by Amy Stewart
I saw immediately what my difficulty would be. The courts relied on Dr. Ogden’s testimony before they committed anyone to Morris Plains. He and Dr. Lipsky obviously worked closely together and, I suspected, shared many of the same views about their patients.
The lobby was unencumbered by any sort of receptionist. I followed the chevrons in the carpet down a somber corridor to Dr. Lipsky’s office. From behind his closed door came a rumble of conversation between two men. The one who answered my knock was tall and bald, with a bow tie and a heavy mustache. He had a way of smiling that bared his teeth and pulled the corners of his mouth down rather than up. Clamped between those teeth was the stub of a cigar. The room, naturally, was filled with smoke.
“What’s this?” the man said when he saw my badge. “Have I gotten myself crossways with the girl police? What did I do, stir my tea with the wrong spoon?”
He laughed and tried to shut the door, but I pushed my way inside. This brought his companion—Dr. Ogden, as I’d suspected—to his feet.
“This lady’s looking for me. I suppose I’m needed at the jail. They keep handing out knives to the inmates, and expect me to come and stitch them up.”
Dr. Ogden spoke in a deep and cultivated baritone, each word carefully enunciated as if he’d rehearsed his lines ahead of time. He was rumored to have a wife, but I couldn’t imagine how any woman could tolerate a man speaking in such a pompous manner around the house. He was very refined-looking, trim and neatly dressed, just a hair shorter than me, with an unwavering upright posture that seemed to be intended as a reminder to the others that one ought to take more care in the alignment of one’s spine.
It gave me some pleasure to tell Dr. Ogden that he was mistaken. “In fact, I’ve come for Dr. Lipsky. One of his patients is in custody at the Hackensack Jail and some questions have arisen. The sheriff sent me to speak to him about it.”
Dr. Lipsky waved his cigar in the air, as if it were a flag of surrender. “I suppose our business can wait, Bill. Have a seat, Miss . . .”
“Kopp,” said Dr. Ogden, before I could. He pulled the chair out for me, and then went and stood against the wall. Dr. Lipsky took his seat, planted his elbows on the desk, and looked at me expectantly.
“I charge by the hour, Miss Kopp.”
I was trying not to look at Dr. Ogden, but I didn’t like the way he was watching me. “It’s a delicate matter concerning a patient,” I said pointedly.
“Yes,” Dr. Lipsky said, and raised his eyebrows to indicate that I should go on.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t want it discussed in the presence of others.”
Still his eyebrows were raised expectantly. He looked around, playing at being confused, until his glance lighted on Dr. Ogden. “Oh! Do you refer to the county physician? I can’t think of a thing he doesn’t know about my patients, or shouldn’t know.”
This wasn’t going as I’d planned, but what choice did I have? “It concerns Anna Kayser.”
He put his cigar on a little tray and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, the housewife in Rutherford. Poor creature. She’s back at Morris Plains or, at least, she was supposed to be. What’s she doing in jail?”
Before I could answer, Dr. Ogden stepped in. “The sheriff insists on handling all the asylum transportation, although I have recommended that the hospital take it over. You know that he allowed an inmate to escape from the hospital last year. Just last night another fellow ran off before they could get to Morris Plains. It only demonstrates that if they aren’t locked behind bars, he can’t keep track of them. The responsibility is too much for him. I’ve told the Freeholders so.”
He might have been speaking to Dr. Lipsky, but he was looking directly at me. I tried to do the dignified thing and ignore him.
“Mrs. Kayser is only at the jail temporarily on account of the storm last night,” I said. “We went to collect her in Rutherford, but the roads washed away and we never got past Hackensack. Owing to the late hour, we stopped for the night. The reason I’m here is that Mrs. Kayser tells a troubling story, and we want to make sure there hasn’t been a mix-up before we take her away.”
