoulder. He patted her on the back, then yawned. “Everything’s going to be all right. Make me a cup of coffee.”

  After reminding him that she’d broken the coffeepot, she made him a cup of instant. He took a few sips, then dumped the rest in the sink. “Come on,” he told her. “We’ll go somewhere and have breakfast.”

  “I don’t have time,” Carolyn told him, describing the events of the past twenty-four hours. “I need to rent a car, Neil. My purse was in the hotel room. I don’t have any money, credit cards, even a driver’s license. You can use your credit card to rent me a car, but if you list me as a second driver, I’ll have to show them a valid license.”

  “Where do you have to go?” he asked. “I’ll drive you. I have to be back by three to drop off the paintings at the gallery in L.A. I didn’t want to bring the van for fear someone would rear-end me.”

  Carolyn thought of Daniel and how desperate he’d been to save the designs for his inventions. She was angry the police had arrested him without her consent on a parole violation. “One of our neighbors offered to loan me his spare car. I guess I’ll have to take him up on his offer. I might get tied up at the jail. It’s past one already.”

  Neil had a curious expression on his face. “Is someone trying to hurt you or something? You look okay to me.”

  “I shouldn’t have bothered you again. I know you’re busy. Everything will be fine, like you said.”

  “Hold on,” he said, raising a palm. “I admit I’ve been anxious lately, but if someone’s causing you a problem, all you have to do is tell me how to find him. I’ll go over and set him straight. Nobody messes with my sister.”

  He pulled Carolyn into his arms, hugging her tightly. She probed his abdomen with her finger. “I can feel your ribs, Neil. Have you been eating?”

  “Like a horse,” he told her. “Forget about me. Tell me who’s bothering you. I can have Melody drive the paintings to L.A. Let’s take care of this sucker.”

  Carolyn stood on her tiptoes, kissing his forehead. They’d always looked after each other. She stroked one of his hands, separating each of the fingers. They were large, almost brutish. She saw the paint stains on his fingernails, and smelled the distinctive odor of turpentine. Years ago, she’d bought a book of Michelangelo’s paintings and sculpture, marveling at the artist’s ability to depict the raw strength in the hands of a working class man. She’d told her brother he had Michelangelo hands. Her mother had mistakenly thought she was referring to Neil’s paintings, one of the reasons she’d started telling everyone that he was the contemporary Michelangelo.

  “You’re not going to slug anyone with these hands,” Carolyn said, releasing them. “I carry a gun, remember? If they come back, I’ll shoot them.”

  Her brother smiled mischievously as he headed for the door. “I had fun with the kids last night, but you still owe me a pie.”

  Carolyn laughed. “Does it have to be homemade? I can buy you three pies if you want.”

  “Hey,” Neil said, winking, “a deal is a deal.”

  At two-fifteen Wednesday afternoon, Carolyn pulled Paul Leigton’s ten-year-old blue BMW convertible into the parking lot at the government center complex. Walking in the direction of the jail, she fingered her county ID in the pocket of her jeans. Luckily, she kept it in her briefcase instead of her purse. The bank had taken only fifteen minutes to issue her a new instant teller card. Getting a duplicate driver’s license and a new MasterCard would be more time-consuming.

  “I’m here to see Daniel Metroix,” she said at the window, holding her ID up to the glass so the jailer could see it.

  “He’s in the medical wing, Sullivan,” said Chris McDougal, a black deputy in his late twenties. “You’ll have to interview him another day.”

  “Why’s he over there?” she asked. “Because of injuries he sustained last night?”

  “Hold on,” the deputy told her, opening another file on his computer. “Says he was transferred in from Good Samaritan. According to our records, there’s nothing physically wrong with him. He went psycho or something this morning.”

  “No!” Carolyn exclaimed, assuming Daniel had come unglued when he’d found himself back in jail. She also wondered if it was time for his monthly medication. Even a psychotic break was possible under the circumstances. She tried to recall what he’d told her about the new drug he’d been taking. All that stood out in her mind was that the drug was administered by injection. A chemical that went directly into your bloodstream could cause serious problems if the patient suddenly stopped taking it. “I have to see him,” she said. “He’s my parolee. I have a right to see him even if he’s in the infirmary.”

  “Look,” McDougal told her, “when this guy went berserk, it took five of our people to subdue him.”

  “Get your supervisor,” she said. “And as soon as you call him, I need to see Metroix’s booking jacket.”

  A number of jailers were milling around behind the glass partition. McDougal left and returned a few moments later with a metal folder. He dumped it into the bin with a loud ting, then placed his mouth in front of the microphone. “Sergeant Cavendish is coming down to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Carolyn said, opening the file and flipping through the paperwork. She took a seat in a long row of interconnected plastic chairs used by visitors, opening her briefcase and pulling out a release sheet.

