The Cheater

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  She quickly brushed her teeth and went to the toilet, then headed back downstairs before Tessa came barging into her bedroom. The nightmare was still vivid in her mind. When something or someone stirred up the past, explicitly the rape, her mind went through a process of sorting through the events like a computer search engine. After a while, the memories were returned to the archives where they belonged.

  Lily did wonder if there was some meaning attached to the dream. She needed to see Shana. Talking to her on the phone wasn’t good enough. She would call her at the noon break today and try to coerce her into coming for a visit.

  Once Tessa left, Lily got dressed for work, then went to the library to see if she could track down Bryce. She called the Embassy Suites in Lexington, and was told Bryce had already checked out. She thumbed through his itinerary, seeing his next stop was Charleston. It was strange that he was staying at a Hilton, she thought, as he always said they were lousy hotels. She dialed the Hilton in Charleston, asking if Bryce had checked in yet.

  “No,” a male voice advised her. “Would you like to leave a message for him?”

  “Tell him to call his wife immediately.”

  Lily rushed to the bedroom to get her cell, hitting the number for the autodial. She should have checked Bryce’s flights first, as it appeared he wouldn’t be departing for Charleston until one-thirty. Where the hell was he? The mailbox on his cell phone was full, more than likely from the messages she’d left the night before. If she hadn’t heard from him by noon, she would start checking the jails and hospitals.

  “Fuck you, Bryce.” She had to be on the bench in forty minutes. Her back was throbbing, her eyes puffy, and she didn’t have time to do anything but smear on some lipstick. If he was in jail, she would let him rot there. A reality check would do him good. She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, and he was nothing more than an overgrown frat boy.

  Because she’d left late, she hit rush-hour traffic. By the time she parked her car and took the elevator to the second floor, then passed through security, it was 8:55.

  Judge Rendell caught her in the corridor. “About yesterday . . .”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said, continuing on at a fast pace. He walked alongside her. “I don’t mean to be rude, Chris. The Stucky trial starts any minute. Try to catch me at the noon break.” She remembered the calls she needed to make and corrected herself. “I’m really swamped today. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “Certainly,” he said with a hangdog expression. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  God, Lily thought, as he took off in the opposite direction. She had just pierced the poor man with a psychological dagger. He’d finally opened up about his wife and daughter’s death, and she’d brushed him off like an overzealous suitor.

  “Did my husband call?” Lily shouted as she breezed past Jeannie, entering her chamber and putting on her robe.

  “No,” the woman said from the doorway. “I have a stack of calls you didn’t get around to returning yesterday, though.”

  Lily had never once taken her cell phone into a courtroom. She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to Jeannie. “Can you please figure out how to put this thing on vibrate?”

  “You’re cutting it pretty close this morning, Judge Forrester,” she said, smoothing Lily’s robe over her shoulders. “Suzie just called and said they’re ready to proceed. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Lily lied, issuing a stiff smile. “I’m just not sure how to work this phone and I don’t have time to figure it out.” She waited until she had it back in her hand, then slipped it into her pocket and darted out.

  “All rise,” the bailiff said when Lily burst through the back door. “Division Forty-seven of the Ventura County Superior Court is now in session, Judge Lillian Forrester presiding.”

  She recognized several reporters, and assumed some of the other spectators were also members of the media. She saw one of the attorneys give her an odd look. She decided it must be her hair. She hadn’t had time to shower, and it was a matted mess. Hair as naturally curly as hers couldn’t be combed once it was dry without damaging it. She kept a clip in her pocket, and pulled it out and fastened it at the nape of her neck. Wispy tendrils dangled around her forehead and ears. “Good morning, Counselors,” she said, addressing the attorneys. “Are we ready to resume where we left off yesterday?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Martin Goodwin, a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late forties.

  The prosecutor, James Kidwell, stood. “The people are ready as well.”

  Kidwell was one of the youngest and brightest prosecutors in the state, the type Lily knew would soon seek greener pastures, either private practice or some kind of public office. He was also a nice-looking man, with alert eyes and a studied, quiet manner that seemed to serve him well in winning over a jury.

  When Lily nodded, Leonard Davis, her bailiff, walked over to escort the jurors into the jury box. A combination of odors came with them, mostly cologne, but much stronger than the day before. Then another pungent scent broke through. Juror number five, a retired construction worker, had stunk up the room yesterday, which might be the reason the ladies had doused themselves with perfume and it appeared he would do so again today. She wrote the word “deodorant” on a piece of paper and would ask Leonard to slip it to him before the end of the day.

  Lily’s gaze drifted to the defendants, Ronald and Elizabeth Stucky, wondering how people who looked so normal could have committed such a horrendous crime. Mr. Stucky was an average-looking man, around five-eight and a hundred and fifty pounds. His sandy blond hair was trimmed neatly, and he was dressed in a navy blue suit that looked as if it had come from a rental store. He was employed as an accountant for Prudential Insurance, and probably wore sweaters and corduroy pants to work. Outside of attorneys, few men in southern California wore suits these days. He glanced over at his wife, and Lily did the same.

