Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

  Breaking away from Nicole’s stare, Grayson says, “What do the nurses and aides say about Wilson?”

  “I wish every inmate was as cooperative,” replies Peter Woodruff, an aide.

  “I second that motion,” says Don Compton, another aide. “Wilson helps out on the ward and uses the treadmill and the weight training room. I’d have to say he spends most of his time in the library. And another thing, about six months ago, I taught him how to play chess. He picked it up in no time flat. As some of you know, I’ve won the Fairfield County Chess Association’s tournament for the last four years. And within a few weeks of learning the game, Conrad was beating me every time. He spends his time poring over chess books and manuals. It’s not only his memory that’s so fantastic, but he has the ability to see ahead on the board—to anticipate his opponent’s moves. It’s amazing.”

  “Well, we know he’s up there in the genius category when it comes to intelligence, especially with numbers and mechanics,” says Scott Williams.

  “How’s he been about compliance with medication?” asks Grayson.

  “No problem,” says Lynda Becker, head nurse. “He takes his Risperdal every morning. The pill goes right down the hatch. And when I ask him, he fetches some of the more disturbed patients … escorts them to the nursing station for morning meds. I’d say the Risperdal’s worked. He’s done very well.”

  The discussion goes on and ranges from Conrad Wilson’s activities, his sleep pattern, exercising, his reading, the assessment of Pastor Wilhelm, staff interactions, his relations with other inmates, his test scores—everything.

  “I wonder … if we refuse his request, will he petition for a pass?” Grayson says.

  “Oh, I’m sure he will,” Nicole says.

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “He and I discussed it. I advised him of his rights.”

  “You’re not his attorney, Nicole.” A twinge of annoyance nips at Grayson. The voltage in his chest increases. “What’d you tell him?”

  “That if we don’t give him a pass, Kovac can petition for a judicial hearing.”

  “Sounds like you’re giving him legal advice, Nicole.”

  “He should know his rights, John.”

  “Patients have petitioned over the years—without attorneys,” says Williams.

  Grayson adds, “We all know Kovac will invoke the Mental Hygiene Statutes, Section 17a-584, and I’m afraid he’ll succeed.”

  “Why’re you afraid he’ll succeed, John?” Nicole says with a bitter smirk.

  “C’mon, Nicole, you know delusions never disappear. I’m sure he’d still go after Adrian Douglas and Megan Haggarty, who, by the way, are married now with a child of their own. Wilson’s just masking his craziness.”

  “I’m sorry, John, but I don’t share your therapeutic nihilism,” Nicole replies.

  “Nihilism? It’s realism, Nicole. I’m sure Wilson harbors the same delusion he always has. He’s just toned it down for us.”

  “Don’t you have faith in the medication, John?”

  “Faith doesn’t have a place in this discussion.”

  “Right. That’s the pastor’s area of expertise,” Williams says with a laugh.

  Grayson regards Nicole’s chilled smile and cold stare. It makes Grayson suspect—no, he’s absolutely certain—she’s dismissing him completely. She’s merely waiting to hit back with a lawyerly riposte.

  “Excuse, me,” Nicole blurts, her tone steely, “but I think faith does belong here, John. Conrad’s been a model patient—inmate, if you prefer that horrid term. In my opinion, Conrad is ready for a strictly supervised weekend pass.”

  Nicole waits a beat and glances around the table; her eyes again rest on Grayson. “As for faith,” she says with an icy look, “I must have faith in the system … that it’s equitable, because above all, we have to guarantee patients’ rights under the law. And we owe it to Conrad Wilson to be fair.”

  “Look, Nicole,” Grayson says, a bolt of irritation sizzling through him, “I’m all for fairness and for whatever you deem equitable, but this man is psychotic. And as a direct result of his psychosis, he tried to kill two people. The jury, in its collective wisdom, decided he acted out of a delusion and that he’s dangerous to three people. And probably to anyone who gets in his way. To paraphrase the statute … he’s a desperate and dangerous individual.”

  “Oh, John, you’re not going to quote the law, are you?” Nicole asks with narrowed eyes.