  As she’d anticipated, the DA had failed to follow through and file charges. An arresting officer could book a subject on probable cause, but he had to back it up with a formal complaint, and the prisoner had to be charged and arraigned in front of a judge within twenty-four hours. She’d finished filling in the particulars when she looked up and saw an enormous man with a square jaw peering down at her. “You Sullivan?”

  “Yes,” she said, standing. “Here’re the release papers on Daniel Metroix. I’d like them processed as quickly as possible.”

  Sergeant Cavendish looked surprised. “You’re not going to violate him?”

  “No,” Carolyn told him, clasping her briefcase and the metal file to her chest. Cavendish had to be over six-five and couldn’t weigh less than three hundred pounds, all of it solid muscle. He reminded her of a Neanderthal. She sensed that he got a kick out of intimidating people, especially small women officers like herself. “I understand there was a problem this morning,” she said. “Metroix’s a schizophrenic. He needs his medication.”

  “Listen, lady,” Cavendish said, “half the guys in here have some kind of head problem. Your boy assaulted one of our officers. We can fil
e charges against him ourselves.”

  Carolyn thrust her shoulders back. “That wouldn’t be wise, Sergeant.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the sergeant said, one corner of his lip curling. “And why is that?”

  “Because he was illegally booked,” she told him, hoping she might be able to bluff him into releasing Daniel. “I was with him when the building blew last night. He’s my parolee, and no one can violate his parole except me or a superior at my agency. I informed Detective Sawyer and Officer White that I wasn’t prepared to violate his parole. Not only that, regulations state that an inmate has the right to receive proper medical treatment. Metroix was supposed to have an injection either this morning or last night.”

  “Did a doctor order this injection when the prisoner was transferred from the hospital?” Cavendish asked, not quite as aggressive as before. “’Cause if we don’t have an official order on file, we can’t administer it.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” Carolyn said, rushing off in the direction of the ladies’ room.

  As soon as she entered a stall, she pulled down the toilet seat, sat down, and opened the metal file. Finding the release papers from the hospital, she saw that the area where follow-up instructions were to be inserted had been left empty, more than likely because Hank had placed Daniel under arrest before the emergency room physician had gotten around to finishing the paperwork.

  Carolyn wrote an order that the patient had to be administered an injection by six o’clock that morning. She couldn’t recall the exact name of the drug Metroix had told her he was taking, but she remembered jotting down the letters DAP. Before she left the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

  “Not only do you look like a bag lady,” she told herself, “you’re turning into a criminal.” Since Daniel Metroix had come into her life, her world had turned upside down. She’d forged an official document. She hoped the man was the victim she perceived him to be. If not, she had less of a brain than Cavendish.

  “I’m sorry,” she told the sergeant, feigning embarrassment. “When nature calls, you know.” He reached for the file, and she quickly stepped back. Until she knew Daniel was going to be released, she didn’t want to commit to her deception. If things didn’t go the way she planned, she’d have to make another emergency trip to the bathroom.

  “He’s taking an antipsychotic medication,” Carolyn told him. “It wouldn’t be unusual for him to have a violent reaction in withdrawal. You can proceed any way you deem fit, Sergeant. I’m certain your assault charges won’t stick, though, since you failed to follow through on the doctor’s orders. In reality, the county could be sued and—”

  Sergeant Cavendish sighed. “That’s enough,” he said. “I’ll release this man on one condition.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m listening.”

  “You have to take custody of him,” he told her. “Can you handle that? You ain’t that big and this inmate stirred up a lot of trouble this morning.”

  And you aren’t that smart, you big oaf, Carolyn was tempted to tell him. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Give us about thirty minutes and the problem’s yours.”

  As Cavendish turned around and headed toward the security door, Carolyn wondered how an undertaker would ever get a man his size inside a coffin. His muscles were so over-developed, she didn’t think it was possible for his arms and legs to lay flush against his body.

  She glanced at her watch. John and Rebecca would be getting home from school in less than an hour, and she was in such a morbid state her thoughts had turned to undertakers. Worse—what was she going to do with Daniel? He’d gone up against five jailers, and if the events of the night before had caused him to become psychotic, he might be as dangerous as everyone kept insisting. She thought about her gun, then realized this was another item that had been lost during the motel explosion.

  Carolyn pulled out her personal cell phone and called her house, leaving a message on her answering machine. The phone issued by the county had also been in her purse. She felt guilty as she’d promised Rebecca that she’d be there when she got home from school. John had said he would cook dinner. Unless she came up with another plan fast, they’d be setting an extra plate at the table.

