Saving Max

by Antoinette van Heugten

  Langley smiles and pitches his last ball. “Nurse Kreng, we know that Max Parkman was found unconscious on the floor in the room where Jonas was murdered, covered in blood. What was Ms. Parkman doing when you entered the room?”

  Kreng draws herself up, an ironing board in white. “She was half carrying, half dragging her son through pools of blood, trying to sneak him out of the room—”

  “Objection!” Sevillas jumps to his feet. “Any attempt on the part of the witness to ascribe motive to the defendant—”

  Hempstead holds up her hand. “Sustained.”

  Unperturbed, Langley continues. “Nurse Kreng, how would you describe Ms. Parkman’s affect when you personally observed her?”

  Kreng gives Sevillas a defiant look. “I would have to describe it as the reaction of an unbalanced, hysterical woman.”

  Sevillas starts to rise to his feet, but Langley jumps in. “That’s fine, Nurse Kreng. Thank you very much.”

  Sevillas hesitates, but the cow is already out of the barn and there is no jury to be tainted—only the judge, who has already absorbed the damaging testimony. Objecting now would only draw more attention to it. He sits down.

  Langley grins at Sevillas. “Pass the witness.”

  Tony walks to the witness stand and keeps his voice calm.

  “Nurse Kreng, you have recounted a number of episodes and personal observations of both Max Parkman and his mother at Maitland, including their emotional and psychological states. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a licensed psychiatrist?”

  She gives him an annoyed look. “Of course not.”

  “I didn’t think so.” His voice is kind. “So you would agree with me that whatever personal observations you have shared with us today involving Max or his mother are simply your subjective opinion—nothing more.”

  “No, Mr. Sevillas,” she replies stiffly. “My observations are those of a professional who has observed patient and parental behavior in all of the facets one would experience after thirty years as a highly qualified psychiatric nurse and administrative manager of a psychiatric facility with an impeccable, world wide reputation.”

  “Are you qualified to diagnose Ms. Parkman?”

  “No.”

  “Are you qualified to diagnose Max Parkman?”

  “No.”

  Sevillas smiles. “Other than following the doctor’s orders, was it your job to speculate upon either Max Parkman’s diagnosis or Ms. Parkman’s emotional state in your capacity as a nurse?”

  Kreng glares at Sevillas as the words barely escape her mouth—a furious ventriloquist. “No.”

  “Is there any question in your mind that Max Parkman’s mother is devoted to him?”

  Her face softens ever so slightly. “No, there isn’t.”

  “Given your thirty years as a psychiatric nurse, and as an observer of, I am sure, hundreds of parents’ reactions over those years, has it been your experience that parents of children who are admitted to a psychiatric facility often suffer denial and intense emotional pressure?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Whenever a parent watches his or her own child suffer a mental disturbance that requires treatment of that magnitude, there is always considerable emotional pain and stress.”

  “Do all parents of these children express that kind of emotional pain and stress in an identical fashion?”

  “Of course not.”

  “By the way, Ms. Kreng, you also had ample opportunity to observe Mrs. Morrison, the decedent’s mother, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find her behavior to be atypical?”

  Langley rolls his eyes. “Your Honor, is there anything relevant about this line of questioning? Other than a diversionary tactic by defense counsel to try to distract us from the actions of his own clients?”

  Hempstead peers over her glasses. “Not an unwarranted inquiry, Mr. Sevillas.”

  “We’ll drop it for now, Your Honor.” He’d have to wait to see if Danielle can come up with something to implicate Marianne. At least he’s laid some sort of foundation, however flimsy.

  He walks slowly in front of the witness box and catches Max’s eye. The poor kid is hanging on to every word. Sevillas nods in what he hopes is a comforting way. Max remains stone-faced. Sevillas turns back to the witness. “Nurse Kreng, when you entered the room on the day of Jonas’s death and established that there were numerous puncture wounds on the body, did you see the implement which might have been used to cause these injuries?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did?” He shows surprise.