  “So, the court decided,” Grayson says, ignoring her, “that Wilson should be extruded from society—not in prison, but at Whitehall. And it’s as much our job to protect the innocent as it is to guarantee Wilson’s rights. So please, Nicole, let’s not talk about being fair—or equitable, a word you lawyers just love. This may sound corny, but there’s a greater societal good at stake here … not just Conrad Wilson’s fate.”

  “Don’t you dare lecture me, John,” Nicole shoots back, her face now crimson. “We still have an obligation to this man, whether you like it or not. And our goal is to be therapeutic; it’s restoration of sanity, in case you’ve forgotten, and—”

  “Restoration of sanity?” Grayson interrupts, slapping his hand on the table. He’s nearly shouting now and hates the way he sounds. Yet he keeps going. “That’s a legal concept, not a medical one. Now you’re quoting the law. We’re not in court, Nicole. You’re not at the ACLU anymore. And we don’t need a legal brief. There’s no such thing as restoration of sanity. Not in the real world. All we get is a temporary reprieve from this man’s madness, assuming he’s not faking his improvement.”

  Grayson’s voice drops an octave. “And let’s face it, Nicole, the reprieve is partial, and it’s contingent on our pumping antipsychotic medication into him. The moment his Risperdal’s stopped, he’s as mad as ever. So don’t preach to us about restoring sanity. We’re not some religious order. We’re not here for restoration, redemption, revelation, or salvation. Let’s keep it real.”

  “For your information, John, you could say that about any committed patient … in a civil institution or at Whitehall,” retorts Nicole. She looks like she’s seething. “When the medication stops, the patient regresses and the psychosis returns. So, we just lock ‘em up and toss the key?”

  “I think the man’s still delusional,” Grayson says.

  “You may think that,” replies Nicole, “but there’s no evidence of it. I challenge anyone to point out one instance of psychosis Conrad Wilson’s demonstrated in the last six months. One instance,” she says, her gaze roaming around the table. “And I would remind you that the MMPI doesn’t lie. And Conrad Wilson passed the test with flying colors. And I have news for you, John,” she says, fixing her eyes once again on Grayson, “unless Conrad can be shown to be psychotic, we can’t hold him anymore.”

  “He’s still dangerous,” Grayson says.

  “Well, John, now I will quote the law, since you brought up dangerousness. Need I remind you of the now-famous case of Foucha v. Louisiana?”

  “Oh, shit. Here we go. Nicole’s going into her lawyer mode. She’s—”

  “In 1992,” Nicole interrupts, “the Supreme Court ruled that potential dangerousness alone is not a justification to retain an insanity acquittee if there’s no longer evidence of mental illness. An NGRI acquittee cannot be confined as a mental patient without some medical justification for doing so.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Nicole—”

  “And the court ruled that even if the individual is potentially dangerous, the NGRI acquittee who’s regained his sanity cannot be indefinitely confined on the sole justification that he might be dangerous. He must be both ill and dangerous for an involuntary commitment to continue.”

  “Nicole, you’re such a fucking bleeding heart—”

  “That’s enough, John,” shouts Nicole, shooting to her feet. Her eyes flash furiously. She radiates anger like a halogen light. “I won’t tolerate a personal affront. This isn’t your private fiefdom. I’m outta here
.” She pivots, heads for the door.

  “Wait a minute, Nicole,” Scott Williams says, standing.

  Nicole stops, turns, and faces the group. Her features are floridly red.

  “Let’s just calm down,” Williams says. “Everyone, please. You’re both right. We’ve gotta preserve Wilson’s rights, but we have to consider the societal good—in this case, the intended victims of his crimes.”

  “He didn’t get convicted of any crime,” Nicole snaps.

  “He may not’ve been convicted, but he tried to murder two people,” Williams says. “So let’s forget conviction, Nicole. That’s the legal system. We’re mental health professionals, and this isn’t a courtroom; it’s a medical board meeting. And we have to make a medical decision—one that can have very serious consequences for other people, not just for Wilson. Our decisions can have life and death consequences. In that respect, John’s one hundred percent correct. What we decide could affect real people in the real world.

