on what someone told you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Fine. Then try to be responsive to Mr. Winslow’s questions by answering them with what you personally observed.”
“Proceed, Mr. Winslow.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Dr. Feldspar, let’s talk about what you personally observed. So far, you seem to have committed Jack Walsh on the basis of one test. Was there anything else?”
“Of course,” Dr. Feldspar said, irritably. “I started to explain when you went off on a tangent.”
“I beg your pardon. You’ll have every opportunity to explain. In fact, this is just that opportunity. What else did you observe?”
“As I said, the man was irrational, incoherent, and violent.”
“I see,” Steve said. “Now, the irrationality and incoherence you’ve explained as his failure to converse with you or to respond to that particular test. Let’s move on to the violence. In what manner was he violent?”
“He was struggling, kicking, screaming.”
“Two male orderlies were holding him?”
“That’s right.”
“They had just dragged him into your office?”
“Yes.”
“Against his will?”
“That’s right.”
“So,” Steve said. “Tell me something. Does anyone want to be committed, Doctor?”
“Some people do.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do. But the vast majority-do they want to be committed?”
“No.”
“So your average man in the street-if someone grabbed him and dragged him into a mental institution, don’t you think he would be apt to protest?”
“Perhaps.”
“And struggle to free himself?”
“Possibly.”
“So the fact that Jack Walsh was kicking and struggling doesn’t necessarily mean that he was insane, does it, Doctor?”
“As I say, that was not the only factor.”
“What were the other factors, Doctor? Talking only about what you personally observed.”
“Very well,” Dr. Feldspar snapped. ‘I observed a man some seventy-five years of age. He was dressed in rags, or close to it. He was unwashed and his hair was uncombed. It was long hair, long, messy, unkempt. His appearance, to all intents and purposes, was that of a wild man. He was kicking and screaming. He was incoherent, abusive and violent.
“Now then,” Dr. Feldspar said. “I saw all that with my own eyes. And I am a trained clinical psychiatrist. But I must tell you, it would not
“Now, you can split hairs all you want, but the simple fact of the matter is, Jack Walsh is not a sane man. And nothing you can say is going to make him so.”
“Is that right, Doctor?” Steve said. “Well, let me see if I have this straight. As I understand it, Jack Walsh was dragged into your office by two male orderlies. He attempted to resist this, and was violent, abusive and incoherent. In addition to that, he was wearing shabby clothes and his hair was long and unkempt. Plus he failed to respond correctly to the phrase, ‘A rolling stone.’ Is that right?”
“That is a gross oversimplification-”
“Perhaps it is. But let me ask you this, Doctor. You notice that I have long hair and I’m not particularly well dressed. In the event two hospital orderlies yanked me off the street, clapped me in a straightjacket, hauled me into your office, and while I was kicking and screaming and attempting to free myself, you came up to me and said, ‘A rolling stone,’ are you telling me that if I said ‘gathers no moss,’ you would decide I was sane and set me free? Whereas on the other hand, if you came up to me and said, ‘A rolling stone,’ and I said, ‘Mick Jagger,’ you’d declare me a lunatic and have me committed?”
Dr. Feldspar frowned. “Mick Jagger?”
Steve chuckled, shook his head. “A vague, obscure reference, Doctor. I’m sorry it went over your head.
“At any rate, is that essentially true? If I said, ‘gathers no moss,’ you would set me free, but if I said anything else- perhaps suggested what you could do with your hospital-you would have me committed?”
“That isn’t fair.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe not, but I think it’s accurate.” Steve Winslow turned to the judge. “I submit, Your Honor, that this man has shown no basis whatsoever for failing to produce Jack Walsh in court. I demand that he be produced.”
Judge Washburn took a breath. “Dr. Feldspar,” he said. “A court order is not to be taken lightly. I have listened to your testimony carefully. I must say I can find in it no reason to warrant your disobeying the directive of the court. I also feel that your sparring with counsel is profitless to say the least. So I’m going to make another directive. I’m going to stand in recess for half an hour. In that time I expect you to get on the phone to Bellevue Hospital. I expect you to order your staff to get Jack Walsh here by the end of the recess. If he’s truly incompetent to be here, that fact will be readily evident. At any rate, that seems to be the only way to settle the matter. You have half an hour get him here. Court is now in recess.”
Steve Winslow smiled at the judge, then at the doctor. He still had a big smile on his face when he turned to Mark Taylor and Tracy Garvin.
But under his breath he said, “Oh shit.”
9
As the court officers led Jack Walsh into the courtroom, Steve Winslow realized his most fervent prayer had not been answered. Apparently Walsh had resisted all efforts on the part of the staff of Bellevue Hospital to modify his appearance. His stubble was unshaven, his face was unwashed, and his hair was uncombed. On top of that, whatever drugs they’d been giving him to damp him down had reduced his pupils to pinpoints, and given his eyes a glassy quality that made them seem to glow on their own. The end effect was not just to give him the appearance of a lunatic. Jack Walsh looked like a demon straight from hell.
His manner wasn’t helping matters any either. He kept muttering and growling and trying to twist away from the court officers. The officers were smiling at each other and saying soothing things to him, which only served to further enrage him.
Fortunately, they’d come in through the side door, so the distance to the witness stand was relatively short. Nonetheless, their progress was slow.
Steve Winslow tore his eyes away from Walsh long enough to glance up at the judge’s bench. Judge Washburn was a seasoned jurist, who’d undoubtedly presided over hundreds of competency hearings. As such, he naturally retained an air of judicial impartiality. He wasn’t rolling his eyes to the ceiling, or glancing pointedly at either of the attorneys. Still, his eyes spoke volumes. Behind the judicial facade there was an ordinary man saying to himself, as any man would, “Why me?”
Eventually Jack Walsh was installed on the witness stand. Once that was accomplished the court officers withdrew, but remained standing and alert, ready to jump in again at a moment’s notice.
Judge Washburn looked down at him from the bench. “Mr. Walsh?”
Jack Walsh gripped the arms of the witness stand. His mouth was set in a firm line. He turned to glare up at the judge with his demon eyes. “Yes?” he snapped.