  “I most certainly did.” She smacks her lips slightly, a lizard that has just flicked out its tongue and likes the feel of the fly in its mouth, struggling.

  “Where was it?”

  “The police pulled it out of Ms. Parkman’s purse.”

  Hempstead leans forward a bit, intent.

  Sevillas smiles and turns back to the witness. “And what was this object?”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Langley is on his feet. “The question exceeds the scope of my direct examination of this witness.”

  The judge looks at Sevillas.

  “Judge, counsel opened the door when he had Nurse Kreng describe what she saw when she entered the boy’s room. I am merely asking a follow-up question into the very area he introduced.”

  She gives Langley a disdainful glance. “Overruled.”

  “Exception,” Langley responds.

  Hempstead doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Noted. Proceed.”

  Sevillas nods. “What was the object you saw in the room?”

  “It was a…comb of some sort.”

  “What did it look like?”

  She holds both hands up, palms facing one another. “I would guess it was about this size—six or eight inches—with long metal spikes.”

  “Did you touch the comb when you saw it?”

  She gives him an offended look. “Of course not, Mr. Sevillas. One of the policemen pulled it from Ms. Parkman’s purse and held it up.”

  “Did you happen to see what he did with the comb at that point?”

  She sniffs. “No, I did not. I was extremely busy contacting Ms. Morrison and Dr. Hauptmann and ensuring the whereabouts and safety of the other patients on the unit.”

  “Are you aware if anyone besides the police entered the room that afternoon?”

  “The medical examiner, of course.” She gives him a stern look. “You would be better served to ask the police about the comb, Mr. Sevillas.”

  He looks at Langley and then turns and smiles at the judge. “Yes, indeed, Nurse Kreng. We’ve done that, of course, but it seems that the comb has mysteriously disappeared. Do you have any idea where it might have gone?”

  “Objection!” Langley stomps toward the bench. “Your Honor! Asked and answered. This witness has already told us she has no idea what happened to the comb and—”

  “And she’s told us that the police took possession of the comb.”

  Langley lifts his hands. “Your Honor, we’re going to put on witnesses about the comb.”

  “And how they never had it long enough to even test it for prints,” Sevillas says with a flourish.

  Hempstead’s thin eyebrows rise and stay there. “Mr. Langley, counsel seems to be saying that the alleged murder weapon disappeared from the crime scene and has not been located. Is that true, Mr. Prosecutor?”

  Langley fiddles with his tie, as if the knot is too tight for his neck. “Well, Your Honor, it’s like this. Yes, the murder weapon was at the scene, but we’re still working on locating it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘working’ on it?” she asks curtly. “Do you or don’t you have possession of the comb?”

  “Not right this second, Judge, but—”

  “No buts, Mr. Langley.” She turns to Sevillas. “Well, it seems that the defense has something going for it after all. However, I would remind you, Mr. Sevillas, that this is a
limited hearing set for very narrow purposes. Don’t put on your entire defense today. We will all wait with bated breath to watch it unfold at trial.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “Be seated, Mr. District Attorney.” Langley sits like a well-trained dog. She turns to Sevillas. “Proceed, counsel.”

  Sevillas catches Max giving him a proud grin. “Two points for our side,” he seemed to say. He turns to the witness. “Nurse Kreng, you were in charge of the Fountainview unit, which housed both Jonas Morrison and Max Parkman?”

  “Yes.”

  Sevillas walks to within two feet of the witness stand and looks Kreng in the eyes. “Was Max Parkman on the unit the day Jonas died?”

  She glares at him. “Yes, he was.”

  “Am I correct in stating that it is your position that he was in his bed down the hall?”

  “Yes, as reflected by the logs,” she says. “Which also state that he was restrained.”

  “By leather straps?”

  “Yes.”

  Sevillas smiles at her. “Now, Nurse Kreng, perhaps you can enlighten me, because there is something about this I simply don’t understand. How could Max Parkman have removed thick, leather restraining straps on both his hands and feet by himself?”