Dr. Ogden gave a light little laugh and walked around to stand behind Dr. Lipsky. “Miss Kopp, I have the most wonderful news for you. You need never concern yourself with the strange stories told by lunatics and hysterics who have been committed to the asylum. It is our obligation to listen to them, but not yours. You need only put them into the wagon and cart them off. Doesn’t that sound wonderfully simple? I’m sorry the sheriff never took the time to explain your duties to you, but they are so much lighter than you’ve been led to believe.”
Anyone who thinks that dealing with criminals makes for demanding work has never tried to keep a civil tongue when speaking to a man like Dr. Ogden. Nonetheless, it was my duty to do so.
Addressing myself to Dr. Lipsky, I said, “Mrs. Kayser has been committed four times. Her husband seems to have the power to send her away and then to come and fetch her again anytime he pleases. She doesn’t feel that she’s receiving any helpful treatment and says she has no need of it now. How can she be committed to Morris Plains if no doctor has examined her?”
Dr. Ogden started to work himself up into another speech, but Dr. Lipsky gestured for him to be quiet. “Miss Kopp, I’ve been treating Mrs. Kayser for over fifteen years, and I’ve known her husband even longer. When did you meet her for the first time?”
“Yesterday, but—”
“And from what university did you receive your training?”
I wasn’t about to listen to insults from this man. I stood up, forcing him to do the same, and said, “You may call me Deputy Kopp. I’m here under the authority of the sheriff of Bergen County. There is a woman in our custody whose situation raises troubling questions.”
“All manner of questions were asked and answered at her commitment hearing, which is why we hold them.”
He had an infuriating way of making me sound like I didn’t know my business. “If you can’t give an explanation as to the cause of her commitment to the asylum,” I said, “then I will speak to Judge Stevens myself and ask to have the case re-examined by a physician of her choosing.”
Dr. Lipsky gave an insincere chuckle and said, “Cause? Nervous hysteria, of course. It was brought on by a case of puerperal insanity, which happens to some women after childbirth, but which may recur at any time and with very little warning. Mrs. Kayser’s case is well known to me, and to her unfortunate husband, who has suffered under this burden longer than any man should. It takes only a word from him for me to know what the trouble is. A year or two at Morris Plains will be the best thing for her.”
“A year? Have you been to her home? Mrs. Kayser keeps her place immaculate, puts dinner on the table every night, and is entirely modest and neat in appearance. What form of hysteria would you call that?”
“I believe I’ve answered those questions to the judge’s satisfaction, Deputy.” He spoke in a quiet and even tone, with his hands folded calmly on his desk. I realized, with a note of alarm, that he must’ve considered himself an expert in nervous women, and that he no doubt believed he was showing Dr. Ogden how skilled he was in dealing with one. Could they send anyone away, the two of them? Would they send me away, if I bothered them long enough?
It didn’t matter: I was getting nowhere with them. “Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll recommend to the sheriff that Mrs. Kayser be examined by her own doctor.”
Again came the insincere smile from Dr. Lipsky. “My dear, you seem not to have understood any of this. I am her doctor.”
I had nothing to say to that. Both men were looking at me with the kind of pity that made me want to scream, but if I did, I was by then entirely convinced that I might end up in the bed next to Anna Kayser at the asylum.
To think that I was her only defender, and I had so little power to help her!
Dr. Lipsky walked over to the door and held it open. “My dear, if you find it too disturbing to have involvement with th
e insane and feeble-minded, perhaps you’ll find another line of work for yourself. It isn’t for everyone, is it, Dr. Ogden?”
I marched out before Dr. Ogden could serve up a response.
9
a telephone wire carries news faster than any train or trolley-car, which means that word of my disagreeable encounter with Dr. Lipsky reached the jail before I did. I have no personal opposition to the use of telephones to conduct everyday business—although others in my family do, namely, my sister Norma—but I do consider it unsportsmanlike to telephone ahead with grievances more properly delivered in person.