  “So let’s do this rationally,” Williams says. “Let’s not get into petty squabbles. This meeting isn’t about us. It’s about Conrad Wilson—his rights, his progress, and the danger he could present to other people. It’s about our obligations—to him and to those people who could be harmed if he’s released. So please, Nicole, sit down and let’s go about our business.”

  Silence blankets the gathering.

  Blood throttles through Grayson; he feels his face flush.

  Nicole edges back toward the conference table.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, Nicole,” says Grayson, aware his voice is quivering. “Please accept my apology.” Grayson feels like he’s sitting in a nest of scorpions. Stingers poised.

  “Apology accepted,” Nicole murmurs and then sits down. She clasps her hands on the table and gives Grayson a steely look.

  “Obviously, there’s sentiment to allow Wilson a weekend pass,” Channing says.

  “A show of hands?” Grayson says, sensing he may be the only serious holdout.

  All hands go up, though Grayson observes Albert Channing’s and Scott Williams’s hands rise tentatively.

  “It looks like I’m in the minority,” Grayson says.

  “Frankly, John, I’m sure Wilson’ll file a petition and the judge will grant him the pass,” says Channing.

  “That’s how the system works,” Nicole adds.

  “It’s too liberal,” says Channing. “And, Nicole, it’s not your job to be the inmate’s advocate.”

  “Albert, I believe in civil rights,” she says. “They’re the cornerstone of—”

  “The system’s partial toward inmates,” Channing cuts in.

  “That’s because of abuses in the past,” Nicole rebuts.

  “Okay, people, let’s get back to this case,” Grayson says, peering around the table. “Albert’s right. A judge will probably grant Wilson a weekend pass, if not now, in a few months. He has a spotless record. And Nicole’s right, too. Patients’ rights are a big deal. So it’s inevitable that Wilson’s gonna get the pass, and we have to protect everyone’s rights.”

  “Okay, so what do we do?” asks Channing.

  Grayson says, “I’ll go along with a pass, but with very strict conditions.”

  “Like what?” Nicole asks as her eyes narrow.

  “First, Pastor Wilhelm and his wife dole out Wilson’s medication. I think you can speak with the pastor, Lynda,” Grayson says, turning to Nurse Becker. “They have to know exactly what to look for if Wilson misses a dose.”

  “We can arrange that,” she says.

  “Second, Wilson’ll spend the weekend at the pastor’s house, but we use an electronic monitoring system.”

  “That’s absurd,” Nicole says.

  “What’s absurd about it?” Williams asks.

  “It’s coercive. It’s just so … it’s antithetical to everything I ever thought about medicine and psychiatry.”

  “First of all, Nicole,” Grayson says, “you yourself said he’s ready for a pass under strict supervision. And this isn’t pure psychiatry. You know that more than anyone else.”

  “We’re dealing with a prison population, Nicole,” says Williams. “It makes sense.” He turns to Grayson. “We’ve never done this before, John. How does it work?”

  “Wilson wears an ankle bracelet during the weekend.”

  “A Martha Stewart arrangement?” Morgan says with a laugh.

  “That’s right,” Grayson says. “The bracelet communicates with a receiving device in the pastor’s home. The device has a limited range. Any tampering with the bracelet or receiving device sends a signal. The device reports when the bracelet moves out of range. It connects to the monitoring station through a telephone line or a 3G network to a cell phone.”

  “A monitoring station?” asks Williams.

  “Yes, to a private security company. And I’d be willing to have it programmed to send an alert to my cell phone if Wilson moves out of range,” Grayson says. “Or if he tampers with the bracelet.”

  “Sounds good,” Morgan says.

  “Will the pastor consent to this?” asks Channing.

  “He’ll have to if there’s gonna be a weekend pass,” Grayson says.

  “What if the pastor and Wilson want to go somewhere?” asks Nicole.

  “Not for the first few visits. Wilson’s limited to the house and church.”

  “I agree,” says Williams. “Let’s go slowly and see how things develop.”

  “One other thing,” Grayson says. “The pastor lets us install a GPS tracking system in his car. And the wife’s car, too.”

  “You really want to do that?”