  Chapter 10

  By four o’clock Wednesday afternoon, Carolyn had Daniel Metroix in the passenger seat of Professor Leighton’s BMW. His clothes reeked of smoke and were in tatters, and a day’s growth of stubble covered his face. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the jail. She noticed that his right arm was jerking in some type of spasm.

  “What’s the name of the drug you’re taking?” she asked, glancing over at him.

  “Decanoic acid phenothiazine,” Daniel told her. “I was supposed to take my monthly injection several days ago. The infirmary at prison used to give it to me. I lost track of time. My medicine, along with the rest of my stuff, was in the motel room. Do you have it?”

  “No,” she said, wondering how she could obtain this type of medication. People didn’t hand out psychotropic drugs, and what he was taking probably wasn’t even that common. If she wasn’t mistaken, she recalled him mentioning that the drug had only recently been approved by the FDA.

  “Why did they arrest me again?”

  Carolyn’s hands locked on the steering wheel. The look out of his eyes was frightening. He was probably exhausted and confused, in addition to the fact that he hadn’t taken his injection. No way could she allow him around her children.

  “They made a mistake,” she told him. “I took care of it, didn’t I? You’re not in jail anymore.”

  “What happened to my work?”

  “I’m not certain,” she said, although she knew it was lost forever. Perhaps what she saw on his face was despair. Finally his life had taken a right turn, only to end up back where he’d started. “Let’s deal with the most urgent problem first. We have to find a way to get you a new prescription.”

  “My work’s important,” Daniel told her, becoming agitated. “I might not be able to regenerate even a fraction of what was in that room. Those papers represented years of my life. I wish you’d let me die last night. All I’ve ever had was my work.”

  “I understand,” Carolyn said, keeping her voice low and consoling. “We need to find a psychiatrist. No one outside of a psychiatrist would be able to prescribe that type of medication. I only know one person we can call,” she added, thinking of Dr. Weiss. “He doesn’t see patients anymore. Besides, I’m sure a new doctor would want to evaluate you before he prescribed anything, maybe even admit you to a hospital.”

  Carolyn felt as if she were talking to herself. Daniel had his head turned, and didn’t appear to be listening. She thought about dropping him off at the local mental health facility so she could go home and get some rest. Not only was his life in jeopardy, she appeared to be linked to him by association. She had to keep tabs on him for her own protection. In addition, she needed more information.

  “What happened at the jail?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  His voice was muffled, and he was still staring out the window. “Look at me,” she said. “Did you hit anyone?”

  “I don’t think so,” Daniel told her, clasping one of his hands with the other to control the tremors. “I need my medicine.”

  “I understand,” Carolyn said, suddenly remembering that she made a copy of the prescription to put in his file. “You had your prescription when you came for your intake interview. Where is it now?”

  He became quiet, then suddenly started talking rapidly. “I dropped it off at the drugstore near the motel so I wouldn’t lose it.”

  “Do you remember the name of the pharmacy?”

  “Rite Aid,” he said, a sense of urgency flashing in his eyes. “Can you take me there?”

  “That’s where I’m headed now,” she answered, making a U-turn and steering the car onto the 101 Freeway. “You need to stay calm and trust me. Once we get your medicine,
I’m going to see if I can rent you another motel room. You must do exactly as I tell you. We don’t want a repeat of last night.”

  “I have money,” he said. “My attorney, Mr. Fletcher, had me open up a bank account. The bank’s right down the street from the drugstore.”

  “You’ll need identification,” Carolyn told him. “Not only that, most hotels require a credit card. We may run into trouble. My purse and all its contents were destroyed.”

  Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a new black leather wallet. “I have everything,” he said, flipping the wallet open and displaying a California identification card, as well as numerous credit and bank cards.

  She no longer had to worry about verifying his story about the money he’d inherited. “Was that in your pocket last night?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Fletcher set me up, like I said. I’ve never used any of the plastic cards except for the motel.”

  “Did you tell this attorney where you were staying?”

  “Of course,” he said, looking at her as if he didn’t understand why she’d asked him such a foolish question.

  Carolyn almost collided with the car in front of her. “I thought you said you didn’t give anyone except me the phone number to the motel.”

  “I didn’t,” he told her.

  “But you said you did.”

  “No,” Daniel said. “I said I told him where I was staying. That didn’t mean I gave him the phone number.”

  Carolyn felt the hairs prick on the back of her neck. Since he’d told his attorney where he was staying, her premise that no one outside of herself knew that he was renting a room at the Seagull Motel had flown out the window. “Has everything you’ve told me been the truth?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I don’t lie.”

  “I called the warden at Chino. He referred to your lab as a workshop. He said you and some other trustees repaired small appliances and made tools. Is that what you were doing?”