  In her opinion, Elizabeth Stucky had more than likely been the one responsible for her son’s death. Her eyes were flat and emotionless, her face and body seemed relaxed and comfortable. It was as if she were watching a performance in a theater. In contrast, her husband seemed extremely nervous. He kept pulling a small notebook out of his jacket pocket, then putting it back a few moments later. It could be that he was a smoker and the notebook was a prop, something to occupy his hands. Many times, defendants’ attorneys dictated their dress during their court appearances, wanting them to make a good impression on the jury. Sometimes it worked against them. A person seldom felt at ease in clothing he or she wouldn’t normally wear.

  Both the Stuckys were in their early forties, childhood sweethearts who had married straight out of college. Elizabeth Stucky was far more attractive than her husband, with straight blond hair that reached to her shoulders, high cheekbones, a perfectly shaped nose, and sensuous lips. Her makeup was perfect, and she was wearing what appeared to be a designer dress. Lily could tell by the fabric and the way it was cut. The green material rested in neat folds, held in at the waist with a matching green leather belt. Surprisingly, she seemed to be relaxed, almost happy. She must enjoy the attention.

  What did that say?

  A person who was innocent and was on trial for killing her child would be indignant, even panicked, more along the lines of what Lily saw in Ronald Stucky’s demeanor. This woman was confident, poised. She belonged in those clothes. This was how she dressed on a regular basis. Although she held degrees in both English and history, she had never held down a job. What bothered Lily the most was that she didn’t look like the mother of an eight-year-old child. She knew women like this. They spent their days going to luncheons, having facials, shopping. And Elizabeth Stucky hadn’t just had a child, she’d had a problem child. Was she relieved now that the problem no longer existed?

  Lily wondered why the couple had waited so long to have a child. Perhaps they had been unable to conceive. She didn’t recall reading any testimony related to thi
s point in the preliminary hearing, but if she were the prosecutor, she would make certain that question was answered during the trial.

  As to the reporters present, Lily insisted no photographs be taken while the court was in session. Judicial rules left all decisions regarding the media up to the individual judge. Lily would never allow justice to be compromised by a televised trial, as had happened in numerous sensational cases. Of course, it would have been nice if she’d been able to put on her makeup, but then again, her picture had yet to end up in the paper. The primary targets were the Stuckys. The press had probably caught them earlier, and were waiting to get a shot of today’s witness when he was called to testify. As the day went on, the reporters would disappear. Testimony was tedious, even for the parties involved in the case.

  She glanced at Kidwell. “You may call your witness, Counselor.”

  He stood. “The people call Dr. Walter Hutchins.”

  A short, middle-aged man in a brown plaid sports coat made his way to the witness stand. After he was sworn in, Kidwell began examining him, “When did you first see the victim, Brian Stucky?”

  “April seventh of last year.”

  “And he was referred to you by another physician, is this correct?”

  “Yes, by his pediatrician, Dr. Simon Weinberg.”

  “I see,” Kidwell continued. “And why was he referred to you?”

  “Dr. Weinberg had been treating him for ADD, attention deficit disorder. The parents said he wasn’t responding to the medication.”

  “And what medication was he taking?”

  “Ritalin.”

  Kidwell left the bench and walked to a space between the witness and the jury box. “Isn’t it true that Ritalin is a central nervous system stimulant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after evaluating Brian Stucky, did you arrive at a different diagnosis?”

  “Yes, I did,” Dr. Hutchins said, pulling his collar away from his neck.

  “And what was this diagnosis?”

  “He appeared to be acutely manic. His parents also described bouts of depression, where he would refuse to speak or come out of his room. It was my belief that the child was suffering from a bipolar disorder.”

  “Forgive me,” Kidwell said, glancing over at the jurors, “I’m not that well versed in psychiatric disorders. Is this condition similar to manic-depression?”

  “New name, same illness,” the doctor explained.

  “And did you prescribe medication for Brian Stucky’s condition?”

  The psychiatrist was becoming anxious. “Yes, I placed him on lithium.”

  “On how many occasions did you see the victim before prescribing lithium?”

  Hutchins narrowed his eyes at the prosecutor. “Once.”

  Kidwell went back to the counsel table and held up a piece of paper. “The American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry states, and I quote, ‘The diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder in children or teens is complex and involves careful observation over an extended period of time.’ Dr. Hutchins, would one visit fit that criteria?”

  “Well, not as you’ve described it,” he answered. “Seeing the Stucky boy on only one occasion doesn’t mean I didn’t thoroughly evaluate him. He was in my office for approximately three hours. I tried to administer a battery of tests, but the boy was in the throes of mania, which made it impossible. My professional opinion was that he should be administered lithium immediately. I suggested hospitalization, but Mr. and Mrs. Stucky adamantly refused.”