  Her eyes are black spears. “It is our belief that the entry in the log was erroneous.”

  Sevillas feigns surprise. “Did you make that entry, Nurse Kreng?”

  A blue vein pulses near her forehead as Kreng spits out words like bullets spit from an automatic. “Absolutely not.”

  “That would be the duty nurse on that shift—Nurse Grodin?”

  “Yes.”

  Sevillas places his hands on the witness stand. “Come now, Nurse Kreng, are you telling us everything?” Before Langley can object, he continues. “Nurse Grodin is no longer in Mait land’s employ, is she?”

  Kreng fixes her flat eyes straight ahead. “No, she is not.”

  “She was fired, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please tell us why she was discharged.”

  Her voice is a slice of crisp, burnt toast. “Because she did not fulfill her duties in accordance with the standards of our facility.”

  “You found out that she refused to say that she failed to put Max Parkman in restraints that day, didn’t you?”

  Kreng draws up. “I believe that she lied to cover her malfeasance.”

  Sevillas rocks back on his heels. “In fact, there was not a single Maitland staff person on duty on the Fountainview unit during that fatal lunch hour, was there, Nurse Kreng?”

  She glares at him. “There was no real need for a staff person, Mr. Sevillas. The only two patients on the unit were Jonas Morrison and Max Parkman—and both were in restraints.”

  “If that were the case, Nurse Kreng,” he says softly, “then how in the world do you explain how both of them were out of restraints at the time of the murder?”

  Kreng is silent.

  “If there wasn’t a single staff member on that unit, Nurse Kreng, can you or anyone from Maitland say—under oath—who took off the restraints the duty nurse swears she put on Max Parkman?”

  “Objection,” says Langley.

  “Overruled,” says the judge.

  Sevillas strides to the defense table and picks up a piece of paper. “So this log is worthless. Anyone could have been on that unit during the lunch hour. For all we know, both Max and Jonas were wandering around loose.”

  Kreng’s head snaps up. “Absolutely not.”

  Sevillas puts a finger alongside his nose. “Come now, Nurse Kreng. You’re in no position to give such a response. You weren’t there.”

  She does not respond. Sevillas moves close to the witness box and waits until she meets his eyes. “In fact, there could easily have been a third party—another patient, another staff member—who drugged Max Parkman, dragged him into Jonas’s room, killed Jonas, and was on the verge of killing Max Parkman when his mother scared the murderer off before he could complete that task.”

  Kreng’s eyes are the size of half-dollars. “That is preposterous!”

  “Your Honor!” Langley looks as if he is on the verge of an aneurism. “This witness is being asked to comment upon the defense’s absurd fairy tale of events so he can plant a murder theory that there is absolutely no foundation for in the facts of this case!”

  Hempstead studies Sevillas over her wire rims. “Very creative, Mr. Sevillas.” She turns to Langley. “I am, however, eminently capable of comprehending and applying the facts to whatever theory either of you chooses to put before me.”

  “But Judge—”

  She shakes her head. “Overruled.”

  Sevillas turns back to Kreng. “Isn’t it also possible, Nurse Kreng, that a staff member could have taken the comb used to stab Jonas Morrison from Ms. Parkman’s purse while it was on the unit unattended?”

  “Objection!” Langley marches up to the judge’s bench. “Judge, Ms. Parkman was found in Jonas’s room with the comb in her purse.”

  “The comb he can’t produce,” says Sevillas calmly.

  “Your Honor, this is outrageous!”

  “Outrageous is not an objection of which I am aware,” says Hempstead. “It seems to me that Mr. Sevillas is doing what any good defense lawyer would do. He’s coming up with another murder suspect. Not to mention the fact that you don’t have the murder weapon, Mr. Langley. If you could show me a print on that comb, or even the comb,” she says dryly, “I might feel differently. Overruled.”