  “Absolutely, Nicole,” says Grayson. “The latest models have a six-month battery life since they’re motion-activated. When the car stops, it switches off. It’s attached to the inside of a bumper, or a wheel well, and transmits to a GPS Web site.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Williams says.

  “There’s one other provision.”

  Everyone eyes Grayson. Nicole sighs, shaking her head.

  “The pastor can’t tell Wilson about the GPS system,” Grayson says.

  There are nods all around. Nicole sighs again, this time more heavily. Grayson tries ignoring her, but it’s difficult.

  So he says, “If we agree on these precautions, we can grant Conrad Wilson’s request for a weekend visit with the pastor and his wife.”

  Thirty-six

  Pastor Wilhelm maneuvers his 2001 Chevy Impala up the fume-filled ramp to level two of the Danbury mall parking garage. Conrad sits to his right. The pastor feels a deep sense of satisfaction as he remembers first meeting Conrad at Whitehall more than a year ago.

  It was early afternoon and the dayroom was deserted except for Conrad, who was slumped on a couch, lost in thought. His muscular frame bulged beneath a blue shirt and faded jeans. The man was an incredible physical specimen. But most of all, the pastor remembers those eyes, how devoid of spirit they were, how dormant—even dead—as though life had drained from him. The pastor’s heart went out to him.

  “I’m Pastor Wilhelm,” he said, and when they shook hands, Wilhelm was struck by the sinew of Conrad’s forearm. He realized this man could mangle his hand in a moment, and yet, despite Conrad’s physicality, subjugation permeated his very being. The man was defeated, imprisoned in a spiritual vacuum. Wilhelm had known many such men from his days as a youth in the Bridgeport slums. And later as a Lutheran minister visiting the prisons, working with inmates to revive and nourish their souls.

  “Conrad, you’re the first prisoner who ever asked for me,” Wilhelm said, sitting beside him. “What made you do that, son?”

  Conrad’s face seemed to sag on itself. “Pastor, I just feel … dead,” he said softly, even plaintively. Indeed, he seemed steeped in the agony of Hell’s Grim Tyrant. With wet eyes, Conrad said, “I want to feel alive again.”

  “Conrad, how can I help you?”

  “Maybe we could talk and …”

 
“And what, Conrad?”

  “And maybe you can suggest Bible readings for me.”

  “Readings? Such as …?”

  “I’m not sure … passages about forgiveness.”

  “The Book of Daniel says, ‘The Lord our God is merciful and forgiving, even though we have rebelled against him.’”

  Conrad’s eyes beseeched the pastor—desperately.

  “Do you want to be forgiven, son?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Yes, but I also need to learn to forgive those who’ve trespassed against me.”

  Yes, as he heads for level three of the garage, Daniel Wilhelm recalls feeling something truly divine occurred that day. As he and Conrad talked, a feeling of lightness came over the pastor. He felt the Holy Spirit fill his soul with Truth. Looking back, he realizes it was a powerful aura—one he’d never before experienced, even at his own ordination. It intensified when Conrad said, “Pastor, though I’m here for my sanity to be restored, above all, I need restoration of my soul.”

  Sitting in the sun-drenched dayroom, Wilhelm felt he was truly doing God’s work. Because he’d never heard a congregant—or anyone for that matter—ask for such a thing: restoration of the soul. Conrad’s withered soul and his unusual request distilled for Daniel Wilhelm everything meaningful in the church: the Holy Communion worship, the fellowship meetings, the choral hymns, the word of God, and the sacraments. And right then, the mystery of God—of truly knowing and feeling a divine presence—came to him. This was the work he’d been born to do.

  So they began meeting. Conrad told him his life’s story—every unfortunate detail. Daniel Wilhelm listened carefully and was deeply touched. At each meeting, he gave Conrad pastoral counseling and suggested Bible passages to read. Conrad studied them—sedulously—and they discussed their layered meanings.

  Daniel Wilhelm was astonished: Conrad not only recalled each biblical passage, but applied them to his everyday experiences—turned the beauty and poetry of the Bible into a living, breathing thing with relevance and deep meaning. For the first time in his life, Daniel Wilhelm could feel the abiding truth of words written thousands of years earlier.