I returned to the courthouse (rather than go on home for that desperately needed bath) because I was more certain than ever that Anna Kayser hadn’t been given a fair hearing and must not, under any circumstances, be carted off to the lunatic asylum before I had a chance to investigate. I anticipated Sheriff Heath’s reluctance—she wasn’t our inmate, and it wouldn’t do to pick an unnecessary battle with the county physician during an election season—but what I didn’t anticipate was that John Courter would’ve arrived at the sheriff’s office before I did, fuming over my conduct.
Both men were on their feet, both in their long black coats, as if poised for a duel. Mr. Courter must’ve only just walked in with whatever version of events Dr. Ogden had delivered by telephone.
“Sheriff, I—” I stopped short when they both turned to me.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” I said, and tried to duck out, although it was already too plain what had happened.
“Oh, you do mean to interrupt, and to interfere in cases in which you have no jurisdiction,” Mr. Courter said, “although I don’t suppose you’re to blame, as the sheriff tells me he’s the one who ordered you to go.” He wore a heavy mustache that sloped down at the corners of his mouth, giving him the appearance of a perpetual frown. It was one of many of his unpleasant characteristics, another being a kind of sanctimonious drawl that he employed whenever he wished to pass judgment on others.
“I was in possession of information that might have bearing on her case,” I said. “Any citizen could’ve done what I did. It has nothing to do with jurisdiction.”
“Nonetheless—” Sheriff Heath began to defend me, but I stopped him. I hated to see him take the responsibility, but that was how he protected all of his deputies.
“What matters now,” I continued, “is that a woman has been deprived of her liberty, and sentenced to an indefinite stay at Morris Plains, without ever having been examined by a physician. I take it Dr. Ogden telephoned ahead and told you all about it. I can only assume that he asked, in light of new information, that she be given a fair hearing.”
Mr. Courter grew quite red. The color traveled up from his neck and covered his bald head. “This woman,” he roared to Sheriff Heath, pointing to me but refusing to look at me, “was employed as a ladies’ matron at your insistence. She is neither detective nor investigator nor officer of the court. She has no education beyond a finishing school, and demonstrates a child’s sentimentality that renders her unfit for anything more than passing out handkerchiefs to the ladies sobbing upstairs over the damage they’ve done to their reputations. Every day in which she remains under your employ is further evidence of your own poor judgment. But the voters will make up their minds about you soon enough.”
He’d obviously been accustomed to giving speeches lately and considered this a fine one. He turned on his heel to go, but I was still blocking the door. He was forced to either look up at me to beg my leave, or to stare mulishly at the buttons on my collar.
I bent down so he had no choice but to look at me directly. “That woman upstairs has done nothing wrong.” I was hardly able to contain my fury. “We won’t release her until she’s had a fair hearing.”
Sheriff Heath cleared his throat behind us. “I’m sure Mr. Courter would like to be on his way.”
Something in his voice told me I’d gone too far. I stepped aside and Mr. Courter ducked away like a cat who’d been too long underfoot.
When he was gone I dropped into a chair. Sheriff Heath paced around in front of the window.
“There goes another one of Ramsey’s barges,” he said as he looked out over the river.
John Ramsey was Sheriff Heath’s opponent in his congres-sional race. He ran a brickworks that sat just downriver of the jail. The smoke from his kilns was ever-present, and at times so sulfuric that we were obliged to close the windows, even on a hot afternoon. But his was one of many such factories along the river, and on most days the odor was merely that of baked earth, and far more pleasant than what came from the mills and tanneries.
Because the jail was situated right on the river, we were accustomed to seeing his bricks float past on barges, bound for the rail yard. One of his men (Mr. Ramsey swore he didn’t know who) liked to fly a “Ramsey for Congress” flag from the barge as it passed by the jail. It was obviously intended for Sheriff Heath’s eyes, but that was nothing but a prank, and the sheriff rarely even saw it. (“Does he think I gaze out my window at his barges all day long?” had been his only comment.)
Ramsey was a man of some importance around town, having served as county clerk for many years, and wore good crisp suits and stiff collars as befitted a man of his standing. I guessed him to be fifty-five or so, with the gray hair and heft of middle age to show for it. His eyes were of some indistinguishable light color, his mustache of the wiry salt-and-pepper variety, and he wore a club pin on his tie.