  Sevillas turns back to Kreng. “One last question. Are you aware if anyone from Maitland checked any other patient’s room for traces of blood or other physical evidence on that day?”

  Kreng is as white as her uniform. “No, they did not.”

  “So we don’t know whether or not another patient or third party either committed the murder or was responsible for plant ing incriminating evidence in Max Parkman’s room.”

  Sevillas turns to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.” He nods at the witness box. “Thank you very much, Nurse Kreng.”

  “All rise!” the bailiff wails.

  “Twenty-minute recess.” The judge stands, collects her robes and leaves the bench without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Danielle fastens her seat belt as the airplane finally begins its ascent: the only flight she could get from Phoenix to Des Moines has a brief stopover in Dallas. And after that, she still has the damned drive to Plano. She has tried and tried to reach Max, but if he is in the courtroom, she knows he can’t leave his iPhone on. He must be frantically awaiting her arrival. If she doesn’t get back in time, her boy will be the one to suffer.

  She’s had no further calls from Doaks. She hopes he has broken into Marianne’s room by now and found something, anything, to link her to Jonas’s death. The second sweetheart-rose diary lies in her lap. If she reads from now until the moment she lands in Des Moines, she will get through it and the remaining computer disks. And she must not cave in and cry about the horrors she is reading. She is a lawyer—a lawyer looking for evidence to exonerate her son and herself. She opens the book to the next entry.

  Dear Dr. Joyce,

  Ashley’s funeral was so gratifying. All eyes were riveted on me as I floated down the aisle in my mourning black. I had on my dark veil that let me see out, but didn’t let them see in—just like Mata Hari. I picked out a darling off-white coffin with a hint of a pink cast to it. The flowers required more sensitivity. Lilies are too depressing for a four-year-old girl, so I chose daisies—so fresh and innocent. The service was closed-coffin. I don’t think everyone needs to see everything.

  The highlight of the day, though, was Ashley’s pediatrician, who told everyone what a wonderful, caring mother I am. When he left, he clasped both of my hands and told me he had never seen a mother show such strength and courage in the face of two losses so close together. It’s time for the wake, and I’m exhausted.


  A mother’s work is never done.

  Danielle requests a coffee from the stewardess and then flips to the end of the diary. Two dead children and who knew how many “miscarriages” so far. She has clipped the pages she will attempt to enter into evidence—assuming the judge will even let her stand up in court and question a witness. And then she can compare Marianne’s handwriting to the sprawling cursive in her diaries. She’s desperate to know what tack Sevillas has taken so far. She refuses to think about how her disappearance may have ruined his ability to protect Max—and her. She scans down to the last entry.

  Dear Dr. Joyce,

  I can barely hold the pen to write, my poor heart is fluttering so. My Raymond is gone—just like that. Last night he wasn’t feeling well, so I fluffed up his pillows and we went to sleep like two teaspoons. I woke up in the middle of the night and felt something cold and clammy. I turned on the light and—oh, my God—there he was, lying with his eyes wide open. I could tell right away that he’d had a stroke. He lay there looking at me, but he couldn’t move. I didn’t call an ambulance. Frankly, I needed a moment to consider my options. After about fifteen minutes, he had another stroke and was still. I checked his vitals and there’s just no sugar-coating it—he was stone-cold dead.

  After I called the ambulance, I covered Raymond with an old blanket (he was messy) and went downstairs to dig into his papers. I had to review the state of my finances. He didn’t leave me much, but it’s enough to get by on for a few years. I’m not interested in finding another man just yet. I have to get this funeral over with and start a new life.

  Besides, I have a real problem to consider. I was planning to tell Raymond this weekend, but it looks like I’m in the family way again. If it’s a boy, I think I’ll call him Jonas. It isn’t the most favorable of circumstances, despite the sympathy it will generate. I think I’ll just move away and start a new life. Yes, that’s ex-act-ly what I’ll do. First I’ll dye my hair blond.