  “Did you advise the defendants about the adverse effects of lithium?”

  “Of course I did,” Hutchins said haughtily. “I’m not on trial here, Mr. Kidwell. Your tone of voice is not reflective of that fact.”

  Kidwell wisely ignored him. “What was the original dose of lithium you prescribed for Brian Stucky?”

  “I started him on six hundred milligrams.”

  “When did you double this dose to twelve hundred milligrams?”

  He pulled out his reading glasses and slipped them on, then looked down at his lap to review his notes. “He was raised gradually over a period of three months. After the first month, he was elevated to eight hundred milligrams, and the second month to a thousand milligrams. During the third month, he was maintained at twelve hundred milligrams.”

  “And you saw him on each of these occasions?”

  “No,” Hutchins said. “I saw him on one additional occasion. He was still exhibiting manic behavior, so I raised his lithium levels.”

  “And this was to eight hundred milligrams?”

  Dr. Hutchins sighed. “No, at that time I raised him to a thousand milligrams.”

  “What happened to eight hundred milligrams?”

  “Mr. Kidwell,” he said, “I’m a physician. I’ve been a practicing psychiatrist for over twenty years. Lithium is administered on an increasing scale until the levels effectively control the symptoms of the illness.”

  “Did you ever consider that Brian Stucky’s mania might have been caused by something other than bipolar disorder?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Were Mr. and Mrs. Stucky advised to stop giving Brian Ritalin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you call the referring pediatrician and advise him of your diagnosis and treatment plan?”

  “I’m sure I either spoke to Dr. Weinberg on the phone or sent him a report.”

  “You’re not certain which?”

  “No, I just told you I couldn’t recall which manner of communication I used. I may have sent him an e-mail. My computer crashed last month, so I was unable to check.”

  “How convenient,” Kidwell mumbled under his breath.

  Lily said, “Restrict your comments, Counselor.”

  He kicked into high gear. “Isn’t it true that there’s a great deal of controversy among the psychiatric community as to the use of psychotropic medication with a child this young?”

  “I suppose there is,” Dr. Hutchins said, a line of perspiration popping out on his forehead. “All areas of psychiatry and pharmacology can be debated. A manic child is in danger of hurting himself or others. The safety and well-being of the patient are my first priority.”

  “I see,” Kidwell said, scowling. “Isn’t it true that excessive amounts of lithium such as you prescribed to Brian Stucky can cause vomiting, confusion, disorientation, seizures, muscles weakness, and eventually coma and death?”

  “I don’t consider the amount of lithium to be excessive,” the psychiatrist protested. “He was a large boy, and the parents consistently told me the medication wasn’t controlling his symptoms. Lithium is, by and large, a fairly safe drug. Some people, even children, are known to metabolize medications differently. Mr. and Mrs. Stucky never mentioned Brian having an adverse reaction to the drug. If they had, I would have stopped his treatment at once.”

  The district attorney walked along the jury rail, then spun around to face the witness. “Are you aware that the defendants continued to give their son Ritalin long after he began treatment with lithium? That they were, in fact, overdosing Brian with Ritalin prior to you ever seeing him? Perhaps Brian didn’t suffer from attention deficit at all. Couldn’t an overdose of Ritalin cause a normal child to appear manic?”

  “There’s a possibility of that, yes,” Hutchins conceded, clearing his throat.

  “Objection,” Goodwin said, slow in reacting. “Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.”

  “Sustained,” Lily ruled. “Rephrase your question, Counselor.”

  “When did it finally come to your attention that Brian Stucky’s parents, the defendants in this case, were overdosing him with lithium?”

  “When the coroner called me,” the doctor said, averting his eyes.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Since she had been engrossed in the testimony, Lily wasn’t certain if her phone had vibrated. She slipped the phone out of her pocket and saw Tessa had called twice, but there was no wo
rd from Bryce. Worrying about her wayward husband seemed trivial in comparison to the unconscionable crime committed by Elizabeth and Ronald Stucky. Several of the boy’s relatives were seated in the row behind Kidwell. The district attorney had mentioned an uncle filing a civil suit against the parents for wrongful death if they weren’t convicted, and the prosecutor had now additionally set up a malpractice case against the psychiatrist.

  The number of medical professionals who had facilitated the murder of Brian Stucky was appalling. Even though the district attorney would no doubt address the issue with an expert witness, Lily was under the impression that even Ritalin was to be prescribed by a psychiatrist, not a family practitioner. And the Stuckys would have gotten away with it had it not been for the million-dollar life insurance policy they took out on Brian six months before his death. This act enjoined both defendants, as Elizabeth had filled out the forms and Ronald had arranged the policy through his employer. To dispel suspicion, the couple had also insured themselves for the same amount. Scores of murder suspects throughout the years had used the same tactic, some successfully and others not.