He was, in every way, a gentleman with a temperament very unlike that of John Courter. He tended not to speak about Sheriff Heath at his campaign rallies, believing it unsportsmanlike to rail against an opponent, and preferring to tout his own accomplishments. In fact, Mr. Ramsey’s unwillingness to criticize his opponent publicly was whole-heartedly reciprocated by the sheriff, which meant that they carried out entirely separate campaigns and rarely had cause to respond to the other’s statements.
Only Cordelia worried about Mr. Ramsey’s campaign. She kept a copy of his speaking schedule, made note of the groups that had endorsed him, and clipped every newspaper advertisement he ran, to make sure that her husband did more and better. This was proving to be a perfect occupation for her: it kept her busy and distracted, which meant that she had less time to fret over the insults and accusations that John Courter was throwing our way. There were more of those coming at us every day—and now I’d brought on the latest round.
“I don’t know what Dr. Ogden said when he telephoned, but I doubt it was a reliable account,” I ventured. Sheriff Heath kept his back turned. He was obviously troubled. “He shouldn’t have even been in the room. I asked Dr. Lipsky for a private audience, but he refused.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Sheriff Heath said, turning around at last, “but there’s nothing more I can do for Anna Kayser. I’m sorry, Deputy, but I run the jail, not the asylum. I can’t meddle in every commitment hearing they conduct next door. We were only the chauffeur this time.”
“But don’t you agree that Mrs. Kayser has a case? Isn’t there anyone to whom she might make an appeal? It can’t be lawful for a person to be deprived of her liberty without even the most cursory examination by a physician.”
Sheriff Heath looked genuinely pained over the situation. He was far from indifferent to the suffering of others. “You’ve done what you can for her. If she believes she’s been treated unfairly, it’s a matter for her attorney now.”
“Her attorney? What housewife has an attorney of her own? If she knows anyone at all in the legal field, it would no doubt be a friend of her husband’s, and she’d need her husband’s bank-book to pay for it.”
“You don’t know that. Go on upstairs, and tell Mrs. Kayser what she can do to help herself if she wants to. Then I’m ordering you home.”
I rose to go. “Once she’s taken to the asylum, she’s lost. They won’t even let her write a letter. How long can we keep her here?”
He coughed and went back around to his desk.
“It isn’t for me to decide. The courts have ordered Dr. Ogden to carry both Mrs. Kayser and Tony Hajnacka to the asylum, with the assistance of a trained nurse. This one is out of our hands. You understand that, don’t you?”
I allowed that I did understand, but I was not prepared to go along with it.
anna kayser sat in her cell with the weary patience of the condemned. I’d kept her apart from the others, and conscripted a friendly guard to carry a hot lunch to her while I was away. She’d tasted a little of the soup and left the tray on the floor.
I let myself into her cell and sat alongside her so I could speak as quietly as possible. “I’ve been to see Dr. Lipsky.”
She gave a little half-laugh and said, “I can only imagine what he made of the likes of you barging into his office.”
“He wasn’t terribly pleased. But he did admit that he never examined you. I think you have a case, Mrs. Kayser.”
A few thin strands of hair fell down around her eyes. She pushed them out of the way in the manner of an old habit and said, “A case against whom? Do you mean to file suit against Dr. Lipsky or against my husband?”
“I’m afraid I can’t file charges. It isn’t within my power.”
“Oh, of course it isn’t.” She bit her lip and looked out between the bars of her cell. “You’re the only one who’s ever bothered to ask about any of this, or to hear my side of it. But there’s no point in telling you about it, if you can’t do anything.”
I couldn’t stand to hear it put to me that way. “But I am here to do something about it,” I whispered. “Sheriff Heath says that you should write to an attorney. They won’t let you send a letter from the asylum, but you can write as many as you’d like while you’re here. I’ll post them myself, and if there’s another message you’d like me to pass on, I will do it. Or I could . . .”